PG-13 for suggestive themes and a lickle violence. Do as I have directed you, servants! Revision to be done when all the chapters have been reviewed by my faithful critiquers. ; )
No time was wasted, that day, in preparations. I told Chelsea and Mother that I was feeling ill, and so they thought nothing of my being locked up in my chambers all morning, all evening. I pulled an old, dusty traveling bag from under my bed, dumping two of my older, less expensive-looking gowns into it, as well as hairbrush, and my entire – rather formidable – savings. Other odds and ends, including hairpins, kerchiefs, and a small dagger I had been given for my sixteenth birthday, were also tossed into the bag. I had only just tied up the bundle with a borrowed yard of coarse rope when a knock came from the direction of the door.
“Milady, milady! I’ve come with your supper!”
I sighed, stuffing my traveling bundle under the bed, and went to unlock the door. “Thank you, Liza. Please – go back to kitchen and get something of your own to eat; you’re frightfully thin, dear,” I said gently, taking the tray of food from her. I worried that she might forget to take her own share of food at times, no matter what the other women said about servants deserving to be treated less like humans and more like dogs. Liza was a helpful friend before she was a hard-working servant, and I wanted to keep it just that way.
I ate the things I couldn’t pack, and the half-loaf of bread went into my traveling sack, along with a somewhat soggy teabag and a small slab of cheese. I didn’t know where I would find hot water on the road to Earlkone, but it wouldn’t harm anything to bring it along, besides a small spot of dampness where it rested on one of my dresses.
Then passed the long moments ‘twixt supper and bed. I waited what seemed hours for the distant sounds of both Father and Mother, and then, some time after that, Chelsea, coming up the stairs and past my chambers to their own. The sounds of doors opening and closing, and then, for caution’s sake, another wait while they readied themselves for bed. Dark and night had settled in quite fully by the time I finally stepped out into the upstairs hallway. Down the stairs, into the front hall to retrieve my oldest and most ragged cloak, and to stuff the other two into my ever-growing traveling bag. The quickest, if not easiest, route to Earlkone was through the woods behind the manor, and so, within the space of a few minutes, I was standing at the edge of the forest, heart fluttering strangely in my chest.
And then, as I hesitated before the intimidating depths of tree, leaf, mud and grass, my thoughts turned to Duke Warrington; his grin, the self-satisfied way he spoke after that walk in the garden, as though he knew for certain that the reason I had kissed him was because of my deep love for him – or, something along those lines. I cursed (from the very choice vocabulary of the cook’s foulmouthed assistant), and the unladylike words that came out of my mouth gave me the courage to take that step, that step that would, in turn, bring me one foot closer to Earlkone – and one step further from Duke Warrington.
Liza had always told me, when I was younger and more curious about such things, that there was a road that led from Therien to Earlkone, a road she often took, when going to see her family. Due to the fact that Mother never let Chelsea and me traipse around outdoors as children, I had never taken the path myself. I suppose ‘twas luck, then, and nothing more that I found the narrow dirt road mere minutes after setting foot in the forest. I hadn’t had the time to seek out a lantern, but the night was a bright, nearly full-mooned one, and I found my way easily enough.
I watched the trees dance in the wind, and thought vaguely of stories Father had told Chelsea and me when we were still nursery-bound. Stories that spoke of evil forest spirits, mischievous sprites who would spare less time helping you out of their woods as keeping you in ‘til you were driven mad in wandering. The memory, rather than frightening me, brought a smile to my face. Sprites! Pixies! Hah, as though those things ever dared to exist in such a tranquil place as this.
“If’n we getsh lost, Damien, you’ll beesh t’one t’pay!”
I started at the loud, slurring voice, seeming to come from somewhere up ahead, from the dark and shade of thickening woodland. Perhaps Father had never gotten so drunk as to completely forget himself, but I knew an inebriated man would do things a sober one would not, and was ducking into the shadows and undergrowth before I paused to consider. Quite suddenly, pixies seemed a much less sily idea.
“Don’ worry, Damien’sh godda gud ‘ead on ‘is shouldersh. Now, luk ‘ere men: thish road leedsh back t’the Grand Count’sh manor isshelf! We’ll jus’ nip t’rough the ol’ garden, me buckoesh, and b’back in Therien afore anyone missh ush!” shouted one man in what I guessed was a rather large group, judging by the ruckus they were causing as they stumbled their way along the path.
“No one’d miss ush anyways, Carter. Besidesh yer muther, bu’ she t’inks yer fash ashleep in yer bedsh, sh’no worriez t’ere.”
There was a loud clunk, much akin to the sound of someone’s head connecting with very solid wood, and then a long string of curses that made my ears tingle strangely. A few of the others chuckled drunkenly, and then he who I gathered must be the leader shouted out again.
“Ash yer knowsh, ‘tis a risk t’go t’rough d’garden way. Who wantsha go wid me, and who wantsha go d’long way, wid Morrin?” hiccupped he, voice hoarse but still stubbornly loud.
I inched just slightly to the left, attempting to see around a tree to place the drunken men – a shriek rent the air, and, in heart-pounding surprise, I tumbled into the dirt.
“Looksh ‘ere, men, a li’l maidling out affer dark! Whaddya doin’, li’l maidling?”
For one horrible moment, I thought that the girl cowering before the small crowd of men was Liza – but her hair was too dark, and she was much younger. I sighed in relief, but then, the thought of what they might to do to her hit me rather hard over the head, and I watched with growing apprehension the proceedings from my hiding-place in the undergrowth.
“I – I – I…” the girl stuttered, crawling back along the path as she fought to form a coherent answer. “I was jus’ o-out fer a stroll, s-sir. I di’n’t mean nobody no ‘arm, sir, if y’follow me.”
The gleam in a drunken man’s eye is as unsettling as anything, and the girl seemed to see it there, in the leader’s own eyes. She subconsciously put a hand to her heart, as though afraid it had stopped beating. “I weren’t meaning no ‘arm, sir,” she repeated, voice small with fear. “I were jus'—”
“Outsh fer a stroll, yeash, we ‘eard that,” he snapped, running a hand through his greasy brown hair. “Bu’ why ‘ere? Y’shuddin’t go ou’ affer d’sun sets, not wid d’likes of ush around.”
There were a few dark sniggers from the men behind him, and she seemed near at once to grasp their meanings. The girl let out a terrible wail, turning on her heel to flee – but the leader had foreseen that, and shot after her, surprisingly quickly for one so drunk.
“Wai’, wai’, wai’,” he shouted, springing forward to recapture his quarry. They tumbled into the dirt, and, after the dust had settled, I saw he had come out on top.
And perhaps, if one was seeing the scene from that very moment, and not being told the story, all through, they might have imagined me quite a fool for what I did next. I saw the helpless girl, tears running down her face, small and crumpled, saw the man stand and pull a thin, silvery something from his coat, sharp and keen-looking even from where I stood, so much further away from danger. Without a thought, without a moment to realize quite what I was going, I sought and found the dagger in my travelling bag, and then I stepped out from the trees, where the girl and the men could see me quite clearly.
“Stop,” I hissed, and the simple command seemed to echo through the forest, carried by a sudden icy wind. The drunken men, standing in a group not four foot lengths from me, made no move, and I used their stunned silence as an opportunity to walk slowly to the girl’s side. She whimpered once, eyes flitting from me to the greasy-haired man standing on her other side, and crawled slowly behind me, as though I were a shield against her attacker.
“An’ ‘oo are yoush, t’shay wha’ I shud do wid me own daugh’er?” he spat, dark brows drawn together in a frighteningly senseless anger.
“Your daughter? You may call me what you like sir, but I am no fool. Go, and take that cowardly pack of drunkards with you, before I call my friends from the woods.”
His eyes flickered, and he growled quietly, as though trying to decide if he believed my lie or not. I heard the girl standing shakily behind me, her breath coming in pathetic little gasps. He flipped the knife between two coarse, deeply tanned hands, a menacing smile beginning to form on his lips.
“Call ‘em then. Call ‘em, an’ ‘ope they come afore yer too shliced up t’be carried ‘ome in one piece,” he said, and I knew my only hope for surviving the night was quite certainly gone.
Please, Uinjan, Aimthaer, Yodthun, ye gods of the great Above, save me, save the child. I lied, perhaps, for I am a fool, but please, let the girl live, if only one of us may, I prayed, clutching the hilt of my dagger with one sweat-slick hand.
“Yet think, sir, what will happen if I get this knife through your heart before you get yours through mine. Would you risk your life so your friends can enjoy the little maidling?” The words came from my mouth unbidden, and I felt very much as though I had been given them, as though they had been slipped quietly into my mind while I prayed. The leader, I could see by the hesitation in his hands, his face, was a coward, through and through. His beady little eyes flicked from me, to the girl cowering behind me, and back again. My heart beat painfully in my chest, and I fought the urge to turn and run – this was the moment when he decided between my death, and saving his own worthless skin.
“I don’ like yersh fancy werdsh, wommon. Ye’d ne’er be faster den me, I ‘avven’t no worry there. Han’ o’er th’girl an’ I mightn’t kill yeesh both.”
Lost, I thought, and the sounds of mournful bells seemed to fill my ears. After all this planning and running and hiding, all is lost.
A zing, like an arrow whistling through thick air – and then the greasy-haired man fell to his knees before me, hands clutching something thin and wooden that had suddenly appeared, buried in his right shoulder. The mournful bells continued to jingle, and I looked, alarmed, over my shoulder, to see a coach rattling up the road, preceded by two gray horses.
“Ho, milady! And what, may I ask, are y’doing in comp’ny like theirs?”
Opinions, comments, whatever. Please, I love the compliments, but I need criticism, too! Else I'll get such I swell head, I shan't be able to write anymore.
