Widow

Time of Myths : Shapeshifter Sagas

Natasha S Brown

Future Impressions

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Foreword

Map

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

More in the Time of Myths

Chapter 1 from Scars

Also by the Author

Research Notes

About the Author

Copyright © 2017 Natasha Brown

Edited by Amanda Sumner

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

www.natashasbrown.com

To the highwaymen and women who keep the unprotected safe and to all of the dreamers out there. Do what your heart desires.

Foreword

Dear reader,

I’ll share something about myself with you. I’ve always had a weakness for anthropology. As we march forward through time, we tend to forget the stories and myths that were once common knowledge. Cultures evolve, change or meet their end. But for someone like myself, when I learn about the past, I can’t help but reimagine history in a magical world where myths come to life.

Admittedly, I began writing for a younger audience, although I didn’t want to censor my stories any longer. That is why this series is intended for adults. I hope you enjoy this romantic adventure through the middle ages in East Anglia.

Thank you for joining me in my fantasy world,

Natasha Brown

Chapter 1

Footsteps echoed through the room as Rayne’s trunk was carried out of the stone hall. Her father watched from nearby with his hands pressed to his sides. His bright tunic appeared dull, the hall was so dark. Enough light shone from the high windows for her to see the expression on his face. He was not pleased. But since the moment of her birth, when he’d discovered she was not the boy he’d prayed for, she had never brought him joy and would never be able to.

He turned his frown her way. She kept her eyes to the floor, careful not to stir his frustration again so close to her departure. His graying mustache lifted as he sighed. “If your husband had not died, and if you had brought a son into this world, I would not have to look after you still. Lord Goldore would have you yet, I am sure—”

Rayne had heard stories of Lord Goldore, a man who reportedly overtaxed his tenants so he could afford to have jewels sewn into his tunic. She could only surmise how such a lord would treat his wife if he could find no compassion in his heart for the people he was sworn to protect. His offer of marriage had come four years after the untimely death of her husband, a wealthy highborn trader she’d spent no more than a few weeks’ time with before his eventual demise at sea. She wouldn’t allow her father to marry her off to the highest bidder to fulfill his lofty dreams of climbing up in rank. Not when she knew of another place where she could be left to follow her interests.

She spoke softly, so as not to agitate her father while he watched her dowry carried from the hall. “Aunt Matilda has spoken to the abbess. In her letter to me, she promises a comfortable living amongst the other nuns at the abbey.”

“But becoming a scribe when you could bring forth the next generation—” He rubbed his mustache and grumbled toward the tapestries hanging on the walls. “I know not why I listen to your silver-tongued whisperings when women are the weaker sex, falling prey to amoral dealings.”

Too many times before she had heard her father degrade the value of her feminine qualities. Had her mother been alive still, she might have had company while trying to ignore such old-fashioned perspectives. It was, after all, the time of chivalry, when the fine women of modern towns like Norwich were treated with a little more reverence and respect.

Rayne pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach and her fine red woolen gown. “Then there is no better place for me than beside Mother’s sister at the abbey. Far from temptation.”

“It is quite different in the country, daughter. I fear you do not know what sort of life you face. It is not at all like town where you may send your servants to the market to purchase your parchment and ink.”

She knew this and looked forward to distancing herself from her father’s ever-present voice. Although she did hope the abbey would have ample supplies for book making. It was one of their most important jobs: to copy the works of others. It was what she most looked forward to. She may have been taught to read and write like many other proper ladies, but she hoped to learn more. Books were hard to come by, but monasteries and abbeys held much of the world’s knowledge.

Simun, one of the servants, approached the decorated box that sat on the dining table and brought it to her. “Do not forget this, Lady. I would not want you to stop writing your prose.”

Rayne took the painted wooden chest that held her parchment and ink. It was wider than two spans of her hand and as long as her arm. Animals decorated the exterior in bright colors, and a clasp held it shut. It was her most valued possession. She offered Simun a gentle smile in thanks before he turned to leave the hall.

From behind her father yawned. “It is quite dangerous sending you out in the countryside. That is why you will be attended by three of my own trusted servants, and I have hired two wagoneers to take you there. I would go with you to ensure your safe arrival at the abbey, but I have much business to attend to here in town now that you will not be here to help me. Rest assured, I will be fine without you.”

“To be sure,” she answered, tucking her wooden box under her arm and turning around to face him.

One of their servants entered the hall and cleared his throat. “The wagon is ready for travel.”

“Thank you, Walter,” Rayne answered and stepped closer to her father. He turned his cheek to her so she might place a single kiss there, signaling her departure. “Farewell, Father.”

“Yes, well,” he muttered under his breath. “Be well and do not trouble your aunt.”

On any other occasion she might have been annoyed with him for treating her like a child when she was a grown woman of twenty-four years, but now she only had pity for the man who would be lonely without her. He would find others to scold and belittle in her absence, she was sure. This was likely the last time she would lay eyes on him, which softened her heart.

He patted her shoulder and shooed her toward the entrance of the hall where Walter waited. She stepped outside into the dusty courtyard. Two horses stood hitched to the covered wagon. Simun and Gerald waited with their hands out to assist her up. Two more men whose faces were unfamiliar to her held the horses still as she climbed into the wagon.

Once she had settled onto the trunk that held her dowry, the other men clambered into the wagon behind her. Simun sat by her side, which brought her comfort, for he had been a figure in their household as long as she could remember. She noticed a dagger strapped to his belt, something she’d never seen him with before. Presumably, it was a token he’d been given to keep her safe, although she wondered if he would be skilled enough to wield it properly if the occasion arose.

Gerald and one of the nameless men filed into the wagon before Walter and the remaining hired hand sat on the bench. The wagoneer took up the reins and bade the horses to start. Rayne rocked in place as the wagon bumped forward and away from her home, toward the main avenue.

“I’m Fulbert—that’s Roger,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Have ye ridden in a wagon before?”

Rayne was surprised by his forthright manner. Before she cast down her eyes, she looked at the man sitting on the bench. A linen hood covered most of his head, and his undyed tunic was dirty, much like his dark trousers. She shook her head in response.

“You should address her as Lady Rayne,” Simun called up to the man.

The wagoneer sneered, then returned his gaze to the street, directing the horses down the right avenue. “It’ll be a bumpy ride, Lady, but least we don’t have a long trip. We’ll stay in Thetford this eve, then we’re two days away from Grimsford Abbey. Travel’s fair for another few weeks till the seasons change.”

She kept her eyes down until he struck up a conversation with Walter. Then she dared to watch the landscape move by the front of the wagon. She may have married a man who traveled to Normandy and beyond, but she had always remained at home to tend to the house. When she’d rejoined her father’s household following her husband’s death, she likewise rarely left the confines of their home and never left the city.

Rayne gazed up at the castle fortified at the top of its mound, a sight she’d seen before. She’d hoped they would be forced to cross the River Wensum, but there was no need as they were traveling southeast. They approached the walls of the city, which were being erected along the grassy hills of Norwich. She held her breath as they passed beneath the thick stone arch.

She had officially left the confines of the only place she’d ever known and was setting out like a true explorer for a new land she’d never laid eyes on. Well, maybe that was overly dramatic. She was merely leaving Norfolk for Cambridgeshire, but she found it thrilling. Stories of women making pilgrimages to foreign lands fueled her active imagination, and she wondered what it would be like seeing new places and having adventures.

There was more than enough for her observe as they bumped over the landscape. She’d never seen so much of the earth untouched by buildings and stonework. Part of the day passed before she spotted sheep and cattle grazing in their fields. Blades of amber barley stalks waved in the breeze, and simple cottages hid behind hedgerows. While she watched the changing scenery, she also listened to the men’s conversation.

“...Heard it from the tanner. Says he saw a black monstrous hound—nearly as tall as a man—with glowing red eyes. It was on the post road on his way back to Thetford, but I think he must’ve found himself some wine. I’ve traveled these roads before and never seen such thing.”

Simun glanced at Rayne and shushed Fulbert. “Do not speak of such things with the lady present. You do not want to frighten her.”

The wagoneer rolled his eyes and shot a private look at his companion, Roger. Fulbert sighed and answered, “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

“Lord Henry hired you because he heard you were the good sort he could trust,” Simun said in defense. “She is a lady and should be treated as such.”

“Ooh, a lady.” Fulbert chuckled. “You’ve been trained well. Do ye have your own mind, or are ye your master’s puppet?”

Instead of answering the man, Simun turned to Rayne and reassured her under his breath. “Do not listen to him, Lady Rayne. Your travels will soon be over, and you will be safe at Grimsford with your aunt.”

She could tell that he wanted it to be so, and that he was nervous around the likes of the wagoneer. His hand was pulled back to rest on the dagger at his belt while he eyed the man.

The remainder of the bumpy ride went in silence. The sun began to droop in the sky just as farmland came into sight. A giant tower lifted above the tops of the trees, and another remained obscured by branches.

“The priory’s an important place of pilgrimage, so the abbot should have a hospitality house,” Fulbert concluded.

Rayne remained the in the wagon once they arrived at the large stone priory. The men didn’t get the chance to climb down before she heard a voice call out to them. It wasn’t uncommon for a stranger to find his life threatened if they wandered into a town unannounced. It was always best to travel in numbers for the safety of all.

She held her breath as Simun left her side to join Fulbert on the ground to talk with him. Soon enough her worry was put at ease, for she recognized the intelligent words of a man of the cloth. Maybe it was the abbot himself. She adjusted her wimple, the swath of fabric that covered her head. A long chestnut braid hung over each shoulder. Silk ribbons wove through her hair, adding a flash of red. She continued to listen to the conversation, waiting for the right time to emerge.

Simun spoke in politeness. “We need a place to lay our heads for the night, sir. We number five men and one lady, whom we are escorting to a nunnery in Cambridgeshire.”

A man’s throat cleared. “We have two small guest houses, one open to men and the other to women. You shall not be alone, for there are other visitors at present. You are welcome to remain for the night.”

“I could use a nip of ale and some bellytimber if you have it.”

No sooner had Fulbert spoken then Simun said apologetically, “It was a long and bumpy ride from Norwich. If you would be so kind, I am sure Lady Rayne would be happy for a drink. Let me introduce you to her, sir.”

Rayne hunched onto her feet, making her way out of the covered wagon with her writing box tucked under her arm. Simun awaited her with his head bowed and his hand outstretched to help her down. She adjusted her chemise beneath her gown and straightened her belt around her waist. Its woven tassels hung nearly to her knees. When she was put right, she stepped forward to meet the clergyman.

He bowed his head and put out his hand. She slipped her fingers onto his palm and dipped her chin to her chest as a sign of respect. While she observed the top of the monk’s shaven head, Simun introduced them to each other. “Brother Gilbert, I present to you Lady Rayne.”

The monk appeared to be at least ten years older than herself. Brown hair was trimmed around his ears, although the top of his head was shaved bald. His friendly eyes appraised her as she withdrew her hand. He folded his arms against his stomach and asked, “I understand you wish to serve as a nun, Lady Rayne?”

She took a slow breath, feeling herself grow at ease in the clergyman’s company. He had a gentle way about him, a quality that so many men she met did not have. No matter how reserved or polite a gentleman was, she suspected it was a carefully placed mask to disguise their true nature—aggression and the need to dominate. She’d first perceived it in her father, then next in her husband. Neither had laid a hand against her, but hurt could be caused by more than beatings.

“I go to join my aunt at Grimsford Abbey.” Rayne noticed the monk’s eyes settle on the decorated box cradled under her arm, so she dared to reveal more. “I wish to use my skills to become a scribe. I wonder, do you have a scriptorium at the abbey?”

Brother Gilbert nodded. “It is but a small room where Brother Arnaud works. After I see to your lodging and show your men a safe place to secure your belongings, I will introduce you to our scribe.”

“I thank you.”

Rayne stood aside as the men unloaded her dowry from the wagon. The monk led them inside the abbey to a secured room. She stood with the man named Roger, who held onto the horses. She hadn’t heard him speak more than in a grunt to his companion, Fulbert. He was more than soft-spoken. She wondered if he was mute. That might have created a sense of compassion in her soul for one less fortunate—it should have. But for some reason, maybe it was his dark eyes and the way he watched everyone like a rodent waiting to steal a bit of bread from your hand, she wanted to be far from his gaze.

It was not long before the men returned. The monk led her to a small wattle-and-daub building a short walk from the impressive stone abbey. The front door was opened into the dark confines. Her eyes adjusted to the low light, and she was able to make out a few bed frames sitting on the dirt floor. A blanket lay over the sleeping form of a woman who must have tucked in early after a long day of travel.

Brother Gilbert whispered to her, “We can only afford to stuff our beds with bedstraw. Though it is better than lying out unprotected under the night sky. You will find room enough for the night.”

“I thank you for your kindness and hospitality,” she answered, not at all put off by the offered lodging. As he said, it was a far better option than sleeping on a patch of earth open to the elements and to thieves.

He looked at the abbey in the softening light. “Not many visitors request to see the scriptorium. Pilgrims come to visit us to pray in the nave, which is a beauty to behold. But you are from Norwich, a proper city. I expect you have seen a great many things.”

“I would if I ever left the confines of my home.” She offered a half smile, something to cover her disappointment.

Brother Gilbert tucked his hands in his sleeves against the evening chill and turned back toward the abbey. Rayne followed him past a garden tended by another monk, who nodded at them as they walked by. They made their way to the front entrance and stepped through the impressive arched doorway.

“Our bell tower is above,” Brother Gilbert said in an undertone. “And ahead, our nave.”

Rayne looked at the interior of the church. Wooden pews lined the arched room. A few parishioners sat facing the decorative pulpit with their heads bent in prayer. The monk led her down a corridor through the quiet hall. Their echoing footsteps were all she could hear as they walked in the darkening building. A few unlit candles sat awaiting the coming night.

Brother Gilbert turned to see whether she was still beside him when he knocked on a wooden door before opening it up. He stepped over the threshold into a truly murky space. A single light pressed against the gloom.

When she entered, a man dressed in a dark cassock sitting at a small tilted desk turned to face them. His body was hunched over the open parchment of a book, and he held a goose quill in his ink-spattered hand. His eyes brushed past her to her guide, who spoke in a murmur. “I pray I do not disturb you, Brother Arnaud. Lady Rayne is on her way to Grimsford Abbey to take her vows so that she may serve as you do. May I leave her with you?”

Through the murk, she could see that the scribe was an elderly man. The gray hair that encircled the shaved portion of his head almost appeared black in the shadows. He gave a single nod before returning his attention to his parchment.

Brother Gilbert addressed her before taking his leave. “I will see to it that you will have food and drink at your bedside. The men you travel with are being taken care of. They will be in the nearby hospital for men. If you will excuse me, I must go take care of my duties.”

“Gramercy,” Rayne said with a smile as she watched him go.

Alone with the elderly scribe, she turned to look around the confined space. A small window glowed dully, something that might help to see during daylight hours but was of little use at night. A few shelves held rows of leather-bound books, and it took all of her strength not to pluck them up and open their pages. Small bits of parchment lined the floor along with strips of feathers pulled from their quills. Just above the slanted surface where Arnaud worked, an iron stand held a single rushlight at an angle. It illuminated the parchment that the monk was so absorbed in.

Rayne stepped closer to observe the man work. He held his plummet, a narrow metal stylus, in his hand and pressed it at a measured interval along the outer edge of the parchment. Then he proceeded to do the same along the opposite vertical edge. The wooden measuring tool was then laid to meet both holes as he pressed his plummet across, scoring an indented line in the parchment. She breathed as quietly as she could, not wanting to disturb the monk.

Despite her efforts not to agitate the monk, he paused to look over his shoulder. “This is a tiresome enough job without you watching my every move. A young lady like yourself should not be shut in a box like this, hunched over every waking moment. The pains in my back have pains you have never felt before.”

She was slightly taken aback by his comment. It was something she’d heard before from her own father, but she did not know this man. “I thank you for your concern, but I have a deep curiosity and desire to learn more about the craft. This is why I travel to Grimsford Abbey to take my vows.”

Brother Arnaud lifted his ink-covered finger to scratch his cheek before he answered her with his brittle voice. “I daresay Eve was curious when she ate the forbidden fruit, and I pray you know where that left us. His Holiness has said no matter how blessed a woman might be, she was not trusted to be an apostle.”

Rayne took a step back and stared at the floor. She might have expected to be confronted by this attitude. It didn’t sting any less, however, to hear it from the elderly monk. She gathered her wits and responded, “I thank you for allowing me to see your scriptorium. Farewell.”

She let herself from the darkened room back into the abbey hallway. She passed through the nave and exited through the grand entryway. The sun had begun to melt below the horizon. Rayne didn’t notice the chill air on her skin—she was too incensed to care. She made her way back to the small women’s hospital and entered quietly.

On one of the empty beds, she found a wooden bowl of vegetable stew with a lump of bread. In the stone hearth a low fire burned, casting out an amber glow. She set down her precious writing box and sat on the mattress stuffed with bedstraw to eat her meal in silence, hoping that she would find more support from the sisters at Grimsford Abbey.

When she was no longer hungry, she lay upon her bed, wondering what kind of reception she’d have upon arriving at her aunt’s nunnery. She must not have worried long, for she woke from her first sleep feeling more rested than when she’d put her head down. From the wooden shutters, she peered out into the darkest point of night. Very little moonlight touched the earth, and an eerie owl’s cry wound its way to her ears.

Embers in the hearth provided enough illumination for her to find unlit rushlights beside a metal holder. She reached one into the hot cinders to light its tip before placing it between the pinchers of the holder. Rayne lifted her box from the dirt floor and opened the lid. Rolled-up parchment, goose quills and iron gall ink waited for her.

Hearing the voices of all the men who had ever told her she was morally weaker because she was a woman, she unfurled her parchment, and using her penknife, she cut off a section to illuminate. She prepared the nib of her quill and opened her inkpot. Despite what she’d been told her whole life, she knew otherwise. She knew in her heart that women could not be the root of all immorality, or that they were weaker than men, for she’d seen mothers nursing their young and showing such kindness and strength it could bring tears to one’s eyes.

Rayne touched the nib to her parchment, sketching out a pastoral scene like those she’d witnessed on her day’s journey from Norwich. She didn’t want to forget a thing. Once she arrived at the abbey, it was unlikely she would ever leave its confines again. This trip would be her last.

She was so lost in her work that she didn’t notice the howls at first. They were so soft she mistook them for the owl’s hoots, but they broke off in such a way she paused to listen closer. She recalled overhearing Fulbert’s comments about a black beast on the post road. Goose pimples rose on her arms.

“What a dreadful cry,” a soft voice said from across the room.

Rayne looked up, startled. She’d forgotten that she wasn’t alone.

The young woman seemed below Rayne’s status, based on her simply dyed gown. She appeared to remember herself and gave a deep curtsy, bowing her head. “I’m sorry to interrupt ye, Lady.”

“I welcome the company,” Rayne answered. “I have been surrounded by men, so it is good to see a friendly face. You may call me Rayne.”

The young woman straightened and took a step closer to peer at the illustration forming on the parchment. She looked very impressed when she said, “I am Tillie, and ye have more talent in your little finger than I have in all of mine together. Ye must have had many fine teachers.”

“I had a few. But I learned more through being observant than anything.” Rayne set her quill down, preferring to have a conversation with the innocent girl instead of continuing to illuminate the parchment. She would have ample time to herself and her thoughts once she arrived at the abbey. While she began to close up her inkpot and put away her things, she asked, “How do you come by this place?”

Tillie ventured even closer, her hands clasped together. She must have been trying very hard to make a good impression. “My father takes me to my betrothed. He’s a tanner—my betrothed, not my father.”

“I see.”

Rayne could see all the signs of innocence on the girl’s face. She had not yet been with a man. Maybe she would know love in her lifetime. Rayne had often noted that although the peasants tended to work harder than the wealthier classes, they seemed to be happier in their relationships, marrying for love or mutual attraction instead of furthering familial wealth and social standing.

“Where are ye off to, Lady Rayne? If it’s not too forward of me to ask.” Tillie frowned.

“I am being escorted to the nunnery to take my vows. I wish to illuminate manuscripts there.”

“Well, they will be lucky to have you.” Tillie seemed to want to ask another question, but appeared uncertain whether she should.

Rayne snickered to herself and helped the girl out. “I once had a husband. We were not married more than a year before he died at sea.”

Tillie’s hands went to her throat and her eyes widened. Rayne set her writing box on the floor and reassured the young woman. “I know my servants better than I knew him.” Even though she had only just met the young freewoman, she never shied away from telling a good story. Rayne leaned in to add, “He was the sort of gent who preferred to look upon his wife and not speak to her directly. I did not bring him any children, and he died so soon that I was returned to my father, who wanted me to marry an earl whose reputation made me certain I would prefer the convent. So here I am, traveling to my solitary fate.”

A howl interrupted her, and she stopped to look at the shuttered windows in apprehension. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end while Tillie met her frightened gaze. She came to sit beside Rayne on the low uneven bed, reaching for her hands. “It’s the black shuck come to kill us in our sleep.”

Rayne put her arm around the girl to calm her down. “What is this you speak of?”

“My father calls it the black devil. Ye could ask anyone who travels the lanes and roads, and they would have a story to tell. It’s a ghostly beast with red eyes as big as my fists. It wanders the countryside with footfalls as silent as Death himself. He’s an omen of man’s a demise—within a year ye shall not remain amongst the living.”

“There now. I am sure it is just a farmer’s hound out chasing a fox. We are safe here.” Rayne patted her shoulder, appreciating a good fable, hoping it was just that. She looked at the rushlight, which was reaching its end. “I have more travels ahead and must get some rest. If you would sleep better, you may share my bed.”

Tillie turned to her with a smile. “There’s no truer sign of friendship than to share a bed. I would be honored, Lady. Thank ye.”

Darkness consumed the hospital’s lodging, and the women lay upon the lumpy bed. While Rayne tried to put her mind at ease, she couldn’t help picturing the sort of beast that so many spoke of. She imagined it lurking just outside the wooden walls, sniffing at their scents, readying its jaws to clench around their throats.

Chapter 2

She woke with the sounds of the day. Birds sang their praises to the sun. Rayne sat up, rousing her bedmate.

“Good morrow, Lady Rayne.” Tillie yawned and stretched. “Ye were right. Black shuck left us be.”

Rayne removed her wimple from her head to check her braids. They were still in good condition. A knock sounded at the door, and Tillie hurried to answer it. Rayne recognized Brother Gilbert’s voice say, “I have come with some pottage and water.”

“Thank ye,” Tillie answered.

She carried a bowl of hot soup to Rayne, who accepted it eagerly. Its warmth heated her cold fingers, and she ate quickly, expecting her escorts to ready themselves for their departure any time. The women helped each other to put themselves right, straightening their gowns, hair and belts.

When they left their building of hospitality, she breathed in the wet morning air. She looked over to find Simun walking in their direction. He tipped his head toward Tillie before addressing Rayne. “Good morning, Lady. Are you ready for our journey?”

“I am just.” Rayne turned to her companion and offered her hand. “I wish you a safe crossing to your betrothed and many happy years to come.”

“Thank ye, Lady! I will pray for your safe passage.” The girl took her hand and curtsied before going off to find her father.

She was sad to see the girl depart. For the short time they’d been together, she had found her company diverting, but it was now time to climb back into the wagon and perch atop her trunk for another long day of bumpy travels.

Brother Gilbert was with her other escorts near the church. The horses appeared to have been tended to and everything was as it had been when she’d stepped off the wagon the prior evening. As she stepped closer, she craned her neck to see if her trunk with all of her clothes and personal effects was back on board along with the chests filled with her dowry for the church. She was put at ease until she noticed she wasn’t the only one stealing a glance at the valuables. Roger’s silent stares nearly went unnoticed because his companion, Fulbert, addressed her with such volume she cringed.

“Good morning, Lady! I hope your straw was softer than mine. Thought I saw some critters scurrying overtop me bed in the night. Could have been the veg stew that gave me night terrors.”

The monk stood politely by as if he hadn’t just heard a stream of insults from the wagoneer. Rayne feigned a smile at Roger before offering her hand and a curtsy to Brother Gilbert. “Thank you for your hospitality, Brother. I find myself quite rested for my journey.”

His cheeks lifted in a smile. “I pray for your safe travels to Grimsford Abbey and that you find service to the church as fulfilling as I.”

Walter and Simun assisted Rayne onto the wagon, and she sat on her trunk. The linen canopy draped over the top of the wagon diffused the morning light. Shadows cast from the abbey’s tower and the trees beside it made a lacy pattern above her. While she prepared herself for another unpleasant ride in the back of the wagon, Simun settled beside her with Roger and Walter an arm’s reach away. Gerald and Fulbert sat upon the front bench just as they had yesterday.

The hired hand made a clicking noise in his cheek and snapped the reins, encouraging the horses forward. Although a pillow had been set on the trunk to soften her seat, her body was all too familiar with the same attitude and position as the day before. She felt bruised but kept her discomfort to herself. If it weren’t such an unpleasantly bumpy ride, she would have imagined taking her quill in hand to her parchment. For now, she would have to commit all that she saw to memory so that she could notate her imagined adventures when she had the opportunity to write next. However, the chance to write her own fables was slowly diminishing the closer she drew to her destination.

The avenue was not as easy as before; pits and uneven patches sent them around the roads into the fields so they wouldn’t be delayed by damage to the wagon. A dense fog clung to the base of the forest in the distance. Bright spots of autumnal color in varied degrees of red, orange and yellow were just beginning to decorate the lush green foliage. They were just the pigments she wished she could put a stopper on to illuminate her prose. The beginnings of a story formed in her mind about a lady at the dawning of a grand adventure.

As a child she was often scolded for her imaginative flights of fancy and learned to keep her thoughts to herself. Life was far more exciting for a lady caged in her home when she had characters clamoring around her mind, living out far more exciting lives than she ever could have. Especially now that she was off to the convent to live out her days copying other writers’ prose.

Entirely lost in thought, she was surprised by Fulbert announcing, “The horses are needing to quench their thirst. I spy a large puddle up thither.”

The sun had long since been swallowed by the gray clouds stretched across the sky. She hadn’t paid attention to the fact they’d entered the wooded area, leaving the fields behind. Rayne craned her neck to make out the puddle the wagoneer was pointing to. She could see no farther than a stride ahead of the horses, for the fog had condensed in the oak grove. Twisting branch arms lifted into the tree’s canopy, presumably to keep their woody fingers protected from the chill.

The wagon clamored over the leaf-strewn earth as the horses diverted from the avenue. They traveled between two grand oaks, appearing like sentries on guard. From what, she knew not. Through the mist she saw the shine from a puddle. It was not large enough to call a pond and was murkier than she would trust her own stomach to. The horses were led to the edge, and their heads bowed to drink.

After a bit Simun called forward, “I do not like this place. Might we find a burg where the horses may wet their gullets?”

“They be done now,” Fulbert said over his shoulder and backed up the horses. He set down the reins, climbed from his seat and said to Gerald, who sat beside him, “I think it wise to check the wheels. They been creaking a bit. If you’d give me a hand—”

Gerald cast a quick look at the others in the back and followed Fulbert off the wagon and out of sight. Rayne couldn’t see them through the linen that covered the top and sides. Only the sound of their footsteps on the leaf-covered earth scratched nearby. A strange gurgling gasp came next.

Simun must have heard the same thing, because he frowned and called out, “Oy—Gerald?”

There was no response, which only sent deeper worry lines across Simun’s brow. He shared a glance with Walter, who turned to the front of the wagon. Roger, the mute hired escort, blocked his way and placed a hand on Walter’s shoulder. Walter groaned, and Rayne couldn’t understand why until her servant’s body was pushed backward at her feet. Blood poured from his neck, staining her shoes. A spot on his undyed linen tunic bloomed red, the stain growing in size every moment. Walter’s eyes were wide with surprise while he gasped for air.

Rayne couldn’t quite force out the scream trapped in her throat. Her mouth opened, but no sound escaped.

Simun leapt to his feet, pulling free the dagger strapped to his belt, and yelled, “Run, mistress!”

She nodded to no one but herself, spinning around to face the rear of the wagon. She lifted her legs over the wooden rail and dropped over the side, crumpling into a pile on the ground. Her wooden writing box lay amongst the folds of her dress. A thundering noise echoed in her ears as she gulped for a fresh breath of air. She looked over her shoulder and found Fulbert leaning over Gerald’s limp body. He stopped what he was doing to mutter, “There now, Lady. Nothing for you to do. I just want all you’ve got. Then we’ll be on our way.”

Shouts came from the inside of the wagon, spurring her to action. She lifted herself up and bolted into the mist. The fabric of her gown quickly got in her way, and she lifted both layers to her knees so she wouldn’t stumble. She fell out of breath, for the most exercise she got was helping with household chores, not running the fields to chase down sheep with the serfs. Soft involuntary moans broke from her lips. She cursed her imagination as she pictured herself getting defiled by the likes of Fulbert before losing all of her blood over a slit throat.

No matter how hard she wished it, a knight in shining armor would not come to her in that moment. Only a greedy, murderous robber would chase her down. She could hear his heavy footfalls behind her and knew her time was near. Prayers flew from her lips, though the only salvation she would find was the freedom from her body that was assuredly soon to come.

Rayne couldn’t run any farther, so she hurried behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. She clung to its bark, trying to suppress her loud breaths. Maybe she’d lost her pursuer. Or maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the effort and had left her alone in the forest.

“Looky, looky,” a sniveling voice said from behind.

She whipped around to face Fulbert. His short brown hair framed his grinning face. His long nose and a darkened tooth became noticeable to her—things she hadn’t observed prior. Because his demeanor repulsed her, she had never studied him closely.

Rayne had always imagined herself a strong sort of woman. Not the type to cry when she was at the center of cruelty or ill-will. But in that moment, she found tears spilling down her cheeks when fear took hold. Clutched in Fulbert’s hand was a knife. She thought of her penknife secured within the writing box on the forest floor. If she had remembered it sooner, maybe she would have given him a mark to remember her by. Rayne looked about for some form of protection. A stick, a branch, anything.

“Don’t be getting any ideas.” Fulbert breathed out with a cocked eyebrow. “I might get something good for those threads you’re wearing—take ’em off.”

“But—” Her mind raced for a way to talk her way out of it. “I will give you whatever you wish, but prithee, let me go.”

“Start with those lovely threads,” Fulbert answered with a sniff.

Ragged, ragged breaths rattled from her lips as she nodded. Her fingers fumbled with the decorative belt wrapped about her waist. He held his knife up, letting it rest beneath her chin, which didn’t help her move more quickly.

Once the belt was dropped to the ground, he lowered the blade and winked at her. She tried to turn away, but he shook his head, so she closed her eyes and lifted her hands to the fabric at her back to ease it over her head. Though her lids were pinched shut, she wouldn’t have seen much through the opening of her dress. However, she did hear something that made her stop.

The sound was so deep and low she might have mistaken it for wind howling through the trees. It grew louder until she was certain it had not sprung from nature itself but from something else entirely. She opened her eyes and tried to peer out from the neck opening of the interior of her gown.

“What—” she heard Fulbert say as he took a step back. “Oh, Lord, no.”

Once again her neck hairs stood on end, and she turned to face the sound, frightened to discover what was behind her. Through her feelings of fear, she held on to one thought: if she were to pass from this earth, she did not want her death performed by Fulbert’s hand. She did not want him allowed any satisfaction from her body or her death, even if it meant her own suffering in the end.

Her breath caught in her throat for the second time that day as she spotted what stood between two trees. The stories she’d heard hadn’t done it justice. The hound was no ordinary animal. It was a beast so tall its head was shoulder-high to a man, and its wiry fur was as black as raven’s feathers. Snarls poured from between its sharp teeth.

The beast launched forward just as hands from behind shoved Rayne toward the animal. Fulbert’s voice pleaded. “She’s a tastier morsel!”

Without her hands free, she teetered and fell to the ground with a groan. She waited for the end to come, for the stabbing bite of the beast, but it didn’t. Something brushed over her body before Fulbert’s screams filled the air. She rolled onto her back so that she might struggle to pull her gown back on, in so doing releasing her hands and arms from their binding.

Her head emerged from the neck of her dress. In her wriggling she had pulled the wimple free from her head, but she did not care. Propriety was cast aside while one’s life was at stake. Her braids came loose from their covering when she scrambled to get up.

From her view, the man-sized beast was atop Fulbert, its jaws wrapped around his neck. The wagoneer’s legs squirmed for a time until his shouts turned to gurgles. Rayne did not wait for the animal to set its sights on her. She turned and fled back in the direction she had come, hoping Simun had succeeded in protecting himself from the mute hired hand.

Rejuvenated with the energy of life, she fled as fast as her legs would take her. With her skirts lifted so her bloodstained shoes could find purchase on the slippery leaves, she ran until the clearing came in sight. The murky puddle the horses had drunk from was near, but there was no wagon to be seen. Three shadows lay exposed upon the earth.

Sobs came from her lips as she stumbled up to Simun’s unmoving body. His unseeing eyes stared up into the oak tree’s canopy. Beside him were Gerald’s and Walter’s remains, laid out for scavengers to poach. Her hopes that she’d find Simun unharmed, along with the wagon, were dashed.

She looked over her shoulder, checking for the black shuck. A ghostly beast would not have to run to find her. It might just appear from the ether. Through the fog she saw its pointed ears emerge. Rayne searched the ground for a stick, anything that might keep it from her.

Instead she found her writing box amongst the scattered leaves and remembered her penknife. She flipped the latch and pulled it free. Its wooden handle clutched in her shaking hand, she pointed its shiny blade before her. It might be small, but it was sharp, and it was the only thing she had to protect herself with.

The tall form of the wolfhound materialized through the mist, walking slowly toward her, stopping at the edge of the clearing. Something shadowy hung from its mouth. She imagined cords of intestines freshly pulled from Fulbert’s body dangling from the beast’s jaw and fought the urge to crumple from her buckling knees. But as her eyes focused on the creature, she recognized her decorative bliant and wimple held between its lips.

The hound dipped its head, dropping her belongings on the ground. It walked a short distance away, ignoring the shaking blade in her hand, and lowered itself onto a soft patch beneath the large-trunked oak. The dog proceeded to groom itself, paying no heed to her, making her wonder if it could even see her or if it knew she was present.

She stood watching the apparition for some time before concluding it had no interest in her, so she decided to take a chance and check on her servants. Her hands clutched at Simun’s tunic as she shook him and called his name. No response came from him or the others in even the smallest measure. All the while, the hound continued to clean itself beneath the tree.

Rayne thought of all the times Simun had asked after her latest illuminated prose, and his words of encouragement when her father was too consumed with the procurement of more wealth to bother to give any noteworthy praise to his daughter and only living kin. Tears fell down her cheeks as she closed his sightless brown eyes. She walked to the large puddle and cupped some water in her hands. She washed his and the other men’s brows while singing her favorite hymns under her breath. It pained her to think of them not having a proper burial, but she had no promise of security in the forest alone. She might yet be captured or killed. It was an ill circumstance for a woman to be alone in the countryside.

She spoke a prayer over each of the bodies before she ventured to pick up her bliant and wimple. She wrapped the belt around her waist and shook her wimple free of leaves and dirt before affixing it over her braids once again. When she was done, she was startled to find the hound watching her every move. Red fire did not consume its brown eyes. No fury or hatred could be seen. Rayne had been around many dogs and could ascertain their mood, which only led her to wonder if it was a pious spirit sent to protect her.

She looked in the direction of the path their wagon had taken. The grooves pressed into the earth from regular use could be seen from the clearing. Fulbert hadn’t mentioned where they were headed for the night, but she knew there was a burg or hamlet likely a day’s ride from this place.

“I suppose I should keep to the road,” Rayne muttered to herself, lifting the trim of her dress off the ground and stepping toward the misty avenue.

Before she could take more than four strides, the tall hound ran ahead of her and blocked her way. She stopped, wondering if she’d been wrong about its attitude toward her. It made no movement—it only looked her way and held her stare. Brown eyes blinked across at her. Rayne was surprised by the curious intelligence she found there. After a few moments, it turned in the opposite direction from the road and yipped. It took a few steps away, then looked back at her as though it expected her to follow.

Rayne had never seen anything like it. She had never come across a true apparition before, either. She glanced back toward the road, wondering if it was truly best to travel alone on the avenue. Maybe the wolfhound was only trying to protect her still. Maybe it truly was a spirit sent to protect her.

A bark, louder this time, jarred her from her thoughts. The dog took a few steps toward her and wagged its tail. Then it walked deeper in the forest before casting another glimpse her way.

“I do not know if I should trust you,” she muttered to the animal. She had little likelihood of surviving this adventure, but decided to take a chance. “If you want me to follow you thither—I pray you are straight-fingered and true.”

Rayne began to follow the beast. Through the mist and between dark oaks she trudged with her skirts lifted to her shins. Every time she slowed to catch her breath and take a short break, the hound paused to wait. It never allowed her to stop long before it growled softly and continued to move ahead, forcing her to persist.

The forest ended and they came to open fields, something that put her a little more at ease. Through the deeper grass she lost sight of the hound until its head popped up and the blades around it shook. The fog that had condensed through the woodland lifted, providing better visibility, although the sun remained hidden behind a dense shroud of gray clouds.

She wished she’d escaped with a cloak, for the temperature had begun to drop. It was likely getting closer to evening, to judge by the chill in the air. The brisk exercise kept her warm enough, yet she had no notion of what the beast expected of her come nightfall. Was she to curl up beneath some shrubs and forage for wild greens? Even her father might have been stirred with compassion if he saw her now.

Rayne lifted her chin, thinking about him. She dared to conjecture that he would not have made it this far behind such a fast-moving beast. He might have been surprised at her strength and fortitude had he known her predicament. But no one did. No one, that was, but the mute murderous thief who’d escaped with her dowry and personal effects.

The leaden skies grew darker, falling into a deep twilight. As bold as she imagined herself, she was exhausted. She had walked more that day than she had ever done before. The thought of curling up beneath a hedge was appealing to her, and she slowed.

When the wolfhound noticed her pace, it circled back. For the first time it approached her up close, brushing against her body. She stiffened at its touch. surprised it was so solid for an apparition, although the creature had, indeed, found purchase on Fulbert’s body. The thought made her shudder.

She placed her hand on the animal’s back, letting her fingers sink into its wiry black fur. The dog took a step forward and glanced back at her. A soft whine came from its chest, as if it were telling her to pluck up enough strength to move on.

Rayne sighed. “Is it far? I know a creature like yourself must have the energy of ten horses, but I grow tired.”

The dog simply stared back at her with its deeply intelligent eyes. She felt like her measure was being taken as it had been so many times before at the entrance hall of a grand banquet by the lords and ladies of Norwich. It was not a feeling she relished, but she supposed there was no truer judge of character than a hound. They sensed when danger was near and whether a person was a friend or foe.

“Are you through drawing my character?” she asked with a sigh, and the dog blinked before looking away. She might have thought it understood her and appeared self-conscious, but those were emotions fit for humans, not hounds.

It began to move forward, easing away from her. She followed, trying to pull as much strength as she could, but knowing her wilting form didn’t have much vigor left. Just as she thought herself befuddled for chasing after a dog through the countryside, the creature went barking over a hill.

Rayne didn’t know if she should be put on guard and trailed behind cautiously. When she reached the crest of the knoll, through the dusky darkness she spotted light from a window. An ebony shape stood out against the hillside. It was too grand to be a farm and too small to be a castle or monastery, but it was the most welcome sight. She let out a little sigh that turned into a soft cry. At last, she was safe.

Chapter 3

Every step closer to the building, her body grew more tired and limp. When she was close enough to see it better, she remembered the dog, which had disappeared. It was nowhere to be seen. Rayne craned her head all about, searching for the animal, but it had vanished like a true apparition.

A water moat cradled most of the stone manor. Its glassy surface reflected the light cast from an arched window. She was forced to approach on its one open side, over a bridge and through the gatehouse. Her arms were tired of clutching her decorative box to her body, but it was her only remaining possession, and she was determined to keep it safe. It also held her only protection, her penknife.

Any proper lord or lady would show hospitality to a dame such as herself, she assured herself as she walked across the oval courtyard. The entry was recessed in a stone archway, which she might have appreciated if it weren’t so late and if she weren’t so tired. She took a deep breath and knocked on wooden door.

She did not have to wait long until it opened to reveal a man with a well-trimmed mustache, a respectable plain tunic and blue hose. He blinked out at her in surprise. “Oh! You’re not the master.”

Rayne thought it best to act as kindly as possible, so she bowed her head and greeted the man. “Hail, good fellow. I pray I do not imposition you, but I find myself unprotected and stripped of my belongings due to a murderous thief.”

“I beseech you—” The man, suddenly recovered from the surprise of finding her at the door, opened it wide. “Do come in. I was expecting the lord of the manor, but if he were here he would offer you warmth by the fire and a bowl of savory onion soup.”

“Gramercy.”

Rayne stepped through the threshold and followed the man into the adjoining hall. It was more than twice the size of the one she’d been brought up in. The rafters rose high above and the space stretched out so that there was room enough for many long tables and benches. At one side was the stone hearth, glowing with warmth, the fire spitting at the cooking pot and the middle-aged woman working over it. Her head was wrapped with linen, which covered all but a few wisps of brown hair that broke free from their binding. The cook turned to see who entered and offered a deep curtsy and smile before returning to her pot. A few manservants sat at the tables, eating bowls of soup.

The man who’d welcomed her into the manor gestured to one of the empty tables and said, “Take your place and Maud will bring you your fill.”

Her legs almost gave out as she lowered herself onto the bench. She set her box beside her on the table, trying not to hunch too much, remembering her upbringing, but it took too much strength to stay upright. A wooden bowl was placed before her, and she thanked the woman who’d delivered it to her.

The warmth and flavors touched her tongue, and she nearly wept in happiness. A piece of bread was placed by her hand, and she bit into it with a sigh. While she ate, the man who’d welcomed her into the manor sat across from her. His hair came just above his shoulders, and although he seemed to think himself important, he didn’t appear vain or pompous.

“I am Renard, steward of Hundby Manor. I expect Sir Willelm, our lord and knight of King Edward, back shortly. He does not sit still for long and takes his duty to heart, protecting his fiefdom from those set on doing harm. He leaves the manor to me when he departs for days, sometimes weeks at a time.” He paused to check to see if she was listening, then seemed to remember why she was there. “Tell me of your troubles, lady, and how we may serve you.”

Rayne swallowed her bite of onion soup and pursed her lips together. “It is truly a story for the fire,” she said. Normally, she might have taken her time relaying such an alarming tale, but she was tired, and she thought brevity was a virtue at the moment. “I was traveling with my escorts to Grimsford Abbey to join the nunnery when the wagoneers my father hired turned against us. They murdered all three of my servants and were prepared to do worse to me when it came from the mist—”

Renard’s eyes lifted to meet Maud’s. A silent nod was passed between the two, but the moment was gone just as quick as it came. The woman took up Rayne’s bowl and refilled it with steaming soup—a brief interruption before she could continue, “A black hound came from the woods and bit at the wagoneer’s throat. But alas, one robber remained to steal away my dowry with my belongings, save for this one box containing my writing instruments.” She touched her hand to the painted chest that lay beside her bowl of soup.

“Ye poor ting,” Maud said and stepped closer while wiping her rosy hands on a rag. “It’s a testament of your strength that you’re sitting here this eve.”

“I would not have made it here if it had not been for your hound—it led me across what seemed like all of England to get here.”

Renard again exchanged a glance with Maud before responding, “Sir Willelm has no hound. Ye are mistaken.”

Rayne had felt the dog’s fur under her hand, touched it for herself. It had felt as real as any living thing, but once she’d found sanctuary it had vanished. Maybe it truly was an apparition sent to protect her. She was too tired to care and said in passing, “I was warned of a ghostly black beast that signals coming death, but murderers and thieves must style those tales, for it never showed me its dagger-like teeth. And I never saw fiery red eyes. They were brown like an oak’s trunk after getting soaked with rain.”

“Ye won’t hear no tales about any devil hounds here,” Maud said with a gentle smile. Her weathered face had clearly seen many days working in the sun. “The folk ’round here know of the creature ye speak of, but it’s like ye say—he’s a spirit who protects those in need. Now, I can see you’re needing a rest. We’ll work out everything on the morrow, Lady. Pray, what do we call ye?”

With everything that had happened, she’d failed to introduce herself. She’d forgotten her manners. “Forgive me. I am Lady Rayne from Norwich.”

She was led to a small mattress that was unfolded on the floor near the fire. Nothing else mattered to her once she sat down upon it. A pillow of feathers was handed to her, and she wondered if it had been taken from their master’s bed. She slid her precious box against her side and felt a woolen blanket lowered over her body. Hushed conversations fell away to the sound of wind howling over the rises and valleys as she fell into a deep sleep.

Rayne must have been thoroughly exhausted from her journey, for her eyes did not open again until morning when she found herself blinking up at Maud hunched over her. It was nearly as dark in the hall as it had been the night before, but the upper windows revealed a soft glow from outside.

“Good morrow, Lady.” Maud straightened up and returned to the cooking pot at the stone hearth. “I expect Master hither shortly—thought you’d want to meet ’im. He slipped in after ye fell asleep.”

“Indeed,” Rayne answered and straightened up.

With the fresh eyes of a new day, she discovered that the trim of her chemise and gown were a mess, dirtied with brambles and grass. Beside her, she found her wimple had been pulled from her head as she’d slept and concluded with disappointment that she must be a frightful sight.

“Emma, stop your gawking and help with this,” Maud hollered at a servant girl who appeared no older than fifteen. The girl scurried to the woman’s side, casting one last curious glance Rayne’s way.

Low conversations were being carried out at a nearby table, where some manservants sat bowed over bowls of steaming breakfast. Before Rayne could rise to her feet, Maud chastised them. “Ye can talk anon. Better finish your bellytimber and get to the fields—Master needs each of ye on planting day.”

The men glowered at her until she raised her eyebrows and her serving spoon. They finished their last bites in a hurry and rushed out of the hall. She gestured to one of the tables and said, “If ye take a seat, Emma will bring your porridge.”

Rayne wanted to put her wimple in place before anything else. It wasn’t proper to leave her hair exposed. So she shook out the cloth, finding dirt and a few stray particles of grass.

Movement came from the other side of the hall. A man wearing a dark blue tunic and breeches strode past, his boots rising nearly to his knees. He settled at the head table at the end of the room, paying no notice to the visitor standing at its center. Renard followed him in, clutching a roll of parchment. He laid it out beside his master before he said, “Everything is getting prepared for the autumn planting, sir. Wheat, just like you wished.”

“Good,” a deep voice answered.

Maud shooed Emma away from the hearth while clutching a bowl of steaming breakfast cereal. Her woolen dress barely moved about her knees as she delivered it to the darkly dressed man. He paid no notice to the servant who brought him his porridge or the bowl that curled steam into his wavy brown locks. Dark eyes stared down at the parchment as he rubbed his bearded jaw.

Rayne hastily pulled on her head covering, securing it in place, and gave a despondent glance at the trim of her gown. Given the circumstances, she hoped her appearance would not matter.

Renard looked her way and leaned in to speak to his master. “Sir, we have a visitor—may I present Lady Rayne of Norwich.”

She took a few steps toward the head table and slid her foot back so that she could offer a proper bow in greeting, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground. When she straightened up, Renard introduced the man seated before her. “Lord Willelm of Hundby Manor.”

“I am honored to meet you, sir,” she responded and tried her best at conversation. “I hear you are a knight of the king. Would I have seen you at tournament in town?”

She dared to raise her gaze to his face. His russet eyes were focused on her, his expression unreadable. She did not detect the kind of airs she might have received had she been in the city, or had she been in the presence of a noble who cared much for society.

His response was bitter. “When I was a young braggart, I fought for things such as wealth and fame, but I am not so foolhardy anymore. I only fight for honor and to protect the defenseless.”

It was clear she had said the wrong thing, and they had not started off on good footing. She returned her focus to the floor, cleared her throat and said, “I find myself at your manor due to misfortune and ill luck. My escorts were attacked and murdered by the men hired to take me safely to the nuns of Grimsford Abbey. My dowry and belongings were stolen, and I am now without protection or means of travel. I beseech your kindness, if you might deign to direct me to a messenger who can deliver a letter or to a carter I could hire to take me to my destination—”

“If you are without anything of value, how will you pay a messenger or carter?”

The question hung in the air, and Rayne felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment and aggravation. She did not like his tone, nor did she appreciate his manner. She had not been put in her situation by choice.

Rayne lifted her chin and raised her eyes again to address his question. “I am not a witless lady, sir. I can offer my pen as a scribe to any man in need, and once my father has been notified, he can send payment. On my honor.”

“But I do not know of you or your honor,” Willelm retorted. He tilted his head, observing her while she tried her best to remain polite to the man whose hospitality she was indebted to. “I think it not wise to send word yet to your father, for the scoundrels responsible have not been found. Did this just happen?”

She thought it best to hold her tongue. She did not trust herself in that moment to make any response that would not insult him. So instead, she nodded.

Willelm sighed and appeared highly inconvenienced. He pushed his cooling porridge away and looked to Renard. “Go fetch Godwin and Hicket. Tell them to bring their horses and blades.”

“Aye, sir,” the steward answered and hurried from the hall.

After his departure, Willelm returned his attention to Rayne. Without any sign of emotion, except possible irritation, he said, “I cannot allow you to depart without protection. And I think it unwise to ask for provisions from your father until the fiends are caught or your treasure recovered. I am honor-bound to help, so I must away on this busy day to search for your bandits.”

Rayne was unsure whether he sought her gratitude, apologies or animosity. She had not intended to inconvenience him so, nor did she ask for him to put aside his day’s work. However, she’d been raised to be polite, and she was standing in his manor, so she bowed her head.

He stood up and wound his way around the table. “Tell me of the men I seek and their manner of travel.”

“There is just one man,” she answered, avoiding looking at him. “He goes by Roger, and I believe him to be mute. He has a short trim, and he rode away south in a covered wagon led by two chestnut ponies. There were two wooden chests—one containing my dowry, and the other my personal effects.”

“I best not waste more time,” he mumbled to himself. Willelm called to Maud as she walked through the hall, “Send John to fetch my courser. I am off to ready my mail and blade. Pray keep the lady from more trouble while I’m gone.”

Maud offered an apologetic smile to Rayne before running from the stone hall, calling as she went, “Johhhhn! Master needs ’is horse!”

Emma was left holding the serving spoon with widened eyes. She sighed and returned to stirring the porridge in the metal pot. Rayne took the opportunity to catch her breath. The banter between herself and the lord of the manor had agitated her, and she needed to calm down. A true lady remained in control of her emotions, but she’d never made a good, proper lady. For a lady wouldn’t imagine herself a poet like she often did.

Rayne went to pick up her decorative box from her mattress on the floor and took it to one of the tables. She settled upon the bench just as Maud scurried back into the hall. The servant grabbed the long spoon from Emma and poured some steaming cereal into a bowl before delivering it to Rayne. She set it down before her, patting her shoulder. “Don’t mind the master. ’Is bark’s worse than ’is bite. There’s no truer knight than he.”

“Forgive me if I do not appear thankful for his kindness,” Rayne answered. She breathed in the steam rising up from the porridge. “Prithee, if I can help in any household duties, put me to work.”

“You’ve been through too much already, Lady. I couldn’t possibly.” Maud noticed the box beside Rayne and asked, “Ye can write?”

The servant’s attention had already begun to distract her from the annoyance created by Sir Willelm. Rayne smiled and placed her hand on her precious writing tools. “I do.”

“Master’s oft busy with his duties, and Renard has some skill with the pen, but he won’t lower ’imself to write a letter for me. Vicar helped me in the spring.”

Rayne turned to the woman and offered, “I could write a note for you.”

“You’re all kindness, Lady. You eat your fill, and don’t worry ’bout the master. Bet he’ll be back with your treasure by nightfall.”

The servants busied themselves at the hearth, and Rayne tucked into her food. It warmed her belly, which fought off the draft that blew through the hall from the high windows. Once she was done with the porridge, she opened her box and laid out all of her tools. She was grateful to be at a proper table again. Her inkpot was opened and set by her right hand, and her quill was cut to a point. A fresh piece of parchment was unfurled.

Rayne thought of the hound that had saved her the day before and wrote of the adventure. Prose flowed from the nib of her quill. She used her wooden ruler to measure and mark columns along the sides of the page like she’d witnessed the monastic scribe do. If she had gold leaf, she would have decorated the page with glitter and color, but all she had was iron gall ink. Pigments could be found from vendors or different sources in the countryside, but she was not in the position to decorate her parchment. Once she arrived at the abbey, she hoped to be given that opportunity.

Her back and hand grew stiff from hunching over the table, so she stood to take a walk about the hall. Light poured in from the windows, and she wondered how much time had passed since morning. She stopped to look at one of the many tapestries that hung about the walls. A woman was pictured sitting upon a fallen tree with a man holding out his heart to her.

“That’s Sir Wilmot and Dame Gisele, Sir Willelm’s parents,” Maud said from behind, surprising her. “She came from France with all of her finery. I remember her teaching little Willelm and ’is sister Heloise their writing before he was sent off to become a page.”

Rayne turned to the servant, her curiosity piqued. “He has a sister?”

Maud looked about the empty room and came to stand beside her. She crossed her arms and lowered her voice. “Had a sister. The master has lived a tale of tragedy. Sir Wilmot served King Edward before Willelm. He fought in Wales in ’is youth—was given this very fiefdom for ’is service. I never saw two nobles more in love than the lord and lady.”

Maud’s expression changed. A frown creased her brow, and her eyes filled with sadness. She sighed deeply before continuing, “’Twas two years ago Wilmot left to fight for the king, but he died at the hands of the Scots. Anon, his lady grew ill and joined him in heaven, leaving the manor to Willelm. Bitter and vengeful, Master was called to fight for the king. He rode to Scotland and fought bravely in Falkirk, but whilst he was gone, Heloise got it in her mind to visit a holy shrine. Poor thing never made it back—attacked by robbers on the road. Well, when Willelm arrived home, he wasn’t the same. Battle changed ’im—so did losing ’is kin. Bitterness taints ’is lips, but there’s no truer knight or lord. Driven mad keeping the countryside safe.”

Rayne stared at the servant, then returned her gaze to the tapestry. Learning of his unfortunate past helped her understand Willelm’s unpleasant manner. It made him no more tolerable, but she held compassion for his plight. She stared at the faces of his mother and father, trying to imagine the knight as a boy before he’d grown sour.

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “And he never married?”

Maud turned to look upon another tapestry of greens and blues. Vines and leaves entwined around a blade. She shook her head and anchored her hands against her hips. “Nay. He was too busy with knighthood to bother with chivalry. Nearly thirty years from ’is cradle and too temperamental for any lady to have ’im. Not that he’d bother.”

After that disheartening story, Rayne didn’t feel in the mood to continue her work on her parchment. She glanced toward the table, thinking about putting it away when she remembered Maud’s request. “I can write your letter, if you wish it.”

“Oh, aye.” The servant’s eyes widened, and she went to the table. “My! Your hand’s been touched with such skill. The letters are so lovely. What’s it say?”

Rayne went to sit before the parchment and shook her head. “Oh, nothing. Just drivel about the black hound. Nothing any proper lady should be spending her time on, really.”

She set it aside to dry and prepared a fresh piece of parchment for the cook’s letter. “To whom should it be addressed?”

“Me brother. He went to the city to gain ’is riches in the wool trade.”

“That was my husband’s business—why he traveled so often.” Rayne thought of the long months he’d been away, only spending a short time at home before returning overseas.

Maud clucked. “I did not know ye were married.”

“Widowed.”

The servant looked at her with softened eyes. “Here I was going on and on about the master’s troubles, and ye have enough of your own.”

“Gramercy, but I barely knew him before he met the bottom of the ocean. Tis why I seek the quiet of the abbey,” Rayne explained, tired of her own story.

“Quiet may be peaceable, to be sure.” Maud didn’t sound convinced in her agreement, but she clearly knew her place well enough not to say more.

It did not take Rayne long to pen the servant’s letter to her brother. It was entertaining writing all the gossip of the village, learning the names and drama that had occurred over the summer. It took her away from her own problems until there was a clamor outside.

“I wonder who that is?”

Maud went from the hall and Rayne decided to follow. They exited the thick wooden door and into the courtyard. A covered wagon driven by two unknown men halted on the gravel drive with two riderless horses tied to the back. At the sight of it, her heart pounded in excitement. It truly appeared to be the very transport that had carried away her treasure.

A lone rider appeared clad in chainmail. A metal helm covered his head, and he wore a surcoat with a curious pattern stitched upon his chest. A black figure akin to a wolf decorated his breast, and a sword was secured to his belt. She could not recognize any distinguishing features, but knew him to be Willelm.

“I told ye he would come with your fortune!” Maud exclaimed to her.

Some manservants ran to help the knight from his horse and to assist with the wagon. Rayne ventured closer to the caravan, eager to see if all of her belongings were secure. She walked around the back of the cart to peer in. Two wooden chests sat just where they’d rested the last she’d seen them.

The metal helm had been pulled from the knight’s head, and the chainmail covering his brow was being untied for removal. Once Willhelm’s sweaty face was freed, she found him just as unhappy as when he’d left. He brushed his dark locks from his eyes and growled. “I have found your dowry, lady. Roger will never bother you or any other henceforth.”

“Gramercy!” She curtsied and bowed her head. “Now the abbey may receive me and my dowry. I shall be able to pay for an escort and the messenger to send word to my father.”

“Write your letter, and I will have one of my men take it to Norwich for you.”

No matter what he said, he seemed displeased at every point. She had met numerous upper-class men. Either their tongues dripped with honey with false pleasantries, covering their true dispositions, or they thought themselves better and condescended to her with their presence. Willelm was neither sort of fellow. He made no effort to hide his displeasure, nor did he appear to think himself superior. He simply didn’t care. In some ways it was refreshing, but it did not endear him to her.

“I thank you for your hospitality. I shall pen my letter right away,” she answered. “And of an escort—”

His surcoat was lifted over his head, and he knelt so his manservants could pull the chainmail from his body. It looked tedious, heavy and unpleasant. It had clearly been an effort to go search out Roger and her belongings. She didn’t want to bother him any longer, since it was clear he was so inconvenienced by her presence.

He grunted as the heavy mail was taken from his shoulders and answered, “I would trust my life with the folk of this village, but they have their autumn planting at hand. I would not allow you to take them from their work. That leaves me to escort you to your abbey once some local business is settled in a few days’ time.”

The terms were more than acceptable and extremely generous coming from a gentleman who clearly resented his chivalrous obligations to her. If she were in the position to thank him graciously and turn him down, she would have. She resented it just as much as he did that she was forced to accept his help. Rayne would be no man’s burden.

She bowed her head, not wanting to elicit another response from him that would annoy her further, and she returned to the dark recesses of his manor. The men he rode with carried her trunks into the hall for safekeeping. Rayne tried to ignore the activities of everyone else as they came and went from the hall while she bent over a fresh piece of parchment, addressing a letter to her father.

It would have been nice to imagine that he would be deeply upset for her well-being upon hearing the news of her robbery and attack, but she knew him too well. Once ascertaining the safety of her dowry, he would be ready for his next letter of business. He had been thoroughly disappointed in her unwillingness to remarry for more landholdings. It had taken him the four years since her late husband’s death to grow resigned to her departure to the abbey. The writing of the letter was more for appearances and duty.

It did not take her long to briefly write a recount of the prior day’s events, save all the details of the apparition of the black dog. She folded the parchment and sealed it with wax.

Rayne tried handing it to Renard when he passed through the hall, but he shook his head and answered, “Present it to the master.”

That evening at mealtime, when she was placed at Willelm’s table to eat, she set it before him. “It has been addressed with directions on where to find my father in Norwich.”

After taking a bite and wiping his mouth, Willelm lifted the letter to read its address and set it back down. “Fine.”

He barely spoke a word to her all evening, which was satisfactory to her. She was content with little conversation. Although it was polite to engage in some form of discussion, she was relieved when he got up to retire to his private quarters upstairs. She turned her focus on his steward, Renard, who was more than happy to divulge all of the day’s happenings in the fields.

That night she slept again on the mattress in the hall. The manor servants went to retire to their own cottages on the property, with a few staying to sleep in the hall so they could tend to the master. After her first sleep, she woke to return to work on her prose for a time before returning to bed.

It was not Maud who woke her in the morning. She stirred, blinking into the dark room, sensing movement nearby. A shape lurked near the table where she’d left her parchment to dry. Rayne sat up straighter, trying to make out who was there. The man turned to look at her. His dark features cut through the dim, the rosy glow from embers adding color to his face.

Willelm’s gruff voice mumbled, “I am out to the fields. The writing desk goes untouched in the solar. Best someone uses it—Maud can show you.”

The offer surprised her, but she did not forget her manners. “Gramercy, sir.”

He turned on his heel and left the hall, leaving Rayne alone. The other servants who’d found sleep at the tables and upon the floor on a patch of hay had already vacated the hall, presumably off to start their daily chores. Rayne thought it best to take the opportunity to change from her dirtied gown and chemise and take to a new set of clothing from her trunk. The wimple was put away, and she let her hair down to comb.

Maud and the young Emma entered the hall and the older servant directed the girl to assist Rayne with braiding her hair. At first Emma seemed shy and unsure of herself, but the longer she focused on plaiting, the more comfortable she became. Maud walked up to admire her work. “Seems a pity to cover it.”

After having their breakfast cereal, Rayne said to Maud, “Sir Willelm spoke of a writing desk in the solar—”

“Aye, ’twas the lady Giselle’s. I will show ye to it,” the servant answered, exchanging a glance with Emma.

Rayne gathered all of her writing tools and the parchment she’d caught Willelm looking over that morning and followed Maud out of the hall. She led her through a passage and into the opposite wing of the manor. A large room opened up. A four-poster bed with curtains was set at one end opposite two narrow windows overlooking the moat and nearby fields. A thick wooden desk sat in the morning light.

Maud led her to it and pointed to the drawers. “The late mistress would sit and often write hither. Best something so grand be used.”

Rayne was beside herself. She’d never touched such a beautiful piece of furniture designed for writing. Its surface was at a gentle slant. She trailed her fingers along the edge before setting her parchment down. Her quill and ink were placed beside it, and she sat on the wooden stool. She slid open the drawers, peering inside. A gasp escaped her lips as she discovered pigments hidden away.

“What is it? A spider?” Maud asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Nay,” Rayne answered in quiet tones. “Tumsole seeds, madder root and saffron fibers, all pigments for illumination.”

“Ye know how they’re used?” the servant asked. She glanced at Rayne, who was sliding the drawer shut again. “Master wouldn’t ’ave offered if he didn’t mean it. Ye should use it if ye want.”

The pigments were quite valuable, having been imported from all over the world. It was a very generous offer to be allowed to use them. Her cheeks flushed as she slowly drew open the drawer again, pulling out the small mortar and pestle that sat beside the pigments.

“I would need egg,” she said softly.

“I’ll ’ave Emma fetch ye some. Ye shan’t be disturbed—I’ll see to it, Lady.”

Maud bustled from the room, leaving her alone at the desk. The eggs were soon delivered, and she got to work, pouring her attention into the illustrations lining the page. She was particularly careful forming the ears and jaw of the hound coming around the trunk of the oak. She’d discovered a fine sable brush amongst the pigments, and when the time came to make the paste from the egg and seeds to create the bright blue, her heart hammered with joy.

When her back or arms grew tired, she set her tools down to stand by the window and gaze out of doors. The autumnal air licked at her cheeks as she stood watching the peasants and serfs busy in the fields. She thought she caught sight of Willelm with his exposed back to the sun, his arms busy holding the plow while following behind a horse. It surprised her to see a well-born man bent in labor over his own fields.

More days passed with Willelm saying very little at dinner, taking his leave to his chambers early in the evening. The following day Rayne was left to her creativity at the late mistress’s desk, busily creating the scene surrounding her prose. It became a personal quest for her to complete it by the day of their departure. A story filled with fantasy would not be acceptable upon her arrival at the abbey. She would need to turn her attention to copying scripture if she was allowed to follow her interest in becoming a scribe and illuminator.

Finally, the evening came when Willelm said in his gruff, aggravated manner, “We will no longer keep you here at Hundby Manor. Tomorrow I will escort you to Grimsford Abbey.”

Disappointment crept into her breast, and she attributed it to losing the privileges of writing at such a lovely desk with use of such precious tools. She would soon be in a place where she wouldn’t be bothered by such a distasteful man. “I am ready to depart at your beckoning. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

He raised his cup of ale to his lips and took a sip. “It isn’t without repayment in the form of the wagon and horses I procured the other day.”

“Of course,” she answered, offering a false smile.

That night she struggled to find sleep until she thought of her protector, the black hound. She pictured it guiding her through the countryside, leading her to the abbey. But upon the crest of a hill, expecting to spot the bell tower, she found herself gazing at Hundby Manor in the twilight. Eerie howls echoed through her dreams, and she woke in the morning agitated, not knowing why.

Chapter 4

The wagon bumped over the narrow path. There was barely enough room for its width down the lane. Hedges reached out to brush at the canopy, something Rayne tolerated with distaste. Willelm had insisted that the safest way to her destination was not by way of the well-traveled roads that robbers and thieves poached, but the country lanes where there was less hospitality to be found and a longer journey.

Rayne clutched her writing box, thinking of the parchment rolled inside. Her prose, which she couldn’t compare to the likes of Beowulf, was complete. Her maiden’s story, a tale of pure fantasy, was nearly fully illuminated along its edges with vines and a lady whose appearance closely resembled her own with a great black hound curled up at her feet. The parchment would have to be secured away from prying eyes, for little would be thought of time wasted on such a tale where a lady was saved by a hound. The tragedy lay in the soul of the beast, who was truly that of a man cursed to roam the countryside forever as an apparition. The prose would have to remain her secret.

Rayne stared at Willelm’s back. He sat on the wagon’s bench, clutching the horse’s reins silently, watching the scenery change. If one of his servants had come, she might have had company and conversation. On the other hand, she was admittedly feeling peevish, so it was best she was without company. She thought of the start of her journey and her excitement to see Norfolk as she toured the countryside. Now, her mood had soured upon being delivered to the abbey.

Their wagon jostled across the landscape until the sun drifted close to the horizon. Willelm guided the horses to a secluded spot surrounded by maple trees and shrubs. He climbed from his seat, and without a word unhitched the animals so they could graze.

From the bench of the wagon, Rayne watched him. She couldn’t understand why he’d insisted that no others attend or protect them on their travels, but she hadn’t wanted to speak against the man whose hospitality had saved her in her hour of need. Her eyes remained on him while he secured the horses to a tree.

When he approached the wagon, he uttered the most words he’d spoken all day. “We cannot be seen from the road, but I request you stay to the wagon. It will be dark soon. I will find a lookout nearby to get a better view. If you wake in the night, remain here until I come to you. On my honor, I will keep you safe.”

“I shall remain here as you say,” she answered him in earnest, not wanting a repeat of her last frightful wagon ride.

She returned to the back of the cart, pulling free a woolen blanket that had been packed along with the provisions. Rayne unwrapped the bread and cheese Maud had put in a bundle. It would not be like sitting in the hall eating a proper meal, but it would do. She put a portion together for Willelm, who had climbed back onto his perch at the front of the cart.

“Will we have a fire tonight?” she asked.

“Nay,” he answered and tore off a piece of bread with his mouth. “I know how to travel and remain safe. I am at a disadvantage going out with a lady and a wagon filled with wealth. It is best to hide away.”

Well, it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that she was a disadvantage to a man, but for some reason she resented hearing it from Willelm. She sat away from him while she ate her meal. Before she reached the end of her food, the sun began to melt into the hills like tallow in a hot pan.

Willelm climbed down from his seat and mumbled about going to find a good lookout. As she lay beside her trunk, waiting for sleep to come, snuggled in her blanket, she thought about her future.

Soon she would be delivered to the abbey like so many other wealthy young ladies seeking a life free from unhappy marriages to gentlemen who were only such in title. At many a banquet, Rayne had seen girls betrothed to men many decades their senior, or to the kind of beast who enjoyed being superior to everyone, including his wife. That was not to say she’d witnessed no happy unions. It simply was less likely in the pool of greed and power that most nobles fished from.

With the abbey so near her now, she felt trapped. It was certainly the best option she held. To be secured away from her father’s intent to marry her off to the highest bidder was a relief, and to be allowed to write in peace was a dream, although she knew she would be held to just as strict expectations within the monastic world to which she was headed. She wondered whether if she’d been born a male she might have become an adventurer like Marco Polo. Would her pen name be known? It was foolish to wish for a different life. She knew this.

Her ponderings took her into the night. Before long, her mind was lost in a land of dreams. Worries took flight as birds and wishes turned into adventure at the heels of a hound racing against the winds of time.

It must have been near the end of her first sleep when she opened an eye. Her place in the wagon was secure, although it took her a moment to remember where she was. Rayne sat fully upright and turned her head about. She could not see Willelm at the wagon, but he had warned her of such. At first she presumed that she’d woken out of habit, but then she sensed movement.

Her head stilled like that of a statue while she listened for the direction of the noise. It wasn’t near the head of the cart where the horses were fastened. She slowed her breathing as she drew herself onto her knees to squint from the back of the wagon. She imagined herself as an owl sweeping its gaze over its nighttime world. Grass rustled nearby, and she stared in its direction.

A black hound pressed its nose to the earth and looked up suddenly when it sensed her presence. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was her protector, back to watch over her. It was an indescribable feeling seeing him again.

Rayne whispered into the night, “You are back—I missed you.”

The dog stepped toward her and stopped. It sat on its haunches while its shaggy pointed ears rotated about. This was no mutt, but the enormous wolfhound she’d first met in the forest nearly a week ago.

“I am being escorted to the abbey, but I do not find myself wanting to go,” she said with a sigh. Maybe she was seeking absolution, but she ventured to say things aloud that she may not have even admitted to her priest. “I am ashamed I do not find pleasure in my life when I have so much. I do not wish to be a pretty object that is passed about, or a lady without a voice. But I am a woman with few choices.”

She rested her chin on the edge of the wagon as she stared at the hound. Its scruffy eyebrows twitched with movement. Rayne whispered at it once more, “You are fortunate to be an apparition who comes and goes as he pleases. If I were like you, I might find myself all over the countryside, nay, the world. Do not bother with me. There are more important sights to see.”

Rayne stretched back out in the wagon, her head resting against the rear upright panel. She wondered if Willelm was awake and watching her speak to the dog, or if he could even see the beast. His esteem for her could not have been favorable already, so she doubted he could think any less of the peculiarity of her having a tête-à-tête with a four-legged creature.

She let her eyes droop shut, secure knowing her protector was nearby keeping her safe as she slept. The blanket that covered her was not enough to fight off the chill in the air. She brushed her hands over her arms to generate more warmth, which worked for a few moments until the cold chased it away again. At some point she must have fallen back to sleep, for it was the sound of birds that woke her in the morning.

No longer was she chilled, despite the cool breeze brushing against her face. As she became present in her wakefulness, she realized she was not alone. Rayne slid her eyes open. The enormous hound was stretched across the wooden chest beside her. Its foreleg and paw hung across her chest, creating warmth better than any fur-lined cloak, and its chin rested on the lip of the wagon.

Rayne smiled and lifted her hand to touch the hound’s fur. Her fingers trailed along the animal’s temple to its back. Its brown eyes snapped open and focused on her face, so near its own. With suddenness that surprised her, it lifted onto its dense paws and leapt from the wagon onto the ground. She sat upright and turned to watch it run beyond the shrubs and out of sight. If it was truly a hound or simply an apparition, she knew it would not pause to say goodbye, but she was still sad to see it go.

Sunlight began to spread across the land, illuminating the morning fog. The horses were snorting and moving by the tree, and there was still no sign of Willelm. Rayne pulled the blanket from her body, recognizing nature’s call. She knew she’d been told to keep to the cart, but she couldn’t wait.

She threw a leg over the back rail of the wagon, clinging on so she wouldn’t fall. It took effort, and it was likely quite a sight to behold, but she got down without injury or tearing her dress. Rayne found a nearby thicket and soon returned to the small clearing. She did not think it wise to call out for her escort, although she did not like the thought of sitting idle in wait. So she untied the horses to lead them to graze.

It was on the grassy meadow that she spotted a man walking through the diminishing fog. She recognized his figure, for she had gazed upon him from his solar window at a distance for many days as he worked in the fields. Willelm’s dark hair and blue surcoat were visible against the pale light.

He walked straight to her side. The unpleasant expression on his face prepared her for his admonishment. “I see my request meant nothing to you. How am I to keep you safe if you make no efforts?”

Rayne lifted her chin and returned his penetrating gaze. “You were not to be found when I needed a privy. The horses needed grazing, and I wished a short walk. Your conscience be clear—I take my life in my own hands.”

“You do, indeed,” he uttered softly. He said it in a way that confused her. There was no spite as she might have expected, but possibly respect.

She sniffed and continued to hold onto the horses’ reins as they bowed their heads while they ate their fill. Willelm remained silently by her side with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Rayne decided to ask, “From your lookout, did you spot a black hound?”

He looked at her before returning his focus to the meadow. “I have yet to spot the creature, though I hear much of its deeds from the village folk.”

“It just departed from my side, doing your task of keeping me safe through the night.” She smiled and continued, “It was that ebony creature who saved me from the robbers and led me to your manor.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.” Rayne’s grin fell away, and she stated, “You must think me a silly woman, going on about such an apparition.”

Willelm stood silent for a moment before he responded, “I have met a few silly women in my time, but you are no such woman.”

He held his hand out for the horse’s reins, which she placed in his grasp. They returned to the wagon in silence. Before she could climb up to her place in the cart, he offered his assistance as she took her first step.

While she busied herself retrieving breakfast and drink for them both, he secured the horses to the wagon. When he had settled up front on the bench, she gave him some bread, salted meat and a leather bladder filled with ale. She was shocked when he thanked her.

It did not take long before they were on the road again, bumping across the countryside. They were delayed by a fallen tree and had to find a path around. The folded blanket she sat upon did not prevent her backside from bruising.

They passed cottages and farms along the way, but still, near nightfall, they found a secluded clearing. Instead of stopping near a meadow, they were protected by a forest of beech trees. A lovely canopy of leaves knitted together to create a tapestry of green and yellow above them. Tall, regal boughs from gray trunks reached high into the sky, screening the setting sun.

Similar to the prior evening, they ate in near silence and Willelm repeated his instructions for her to remain in the wagon. He crept away in the growing dusk, disappearing amongst the trees. Rayne found herself as much comfort as she could at the back of the wagon, hoping her nighttime visitor would come that evening.

Again she woke in the middle of the night. Her lids slid open to stare up at the linen canopy—a pattern of shadows cast from moonlight and leaves. She sat upright and waited to hear gentle rustling from the hound, but it did not come. Willelm was nowhere to be seen; the only living things nearby were the sleeping forms of the horses tied to a tree.

It was then she heard it. Not the crackling of underbrush, but faint whimpered cries in the depths of the forest. She held her breath to confirm the sounds, and again, she heard them.

Disregarding the request of her protector, she climbed from the back of the wagon. There was little moonlight cast from between the leaves and branches of the wood, but enough for her to find her way. She kept her blanket wrapped about her shoulders as she crept in the dark toward the quiet whimpers. The sounds grew louder the farther she went, spurning her to move more quickly.

When she reached the top of a little rise, she found a narrow leaf-covered basin with a gaping pit at its center. From the cavity the soft moans repeated. She stepped carefully down the slope to the mouth of the hole. Leaves were cast over dried sticks covering its lip. She’d discovered a wolfpit, designed to trap and exterminate wolves by order of the king. Stones lined the abyss, leading down to spikes pointed up to the heavens. On them was the body of her hound.

“Oh, no!” she cried, kneeling to the ground.

Rayne looked at the animal. Sharpened bloodied points punctured through both the animal’s shoulder and its thigh. Its head lolled to the side so that it might look at her, and a high pitched whine escaped its muzzle.

“Shh.” She tried to quiet it down. If it were truly an apparition, she thought it would have simply dispersed, escaping all injury. “I do not know how to help you.”

Rayne dropped the blanket from her shoulders and leaned in to study the pit. A few of the rocks near the lip of the cavity stuck out farther and would make for good handholds. The outer edges of the well had no spikes. If she were careful, she might be able to climb down to take a better look.

She brushed all of the sticks and leaves from the remainder of the opening before turning on her belly and easing her legs over the edge. Her hands clung to the rocks as her leather-clad toes reached for footing. Her feet scrambled until the tips of her shoes touched the bottom. Her skirt caught one of the wooden stakes. She couldn’t move until she pulled it free.

The hound’s eyes gleamed in the dark. She felt them travel with her as she reached toward it. A soft whimper stirred from the animal’s maw. The long wiry fur covering its body slowly shrank away. Its frame grew and changed. Muscles enlarged and plumped until the fleshy form of a man lay upon the stakes in the canine’s place.

Rayne’s breath hitched in her throat as she stared in disbelief. She may have imagined a man’s soul trapped in her hound’s body, but this was not what she’d envisioned. While she was frozen in shock, the man groaned in pain and turned his shadowed head to face her.

Panting in agony, Willelm pleaded in a whisper, “Help me.”

His words jarred Rayne from her trance. The stakes were varying heights: the one through his shoulder was the longest. Blood began to pool and trickle from his wounds. She attempted to avoid gazing at his nakedness, for it would be improper, even though she had occasionally seen her late husband exposed and was familiar with a man’s form. Moonlight touched the knight’s body, revealing his strong build. She may have been a determined sort of woman, but she was not that muscular and was unsure how to help him from the torturous pincushion. Then she had a thought.

“First your leg—prepare yourself,” she said to him.

His eyes narrowed. He took two deep breaths in preparation, then nodded. She reached for the leg that had been run through. Her fingers grasped around his knee, and she lifted straight up. A cry broke from his lips as his flesh was freed from the spike. No sooner had the spear been removed than a flow of blood began to trace from the wound.

He tried to use his injured leg to lift himself onto his feet, dragging his shoulder up along its skewer, but he still needed to lift higher. The other stakes were in the way, and it was clear he was quickly losing his strength. Getting as close to him as she could, she laced her hands together and said, “Can you—do you think can use me to lift yourself?”

“I”—he panted a few times—“shall try.”

She leaned over to put out her hands, knitted by her fingers, and helped place one of his feet upon them. His weight pressed down, and she fought hard not to let him fall. Willelm’s uninjured arm clung to the rock-lined pit while he lifted himself the remaining distance off the spike. His body faltered, and she cried out, “Do try to climb free!”

If he could not ascend from the pit himself, she did not know how she would get him out. It would already be a feat for her to climb out in her gown. Her words of encouragement coaxed him upward. His uninjured arm and leg flexed with effort as she lifted his foot until he was able to drag himself over the edge. She could hear his forced breaths from outside the hole and knew it was up to her to climb free.

Rayne reached for the upper rocks built into the frame and searched for a foothold. With much struggle she slowly emerged from the pit, nearly falling back in before reaching the top. On her hands and knees on the forest floor, she gasped to catch her breath before going to his side.

Willelm remained where he’d rolled over. His back was exposed, revealing more than just the puncture through his shoulder and thigh. Other points had scratched through, leaving a bloody constellation of spots on his flesh. Her discarded blanket was on the ground beside him, so she laid it out and tried to wake him.

“Sir, can you rally?” She placed her hands upon his good shoulder, but there was no response. Fear crept into her heart. What if he was already dead?

He gave no response, but she noticed the rise and fall from his breathing and was encouraged he might yet live. She wanted to return him to the wagon. There were provisions that might help him. Rayne knew what she had to do.

She placed her hands on his shoulder and hip to roll him back onto the blanket. It took much effort, but he was rolled back into the center of the fabric. The sides were folded over him before she took up the corners and braced herself, pulling. He was all muscle and that of tall stature, but Rayne had the power of fear coursing through her. She dragged his cocooned body behind her, stopping every few steps to recover, gathering strength and courage.

It was not far to the wagon, but it took every last bit of her energy to get him there. She immediately uncovered his head, leaving his body wrapped for warmth, and was relieved to find he was still breathing. When she tried speaking to him, there was no response. Besides some basic skills, she did not know how to tend injuries such as his. Upon their arrival he began to shiver and quake.

Rayne went to the wagon in search of flint and steel and found it amongst his things. In the moonlight she scoured the forest floor for dry kindling and branches and soon had a mound built up beside Willelm’s limp body. She brought a bloom of fire to life, blowing gently at its flame. She knew he wanted to avoid creating smoke so as not to alert robbers to their location, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

Heat radiated from her small campfire, yet he still shivered and shook. She peeled away his wrappings to check on his shoulder and found it bleeding just as it had when he’d removed the stake. Rayne watched his life force ooze from his body, helpless to stop it. She made many attempts to get him to drink from his leather bladder, but was unsuccessful.

Rayne propped herself up against the wheel of the wagon, watching him. She thought of his brown eyes staring out at her in the form of the hound. From the start she’d been struck by their intelligence and expressive quality. It was what had led her to imagine a man’s soul trapped in the beast’s body.

It had been Willelm all the while, watching over her. The man whose gruffness aggravated her to no end. She had believed him indifferent and uncaring, yet she’d clearly been wrong. Thoughts formed, then broke free against her will. Her eyes blinked against the warmth from the fire as it lulled her into the fog of sleep.

Chapter 5

A branch snapped, sending her lids open. She’d slumped over onto the leaf-covered ground during the early hours of the morning. Light was just beginning to illuminate the sky through the forest canopy. The fire’s flames had gone out, but it still crackled and sputtered at the cold air.

Rayne pushed herself upright, looking at the place she’d left Willelm. Only the bloodstained blanket remained on the ground. Her head whipped around as she searched for him. “Willelm?”

She got up to walk around the wagon. The horses were still tied to their branch and everything was as it had been, except there was no sign of her escort. Her heart trembled as she feared the worst. Had animals dragged him away in the night to feed on his helpless body? Or upon his death, had he turned into dust?

Tears spilled from her eyes as her shaky voice called out again, “Willelm?”

“Hush, now,” a deep voice said nearby. “You will wake the whole forest.”

She turned to find him dressed again in his blue surcoat and the prior day’s attire while he made his way through the woods. His eyes appeared deeper set, revealing his exhaustion, and his hair was uncombed, shaggy about his rugged face, yet he seemed well.

When he stopped by the dying embers of the fire, she found her voice. “How can this be? Was it only a night terror?”

Forgetting herself, she went to his side, pulling away the opening of his tunic and coat to check his wound. His flesh was free of injury. She could find no mark or scar. He turned his face, and she felt his eyes and even his breath on her. She let go of his clothing and stepped away, embarrassed.

“It was no dream,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

“But I do not understand.”

He leaned down to pick up the bloodied blanket from the ground. “I only required the strength to become the hound once more. It is what put me right again.”

“Is it a curse?” she asked, uncertain if it could be considered a blessing.

“In a way, it is. Yet I am flesh and bone.”

She could find no more words. She did not know what to think. This gentleman before her appeared and felt just as real as anything else in this world, but she’d witnessed him change shape. His secret had been revealed to her. Magic was something to be feared. Yet somehow, she did not fear Willelm or think him evil.

“You saved me,” he said, looking up at her. “Gramercy.”

A faint smile touched her lips as she answered, “You have done far more for me. Are you hungry? Or do you not require sustenance?”

He squatted down to deposit dirt over the embers of the fire, and his cheeks lifted into a half grin, the closest thing to a smile she’d ever seen on his face. “I require the same things as any other man. I am, indeed, hungry.”

She remained still as she watched him go to the horses and fasten them to the wagon. He led her to the front and offered his hand so she might climb inside. The warmth of his fingers remained on her skin as she found provisions for a meal. Like every other time they’d shared refreshment, they ate in silence, but their eyes would meet and avert in embarrassment.

“Your abbey is just thither.” He reached for the reins and gave them a snap. The horses began to move forward and out of their quiet glade. “You will have many stories to share with the nuns.”

“I would never,” she answered without a thought.

She stared at his back as he drove the horses onto the bumpy lane. He turned his head to answer, but fell silent. In days past she had not minded the quiet that fell between them, but it was unwelcome to her in that moment. Though she did not know how to mend it. She knew not what to say, so she too let all things go unspoken.

The wagon found better travels once they emerged from the woods. Fields led them to their final destination. Her chest hurt when the stony tower could be seen from her seat within the wagon. A bell’s toll echoed, reaching her ears. It seemed to mark the beginning of her new life, the end of the old.

The horse’s hooves clopped over the grass leading up to the abbey. It was a grand sight. Its architecture reflected the greatest of its time. Beautiful arches and stone buildings covered the greensward. They approached closer to the walls of the church and stopped before its arched doors.

A nun dressed in a black habit and an undyed wimple came out to greet them. As soon as Rayne was out of the wagon, she recognized the woman. “Pray, I hope you are well, Aunt Matilda!”

The woman offered her a hug and pulled away to look at her. “Rayne! I am happy to see you safely delivered. Were your travels unpleasant?”

“If the robbers had their way, I would not be hither. But Sir Willhelm’s chivalry would not allow them to prevail.” Rayne introduced her escort to her aunt. She felt Matilda’s eyes trace between her face and the dark-haired man’s.

“Gramercy, sir, for escorting my niece safely,” the nun said, bowing her head.

With the pleasantries dispensed far more quickly than Rayne would have liked, two monks came out to assist Willhelm with removing her dowry and personal effects from the back of the wagon. She held onto her writing box, not wanting to be parted from it.

Her aunt saw her clutch it tight and stepped closer to her. “Your dowry to the church is as it should be, but any other belongings you will not be allowed to keep.”

Rayne swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and nodded. Matilda placed her hand on her niece’s shoulder, looking to Willhelm. “Best say farewell. I wish to present you to Abbess Ellenor.”

She nodded again in silence and watched her aunt walk way. She stared at the painted box that held all of the tools she’d treasured through her life. It was her most valued possession and something she would have to let go of to start her new life with the church.

“Keep yourself safe, lady. I know your penchant for excitement.” Willelm’s voice drew her from her thoughts.

Rayne looked up into his face. Sunlight touched his brown eyes, revealing various russet shades. His countenance was solemn and drawn, reflecting her own sadness. She took a deep breath and held out the box to him. “Prithee, I cannot think of a better place for this than amongst your mother’s things upon her desk. Read the prose within it if you wish, for it is about none other than you.”

He made no motion to retrieve it from her, so she pressed it against his chest and whispered, “Prithee.”

Willelm lifted his hands to grasp it, brushing his skin against hers. Their fingers overlapped. She held onto the moment like it was an eternity, then stepped away from him. “Gramercy for your safe escort. I am forever grateful.”

Without another look, she turned to meet her aunt at the entrance of the abbey almost in a daze. She was led to meet the abbess and sat unhearing as things were dictated to her. Protocol and rules were rattled off, yet she heard none of it. She was led to a long room divided by many screens. Simple beds lay in between. Narrow windows allowed little daylight in.

She was ushered to her own curtained cubicle, handed neatly folded fabric and instructed to change out of her gown. Alone at her bedside, she curled upon the mattress and began to weep. She could not understand her feelings, only that she could not stop them from spilling forth in the form of tears.

The light from the window over her bed dissolved away, and soon darkness filled the chamber. She woke to the touch of a hand laid upon her shoulder. Her aunt’s voice came out soft and low. “I see you are in distress, my dear. Most ladies find joy when they pass through thither arches. I cannot hear your confession, but I come to thee as family. What troubles you?”

“I do not know,” Rayne said through pursed lips.

Silence greeted her in return. Then Matilda said even softer, “You do a great disservice lying to yourself.”

Rayne lifted herself into a sitting position. “I thought the only choice for my happiness was to come away from father’s plans to a place I could become a scribe, but now—”

Her aunt sat beside her on the bed. “Many come here fleeing their life, others because they have no other choice. This is a place to find joy, to dedicate oneself in entirety to prayer. You have not yet taken vows. Despite what you may think, you still have a choice. Whatever you decide, I pray it is based on your own truth and what brings you joy.”

“I miss her,” Rayne wept. It had been fifteen long years since she’d had the company of her mother, Matilda’s sister. She had been absent during the planning of Rayne’s marriage to a wealthy Norman. She’d been absent all those long years while she was forced to listen to her father scold her weak female traits.

Her aunt wrapped her arms about her shoulders, leaning her head to hers. “I do, too,” she whispered back. “She would wish you happy.”

A long reverberating ring echoed through the room. The bell tower signaled evening prayers. Matilda placed a soft kiss on her cheek before getting up to leave. “I pray you follow your heart, my dear.”

Rayne sat with the black fabric of the nun’s habit in her lap. The loud ringing fell silent, and she stared into the dark room when a different noise met her ears. It was softer than the bell—more distant, too. She stood up to peer from the small window above her bed.

Howling cries wound across the countryside up to her window. She held her breath to hear it clearly, convinced she’d imagined it. The sun had set. Moonlight bathed the fields in a silvery glow, and a dark shadow moved in the night. It was her hound.

A laugh broke from her lips, then turned to a sob. She fled from the window to run through the dark corridors without knowing how she found her way from the bowels of the abbey and into the night. Her breath caught in her throat while she scanned the fields, searching for him. The soft cries had ceased, and she feared she’d only wished or dreamt them.

Rayne stopped to look back at the abbey, now only a dark shadowy form in the distance. She took a deep breath and could not find it in herself to call out, for what if she found no answer?

“Rayne.”

She turned about and found him standing there without a stitch of clothing. Dark locks hung down above his bare shoulders, and his eyes focused on her. Proof that she hadn’t imagined his calls or simply wished him to be howling on the dale. She reached her hand out to him, needing to feel him in the flesh to be certain.

He closed the distance between them, standing closer than they’d ever been. Her fingers settled upon his chest. His flesh felt warm and smooth against her palm. She moved to pull back, but he placed his hand over hers, holding her to him. Rayne’s breath caught in her throat, and she averted her eyes.

“Am I too late?” His breath touched her cheek.

She didn’t know how to answer. “I—”

“From the moment I saw you in the wood, something changed in me. Your determination following me across the vale to Hundby, and your touch against my skin—” He shuddered, and she felt his goose bumps beneath her fingertips. He seemed troubled but determined. She’d never known him to be like this, so she dared not interrupt, curious to know his mind.

He caught her eye and continued, “I did not wish to grow attached to you when you were destined for the church. Your passion for writing is so like my mother’s. It could not be a sign from beyond the grave, I told myself. You would not wish to remain with me—but that night on our travels when I watched over you as a hound, you spoke uncertainly of your fate. It gave me hope. It was all I thought of. It was my distraction when I did not notice the disguised wolfpit, which could have been the end of me, but you appeared like an angel. And when you gave me your writing things—your lovely prose—I could not leave you without being certain. Certain that your heart is mine.”

Rayne took a shaky breath. Her mind swirled. She had not known him long, and at the start she’d thought him a cranky nobleman with no attachment to her. It was the hound she’d grown close to, sensing its need to keep her safe. In that form he’d allowed his feelings for her to be known. But there had been other signs: Willelm allowing her into his private chambers to write upon his mother’s desk—no small token from such a gentleman. The only other to ever praise her skills had died at the hand of a thief. Her own father scoffed at her creative arts. To find a lord who would compliment her for it—her heart could not take it.

“I chose this path for a reason,” she whispered. Emotion overflowed as tears, spilling from her eyes. “I did not wish to remarry for land and stature like my father urged. I desired to do the one thing that brought me happiness. I found myself delivered to the place I thought I would find contentment, but I could not find joy—not until I heard your calls from the dale.”

Rayne looked up at Willelm. Her heart stopped at the expression in his eyes. She had never known such tenderness or adoration before, and at first could not recognize it. He rested his forehead on hers, taking her cheek into his palm. “I would be honored to take thee to be my wife forever more.”

“I have never known such an honorable and chivalrous man,” she answered with a grin and a laugh. “I would take thee as my husband until my last breath.”

His mouth was upon hers without hesitation. A kiss like none she had ever witnessed or experienced jolted her body with such passion, her eyes slid shut in pleasure. His hungry lips moved across her jaw and down her neck while his hands moved to lift her gown.

Rayne had lain with her late husband very few times, but enough to know there was little enjoyment in it for the lady. It was a chore required to further the generations. Although the more Willelm caressed her skin and kissed the nape of her neck, the more her body reacted in ways it never had before.

They may not have posted notice upon the church door, or received blessings from a priest. That would come soon enough. They had taken vows, promising themselves to each other, which was all that was needed to be husband and wife.

Rayne gazed up into her husband’s eyes while he lowered her onto the grass, wanting to remember that evening forever: the way he gazed at her, his words of adoration and the moment he became one with her.

Tears of joy spilled from her eyes when his weight was upon her. Pleasure she had never experienced traced from her point of bliss throughout her body. She wished his motion would never stop. Rayne clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs about him before lifting herself up so they could become even closer. He sat back into his haunches with her on his lap. Moans broke from his lips as she lifted her torso in a quick rhythm until her back arched at the pinnacle of satisfaction. Every pore tingled, and she gasped for air.

When their joining was complete, Willelm wrapped his arms about her, nuzzling his face to her breast. “I adore thee.”

Rayne hooked a finger under his chin so that she could gaze into his eyes. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

Willelm kissed her nose and said, “I have a request.”

She raised an eyebrow in question, and he smirked. “I believe your tale is not yet done.”

“Nay?” she asked.

“I do not like to think of the man’s soul trapped in the hound, cursed to haunt the hills alone forever more. Cannot the maiden rescue him from his cruel fate?”

“I believe,” Rayne whispered, “she already has.”

The End

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Chapter 1 from Scars

Salty air whistled up the grassy valley from the west. With it came soft calls from nesting birds. Ásta drank in the ocean breeze as it whipped her long golden locks against her cheeks in a fury. The four gleaming lines of scar tissue marking her youthful skin from her nose to her ear were numb to sensation, unlike her left cheek which tingled and stung after being exposed to her lashing hair.

She didn’t allow herself more than a moment of enjoyment before pushing ahead, following the property barrier across the grassy countryside. Young shoots of green hay grew on the opposite side of the wall and throughout the majority of Ásta’s land. Enough food had to be stored for the livestock if they were to be expected to make it through the hard winter. Snæland, the land of snow, didn’t get its name from being a place of never-ending summer.

When the far side of the hay field was finally in sight, Ásta’s eyes swept past it to the barley crop. Rows of shoulder-height green stalks lined the earth. Some had reached their full size, and their spiked heads were emerging. Everything appeared to be growing on schedule with no sign of disease or drought.

Ásta continued to follow the wall past the barley and caught sight of Rolf and Bjorn. Her farmhands were walking the property border holding long wooden tools. As she drew closer to them, she noticed their strained expressions.

Rolf ’s silvery brows furrowed and his mustache lifted as he hollered, “More wall knocked down.”

Ásta’s eyes swept over her property and its barrier. Stones lined its base, although the remaining height was built from turf. She looked ahead and saw the damage. Sections longer than her father’s rowboat were thrown over as if a giant had forged through it. She hurried to his side and asked, “Just like the other sections?”

Rolf’s broad shoulders and round cheeks reminded her of her father, but that’s where the comparison ended. Rolf often made jokes and told stories that never seemed to end, which drove Bjorn to the hills to work alone.

“Looks to be.” Rolf folded his arms and stared at the long stretch of caved-in earthen wall. The winter had been hard on the man-made boundary. Some sections had eroded away. That was to be expected. But the newfound damage wasn’t. This wasn’t the first time this had occurred since her father and brother had fallen from the cliffs and died last summer.

Bjorn joined them. He was tall, lean and embarrassingly short on facial hair, which was why he kept his face shaved. He looked to be half of Rolf’s forty years, like Ásta, but he was nearer to thirty. Bjorn frowned and said, “The largest four-legged beast about is the fox. I would not want to meet the fox that did this.”

Ásta looked closer at the damage. Chills traced down her spine when she saw the marks clawed into the dirt. She grimaced. “It is not from Fenrir either, no matter what anyone says. He has not come to claim me. I will be wife to no beast.”

Her body shook as she glared at the wall, knowing exactly what the others likely thought of it. She’d heard the whispers behind her back over the last four years since she was sixteen and her puckered wounds were still healing. She wanted to be as confident as her father had been about her not being the focus of the frightful king of wolves. The son of the god Loki would have far more important things to do than to bother with a maiden, he’d assured her. The only problem was, she could still feel the heat from the beast’s breath on her face and its claws slashing at her flesh. Her pulse quickened, and fear made her veins run cold.

“Could be ice bears,” Rolf suggested. He rubbed his silvery beard and said, “My cousin from the north told me stories ’bout that. He saw some come ashore on an ice drift from the west. Said they are larger than even the greatest man.”

All Ásta could do was nod, hoping he was right. She didn’t want them to see her panic. She was the head of household, and she needed to show strength. No one was stronger, she reminded herself. She would have to be tough if she didn’t want the memories of her mother, father and brother dishonored. Her grandparents had sailed to this faraway place for glory and had claimed this land. No one from the southern quarter made a better mead than she, using a recipe that had been passed down by the women in her family. Most could not afford the bees or honey, but the farm had always seemed to supply them with the silver they needed, until now.

“It must be repaired,” she said, standing tall.

Bjorn frowned and leaned on the wooden handle of his turf shovel. “We will do our best, Ásta, but we are only two men. With your father and brother gone to the halls of Valhalla, we do not have as many hands to rebuild the walls. We will need more than the three months before the fall harvest to repair this damage. After, the snows will not be far off.”

He didn’t need to tell her. She already knew that wall repair often took more time than expected and was backbreaking work. Walls required many strong men to maintain them. Once the sheep were herded back to the farm at the end of summer, they would need to be contained on the property so they wouldn’t wander off to die. If she couldn’t follow the law and take care of her land, she would lose it to someone who could, and that wasn’t an option.

Ásta took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Althing is in only a week’s time. I will go and seek more men for hire there. I must sell the mead stores so I can afford more farmhands.”

Rolf scoffed. “But what of your beehives? Is there enough for you to make your mead at harvest so that you may have the wealth to repay your debt to Bárthur? I know it must be done, but you will have little silver left so that you might get more honey or hives. Think of your father. Would he have borrowed from a man like that?”

His pride would have likely never allowed him to accept silver from a man like Bárthur. But he’d never been in a position to need it. There’d always been enough strong hands on the property to manage everything, until he’d passed away. “I am thinking of my ancestors. Is he your master still, or is it me? He is gone, leaving me to tend his place, and that is what I will do. If we are to survive, we must have more men to help about the farm.”

Ásta rolled up the sleeves of her dress and stared at the toppled wall. If she had a husband to share the responsibility of such a demanding land, things would be only slightly easier, which was just as well, for she had already grown used to the idea that no man would have her. She was marked by the creature that according to legend would one day destroy the king of the gods, Odin. Bad luck had seemed to follow her as far back as she could remember.

She turned around and started toward home. The sound of the men fell away the farther she went. All she could think about was making enough silver to hire more hands around the farm. The walls were her most immediate problem, but the issue was even larger than some toppled turf.

She picked up the pace, hurrying back. The farm came into view. Various buildings, covered and built with sod, looked like growths on the grassy landscape. Ásta ran along the turf wall to the gated entrance of the farm.

Across from her was a long building with a peaked grassy roof. She entered through its wood-framed doorway. The small room was barely lit, but it only took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light. She walked between two large wooden beams and into the main hall of the longhouse.

A narrow stream of light from the hole in the ceiling touched the black charcoal in the hearth at the center of the room. A woman sat on the workbench with wool combs in her hands. A pile of carefully rolled wool tufts sat beside her. When she looked up, Ásta announced, “More walls are down, Elfa. I must count the barrels of mead—they are to be sold at the Althing.”

Elfa’s head was tied with a simple kerchief. Long golden braids rested over each shoulder. Tight curls broke free at her temple, and her beige apron skirt was dirty, as it often was. She continued to work, although she frowned in response to the news. “So that you might pay your debt to that frightening man?”

“Neinn, for more freemen to hire. The walls must get repaired. I cannot let this stop me from taking care of the farm.”

“But will you have enough to keep him away at harvest? I do not like when he visits,” Elfa whispered.

Ásta walked past her farmhand’s wife to the entrance of the food storage. “Já. I will have enough honey by the end of the summer to make enough mead to repay the debt and have extra left over.”

Her answer was swallowed up by the cool, dark room. Basins held cultured milk and skyr, a watery cheese, which filled her nose with a sour scent. Beef that had been cooked and preserved with whey hung from the rafters. Small barrels held ale for daily drinking, and in the far corner were the casks of mead that Ásta had made last fall with help from her large colony of bees.

She counted the barrels. If she could sell them all, she would make enough silver to hire a few more men. As long as her bees produced honey over the summer, she would make more mead by the harvest so that she could repay her debt and the cost of the hives, as well as have enough left over to hold onto for next season. If her luck turned around, that is.

Ásta walked through the longhouse, lost in thought. She hunched down to pass through the threshold and closed the door behind her. She ran past the animal shed, drying hut and water basin before slowing down. One of the milking cows called out as it was startled by her fast movement. Along the outer wall of the farm, wildflowers grew in the field beyond, tiny spots of color on the horizon. There, beside the stacked turf, nestled in some brush and protected from the wind, were a series of domed baskets. The skeps held her most prized possessions, the queen bees and their hives. The soft hum from the bees met her ears and she smiled at the sound of it. They were alive and happy buzzing around their homes for now.

She walked across the yard to the smithy shed. Beside the cold stone hearth, she found the practice sword and picked it up. It was heavy in her hand, but its edges and tip were dull. If swung hard enough, it would leave a mark and a bruise. She squeezed the grip tight and clenched her jaw. Leaning up against the outside of the small building was a large woolen sack filled with dried grass. Ásta unfastened her cloak and let it fall to the ground.

She held the tip of the sword in front of her and quickly skirted aside, whipping the blade sideways into the sack. She withdrew and thought of the enemy. Her pulse quickened as she pictured it. Pointed ears with a toothy grin, an enormous creature unlike anything she’d ever seen. Sagas from their homeland to the east spoke of such animals: wolves. But the creature that haunted her land was far larger than legend. Nearly as tall as her shoulders, with eyes so human they made her shiver.

She swung again, feeling the muscles in her arm tighten from the effort. The thought of it lunging at her, viciously growling, was hard to shake off. If anyone knew she’d seen it since last harvest, walking the cliffs, its eyes fixed upon her, the stories would never fall silent. All would be certain that Fenrir, the king of the wolves, had come to claim her and would suspect that the god Odin had turned his back on their family. She would be labeled unlucky.

She couldn’t let anyone know about the claw marks on her boundary walls. Too many tragedies had befallen her already. The animal attack had left her disfigured, her kin had crossed the Rainbow Bridge to enter Valhalla, leaving her alone and now her farm was crumbling around her. If she had any hope of turning things around, she would have to fight the Norns of Fate, the giantesses who controlled the destiny of man. Fight like her father had taught her.

She could remember him putting that very practice sword in her hand after the claw marks on her face had sealed with scabs. He’d asked if she wanted to be claimed by any beast, to which her answer was no. Then you must be more ferocious than your enemy, he’d said.

Ásta thrust the sword into the sack once more and roared. Her scream was carried off in the wind. She panted and leaned over with her hands to her knees, unable to shake her feeling of unease. Even though she had a plan, she worried it would unravel like everything always did. Forever unlucky.

* * *

Wind bent the grass to the ground. The flat stone Torin had used to tunnel with was covered with dirt. He brushed out the hole he’d just dug and studied its dimensions. Its two-fists-wide cavity slanted into the earth at an angle and resurfaced only an arm’s length away. The edge of his uncle’s fishing net was propped on two sticks on either side of the burrow’s entrance. Careful not to knock over his trap, he set his tool down and pushed himself off the ground.

His honey-yellow hair danced around his head as the breeze adjusted course. He turned his eyes to the sky, searching for signs of the fledgling gyrfalcon he’d followed into this valley. It had been a long day’s travel already, and he needed to return home. It wouldn’t be wise to return after his uncle had started his journey for the Althing, the yearly social gathering where Snælanders settled disputes and conducted business like marriages, trades and alliances. He needed to hurry up or go back empty-handed.

Torin unbuckled his leather belt and dropped it into the grass. A spot of white barely noticeable to the naked eye could be seen amongst the ebony rock on a distant bluff. He kept his attention on that point as he slowly pulled off his cream-colored tunic, untied his leather shoes and dropped them beside his belt. His muscled arms tugged down on the waist of his pants, and soon he was as he’d been brought into the world—naked but for his silver arm ring and the pendant of Thor’s hammer that hung around his neck.

He combed his hands through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Every pore tingled with sensation as he felt himself change. The familiar tug on his arm hairs continued until they grew light, and he could no longer feel his fingers. His legs bent, lowering him down, and his rounded chest touched the ground.

Eyes open, he snapped his beak, chasing away the strange sensation that lingered where his nose and mouth used to be. He glanced down at his white-feathered legs and at the arm ring and necklace that had fallen into the grass. Clicking noises rattled from his throat. Torin braced himself against a gust of wind, then scurried forward with his plan in mind.

It had taken him years to adjust to such a different body, one so unlike his own, and it wasn’t very hard to stumble around on purpose. He pulled out one wing, letting the tips of his mottled gray feathers drag against the blades of grass. He knew this posture, coupled with his stumbling walk, would tempt any predator with an empty belly. That’s what he was counting on.

His eyes remained on the porous rocky bluff and his target. Two years ago he’d nearly paid the ultimate price for not respecting the gyrfalcon’s ability to hunt. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The activity of limping around the opening of the trap was repetitive, but no more than digging out the tunnel had been. His stomach was beginning to complain. It didn’t faze Torin, as he was used to it—putting in a hard day’s work and eating a late meal was normal. Plus, he needed a new eyas, a new fledgling falcon for training. Especially if he was going to sell all of his experienced hunting birds at the Althing.

He never let himself grow weary from scurrying around. He continued holding his attention on the white speck on the distant bluff. When it finally took to the skies, Torin hurried to the mouth of the tunnel. His avian eyesight allowed him to see everywhere but his blind spot—behind him. He positioned himself and waited for the gyrfalcon to circle.

Torin had put into motion a very dangerous hunt. Speed was essential. He didn’t want to injure the animal or make a wrong move and lose it. Neither did he wish to risk his own neck. The signs that the raptor was preparing to strike were clear. He was fortunate it wasn’t a cloudy day, because he could see the white form against the cobalt sky.

Just as the hunter dove toward him, he darted into the tunnel. Something tugged at his tail feathers, and he felt his quills breaking free from his body. It didn’t slow him, but instead spurred him to go faster. He followed the channel until daylight touched his back. As soon as his body was clear, he called to his human shape. He didn’t wait for the transition to complete before he spun around, moving back toward the other opening and his assailant.

His flesh would have tingled if he weren’t consumed with the thrill of the chase. A screech passed from his beak, then turned into a man’s cry. His feathered arm reached out for the propped-up net, tipping it onto the snow-white gyrfalcon. It was over within seconds. Torin groaned in the dirt before pushing himself onto his hands and knees and crawling forward to check on the raptor.

It snapped at him between frantic flaps when he reached for it. It didn’t appear to be injured. In fact, it was quite spirited, but he knew it would calm down soon enough. He tossed a square of fabric over the bird, and within seconds, it settled.

Torin picked up his pants from the ground and got dressed. Then he put his armband around his bicep and his necklace about his neck. After buckling his leather belt, he opened the satchel that was fastened to it and removed a small, dark leather hood.

The animal had remained relatively still while he got dressed. Now, he carefully reached for the edge of the fabric that covered the falcon. He could tell from the direction of the lump which way it was sitting, so he began to lift the net and cloth away from its tail. When its back was exposed, he gently placed his free hand against it, holding it down. The head was uncovered, and as quick as Torin could move, he tried to slip the hood over the raptor’s eyes. He wasn’t fast enough to avoid his flesh getting marked by the youngster’s strong beak.

“Ah!” Torin growled and tied the hood to the bird.

Once he was done, he picked up the animal and tucked it under his arm, holding firmly onto its talons. He glanced at his hand. The bite wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding. This was a sign of good luck, finding an eyas before the trip to the Althing. Just what he needed.

He walked through the grassy valley to the place he’d tied off his horse. It hadn’t noticed his absence since it had been feeding on fresh summer greens. With his free hand, he held onto the saddle and jumped onto the chestnut’s back, keeping the raptor safe against him. After settling comfortably, he nudged the animal forward.

The sun had passed its daymark some time ago. It was nearing midday, he observed. If he were the type of man who liked company, the long trip back home might have bothered him, but he preferred being alone and away from his uncle’s longhouse. It was quiet when he went out in the valleys searching for gyrfalcons.

His young cousin had begged to join him, but he worked alone out in the wilds. Hróaldr was learning the trade after witnessing the amount of silver and gold that lined Torin’s purse. But Torin had never exposed his special gift from the gods—the ability to turn into his fylgja, or animal familiar. It was his secret strength, which made his catching and training abilities unparalleled. His uncle, Fólki, conveniently wanted his youngest focused on battle training during his twelfth summer, since tensions between the chieftains of the southern territories had increased. That had provided the perfect day out alone for Torin.

The ride across the volcanic, pockmarked hills was uneventful, except for the herds of sheep and cattle he encountered. Daylight streamed against his shoulders the entire way, giving no sign of breaking for the night measure. The sun rarely fell below the horizon for very long during summer.

The forested area near his uncle’s farm came into view. He tried not to look upon it. It only reminded him of the grove that surrounded the place he was born. A place he hadn’t revisited since he’d left it nearly ten years ago with his young stepsister to live with his father’s kin.

Torin approached a clear spring in the rocky fields outside the confines of the farm. He climbed from the back of his horse and led the animal toward the cold water for a drink. While the animal quenched itself, he wandered out to collect some flowering dandelions as he always did. He returned with them grasped in his hands and stood at the place they’d found her body. His sweet innocent sister. He dropped the yellow blooms into the water and watched them float a short distance before they sank to the bottom.

He forced himself to stop here every time he passed by even though it put him in a sour mood. It was, after all, his fault she had died. She’d been his responsibility to look after. His father had told him so when he’d left them for the summer raids. The raids he never returned from.

Torin had never felt the sting of a blade sinking into his flesh, but he imagined this was what it felt like: an axe to the heart. Something he carried wherever he went. The guilt that he’d killed his mother and sister, both. One from childbirth, the other because of his selfish curiosity. Instead of going to the spring with his six-year-old sister, he’d gone to watch the puffins nesting.

He lifted his bladder of ale to his lips. It was enough to keep his mouth from drying, but it didn’t provide the numbing sensation he sought.

When Torin arrived back at the farm, a hazy twilight had set on the landscape. He entered the gate, leading his horse behind him with the falcon tucked under his arm. He unbuckled and lifted off his riding gear from his mare. Then he went to the animal shed to retrieve an empty mew. Torin coaxed the bird onto the perch inside the cage, secured the latch and carried the young falcon with him to the longhouse.

Beside the home was a wooden rack that held strips of flesh. The shark meat had been unearthed from the ground to dry so that its poison was leached out before it was consumed, but Torin preferred it best when it left him dizzy and drunken. He reached out to cut off a piece. Its aroma was strong and potent, curling in his nostrils. Without a care, he popped it in his mouth and chewed it well before swallowing, knowing its effects would set in soon to help him fall asleep.

He turned back to the home. The half-light touched the stalks of grass that grew on its roof and outer walls. Grateful that the door was left unlocked, he ducked through the thick wood-lined entrance room and bolted the lock behind him. He moved into the great hall, careful not to wake anyone sleeping along the long built-in benches that ran the length of the space. Although the hearth’s fire at the center of the room had gone out, it was still quite smoky. Enough light shone through the hole in the roof for him to find his way safely across to the opposite end of the hall.

In a smaller room reserved for valuable animals, he set the mew down beside the others that housed his trained raptors: a safe place away from the door where one would not be tempted to take such valuable possessions.

He crept back into the great room and found a place beside his younger cousin on the fur-lined bench to lie and prop himself against the wall. Thoughts of his sister’s limp body filled his mind, along with memories of the farm that was lost to him. He would likely never have his own land to tend as his father had. Not while he had a place with his uncle. Even if he married, they would come to live here. A place that was haunted with painful memories. As soon as his head rested on the wooden wainscoting, his muscles began to relax and his mind grew foggy. The dizziness born from the shark’s poison touched his mind and made it swirl. He could no longer hold onto his pain or guilt. Everything grew foggy, and sleep came to him soon after.

“Torin!”

His eyes snapped open.

Hróaldr’s face was inches from his own. The twelve-year-old’s dark-blond hair was brushed neatly against his head, and his blue eyes were wide in excitement. “You brought one back! I knew you would.”

Torin cleared his throat and nodded at the boy, which brought on a throbbing headache. The women at the center of the room who were preparing breakfast glanced at them, and he gently shoved the youngster away from him so he could wipe the sleep from his eyes. It didn’t feel like he’d gotten much rest. He probably hadn’t.

“You found me out,” Torin grumbled, still feeling the effects from the shark meat. “I will need your help while I am away. The eyas is young and impressionable—just like you.”

He poked his finger into his little cousin’s chest. Hróaldr slapped it away and lifted his chin. “I am not so young, and I cannot be swayed.”

“That’s my boy!” A voice boomed from across the room at the doorway.

Hróaldr ran to the older man who filled the threshold. Fólki’s light-brown hair fell past the shoulders of his yellow tunic, which was decorated with an intricate design of ravens and knots lining its neck. A well-manicured mustache covered his upper lip. His booming laugh filled the space. “I did not know if you would be forced to pay taxes for not going with me this year! I would rather have you as an advisor, taking your father’s place, than have your silver.”

“I thank you, Uncle,” Torin responded as he stood up and swayed, stumbling off the bench, joining Fólki on the dirt floor.

His uncle raised his eyebrow at him, and his lightheartedness evaporated. “Have you gotten into the mead or were you eating ill-prepared shark again?”

Torin didn’t answer. He knew how disappointing he was to Fólki. Somewhere in his heart he cared, but his guilt overshadowed it and demanded payment.

“Father?” Hróaldr asked.

Fólki ignored his son to add, “How can I find you a wife if you are swaying on your feet like a drunkard?”

Torin had always known it was only a matter of time before his uncle pressured him into marriage. It seemed like every week he heard the threat. It appeared to be unavoidable.

“I do not know why you dislike the idea of finding a woman. Do not your aunt and I provide you reason enough to seek your own union? Or your cousin Ingvar and his wife? Do we not seem pleased with each other? It might be the thing you need so that you stop dragging yourself about the farm like a lame sheep.”

While Fólki spoke, Hróaldr seemed to be having a difficult time being patient. The boy hooked his thumbs on his belt and lifted his chest. Just as he was about to speak, his father interrupted him. “I will not tell you again that you will not join us at the Althing. You are not yet close enough to being a man—next summer you may come. Providing I do not throttle you before then for going on and on about it. Go tell your brother I am just pulling your cousin from bed and we should be prepared to leave shortly.”

Hróaldr’s chin touched his chest in defeat. He gave Torin a pitiful look before brushing past his father to go outside.

“He looks as sad as you do right now—although luckily not as ill.” Fólki chuckled, clapped his hands together, then braced his thick fingers to his hips. “Go splash some water on your face and gather your things quickly. There is not time for a bath. And do not forget a full purse—you will need it to pay the bride price of some lucky woman.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Torin answered, not wanting to agitate him. Fólki wasn’t just family, but Torin’s gothi as well—one of the nine chieftains of the southern quarter. No matter how uninterested he was in settling down, it wasn’t worth his leader’s anger.

He tried to shake off his dizziness before entering the animal room at the back of the house. It was empty of prized livestock now, but come winter it would be full. He lifted two cloth-covered mews from the floor, one containing a seasoned and trained gyrfalcon and the other a white-tailed eagle.

Although he had enough silver saved up to pay the bride price of a good woman, he was sure to make a fine profit off the gyrfalcon as well, as they were the most prized birds of Snæland. The eagle’s worth wasn’t nearly as high, but they made better companions—if you liked getting harassed by your pet.

All of the falconry equipment was stowed in his leather bag. From his wooden chest, he pulled out another silver arm ring, which he slid up against its match on his bicep. His purse, full of silver bits, was clasped to his belt. Frida, Ingvar’s wife, handed him a warm tasteless flatbread, which he ate quickly before it hardened from cooling. Tiny grains of stone crunched against his teeth, so he chewed carefully to avoid breaking a tooth. While he swallowed the last bite, he picked up his sword, shield, leather bag and mews.

Torin’s aunt, Guthrún, appeared by his side and spoke quietly to him. “I can see you are in one of your moods, but please do not resist your uncle. He only wishes for you to be happy.”

Torin sighed and closed his eyes, which brought on a dizzy spell, so he set his gaze on the woman who had helped raise him from a boy instead. He mumbled, “It is not my will to resist him. There must be some other way.”

“Other way?” she questioned, laying her hand on his forearm.

“Besides getting married. I could go on the summer raids—”

Guthrún frowned. “But it is too late now, and you have never taken to seafaring like your father before you. Come now—is having a wife such a sour thought?”

Before he walked outside, he answered, “It is the thought of being bound to a woman I’m sworn to protect—and failing her like I did my sister.”

Just beyond the gated farm, the other men from Fólki’s clan, his kinsmen, including his cousin Ingvar, were gathered with their gear already strapped to their horses. A few of them laughed and pointed at him as he hurried up. “Looking ill and dirty, as usual.”

Torin rushed over to his uncle’s cart to safely stow the wooden mews containing his valuable birds to sell at the gathering. After locating his horse in the animal stalls, he lifted the saddle onto its back and fastened it. The bridle was put on, and soon all of his belongings were strapped in place.

He spotted Hróaldr watching his father’s loyal followers preparing to leave. Torin called him over. “Come here, Cousin—I have a job for you.”

The boy ran over to him wearing a solemn expression. He stared at the ground as Torin spoke. “I am glad you are staying with your mother. Do you know why?”

Hróaldr shrugged in response.

“I do not trust anyone other than you with the gyrfalcon I brought back,” Torin answered, leaning against his horse. “It is young and needs to grow comfortable with men. Wait two days in between feeding, and you must only—”

“Feed it with the glove.” Hróaldr finished his sentence.

“That is right,” Torin said. “Do as I have taught you, and when we get back in two weeks you can help me fit it with a jess.”

The boy sighed. “When you get back you will have arranged a wife, and you will not care to teach me anything.”

Torin raised his eyebrows at his cousin. “If you are not careful, I will arrange for a wife for you too!”

“No!”

“Very well. Thank you for helping me. Before you can blink, you will be at the Althing.” He jumped onto his horse to join the others who were beginning to move away from the longhouse, toward the boundary wall and gate.

He arrived at the front of the procession where his uncle and cousin were riding. When Ingvar, a younger image of his father, saw him, he smiled and asked Fólki, “Did you say you told him to clean his face before we left?”

The two men shook their heads at him. Fólki sighed and said, “This is why we will find you a wife. The right one should inspire you to keep yourself tidy and away from things that will cloud your mind.”

Torin dropped his chin to his chest and glared at the horizon. He saw no benefit in wasting energy on his appearance. If he took two weeks between shaving the whiskers on his neck and face, it didn’t matter to him. And it was the poisonous shark meat that had helped him get to sleep the night before. It was the only thing that kept his pain in check.

“No woman,” Torin answered, “could ever have that amount of power.”

Fólki’s green eyes twinkled in response. “Shall we make a friendly bet on it?”

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Research Notes

All things books-

Before paper was widely milled commercially in Britain (mid-sixteenth century), parchment was the writing material of choice during the thirteenth century. It was made from animal skins (goat, cow, sheep) that are soaked, dehaired and stretched on large frames. Vellum is another type of parchment derived from baby calves (think veal).

Ink was made from oak galls, which are bulbous “nuts” created when gall wasps lay their eggs in an oak leaf. The oak galls are dried and crushed, then allowed to soak in water or alcohol (ale/wine), strained and mixed with iron sulfate and gum arabic.

There were few widely known poets, scholars and writers in the thirteenth century. At the end of the 1200’s, Marco Polo’s travelogue was published and one of the most widely known Old English epic poems, Beowulf, had already long been written.

During this timeframe in history, there were no printing presses. It was the job of a scribe to copy a book. Most books in circulation were those important to the church and were religious in nature.

Black Shuck-

Fables of a ghostly black dog roaming the countryside can be found throughout the British Isles. Its name differs depending on the location of the story, but in East Anglia, it is known as the Black Shuck. The earliest description can be dated back to the twelfth century.

In 2014 the mysterious remains of a large dog were excavated that dated back to the seventeenth century. It made people wonder if the three foot tall hound could be linked to the legend.

Odds and Ends-

It appears that some people living in the middle ages may have slept in two cycles, going to bed at sunset and waking in the middle of the night to conduct business, say their prayers, or do something a little more fun—have sex. After being up for an hour or two, they would have gone back to sleep to wake early in the morning.

Bedrooms and beds were a privilege for the wealthy or royalty. Even early manor houses only provided one separate room for the lord. Everyone else (servants and guests) would have found a place to sleep on the floor in the hall if they did not have a cottage of their own.

Rushlights were used by commoners who could not afford beeswax candles. They were made by dipping a rush into tallow (animal fat).

Women in the Middle Ages-

During this time in history, women were subservient to men and considered morally weaker. There were few possibilities to rise to power. Within the church abbesses could gain seniority over men. Powerful women could be born into royalty, including Queen Isabella from the fourteenth century.

Wealthy noblewomen were expected to take care of their homes and produce male heirs, which was a dangerous proposition. Minor complications today might have meant death to the mother or child in the thirteenth century.

Peasants and townswomen were expected to assist their husbands and fathers in the fields, or with their businesses and trades. They worked long hours to support their families doing hard physical labor.

Upperclass women might have been taught how to read and write by their mothers or private tutors, although the lower classes would not have had the time for it, nor was it supported by the church, which was the primary resource for public education for wealthy young boys at the time.

About the Author

Natasha Brown’s active imagination has always been a distraction. When she was a child, the forest outside her home, and books read in the dark past bedtime taught her that exciting worlds are created with dreams and a voice. Once she started writing she couldn’t break the habit. She is likely busy at work now, researching, planning and chatting with her future characters.

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