Chapter 5

5

T he moon was slow to make an appearance but when it did, the glow provided enough light to give substance to the trees and the open spaces, turning everything to black and silver. The men rode in silence apart from the occasional curse given to a low-hanging branch. The horses' hooves were muted by the layers of rotted leaves and the untrampled earth for they were not following any well-used paths. Instead, they relied on Renn's memory of a youth spent hunting rabbits and deer.

They reached an open clearing about a Roman mile from Nottingham Castle and Renn drew his mount to a halt. The three riders behind him did likewise, their heads cocked, eyes and ears alert to any sound or movement in the shadows. Renn lifted his reins a bare inch, the signal for his horse to step carefully forward. When he reached the middle of the wide clearing, his hand fell casually to the hilt of his sword.

For the second time that night he heard the words, "Ye took yer sweet time, lads. We were about to give up on ye. "

"With that great nose, Leofric, ye should have smelled us comin' a mile back," Baldor declared.

A general rustling of ferns and saplings produced a dozen foresters who emerged from the shadows to stand in the bluish moonlight, their longbows slung across their shoulders. To a man they wore coarse brown linsey-woolsey garments that allowed them to blend into the greenwood around them. To a one they wore the grim, hard look of outlaws.

Ellyn leaned slightly to the side in order to peek around Renn's broad shoulder. Her heart had leapt into her throat at the sound of the coarse hail, but as it became clearer these men were friends not foes, her death grip on Renn's surcoat eased.

Their leader was a big man, head and shoulders above the others, with a barrel chest and a scar that cut across an empty socket where his left eye had been. He did, indeed, have a prodigiously large nose, one that ran from brow to upper lip and spread four fingers-width between his cheeks.

He approached Renn and touched a forefinger to his temple. "Yer coin was well spent, m' lord. Six o' them. They must have spotted ye back by the river and followed ye through the wood."

"Curious bastards."

"Dead bastards," said Leofric the Stout, grinning.

"Nottingham's men?"

The woodsman nodded. "Thick as fleas hereabouts."

"You have my thanks," Renn said.

"And mine," Baldor said, cantering forward. "Never doubted for a moment ye would guard our flanks well, Brother."

"Bah. Lying swine. Mam says to tell ye to get yer arse to the farm before ye go off adventurin' again or she'll carve out yer liver and feed it to the hogs. She mout do it anyway, just fer sport."

Baldor chuckled and fished under his belt a moment before producing a silver coin. He flipped it to his brother. "Here, give her this. Mayhap ‘twill tide her over 'til I can spare the time."

The coin vanished inside the forester's tunic, then he looked at Renn and touched his forelock again. "We'll stay with ye as far as the main road. Ye'll not see us again, but we'll be ahind ye."

Renn leaned over and handed the man a bulging leather pouch the size of a fist. "For your families. For the winter ahead. Our thanks and God's night to you."

Leofric weighed the heavy pouch in his hand and heard the jingle of coin. "Honor and steel, Rennwick de Beauvoir. Ye will always have our loyalty… despite the company ye keep," he added with a grin, cocking his head toward his brother.

Renn was aware of the girl listening intently to the exchange. While he inwardly flinched at the outlaw's use of his name, he gave no outward sign that he was troubled by the revelation. He had no reason to believe the name would mean anything to her, yet he had known many a fool who died for just such a lack of discretion.

He lifted the reins and touched his heels lightly to the palfrey's flanks. They left the clearing and entered the darker expanse of the woods again, the horses moving slowly in single file as they wound their way through the trees. The foresters had melted into the shadows, where they remained invisible but for the occasional whistle or chirr-up high in the boughs .

"Rennwick de Beauvoir."

They had been riding for well over two hours without so much as a word passing between any of the men.

"Rennwick de Beauvoir," Ellyn said again, the whisper louder but still muffled by her hood.

"Are you addressing me, or casting a spell? If the latter, I would caution against turning me into a toad. My horse recoils if he sees one."

"A snake, then? It would seem to suit better."

"If it pleases you to ride with a snake wriggling under your nightdress to stay warm, then by all means, a snake."

"It would please me to see you fall off the saddle and wriggle away under the nearest rock where you belong. I address you only because I wish to draw attention to the fact that we have been riding for half the night and I need to… to relieve myself."

"You should lean to the side," he said.

"What?"

He doubled forward and tipped his torso to the left. She saw the looming branch at the last possible instant and as she was ducking down to avoid it, the branch got snagged on the hood of her cloak, sticking in the wool long enough to bend in half before snapping back.

Ellyn heard a satisfying slap against the rider behind her followed by an involuntary curse, and she glanced back in time to see Terrowin scramble to keep his seat in the saddle.

"The cottage should be just ahead," Renn said, looking back as well. "We can stop there and rest a while."

Ellyn, for one, would be genuinely grateful for the respite. She really did have to relieve herself. Moreover, her legs were aching from riding on the horse's hard rump and having to constantly squeeze her thighs to keep from slipping off. She was still wearing just a nightdress and a thin cloak, neither of which provided much padding or warmth. The day had been balmy but the night air was cool, creating pockets of mist that shifted and swirled like eddies of cream as the horses passed through. Ellyn's skin was moist, the outer layer of the cloak glittered with spickets of fog and if not for the fact her companion's body was close and generous with its heat, she would have long since shivered herself into oblivion.

Her thoughts, since entering the forest, had lobbed between wondering where she was being taken, and how long it would be before someone noticed her absence from Nottingham Castle. It was possible no one would realize she was missing until midday or later. None of the maids would be curious enough to report her gone; they were usually too frightened to do more than call her name through the closed door in case she had changed herself into a raven or a bat or a wolf.

Which was nonsense of course. She was not a changeling. She could not wave a hand and turn herself into a bird.

If she could, she would hardly be clinging to the back of a stone-faced body-snatcher riding through a forest in the dead of night.

When she'd heard the scrape of a boot on the floor of her chamber, her initial thought had been that somehow a changeling had indeed stepped through solid stone. When the intruder turned out to be a dark-haired knight, her fears were hardly diminished. Who had paid him to snatch her away from Nottingham? And how, after living for ten years as Ellyn the Fletcher, had her true identity suddenly drawn so much attention?

When little Enndolynn Ware had fled Lambeleia all those years ago, she had run as far and as fast away as her legs could carry her. Thanks to her mother's teachings she had known how to forage in the woods for berries and mushrooms, roots and herbs; enough to keep from starving or having to go too near a village or town. She had kept her own company for over a month before crossing paths with an older couple, who, upon seeing the bedraggled young girl, offered her a hot meal and a bed of blankets under their wagon.

Perigord was an armorer and together with his wife Hawise, they followed the tournament circuit making and repairing armor, forging swords, making winding gears for crossbows. They were childless and had been more than happy to take Ellyn into their care.

For ten years she had stayed with them, acquiring skills far different than any her mother could have taught her. She learned how to roll freshly forged armor in a barrel of oiled sand until the surface shone like a mirror. She learned how to hone the blade of a sword so fine it could slice through a length of falling cloth. And she learned not only how to use a sword, but how to throw a dagger to test its weight and balance, how to shoot a crossbow as well as a longbow. Her finest talent, however, was making arrows. Steel-tipped and slender, they flew so straight and true, she became well known as Ellyn the Fletcher and had her own little booth beside that of her mentors.

She could hardly remember a morning when she did not rise early to scour the forest for the strongest lengths of ashwood to make her arrows. Perigord and Hawise loved her and she them. In truth, she had eased into her new life as if there had never been another before it.

It had all come to a shocking end with the arrival of Lythwyn the Welshman. He had joined the caravan much the same way as Ellyn, having been picked up as a stray along the road and offered a place to work alongside the others at fairs and tournaments. Tall and handsome, he had a smile that could charm a serpent and lips that could make a girl lick her own just by watching them form words. After only a sennight in camp he had shown Ellyn how he could put those lips of his to good use, kissing her so thoroughly his body was between her legs before she knew her leggings had been lowered.

After the deed was done, after he had grunted his way to an unshared rapture and rolled off her, he never used his lips on her again. Nor had she wanted him to, for in hindsight, it had been an altogether unpleasant experience. He had been rough and made her bleed. And she had been sore for days after, barely able to walk without pain from the chafing. She was quite happy when he turned his attention to seeking out other virgins to despoil, of which there were usually many when a tournament was being held.

One of the largest tourneys was held annually on the vast plain below the castle of Tickhill in Nottinghamshire. In the days leading up to the festivities, the adjoining town of Dadesley filled with visiting knights and nobles; shops and taverns were set up on the commons. The sound of hammers rang out day and night and the air filled with the smoke from a dozen furnaces where smithies like Perigord made, sold, or repaired armor. A hundred colorful tents flying a hundred swallow-tailed pennons sprang up like a sea of wildflowers. Practice grounds were cordoned off where magnificent destriers were run through their paces and knights hacked and slashed at pumpkins and drove their lances at sacks filled with straw. Bards, minstrels, and jugglers roamed everywhere trying to earn a penny or a meat pie. The very best ones found large audiences around campfires where flagons of ale and mead were passed around freely.

One such bard had a fine voice and a wonderful repertoire of chansons de geste. He recited poems of stirring adventure and haunting terror, one of which told the tale of a family of witches, pagan devil-worshipers who could bring the dead back to life. By the grace of God, one of the witches was burned at the stake but the other, a female changeling with silver hair and eyes the color of a snow wolf, had managed to escape. The king himself had placed a reward of a thousand marks on her head and any who harbored her would surely spend eternity burning in the hottest fires of hell!

At the mention of silver hair and unusually pale blue eyes, Lythwyn the Welshman had turned and stared directly at Ellyn.

Later that night, she had seen him whispering into the ear of a guardsman while pointing to the wagon where she slept.

She had wasted no time leaving the encampment. She had gathered her few belongings and crept away in the darkness, heading north into the safety of the forest again. That time, however, she had not managed more than a mile before stepping into a rabbit hole and twisting her ankle. She had been found the next day by a patrol of guardsmen and dragged before Harold Falconard, Sheriff of Nottingham and loyal lapdog to King Edward I.

She had expected a sentence of death by hanging at the very least, but instead, she had been taken up to the room in the tower, locked inside, and all but ignored until recently.

How she would have loved to have known about the passages in the walls!

It was enough, for the moment, that she was out of Falconard's hands. Until she could think of an alternate plan, she had no qualms using Rennwick de Beauvoir and his merry band of misfits as her protectors. At least until she felt it was safe to part with their company.

In the meantime, she decided to appear to be compliant and resigned to her fate… which she would be for as long as it suited her purposes. That did not stop her from stealthily removing one of the three daggers she had felt strapped to Rennwick's waist. She secreted the blade in a deep pocket on the underside of her cloak and would not be afraid to use it should the opportunity arise.

The moon was still bright in the night sky when Ellyn felt her captor's belly muscles tighten as he reined his horse to a stop. Peering over his shoulder she saw they were at the verge of another clearing, this one wide enough to accommodate a small farm. A mud and wattle cottage squatted in the middle, surrounded by neat rows of cabbages and turnips. The thatching on the roof of the cottage hung low over the doorway. A chimney poked up at the rear sending a thin thread of smoke spiralling lazily into the night sky. Shutters on the solitary window were open and latched against the rock-hard mud. The opening itself was covered with oiled cloth through which a faint yellow glow bloomed, indicating there was someone awake inside.

Without being told, Rennwick's three companions dismounted and fanned out on either side, creeping silently up to the cottage, wary for any sign of treachery. Terrowin was within arm's length of the window when the oiled cloth was lifted aside and a head appeared in the opening. Words were exchanged after which Terrowin turned and raised a hand to give the all-clear signal .

Rennwick clucked softly to start the horse forward again. When he stopped at the cottage, he reached around and grasped Ellyn's arm, helping her slide off the horse's rump to the ground. Her legs buckled the instant her feet touched, and she would have slumped into a heap had he not dismounted and wrapped an arm instantly around her waist.

Every muscle in her legs, thighs, and back was cramping and it took a full minute for her to conquer the pain and regain her balance. When she did, she tipped her chin up, aware that Rennwick was holding her close enough she could feel his breath ruffling the strands of hair that curled over her forehead.

She had not paid much heed to his features while he had been in the process of stealing her away from Nottingham, but now it struck her that his jaw was square and his nose bore a noble shape for such a rogue. His eyes were well spaced and dark… although she thought ‘intense' to be a better description. The nick he had earned from her sword rode high on a cheekbone that might have been carved from granite. His hair appeared blue-black under the moonlight, cut without much attention to neatness for it fell in thick, unruly curls to his shoulders. Those shoulders might not be as broad as Baldor's, but having had her arms wrapped around him for the past several hours, she knew there was naught but solid muscle beneath his tunic.

To that end, she became aware of her hands gripping his upper arms.

She let go slowly and took a hesitant step back, wincing as she did so. "I thank you, sirrah, for reacquainting me with aches and pains I have not suffered in a very long time."

The corner of his mouth may have twitched in response, but she could not be certain, surrounded as it was by dark beard stubble. His hands dropped from her waist and he walked up the narrow dirt path to the cottage door, which was now open. He ducked to clear the sloped thatching, then stopped and looked back expectantly.

Ellyn released a pent-up breath and followed, trying hard not to waddle like a duck.

Inside, the cottage was much like a thousand others formed from mud and straw. It had an earthen floor, rough walls, and a small stone fireplace that kept the space filled with smoke. A narrow wooden cot lay against one wall. Pegs driven into the hardened mud held the sole possessions of the farmer: an extra tunic, a wool cap, and a heavy fur vest. An iron pot hung suspended on a hook over the fire, the contents bubbling sluggishly. A pen in the corner housed four chickens and a goat, which gave the cottage an aroma that could not be dampened by whatever was boiling over the fire.

While Ellyn stood quietly to one side, Rennwick greeted the farmer with a clap on the shoulder. "Hugo, my friend! All is well?"

"N'owt so much as a mouse in the eves, m'lord. Quiet as a crypt all the blessed night long."

"Exactly what we wanted to hear." He cast a glance back at Ellyn. "The lady has a need to relieve herself."

"There be a stout log an' a trench out back ahind the pig stall. Or she can use the bucket in yon corner."

Ellyn followed the gnarled finger where it pointed and saw a wooden slops bucket in the corner of the pen with the chickens and goat.

"Out back will do," she said. "If I might have a candle?"

"No rats ner snakes hereabouts," the farmer said. "Just follow the path atween the turnips."

Ellyn ducked out of the doorway again and picked her way around the side of the cottage, finding there was enough moonlight to show her the narrow path. On the left behind the turnip patch was a pen containing two snoring hogs sprawled in the mud. Straight ahead was the log the farmer mentioned. A hundred feet beyond that was the dark wall of forest.

While it was tempting to make a dash for the woods, her need was genuinely pressing. Thus, with an eye still calculating distances, she gathered up the folds of her cloak and nightdress and, trying not to notice the fumes rising from the hog pen, she wriggled her backside far enough over the log to blissfully relieve herself.

That done, she stood and dropped the folds of her garments, turning to look at the forest again.

"I would not advise it," Rennwick said, startling her into whirling around. He was leaning against the side of the cottage, all but hidden in the shadow of the thatched overhang.

"Are there no moments when a modicum of privacy might be expected, sirrah?"

"Not while I have been charged to keep my eyes on you at all times."

She fanned her arms out to either side. "And where do you suppose I would go? I have no idea where we are."

"Exactly why you would be foolish to try to run. Wild boars and wolves aside, there are more dangers in a forest at night than a single blade could defend against."

Ellyn's hand slid instinctively over the cloak and felt the dagger beneath. So. He had felt her removing it. Had he also read her thoughts as to what she had wanted to do with it?

"Come inside. There are clothes for you… unless of course you prefer to ride across the country barefoot in a nightdress? "

"Across the country? You still have not told me where you are taking me."

"No, I have not. Nor will I until we are safely away."

"Safe? You think it was safe to steal me away from the Sheriff of Nottingham? You think he will not send a hundred men to fetch me back?"

He was beside her in a trice, his hand gripping her elbow.

"God be praised the Falcon left you with a tongue in your head," he said in a low voice. "But if you wish to keep it, I would suggest you not shout our affairs where Hugo might be pressed, by way of hot irons, to reveal any information he gleaned during our brief stay. For the moment he believes you and I are star-crossed lovers and I have stolen you away to save you from an unwanted marriage to a toothless ogre."

"Oh, for pity's sake!"

"No. It is for Hugo's sake. What care would the Falcon take in questioning a peasant serf if he thought that serf had information to share?"

"That is twice."

"What is twice?"

"You have called Nottingham the Falcon."

Renn hesitated a beat. "I knew him years ago. He favored black clothing and squawked a lot." His fingers tightened painfully around her arm and he leaned in closer. "I am charged to deliver you alive and unhurt… unless circumstances prevent me from doing so. I have known Hugo for twenty years; you for twenty blinks of an eye. Who do you suppose I would choose to protect should it come to one or the other?"

Ellyn stared unwaveringly into his dark eyes. "Upon further thought, sirrah, changing you into a toad would be too kind. A roach, I think. Or a louse on a rodent's back. "

He held her stare a moment longer then dropped his hand from her arm, turned and walked back to the cottage. He stopped at the edge of the darker shadows and looked over his shoulder expectantly.

"Or a worm," she muttered under her breath, "circled by hungry robins."