Chapter 9

9

THE FOREST OF LINCOLNWOODS, 1291

E llyn the Fletcher was jostled out of a doze and tightened her grip on the reins. The morning mist had long since burned away and the cloudless sky overhead promised a clear afternoon of warm sunshine. It was late August and flies as big as her thumbnail buzzed around constantly. The only moments of pleasure came from watching the bear-like Baldor slap at the back of his neck to discourage their bites.

She had discovered, by rearranging a few of the saddlebags, that she could lean back and almost achieve the cosiness of a chaise chair. There was no need to hold fast to the reins since Roger had control of the donkey, and by pulling up the neck of her shirt and sliding her hands into her sleeves she could shield most of her exposed flesh from the incessant clouds of insects.

There was a certain beauty in the abundance of trees and clean, earthy air. She was so happy to be free of gray stone walls that she almost enjoyed trekking through the forest. The greensward was dense and breezes rustled constantly in the branches overhead. The carpets of fern and saplings rippled like waves on the sea.

Despite paying close attention to conversations overheard between the four knights, she as yet had no idea who had sent them to snatch her away from Nottingham Castle or why. At every stop, every pause to eat or rest the horses, Ellyn gauged potential opportunities to escape. Now that she was free of one castle, she had no intentions of becoming prisoner in another.

Thus far, however, not even the smallest prospect had presented itself. Rennwick de Beauvoir seemed to possess ten pairs of eyes and whenever he was out of sight, guarding their rear, his cohort Roger was close by Ellyn's side.

Just past noon, they stopped beside a narrow, fast-moving stream where the horses were able to drink their fill. A meager meal had been provided by Hugo, comprised of hard bread, cold sausage, and a thick wedge of yellow cheese. Rennwick and Terrowin took their share and ate at a distance, keeping wary eyes on the road ahead and behind.

While Baldor continued to give Ellyn a wide berth, Roger seemed unafraid of any bewitching powers she might possess and took a seat beside her on the mossy riverbank. She had removed her boots so she could hang her bare toes in the cool water, something he noted with a little sigh of envy. At one point she caught him rubbing his left ankle through the soft leather of his boot.

"How did you lose your foot?"

He moved his hand away and smiled easily enough at her bluntness. "The ankle was cleaved with a glaive. A fearsome weapon, it made me thankful it was not my head getting parted from my shoulders for it could easily have been accomplished had my opponent's aim been higher."

"You seem to manage well enough for the lack. "

"'Twas not always so. I wallowed in self-pity and drowned myself in ale for several months afterward. But then Renn had the practical idea of stuffing a boot. We tried using cloth first but could not get the support sturdy enough and I kept tumbling arse over end. Sawdust mouldered and clay was too heavy. And then one day Renn appeared with a foot carved from driftwood, solid, but light enough not to feel as if I was dragging a club." He paused and smiled. "I like to think he commissioned the sculptor because he was loath to be parted from my company, but I suspect it had more to do with my prowess with pen and paper."

"He cannot read or write?"

"He deciphers words well enough, if slowly, but he lacks the patience to write them down in a manner anyone else can read."

It was not unusual for knights and nobles to concentrate more on the art of swordplay and warfare rather than the scholarly skills of reading and writing. Most castles and manors employed monks or clerks as secretaries for that reason. It was even less common for women to read or write but Enndolynn had been raised in a rare household where mother and father could do both and had encouraged her to do likewise. That was how Ellyn had discovered that orders from the king had been delivered to Harold Falconard and she was soon to be escorted from Nottingham to London. She had caught a glimpse of the missive bearing the royal seal, and since she had told no one in the castle that she could read, no trouble had been taken to shield it from view.

"And so you travel as his scribe? Or to count the coin he earns for abducting women from their beds?"

Roger smiled again. "I travel as his friend. Any scribblings or the counting of sums that I am asked to do are happenstance. "

"How long have you been thus by his side?"

He tossed a small pebble into the stream. "We first met in Gascony, at a tournament. His armor was shabby and mismatched. He had to hire a page and a squire to attend him for the day, yet he was determined to answer every challenge, defeat every comer. He won the first two jousts handily but the third caved two ribs and slashed his leg. He won, but just barely. Attempts were made to dissuade him from entering another run, but he ignored them and at the end of the day, he missed the grand prize by one joust, and that only because he had no strength left to lift the pole. When he was helped down off his mount, it was seen that he had bound the pole to his forearm, and when his boots were removed, one of them was filled with blood. How could one not help but admire such resolve?" He paused and added with a rueful smile, "Especially since I was the one who broke his ribs. Mind you, I was hardly better off in my coin tally, but my armor was forfeit for losing the joust. He saw my situation and in lieu of the armor, he bartered to have me write several documents, a payment which I accepted, the contents of which astonished me even more to his character."

"Astonished… in what way?"

"I believe that would be a confidence, demoiselle, which I would be loathe to break."

He said this with an easy smile but there was an edge to his voice that Ellyn decided not to challenge. Secrecy was a mercenary's stock in trade, was it not?

They lapsed into silence and munched on cheese until Roger glanced over again.

"Terrowin tells me you displayed surprising skill with a sword. The cut on his arm and the one on Renn's cheek would support that. I would not think it a talent acquired by a young woman tenderly raised."

"Neither is making arrows, but I do. And I make the very best."

"An admirable ability." He studied the lovely oval of her face, the silvery-blonde tendrils of hair that had escaped the pillow hat. "And yet, a decided lack of coarseness in your speech would rule out an upbringing of a mere fletcher; you speak Saxon English as easily as you speak Norman French."

"I read Latin too. Even upside down. I also speak Romany and Celtic as well as a secret language my mother taught me."

His brows lifted but she looked away, biting her tongue at her own boastings.

He said nothing for several minutes, which was maddening, until she huffed out a breath and looked at him. "Just because I was born a girl it should not prevent me from learning how to read or write or how to use a sword or bow. If you must know, I lived ten years with an armorer and his wife and it was my job to hone the steel tips he made, attach them to arrows, then balance out the feather fletching so the arrows flew straight and true. To know if they did nor did not, it would follow, naturally, that I had to learn how to shoot them. As for learning how to use a sword, it was a matter of survival in camps filled with slack-jawed tourney followers."

"Dare I ask how you came to live with an armorer?"

She contemplated how truthful she should be. In the end she decided it would do no harm to play on his sympathies. She arranged her face in a suitably solemn expression and sighed. "My father died when I was three. I have no siblings and when I was eight years old, my mother was burned at the stake, falsely accused— as am I —of witchcraft and sorcery. But I must assume you know this already. Surely the tale would have been told you by the man who paid you to snatch me away from Nottingham, for the sins of the mother must needs be shared by the daughter, must they not?"

Roger's dark eyes narrowed. "I do not believe in witchcraft or sorcery."

"I swoon with pleasure to hear it," she said dryly, noting how easily he side-stepped the comment on being paid. "My mother was a skilled healer and cured many people with her possets and tinctures. For that and that alone, she was branded a witch and devil-worshipper."

"Not all healers are so branded."

"No. Just the ones who breathe life into dead children."

He frowned and she elaborated, telling the story of Mary Carpenter's confinement. "When the babe was born, it was not breathing. The farrier and the midwife both declared it to be stillborn; a priest agreed and started to give rites, but my mother…" Ellyn paused and drew a deep breath. "She acted without thought and took the babe in her arms. She covered its mouth with her own and forced a breath into its chest. When the babe started crying, they were all so shocked and mortified that they declared it was dark magic. The farrier and the midwife vowed the babe had been born dead; the priest began to scream that my mother had the power of the devil in her soul. Driven by the priest's rage, the villagers came for her with their torches and their fear. My mother was dragged to the town square, bound to a stake, and burned alive without so much as a trial."

"You saw this happen?"

Ellyn's hands curled into fists. "She had sent me into the forest to gather herbs and berries. I know not if she suspected what was about to happen, but she gave me strict orders not to come back until my basket was filled." She paused and looked at Roger. "It was a very big basket and I… I fell asleep in the berry grove. When I returned, I could see smoke and I could hear the crowd chanting: Burn the witch, burn the witch! I ran into the village, but my mother saw me and shook her head, warning me away, begging me, commanding me to run and hide. And I did. Like a coward, I did."

"There was no shame in that," Roger said quietly. "You were a child, there was nothing you could have done on your own. You are alive. That was what she wanted."

"What I wanted was to avenge my mother's death."

"Ah. Yes, well, what we want we cannot always have."

Ellyn turned to look at him, her face hard, her pale eyes the color of ice. "The priest, the farrier, and the midwife all died within days of the burning."

"By died… you mean…?"

"Died. The midwife was as fat as a boar and died choking on a chicken bone. The farrier fell and crushed his skull on his own anvil."

"And the priest?"

She shrugged and looked away. "He simply died. He was found in his chapel without any visible injury. I had been hiding in a cave, uncertain where to go or what to do but when I heard about the three deaths I ran away through the forest, hoping to get very far away before anyone came looking for me."

Troubled, yet clearly intrigued, he had to ask: "Why would anyone think to blame you?"

She offered up a crooked little smile. "Have you ever put your lips to an ear and whispered a secret, then wondered how long that secret would remain unspoken? "

"More often than I should have."

"I was angry and I wanted to lash out. I made a thoughtless boast to a friend who had smuggled some food to me. I told him that I was the real witch, that I could see into the future and what I saw was the rotting corpses of those responsible for her death. It was just a fanciful wish of course, fueled by anger, but…"

"But… the seed was planted."

"And the wishes came true! The boastings were whispered to someone else, who whispered to someone else, and the foolishness was exaggerated and embellished by people terrified of sleeping in the dark. Barely a fortnight later I was sitting around a campfire listening to a bard spin a tale about a witch named Enndolynn Ware who could cast a demon spell upon the heads of those who displeased her, and who could, by way of the devil's magic, raise the dead. I ran farther, until I stumbled across the Great North Road. There, I met the armorer and his wife who were heading south to Londontown. They were kind and gave me food, let me sleep under their wagon. After a time, they just accepted me, and to repay them for their kindness, I learned how to earn my keep.

"After ten years, I thought I would have been forgotten, but no. Another bard brought the story to life again and someone collected their judas gold by claiming Ellyn the Fletcher was Enndolynn Ware, the witch. I tried to run again but twisted my ankle on a root. Nottingham's men gave chase and found me and…" she shrugged, "and the rest you know."

Roger pursed his lips in thought as his gaze followed the course of a leaf twirling in a small eddy before rippling past Ellyn's bare feet and being carried away in the stream.

"I would not speak of this to the others. Best to have no further cause to rue a mis-spoken word. I trust Renn with the smallest hair on my head, and he believes in dark magic as much as I do, which is to say not at all. But the other two—" he chuckled and glanced pointedly at Baldor. "I see no reason to dissuade them from thinking you can turn them into beetles if they annoy you."

He rose with little effort to betray his handicap and brushed any lingering crumbs off his surcoat. He extended a hand to help her to her feet then turned his back and went over to the horses.

Ellyn glanced at Baldor, who was in search of a bush to pee on. Rennwick and Terrowin had their backs turned. Under the guise of dumping dirt out of her boots, she plucked some small purple berries from a bush that grew along the riverbank. When she had gathered a handful, she tucked them inside a makeshift pocket fashioned out of the folds of her shirt.

Roger gave her a leg-up onto the pack animal then took up the tether rope and mounted his own horse.

"How far do you suppose we will travel today?" she asked.

He smiled easily. "Far enough for Renn to feel he does not have to constantly look over his shoulder."

"He has ample reason to be concerned. Luther de Vos, the Butcher of Northumberland, will not pleased when he discovers I am not at Nottingham."

Roger's smile faded and he cast his gaze around the clearing to mark where the others were guiding their horses away from the stream. His voice went low with urgency and lost all of its polite camaraderie as he asked for clarification. "Luther de Vos? Are you certain of the name?"

"He was dispatched by the king to fetch me to London. I saw the message Nottingham received. Since you appear to be familiar with the name, I surmise you also know that he did not earn the title by carving sides of beef?"

Roger met her gaze and she could swear there was a dark shadow of dread within the brown depths. "I would beg a favor of you, Ellyn the Fletcher. Pray do not repeat what you have just said in Renn's presence."

" Another secret to keep?" She tipped her head and arched an eyebrow. "Is the Butcher someone the brave knight fears?"

"Just the opposite, I'm afraid. If he knew Luther de Vos was within a dozen leagues of Nottingham, he would not hesitate to turn around and go back to kill him."

"Dare I ask why?"

Roger glanced down. "You asked me how I lost my foot. It was at a tournament, during a final mêlée when, as you know, all the knights and squires gather to strike and bash at each other with wooden swords and much ale to mark the end of the festivities. That particular day, Luther and six of his men came prepared to avenge their losses with blood, and indeed, many good, honest knights died beneath their unblunted steel. Renn took the betrayal to heart and vowed to avenge their deaths. None of the six cowardly accomplices still draw breath. Only Luther has yet to pay the price for his treachery."

"He rides at the head of twenty elite guardsmen now. Even the Sheriff of Nottingham speaks of him with a tremor in his voice."

"Rennwick is a stubborn man who takes his vows seriously. Twenty guardsmen or fifty, it would not dampen his rage."