The Trinket Seller’s Daughter
By Nicole Hurley-Moore
Copyright 2011 by Nicole Hurley-Moore
ISBN# 978-0-9839726-6-2
Smashwords edition published by Pink Petal Books at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Permission is granted to make ONE backup copy for archival purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
He was going to die.
Allard cursed as he fell. Around him swirled the chaos of battle. He could hear the clang of metal upon metal and the primordial cries of conquest and defeat rang in his ears. He inhaled and the air caught at the back of his throat, it was tainted with dust, sweat and blood. He felt helpless as he was tossed from his horse’s back, but beneath that feeling was a growing ball of anger. He was angry at his own stupidity for walking blindly into a trap. He was angry because wasn’t fighting alongside with his men. Angry because he knew that in a moment he would be lying broken at the bottom of the ravine and mad as hell that he was going to die when he just didn’t want to. Time appeared to slow and Allard felt as if he was suspended in mid-air, just as a spider hangs in its glistening web. He could see the hills beyond the river, the fields of young green crops in the valley and the sleek black raven that was perched a few feet away in an overhanging branch – eyeing him with curiosity. Allard reached towards the bird but his body rotated and he plunged head first into the yawning chasm.
~* * *~
Emelin felt every bump and jolt in the road as the crude wheels of the little covered carriage inched along. She glanced nervously at the dense green forest which lined the road. The oaks were twisted, tall and broad. Their branches met and plaited high above with that of their sisters on the other side. The sun had trouble penetrating the foliage and only a few shafts of golden light illuminated the wood. Emelin felt as if she was in the nave of a great cathedral. All was quiet except for the slow and rhythmic sound of Hebby’s hooves.
“Be at peace, child. There is nothing to fear.” A deep and lyrical voice comforted beside her.
“All is well, Father. I am not afraid. It is just that Brother Arnauf said that the forest was a place of evil and should be avoided. He said that it was wicked and wild and filled with all the unnatural things that walk the world.” She smoothed out an imaginary crease in her pale grey gown.
“Emelin, I think that Brother Arnauf is a good and learned man but do not put too much weight behind what he believes is in the forest.” Roger’s blue eyes shone with amusement as he turned and looked at his daughter, her eyes a mirror of his own. “Is this not the first time he has ventured out of the monastery in nearly twenty summers?”
Emelin laughed but quickly looked to see if Brother Arnauf was close enough to hear. To her relief she saw him walking quite a distance behind having an animated debate with his fellow monk, Brother Carwin. The Benedictine monks were from St. Neots Priory and were journeying to St. Benedict’s Church in Cambridge on Church business. Two days ago whilst riding on the road to Cambridge, Emelin and her father had come across this small group of travellers which included the three monks, a cloth merchant and his wife, their servants, three peddlers and a minstrel. Brother Arnauf had hailed Roger to stop the carriage and asked him where they were headed.
“To the fair at Reach, Brother.” He replied with a smile. “I sell amulets, jewels and trinkets.”
“But the fair is still many days away, is it not held on Rogationtide?”
“Aye Brother, but my daughter and I wish to arrive a little early and old Hebby here is not as fast as he once was.” Roger said as he indicated with a nod towards a small brown horse which was harnessed to the carriage. “He has a stout heart but age is creeping upon him as it does with all things.”
“Then if you are not pressed for time, come and join our party and we will be in fellowship until Cambridge. The road is a dangerous place, yet I believe there is safety in numbers.” The old monk said before turning his smile to Emelin. “Besides my son, I think you have a far greater treasure to protect than your amulets, jewels and trinkets.”
Hearing the wisdom in the old man’s words, Roger decided they would join the party of travellers.
Emelin, for her part, had spent the past two days observing the different members of the group. The monks were dressed in black robes which were indicative of the Benedictine order. Brother Carwin was old, his face was lined with deep crevices and his tall frame had begun to hunch over with age. Emelin had thought that if the good Brother Carwin was old then Brother Arnauf must truly be ancient. He was shorter and rounder than his friend, his faced resembled bark from a tree with lines so deep they almost appeared to be cracks. His eyes were barely blue and watery, the colour reminded her of the icicles which hang on the doorframes each winter. At first Emelin had been wary of the brothers but their hearts were kind, their voices gentle and their smiles bright, and she had found she had a fondness for them both.
The same could not be said for the cloth merchant, Master Baul and his wife Lia. He wore expensive clothes, a florid complexion and three ornate gold rings on his pudgy fingers. He sat on top of large grey stallion named Nicodemus, and had appointed himself the leader of the travelling party. In Emelin’s opinion, he was pompous, condescending and arrogant. Lia Baul mirrored her husband’s inflated opinion of self worth. Like her husband, she was resplendent in her gown of cream damask, and the jewels on her fingers and about her neck would have drawn a queen’s envy.
There was also a minstrel named Garriden, a young man of seventeen summers with golden hair and a lovely voice. Sometimes he would sing a pretty song, one about love and longing, as they travelled down the road, or play a melody on his lute. More often than not, he could be found walking next to the little covered carriage trying to talk to Emelin.
The other members of the party included another monk named Brother Silas who tended Carwin and Arnauf and three peddlers who were also travelling to Reach Fair. The peddlers kept to themselves and generally walked behind the rest of the group. Emelin believed it was because they wanted to put distance between themselves and the odious Master Baul.
Emelin leaned against her father’s shoulder and closed her eyes; she could hear the steady rhythm of Hebby’s hooves on the dirt road and the chorus of little birds singing in the trees. She felt safe and protected; she dismissed her foolish thoughts about the forest. Father was right, there was nothing evil creeping about the woods. The only things in the forest were trees.
~* * *~
In the darkness, skipping on the edge of his consciousness Allard could hear the cry. Someone was calling him, softly – insistently. He wanted to ignore it and slip back into the quiet embrace of the dark but the call became louder and more per
sistent.
Caw, Caw, Caw!
Allard cracked open one eye. Sitting two feet away on a rock was a sleek black raven. Its head was cocked to one side and it eyed Allard intently.
Caw!
The sun was in the wrong place, it was beginning to rise above the hills in the distance. Last time he noticed, the sun had been shining ferociously from high above. He knew it had been hot and uncomfortable and that the sweat had trickled down his broad back. He shivered. I was hot and now I’m cold. Question upon question began to penetrate his befuddled brain. For a moment Allard felt he was suspended in limbo as he could not recall where he was or how exactly he happened to be lying face down in the dirt, looking at a slightly menacing big black bird. Then as a bolt of lightning illuminated the sky his memory came flooding back.
The images were fast, harsh, chaotic - they made him gasp as he remembered what had been. He had been chasing a band of dispossessed and ruthless men who preyed upon villages and travellers in the area. He had believed that they were a ragtag group of peasants and runaway serfs, who were desperate, disorganised and with no appointed leader. But Allard had discovered he was wrong. The earlier attack had he and his men lured into the perfect ambush, cut off from escape on three sides with a ravine at their backs. It was here that he discovered that the ‘ragtag group’ were actually a well disciplined mercenary band led by a man called Archer. He had watched as his loyal men had been massacred around him and then the horse reared up and he was thrown into the ravine and to his death. Death - wait I’m not dead! Am I dead? I should be dead! The voice ricocheted about his mind and he quickly pushed himself up into a sitting position. With the movement came a blinding pain to the side of his head, the world span before his eyes and he slumped against the rock face for support. He took a deep breath and tried to focus his eyes, the pain began to recede and ever so gingerly he touched the side of his head almost afraid of what he may find. He felt a lump and the stickiness of congealing blood, tender, sore but far from fatal. With a sigh of relief, he quickly surveyed the rest of his body and was amazed to find that although he was a myriad of cuts, scratches and bumps there appeared to be no real damage.
“A miracle, my friend.” He grinned as he addressed the raven. “Battered but still whole.” Allard found that he was sitting on a small ledge overhanging the ravine. He could see the top of the cliff about twelve feet above him. Peering over the edge of the ledge he saw that the ravine dropped down another sixty feet, at the rocky bottom a white foamed rushing river snaked through the gorge. Allard sat back and pushed his dark hair out of his eyes whilst he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for his deliverance. “As I said, a miracle my friend.”
Caw!
Standing up cautiously he turned his attention to the rock face and to the top of the cliff. The cold grey surface was pitted with crevices, tree roots and other vegetation all trying to hold on to their lofty home. Taking a deep breath Sir Allard de Gerril began to climb.
~* * *~
“The boy is besotted with your daughter’s beauty,” Brother Arnauf said as he gestured towards the young couple. Emelin had relinquished her seat in the little bumpy carriage to the monk. She had worried that the long journey was too much for the old man and had made sure he was sitting comfortably before Hebby was allowed to take another step. Now, she and Garriden were walking a little ahead, lost in conversation. “Roger, you must stop Emelin forming any attachment to our young minstrel.”
“You dislike Garriden, Brother?” Roger asked as he picked up the reins and gave a low whistle. “Come on Hebby, walk on.” The little brown horse reluctantly began to move forward and the little covered carriage resumed its jostling journey down the dusty dirt road.
“Nay, I like him well. God has given him a quick mind, a pleasing face and voice. He has a kind heart and I wish him all the luck and happiness in this life.”
“But?” Roger asked with a laugh in his voice as he turned to the wily old man.
“But the life he has chosen is a hard one. He has nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and his lute. I would see Emelin aim her heart higher, to a man that is in a secure standing. She is full of light and I would not want to see it diminish as she followed a husband from town to town, from fair to fair.”
“Be at ease, Brother. Emelin knows my wishes; she has not nor will not lose her heart to the boy. I want her to have a better life than her mother had with me.” A shadow passed over his face and the sharp pain of loss tugged at his heart.
“Your wife?”
“Aye, Alisoun was her name. She died two winters past.” Roger took a deep breath before continuing. “Emelin has my eyes but everything from her dark beauty to her fiery nature is from my Alisoun.”
“A fiery nature! Nay Roger, I have not seen it! The girl is good, quiet and obedient!” Brother Arnauf jumped willingly to her defence.
“Aye Brother she is - until she isn’t.” Roger laughed.
~* * *~
It had seemed to take him an eternity to scale the rock face until finally he dragged himself back to safety. Time had slipped by as he sat at the top of the cliff trying to catch his breath and ignore the pain from his scratched and bleeding hands. He scanned the area and saw that there was little evidence that the battle had taken place; other than the ground had partially been churned by the steps of both man and horse, there were no bodies. A glimmer of hope ignited in Allard’s chest. Mayhap my men escaped Archer’s ambush after all. The sun had all but set and the western sky was illuminated with the last glorious streaks of yellow, orange and red.
He pushed himself to his feet and allowed himself one more lingering glance of the sunset before turning away and making his way through the forest. The temperature was dropping as the silver grey twilight began to slowly envelop the landscape and Allard willed himself not to shiver. He followed a faded path that curved through the dark trees and away from the cliff. Yet something felt amiss, he stopped for a moment and listened to the forest around him but all was silent. He shook his head and chided himself at his own foolishness but as he broke through the tree line and reached a small clearing; the tiny hairs on the back of his neck began to quiver as the night wind carried with it the faint scent of blood.
In the centre of the glade stood a tall and mighty oak, its thick and twisted branched spread menacingly against the darking sky. Allard’s steps faltered as his eyes rounded in horror at the grotesque sight of his men suspended like broken marionettes on the branches of an ancient oak. Their unseeing eyes bore into him. A strong gust of wind blew up from the ravine, causing the oak’s branches to shift and sway. He watched in disbelief as the bodies jiggled and jerk with unnatural movements and just like macabre puppets being manipulated by the Devil himself, they performed a Dance of Death. Allard closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to regain some composure, breathing deeply he pushed down the great wave of sadness that was swelling within him.
Sweet Jesus in heaven, eight of my finest men - dead? He thought wildly. No, he would not - could not think on it now. There would be time enough to mourn after he had killed all those responsible. He hardened his heart to the raw emotions that tried to engulf him and thought only of vengeance.
Standing up he walked over to the thick trunk of the tree, pausing at its base he crossed himself before scaling its heights. He climbed quickly and soon he was standing above the swinging bodies of his men at arms. Taking his knife from its sheath and with a single tear falling on his cheek he began to cut the hateful rope which entangled his friends.
~* * *~
The heat from the fire was making Emelin sleepy. Their party had gathered around the fire and shared a simple meal before breaking up into small groups and falling into conversation. All the while Garriden had sat next to Emelin and strummed his lute. The effect of the background noise of hushed voices coupled with the muted music and the warmth had Emelin’s eyelids drooping. She did not want to move but rather give into the delicious rest that beckoned her
but she knew that if she didn’t stand up she would wake hours from now, stiff and cold on the hard forest floor. No, it was better that she seek her own bed in the small covered carriage. With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up and announced. “Forgive me, but I must go to bed.”
Garriden quickly rose and offered his arm but Roger called out as he too stood. “Tis alright my young friend, sit and give us all another melody. I will accompany Emelin to the carriage.”
The disappointment was evident in the minstrel’s eyes but he bowed his head and sat back down without protest. Roger linked his arm through his daughter’s as they walked away from the farewells and the fire. “Are you well, child?”
“Aye Father, I am a little tired from today’s journey, that is all.” She reassured him with a smile. They continued to the carriage which lay at the edge of the clearing in sight of the other travellers but words spoken softly could not be heard. Roger cast a glance back towards the cheery fire before he opened the carriage and helped Emelin in.
“Emelin, I must ask. You are my only child and I want you happy and safe.”
“What is it Father?” Emelin said as she turned around. A deep frown marred her pretty face.
“Garriden, have you given your heart to him?”
A slow smile twitched at her lips. “Nay, Father, I have not. He is pleasing to the eye, amusing and has a sweet voice and one day I believe he will be a good man. I care for him as I would a brother if I had been blessed with one, but I do not love him. Rest easy, Father, he does not make my heart beat faster.”
“Good, for as you know it is a hard life travelling between fairs and he has far less than we.”
“That is true, we have each other, your skill in making jewellery, Hebby and the carriage; all Garriden has is his lute.” Emelin agreed as an idea began to form in her mind. “Mayhap he could join us?”
“Emelin?”
The Trinket Seller's Daughter Page 1
