Chapter 4

The Wood of Stern Castle

Early April, 1355

S ince the new year, the Lord had blessed the Wulfriths abundantly, Fira reflected as she urged her mount distant from the old hunting lodge she had not entered for Ermine’s lodgers being present on this day of rest. As hoped, she had found the woman’s son in the stable and he provided her a horse, which he was to keep secret from his mother.

Having seized an opportunity to slip away from Stern, Fira would indulge in her work without being hindered by an impatient escort. Turning her face up to flashes of sun between branches clothing themselves in spring greenery, teasingly she invited, “Freckle me. Since ’tis an arrow I pursue, not a man, I care not.”

Deeply, she drew in the scents of the wood, then returning to a serious semblance of herself, addressed the Lord, “As You have not commanded The Gloaming to leave me be, at times I question Your presence and even existence. Forgive me, and know I am grateful for this glorious day and the joy and peace of other prayers You have answered.”

Eyes watering, she lowered her lids. Having easily departed the morning mass unseen for guests crowding the church, she had not properly given thanks for her family’s blessings which, last Epiphany, she resolved to acknowledge often despite faltering faith. On that day of feasting, the blessings began after she joined the celebrants in the great hall and once more experienced the coming of The Gloaming. Desperate to conceal herself, she had begged the Lord to allow her to gain the empty gathering chamber before she succumbed to what Mason had named a struggle.

Reaching it, she had lowered to a rug and pushed a handful of skirt between her teeth in anticipation of being bent to a will not her own. Shockingly, as if Skyward snatched up the venomous thing inside her, it had disappeared.

Answered prayer, she had named that day’s first blessing as she returned to her feet mere moments before her grandmother worked her cane around the screen that divided her sleeping chamber from the gathering place. Having assumed Lady Héloise was with the family in the hall, Fira had nearly provided much proof of her affliction.

Though there had been suspicion about the lady who doted on the granddaughter she trained to replace her as the keeper of The Book of Wulfrith, she had appeared to accept Fira’s excuse she sought solitude to await the passing of menstrual discomfort. Still, Lady Héloise had watched her the rest of the day.

Now Fira smiled over another blessing revealed during the celebration from which her eldest sister, Dangereuse, had been absent for remaining at Castle Lillia in preparation for the birth of a child made with her second husband. Warin’s wife, Lady Vianne, was also with child. God willing, a babe would be at her breast by middle September. The next blessing was Uncle Owen asking Lady Héloise’s former maid to be his wife. As it was years in coming, they were wed as soon as the banns were read three successive Sundays.

There had been other blessings since Epiphany. Dangereuse birthed a healthy son mid-January whom Fira had yet to hold, but soon now winter was past. Ondine’s sister-in-law, Audrey, had a suitor in Hector’s squire who would be knighted this summer. That had not surprised the Wulfrith ladies who thought highly of her, but Audrey was suspicious of the squire’s attention, surely due to her mother’s disappointment over a daughter less attractive of face and figure than she. However, for the squire’s determination she would see herself as he did, he made progress these past months. Lastly, there was Lady Heloise’s recovery from an ague so severe many feared she neared her end. Though she rose a bit later each morn and leaned more heavily on her cane, her mind remained sharp.

“Blessings, not coincidences,” Fira said as she urged her mount wide around ground so weakened by burrowing creatures a horse could lose its footing and suffer injury. “Many Your blessings, Lord, and that I am in the wood this day.”

For that last, much gratitude due the Wulfriths’ relation, Sir Achard Roche. On the king’s business, he had passed the night at Stern ahead of taking his contingent to meet with Hector at Wulfen. Amid the flurry of their guests’ departure following morning mass, Fira had slipped from the castle with her bow and quiver.

Hopefully, just as the Wulfriths were blessed these months, so too would be Sir Achard and his men, as was needed for what he revealed of their mission. Of greatest concern was further conflict with the Scots. The truce between England and Scotland at an end and negotiations for the release of the latter’s captive king coming to naught, hostilities surged. Then there was pirating off the eastern coast between Lincolnshire and the borderlands. What was troublesome last year had become serious due to greater theft and violence and evidence the most ruthless pirates had their base of operations just over the border. Were it so, the Scots supported those who had taken the name Les Fléaux de l’Anglais—Scourge of the English.

That had greatly interested Hector’s wife, Séverine, who sat so far forward she nearly lost her seat. Over ten years ago, her uncle, Amaury de Chanson, was named that in the singular for the losses he and his crew inflicted on English merchant ships. A year ago, the same name in the plural was used by infiltrators of Calais who might have succeeded in letting in French forces had the woman who wed Warin failed to deliver her intelligence.

Since the pirates terrorizing the English coast used the name in the plural, Séverine could have little hope it meant Mace’s sire lived, and yet last eve that was what lit her face just as questions lit her tongue. Sir Achard’s answers seemingly of little consequence, Fira hurt for her sister-in-law. The French lady was happy at Stern, and more so for her husband’s visits home and her discreet visits to Wulfen when he was much occupied with training knights. Still, longing for good answers to wishes in waiting, she grasped at anything that indicated sire and son would be reunited.

Poor Séverine, Fira thought, certain she was more affected by the loss of her uncle than the boy who, having no memory of his sire, had the best possible replacement in the Wulfrith men.

Though it was unlikely Sir Achard’s journey along the coast toward Scotland to investigate incidences of piracy would yield anything beneficial, Lady Séverine’s hope persisted.

A jolt to Fira’s mount bounced her hard, alerting her she was remiss in guiding the horse who could have been injured for the collapse of ground beneath a hoof.

“Forgive me, Tips.” She patted his neck. “I fail to do my part. And more the pity for you being so kind to carry me wherever I wish—within reason.” Roan, whom Ermine’s son renamed Tips, retained some of the spirit of a knight’s traveling horse, but he was old.

Knowing she should check his leg, Fira reined in. Having knotted up her skirts, her gown and mantle cleared the saddle and the canvas bag fixed to it when she swung a leg over. Once down, she drew forth her spectacles and swiveled the eye pieces, clamped them on her nose, and looped the ties around her ears.

Tips gave a snort of indignation over her examination, but it was half-hearted. After determining he was unharmed, Fira removed a dried apple from the pouch on her belt. “You are a fine steed,” she said as he plucked it from her hand with teeth the color of striated oak. Hopefully, hers would be ivory like her grandmother’s when she was of an equivalent age.

If you live that long, the voice within reminded her of The Gloaming’s play with her while she slept, once more giving rise to fear it would take her in the night and her family would find her lifeless between the sheets.

Detesting such morbid thoughts, she started to return to the saddle, but then she heard voices. Distant and of men, there was mild anger about them. However, possibly of more consequence, they spoke French different from the descendants of the Normans who long ago conquered England. These accents were rich like the deepest, darkest wine, as surely were those of the murderous villains who trespassed on her family’s lands a year past when they came for Lady Vianne after she fled France.

Have the French come for her again? Fira wondered as she turned. Though the lady’s tormentors were dead, the vengeful King Jean might have sent others to drag her back to make her suffer for spying on his court.

Now one of the men cursed.

Get astride and make for Stern, she told herself. Even if you are wrong and regardless of the cost for slipping out of the castle, the warriors of Wulfen must know of this.

In the next instant, it occurred it would be better to inform Sir Achard and his men whom she heard pass on the road ten minutes ago. Sooner she could overtake them than return to Stern, and they were battle ready. Thus, once she was well beyond the men in the wood, she would go to the road and set Tips to flight.

As she turned back to her mount, more words were spoken in the enemy’s language, and for these being clearer, she knew the men moved in her direction. “The time is not right, Fléau!”

Did she hear right? If so, was the one named a scourge singular or plural? If singular… “Amaury de Chanson,” she whispered. Was he alive? Was he here? If so, had the knowledge Mace was on the Barony of Wulfen drawn him?

Recalling what Sir Achard told of the brigands targeting English merchant ships and coastal settlements, she wondered if the long lost chevalier could be the leader of those supported by the Scots and if he knew King Edward sent forces against him—forces now upon Wulfenshire.

“Hear me!” entreated the same man, sounding no nearer as if they had stopped. “Now is not the time!”

“Enough, Richarde!” said the second whose voice made Fira catch her breath. “I decide when the time is right. And you shall remember I am not to be named that! ”

Was that truly his voice? She had heard it only once nearly a year gone. Too, she had not been fully herself and the man had spoken in English without?—

Not so. He had cursed in French with what sounded so true an accent she had asked if he was of France. Might the one here be the same who named himself Mason? If so, he had lied and…

Struck by the similarity between the names Mason and Mace, chills pricked her flesh. Had her savior in the wood been Mace’s sire? If so, had he merely passed over Warin’s barony that day? Did he merely pass over Hector’s this day? Or had he been on Wulfenshire all these months? If Les Fléaux de l’Anglais had a base in Scotland, perhaps one here as well. Though this shire was inland, for Lincolnshire’s coast being roughly eight leagues distant, it was fairly accessible.

Fira waited for him to speak again. When he did, his voice was so low she could not understand what he said nor confirm it was Mason of bent back. However, his accent was that of one continental-born.

There is something very wrong here, she thought. Leave.

But if that is Mace’s sire…if he is unaware his boy is here…if that knowledge saw the bad of him reformed a second time…if once more he proves worthy of Séverine’s high regard…

Their registers now calm, she ignored the voice of reason and gave the horse a pat in parting, only to pause over the canvas bag fixed to the saddle. Though tempted to take her bow, she decided the dagger on her girdle would suffice. Drawing her mantle’s hood over her head, she began picking her way toward trees and foliage so dense only the men’s voices prevented her suddenly happening on them.

They were discussing someone named Gert when she first glimpsed the two over the tops of her spectacles, the most visible one wearing faded green, the other russet. Glad it was also her habit to wear colors of the wood, she continued toward trees skirted by dense undergrowth.

She was a few feet distant when she saw the men between a gap in the foliage. Feeling every heartbeat, she took the last steps and peered at them. The nearest with his back to her wore a close-fitting cap, while the other faced her direction. Were not the latter mostly blocked by the former, she would have to take greater care not to be seen.

As she considered that broad back, her first thought was it could not be Mason for the bend in his and a bad leg. Her next thought, supported by more familiarity about his voice as he instructed Richarde to continue searching for the Lincolnshire lair, was the man who aided her that day had affected infirmities to disguise the danger of him.

Richarde sighed heavily. “When next I come, I should have a more accurate idea of their numbers.”

“As told, make it soon. I am done with this accursed digging.”

Fira assumed he referred to information, but Richarde said, “I know it cannot be easy once more wielding a pickaxe, but at least the weather warms.”

“And conditions are more humane than at Caen,” the other said with as much sarcasm as anger.

Caen, Fira reflected on the place near France’s northwestern coast that was acclaimed for many things, but only one that involved a pickaxe—quarried limestone imported to England for the construction of the Tower of London and other buildings of import.

Why was one likely still a pirate digging on Wulfenshire? Did he seek treasure? She would have smiled over imaginings of that if not that unearthing treasure on these lands was the prerogative of the Wulfriths—and not for financial gain where she was concerned. Rather, to add to The Book of Wulfrith.

Now the larger man sighed and said, “It was hell on earth, though nearly all work was above ground.”

“Unlike at Wulfen Castle,” Richarde said.

Nearly falling off her feet, Fira corrected her footing. And snapped a twig.

Such lack of stealth would have seen Lady Vianne drawn and quartered, she silently rued. Fortunately, since the men remained as they were, they must not have caught the sound.

As she considered the implications of what she overheard—not only must the larger Frenchman be one of Ermine’s lodgers who reworked the tunnels but a danger to those of Wulfen—the mostly unseen Richarde gripped the other man’s arm. “I am sorry for how long this is taking, but know just as ever I was your man on the sea, ever I shall be. And I believe the same can be said of the others.”

Once more, Fira considered if it was Fléau in the singular, meaning Amaury de Chanson, or Fléaux in the plural, meaning one of many who had taken the dreaded name by which Mace’s sire was first known.

“Does God not pluck me up, I shall be your side to see justice done,” Richarde continued.

“I know.” Briefly, the other gripped the hand on him. “Return as soon as you have what I need to see this through.”

As Richarde turned aside, Fira glimpsed the swarthy, deeply grooved face of one aged two score years. Though a bit shorter and less broad of shoulders than the man he served, he was frighteningly imposing.

Because I but imagine he looks as a pirate should? she questioned as he strode opposite.

Abruptly, he halted and looked around. “We will destroy them, my friend.”

If the bigger man responded, it was neither heard nor seen by Fira. Then Richarde was gone, leaving her alone with one who might be Mason of false debilities, Amaury de Chanson of long absence from his son’s life, or but another pirate thieving his way through life. Regardless, he was dangerous. Once he departed, she would carry word to Sir Achard, and if unable to overtake him, then Hector.

For his fear of what could have happened to me, my collar will be tighter and leash shorter, she silently bemoaned as she peered over her lenses at the man who raised his face to the sky as if to gauge the weather.

Before she could start back to her mount, he lowered his chin, then he was moving, but not the direction Richarde went. He came around, and she nearly stumbled when his face proved more familiar than his voice.

Dear Lord, it is he who named himself Mason, she silently appealed as he strode forward, eyes on the ground as if deep in thought. Though he did not advance firmly in her direction, were he to glance across his left shoulder, he might glimpse her amid bushes sparser this side of the trees.

Trying to keep her breathing even, she looked to Tips. Providing the pretender did not veer left, the grazing horse would not be seen. Thus, as Fira must gain better cover to ensure Mason did not learn she intended to expose his deception, it was time to back her way out of this.

Time to creep…if need be scuttle…hopefully not hurtle.