Wildewood Revenge (3 page)

Her head rested beneath his chin and he listened as she whimpered with pain. A good sign, she was regaining some of her faculties. He pondered on her identity, where she’d come from and how she’d gotten
so close to them without being seen. He wondered about her strange clothes, and why she was dressed as a boy. Miles knew all about spies, had encountered more than a few on his travels. He knew how they worked, how devious they could be, but what would spies be doing this far north? Unless, word had got out of his return to these shores, and Sir Gerard had prepared a welcome.

He wondered a lot and in particular, he puzzled about why someone would want her dead. She was very young to warrant the noose, but who was he to question the law, or her, if indeed she had fallen foul of it. He had spent much of his time in questionable compliance with laws that changed as readily as the Monarch. It was not his place, nor his wish, to pass judgement on a scrap, who might yet succumb to her wounds.

His judgement was reserved for someone altogether more deserving.

Chapter Three

Cold, wet and hunched in the saddle, Miles was thankful for short winter days. Although keen to press on and reach his final destination, he was bone weary and grateful that the early loss of the sun brought an end to their frozen journey. As darkness closed in around them and the temperature continued to plummet, they came with immeasurable gratitude upon a low stone building, alone in the desolate landscape.

The boy, with little flesh on his bones, was frozen. He stamped his feet and blew onto his icy hands in an attempt to warm himself.  Miles too had suffered the sting of the elements. His muscles ached with the strain of holding the girl. For the second time he doubted the wisdom of his decision to bring her along. He should have left her. Would have left her, he realised with a measure of self-loathing, but for the risk to the boy and himself if they were implicated in her death. He’d become corrupted by the life he’d led and perhaps it was time he considered how to make amends.  With no energy or time to dig a grave in the frozen ground, he considered it prudent therefore, to ensure her good health. He lifted her from the horse’s back and turned to assess their sanctuary.

The building had been a home, during the summer months when there was a living to be made up here in this high land of hardy hill sheep and buzzards. Now, still shrouded in thick snow it stood abandoned. Its sturdy walls had survived the worst weather. The adjoining outbuildings less successfully, however, they were sufficient to shelter the horses from the relentless wind which carried sleet and the promise of heavier snow to come.

Miles shouldered the door, thankful the roof was intact and the
interior dry. He’d sheltered in far worse places, and there was something of comfort in the unassuming stone walls. He lowered the girl to the dirt floor, still scattered with last year’s straw, and set about making a fire while Edmund attended to the horses.

“It’s going to be a long cold night, Edmund,” he said, when the boy returned. His voice was hoarse with the cold and lack of use. “If your petit
cerf
is to survive till morning we shall need to warm her.” He held out an empty cooking pot and the boy nodded. Not keen to go back out into the cold, but resigned to his role as snow gatherer and general dogsbody, he paused at the door.

“Edmund, make haste,” Miles added. “The sooner the arrow is removed and the humours restored the better for us all.”

Edmund looked from the man to the girl, reluctant to leave.  “D’
yer
believe someone was
tryin
’ to kill her?”

Miles cocked his head. “You mean, other than you?”

“I didn’t intend harm,” the boy muttered, dropping his gaze to his feet.

“Indeed, Edmund, but now you see the result of using a weapon without clear sight.”

“It will not happen again. Ye can be assured of that.”

Miles shrugged; the boy had learnt his lesson. “No matter, Edmund, you made a mistake, and we will endeavour to put it to rights, now go.”

He returned his attention to the girl who lay unmoving by the fire. He squatted alongside balancing on the balls of his feet and slowly drew back the cloak. He judged her taller than the boy, a little older, and slightly built, though the woollen tunic she wore hid most of her body from view. Her hair was fair or would be when clean, though oddly streaked with pink. It was short and unusually spiky apart from the
fringe that fell across her eyes.

He ran his fingers roughly through the damp strands, checking for any wound that may have stained her hair. Why would a woman choose to wear her hair so short unless she was a spy and attempting to pass herself as a boy? Realistically, a female spy who made the most of her femininity and had a
little more flesh on her bones
would have stood more chance of infiltrating his defences than a scrawny boy. In fact, had she been more to his liking, he might well have enjoyed a little infiltrating of his own, and his nemesis Gerard would know that. He was therefore left uncertain and unconvinced at her purpose.

Perhaps the noose was the key, but who wanted her dead and for what reason? His gaze travelled to her leg and the arrow, part of which still protruded through the loose fabric of her leggings. What kind of a woman wore clothes such as these? She was odd there was no question about it, and oddness carried with it an air of mystery which made him suspicious. He had not survived the last ten years without developing a sense for such things.

He took his knife and slit the material from ankle to waist. She moaned softly as he unlaced and removed her boots. Good boots, he thought; lightweight and sturdy with soft padding at the ankle, they would be comfortable, though the fastening was unusual and they were certainly not footwear for a young lady. Then the trousers were off and that did cause her to struggle against him. He was surprised at her strength. Even in slumber she fought him and he smiled at her spirit. No doubt when awake she would realise the folly of her struggles, but for now he found it mildly entertaining.

“Hush, Mademoiselle,” he muttered. “I mean you no harm; I’m trying to assist you, lie still.” He stroked her hair, in the way he would
to calm his horse, or a flighty hound, and then absently, he stroked her pale thigh for no other reason than the fact that he could. While his rough palm skimmed her soft skin, he considered the best way to remove the arrow, which ensured his mind did not stray to other matters of the flesh. Fortunately for her, the arrow did not appear to have hit bone. It would however, need to be removed and that was going to hurt. It was inevitable. Regardless of her undeniable fighting spirit, she would definitely need something to dull the pain.

He used the boiling water provided by Edmund to clean his knife, then took a small blue glass vial from his pack and took a moment to consider its use. The contents were precious, a concoction of opiates brought from the east and irreplaceable in this remote location. He was uncertain whether it might be needed again, or whether it would be wasted on a lost cause. Nevertheless, he propped the girl up against him, tipping her head back so she could be made to drink. He spoke softly against her ear and she roused slightly.

“Mademoiselle, you must drink this. It will make you sleep. When you awaken all will be done.”

He took her incoherent muttering as acquiescence and poured half the contents into her mouth. She gagged and he held her mouth and nose closed with one hand to ensure she swallowed. Edmund looked away, reluctant to witness to her distress.

“Edmund, hold fast,” Miles muttered. “You’ve seen worse on the battle field. I need your help here, hold her tight while I attend to the wound. It will cause her pain and she will fight you despite the tincture. You must hold her securely so the knife does not slip.”

Edmund took Miles’ place and did his job admirably for she did indeed howl and thrash when the arrow was removed and even more so
when the wound was cauterised.  He held her to him tightly, his small thin arms empowered suddenly with the necessary strength. He had never been as close to a girl before. When all was done, Miles was forced to
prise
him away he appeared so affected by the trauma of the operation and the nearness of the girl.

“Go and settle the horses, Edmund,” said Miles gruffly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.  “I will attend to her now.”

Edmund smiled weakly. He pulled on the girl’s hat and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders before gratefully leaving the cottage.

Miles took the time to rinse his blood stained hands in the cooling water. He rolled his head slowly from side to side to free up his taut neck muscles. He badly needed to sleep, but wasn’t quite finished. Leaning forward he used his thumbs to gently rub away the muddy tears from the girls face. She was deathly pale and her clothes clung damply to her cold skin.

Lifting her arms, he pulled her woollen tunic over her head. Her clothes would dry overnight in front of the fire. He paused, distracted and undeniably interested when he saw how little she wore beneath; a short close fitting white sleeveless tunic that revealed her belly and the tiniest lace undergarments he had ever seen.

Tracing the outline of her right hip bone, a flurry of tiny butterflies tattooed in the deepest indigo blue, fluttered lifelike across her pale skin. If she wasn’t a spy then she was some kind of temptress and his mind buzzed with possibilities, not all of them honourable. He smiled shrewdly and reassessed the situation. She was certainly not as young as he’d first thought. Maybe that explained the hanging; maybe she’d been the victim of a cuckold wife, or a guilty husband.

She shivered in the frigid air and he watched mesmerised as the
butterflies twitched their wings tantalizingly. With a muttered curse he gave himself a shake and replaced the cloak. It amused him to know something about her, something she would no doubt prefer to keep hidden. She was indeed a puzzle, but there would be time enough to solve it later, when he had energy for the game. His priority now was to eat and sleep. He needed all his strength and wits for the days ahead.

Every day brought him closer to
Wildewood
and revenge.

Chapter Four

Grace woke in stages, each of her senses coming slowly and reluctantly back to life. She heard a boy’s distorted voice, through muffled ears, as he discussed the food which she could smell cooking. The aroma, of stewed rabbit caused her stomach to recoil in response.

Struggling to open leaden lids, the room swam before her. When it slowed, she was able to make out the blurred figure of the boy as he squatted by the fire.
A dog
-
her dog, sat by his side, tail wagging.

Damn that dog to hell
, she thought.

She turned her head gingerly, and regretted the action when the room spun once more. Cold stone walls, rough earthen floor, a window small and unglazed - all spinning. She put out her hand, grasped desperately at the straw beneath her, applying the brake in the only way she knew how. She tried to slow the rotation further by keeping her head still and moving only her eyes. She realised there was someone else in the room, coolly observing her return to consciousness.

He sat relaxed against the wall, alongside the fire which hissed with its load of damp wood. His legs outstretched, booted feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded loosely across his chest. He studied her through the smoky interior from beneath half closed eyes.

Grace realised he was speaking to her, in the low raspy voice she recalled from her dreams. His rising intonation suggested a question, but she couldn’t understand him. He wasn’t speaking English and yet it sounded familiar. She stared at him blankly. Perhaps she was still dreaming. How else could this situation be explained?  She had no memory of what had preceded this. No recollection of arriving, or indeed of leaving anywhere else. Merely a worrying blank void she
desperately needed to fill.

She blinked slowly, dragged reluctant, sticky lids back open, trying to concentrate and focus. But her mind, incapable of normal cognition seemed reluctant to obey and determined to wander. She found herself drawn to his presence, fascinated by his appearance. Her pupils dilated, a witless rabbit caught in a hypnotic glare of light.

He appeared weary. A little unkempt, his collar length dark hair was pushed back roughly from his face, the moisture trapped in the damp strand
s glistening in the firelight.
Here and there, small white lines be
trayed the scars of old wounds.
They dissected his eyebrow, highlighted the line of his jaw and marred the stubble that cloaked his chin. His eyes, which assessed her with lazy disinterest, were a striking blue, his lashes long and black.

He was not unattractive she decided as she studied him detachedly, though his appearance suggested he’d been living rough for some time, and an accumulation of sweat and grime had caught in the fine lines either side of his eyes. Laughter lines, her Grandmother would have called them, but there was no humour in his expression. Instead there was an aura of strangeness which initiated stirrings of unease within her.

He spoke again more insistently, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper but its
tone demanding her attention.
She shook herself, widened her eyes with difficulty and tried very hard to concentrate. It was French, she was almost sure of it, a kind of French anyway and she thought he was asking her name. How odd, she thought distractedly, a Frenchman in the middle of a Northumberland. Perhaps he was lost, it was easily done. She, herself had a terrible sense of direction. She tried to recall the French learned at school, but apart from the usual rude phrases that circumnavigated the school yard she was at a loss.