Wildewood Revenge (2 page)

Her last fragmented thought as her mind overloaded and cut out was that someone was out there, somewhere, very close by.

Chapter Two

The boy came silently. A wraithlike shadow slipping unseen between trees cloaked in frost. He stooped as hoary tendrils threatened to entwine him in their icy embrace, a slender bow held tightly in one hand while the other gripped a brindle terrier by the rough hair at its scruff. The dog remained alert. Ears pricked, its tail twitched with anticipation; the rasp of its breath the only sound to be heard in the silence of the winter forest.

The boy flicked a nervous glance around the tangle of waterlogged tree roots and eerie, stagnant pools. Afraid to proceed and unwilling to retreat, he rose slowly to his full height and peered at the body.

Slumped where it had fallen, it lay half submerged in the icy depth, one pale frozen hand outstretched, damp hair, obscuring the face. His heart lurched within its fragile casing at the reality of what had transpired. Summoning what little courage remained he made a hurried sign of the cross and backed carefully away.

Small and undernourished, with ragged, dark hair and clothes the colour of the forest, it was little wonder he’d remained unseen long enough to carry out such a heinous act. He paused, drawing on the strength of his natural camouflage and silently chanted the charms of protection he’d learned at the breast. The beat of his heart stilled and he stepped back through the thorny barrier of frozen bramble runners and drew close again.

He saw the blood first, staining the melt water as it seeped from the body, trapped within the confines of the frigid pool. He watched transfixed as the slickness spread and the body slid further beneath the blackness.  He felt fear, an overwhelming sense of dread that welled
unbidden from the centre of his being, despite the charms. Reaching out with a hesitant hand he paused midway and drew back quickly, as if scalded by some unseen source. The dog whined and the boy cocked his head, alert to whatever sound distracted it. Then he was up and running, back into the dense woods from whence he had come.

Light-footed, he covered the flooded ground easily. He dodged low branches and fallen trees with not a single snapped twig to shatter the silence, until, with relief as keen as a long held breath, he burst into the makeshift camp like a wild thing freed from a trap, and the phantoms he believed snapped at his heels were let loose. The horses strained at their tethers, whinnies of alarm accompanying the wild kicking at the anticipated threat. The roosting birds of the forest rose as one, a cacophony of alarmed pheasants and pigeons squawked and flapped for cover. Their noise reverberated around the small clearing and contributed to the overall commotion. The boy tripped, scattering embers from the smouldering fire, then recovered and steadied
himself
with an outstretched hand.

His stunned companion lurched backwards away from the shower of sparks, spilled the contents of his cup and muttered a curse beneath his breath as the hot liquid seared the back of his hand. He staggered awkwardly to his feet, dropped the cup in the dirt and stopped the lad’s flight by grasping him firmly by the shoulders.

“For pity’s sake, Edmund,” he growled, flicking a wary glance around the camp. “What in God’s name is wrong with you? You’ll awaken the Devil himself with that racket.”

“My lord, I’ve done a terrible thing,” the boy gasped, glancing back over his shoulder fearfully. He took a ragged breath, his chest heaving with the effort. “I meant to take a deer, but I have taken a boy! I fear
I’ve killed him.”

The boy shuddered and the man felt the child’s tremors through his own hands. The boy may be guilty of many things but he was not given to flights of fancy. Yet, there was no one in these woods. He would stake his life on it.

Miles of
Wildewood
- knight, mercenary and sometime scoundrel - possessed tracking skills that were second to none. He’d seen no signs when they’d made camp. He’d set up perimeter markers and traps, none of which had been tripped; he would have surely been alerted if they had. He chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip, narrowed his eyes and scanned the tree line. There was no movement, nothing amiss. Crossing to the tethered horses, he hushed them with a gentle hand and a soft mutter against velvet noses. Cocking his head, he paused and listened. The only sound to be heard was Edmund’s frantic panting.

Turning back to the boy, he reached out a hand and shook him roughly. “Been at the ale again, eh, Edmund?” The boy was a devil for the drink.

“No, my lord,
t’was
a body, I swear it.” There was no mistaking the terrified look on the boy’s face. If there were any ale to be had, Miles reckoned the lad would have downed one there and then, just to quell the fear in his belly.

Miles cast an eye out to the gloom of the encroaching forest and sighed sourly. He had no urge to trample through water-logged mires. He was cold enough. He’d forgotten just how miserable a Northumbrian winter could be. His chest tightened with the effort of inhaling frigid air, but he couldn’t afford to ignore the boy. If there was to be trouble then better he knew of it first-hand, rather than later at the hands of others. Pulling his knife from the leather sheath tied against his leg he turned
back to the boy.

“Where, Edmund? Show me where this body lies.”

Edmund led Miles swiftly back through the stillness of the forest, to the spot where his victim lay, allowing his master to see for the first time the limp and bedraggled body which had begun to slide of its own volition beneath the icy water of the woodland bog. The body was soaked and unnaturally still. Edmund’s arrow expertly lodged in the thigh.

Miles paused to survey the scene, holding Edmund back with a raised palm. When he was satisfied that no one lurked in the shadows between the trees, he knelt on the sodden ground and with rough hands hauled the body clear of the water, noting with suspicion and mounting unease the rope tangled around the neck. He glanced up at the overhanging trees. He saw no limb that would have accommodated a makeshift gallows. What devilment had gone on here?

He removed the damp woollen hat and tossed it to the boy before smoothing the mud splattered hair back from the face and then leaning so close that his own warm breath would have tickled had the victim been conscious, he listened for sounds of breathing. He noted the pale smooth skin and fine bone structure, and was aware of a subtle fragrance, hovering just beneath the stink of rotting vegetation. He sat back on the damp ground pulling the body with him and assessed the situation.

“Edmund, you are indeed a fortunate miscreant. Despite your skill with the bow, your victim still lives.” He grinned at the lad, who shook with relief. “But I see I need to further your education, for this is no boy. Don’t you know a maiden when you see one?”

Although at a loss as to where this girl had come from, or how she’d
breached his fail-safe systems, he had not the time to deliberate on the puzzle. He couldn’t afford to linger, nor could he simply leave her to perish. In reality it would have been more convenient to pretend they’d not stumbled upon her and preferable for all concerned if Edmund had not skewered her with his suspect aim.

But as a knight, reluctant or not, he had a code of sorts to uphold. He accepted that lately he had been more scoundrel than valiant defender of the crown. Circumstances beyond his control had seen his honour tested. Perhaps in the guise of this strange bedraggled girl, the fates had sent him a reminder of how he should behave. Who was he to argue with fate?

He loosened the noose from around the girl’s neck, noting the redness of burnt skin, stripped off his belt and used it to stem the flow of blood. Then picking her up as if she weighed naught, he slung her across his shoulder as he would have carried the deer, had Edmund’s aim had been true. With questionable care, and surprising speed he carried her back to the camp.

Dropping her limp body in an unceremonious heap by the fire, Miles pondered whether such a scrawny thing was worth his efforts at all. He had things to do. Plans that required set in motion, which he delayed at his own peril. There was no guarantee of her regaining her senses and, honour-be-damned, he’d no desire to be landed with a drooling halfwit. He crouched at her side and laid a palm against her cheek, felt her skin cold and clammy. He knew her leg required treatment and the arrow must come out, but it was not safe to linger here in the frozen wood.

Whoever she was, her kin would come looking and he doubted they would believe young Edmund had mistaken her for a deer. They would either be looking to rescue her or finish her off, and waiting around to
find out was not an option.

“What did you see before you loosed your arrow?” he asked the boy, impatiently. He needed to understand the significance of what they’d inadvertently stumbled upon. It was not usual to come across young girls, alone in the deep woods, even more unusual to discover them near death with a rope around their neck. Despite his impatience at this unwelcome interlude, he was intrigued.

Edmund shrugged, bewildered. “A deer, I reckon I seen a deer.”

“But obviously you did not. Did you merely see movement? Was the girl on the ground or in the air?” He pictured her suddenly, a fleeting image of a terrified face, as she swung, feet far from the ground. His hand strayed to his throat, where his own scars were barely visible, but engrained on his mind nonetheless. He dropped his hand and blinked the image away.

“In the air,” Edmund pulled a face, suppressing his laughter. “How could she be in the air, she’s not a bird?” He flapped his arms, hopping on one leg, a court jester in the making. Miles recognised fear edging toward hysteria as the boy attempted to rationalise his actions. He recalled his own first kill. Fear mingled with elation. It had left a bitter taste, but that was long ago and his palate had quickly grown accustomed.

Continuing his assessment of the girl’s condition, Miles ignored the boy’s antics and his interest grew, despite his initial reluctance. In his experience everything happened for a reason, good or bad. It was his task to determine how best to turn this misadventure to his own advantage. “Nor is she a deer, Edmund, but that did not stop you. Was she hanging? Or was she on the ground?”

“Does it matter, my lord?” shrugged the boy in confusion.

“It matters if we have come upon a hanging,” replied Miles grimly. “The hangman may come looking for his corpse.” He turned with a menacing grin that highlighted the scar tracing his jaw line. He couldn’t help himself. Edmund was such an easy target. “Or indeed, he may be content to take the boy who loosed the arrow, in place of the corpse. Just think of it, Edmund, the world looks quite different from the end of a rope.” And he should know.

Edmund paused, one foot hovering above the ground and allowed his arms to drop to his side.

“I think she be on the ground,” he said quickly, He’d no wish to meet the hangman.

Miles shook his head impatiently. “You think? Maybe if you had thought before you released the arrow we wouldn’t be in this predicament.” He didn’t need the additional aggravation. Not now so close to home, so close to completing his mission.

“Edmund make haste, prepare the horses, we need to leave now.” He snapped the shaft of the arrow, to ensure it did not impede their progress but the girl lay unresponsive to any additional pain the action may have caused. She was either made of sterner stuff than he, or so far gone the pain had ceased to mean anything.

He checked her breathing again. Detected it; shallow but still there. He slid a rough palm beneath the neck of her woollen jerkin, ignored the swell of her breasts and concentrated his mind on the rhythm of her heart beating in her chest. The physicians he’d met on his travels, in lands far from this place, had held great store by the function of the heart in life and death. He was no physician, but it was true, he’d never felt the beat within the chest of a dead man and he’d seen and created many dead men.

“Edmund did you hear me?” He withdrew his hand and turned impatiently. The boy was a liability. “What have you there?”

Edmund grinned mischievously, fear now erased from his face. He lifted the small dog by its scruff for inspection. “He’s mine, I found him in yonder forest. He’ll bring us many rabbits.” The dog wriggled in the boy’s grasp, wagged its tail energetically and Miles allowed a reluctant smile.

“Rabbits yes, but no more deer, Edmund, or the king will have your head and mine.” The boy dropped his gaze and Miles momentarily shared his unease at the strange turn of events. He turned away from the child, swept a quick glance around the campsite and added gruffly. “Keep him if you must, but make sure he doesn’t stray. He has a wilful look about him. I fancy he would think naught of chasing my stock, supposing I have any left after all this time.” The boy grinned again and nodded his agreement. “And, Edmund,” added Miles, “make haste!”

Riding hard through the forest the horses picked their way sure-footedly through the bogs and beyond, where the moor rose above them, still snow covered. Here the land grew ever steeper and more rugged. The wind snapped cruelly across the vast empty terrain and the riders braced themselves against the biting weather.

All the while Miles held the girl against the warmth of his body. Her chilled dampness seeped through the cloak and into his clothes and skin. He fought the wheeze which tightened his chest as her cold impregnated him and he began to doubt his decision to bring her along. She would likely die and he would have received a soaking for naught.