My body shivers. Though it is quite cold along this English shoreline, the shiver is not rendered by the frigid atmosphere, but from fear. It has been with me ever since my mother explained her plans and wishes for me. This deep coldness which has taken up residence in my soul—it is a feeling of dread and fear.
I have come to the conclusion: it is religion and perhaps greed which has motivated my mother. Our family has never been the conventional religion. We know the practices of the Catholic church and we perform their rituals—most passionately and devout—otherwise our lives would be forfeited.
We are not Catholics, nor are we part of this new Lutheran fire which has sparked up across some European countries. We are Pagan descent. Named witches, by those who would put us to the flame. Much like the Jews who hide their true faith behind closed doors, we do the same.
Religion is why I am in England. Mother convinced herself that the alignments she was seeing in the sky matched an old prophecy of ours, and Jean—the forever agreeing man— confirmed it.
The prophecy can be interpreted in many ways and according to my mother, it involves me baring a child to the King of England. My mother only believes this because she yearns for the glory of having a prophesied grandchild, not because it is the most plausible probability. And for some unknown reasons, she wishes the woman in the prophecy will be me.
This is how I have found myself standing on the cold shores of England, preparing myself to seduce the king of England and bare not only a prince, but a prophesied child. An impossible task, however, I am here in vain at her bidding.
"My lady." A strong voice materializes behind me. "The tide will be coming in shortly and you will not want to be standing here when it does."
My escort's voice is deep, and slightly raspy. He has been sent by my sister's husband to take me safely to their estate. I look upon my shiny escort whose body is covered from head to toe in plate armor. He seems ready to joust or do battle. His face is also clad, which only makes me wonder what kind of face hides behind his visored bascinet.
"Your kin are waiting. I promised that I would deliver you safely," he says.
He raises his head and gazes into the sky. His expression is unreadable, yet, by the heavy tap of his foot, I can sense his impatience. I wonder if he is fretting at the sight of the darkening sky.
"I apologize. I have gotten lost in thought. We shall leave now," I speak softly, looking up into his visor—trying to see the eyes behind the mask in vain. "I would not want for you to break your promise to my brother-in-law." I smile sweetly.
I instantly reprimand myself. I must be above reproach. I am here for the King and him alone.
"I need support," I speak firmly, my tone commanding.
Without hesitation, the man grips my waist and smoothly lifts me up from the ground, placing me upon my horse, side-saddle. He does not even make a sound of struggle as he lifts me so effortlessly.
"It is no longer safe to travel the broken roads after sundown and I fear we may have left it too late, My Lady," he says evenly.
I can not help but smile at the young knight. Could it be he feared the dark?
"I thought Joan would have sent me a strong knight to lead the way to her estate and protect her dearest sister." I look up at him.
I can hear his sharp intake of breath; I have offended him. "My lady can wait here if she likes until her sister sends another escort for her. However, with a number of thieves that travel these roads at night, I would assume you would not be here in the morning when that escort arrives. My instruction is to deliver you safely. If you get hurt I do not get paid." His voice is stern in response.
Although his face is covered, I can just imagine the smug, arrogant man who stands behind the metal. Exasperated, I pull my silver blade quickly from my boot sheath, placing it at the base of his throat, where the helmet breaks to meet the breastplate.
"I can take care of myself against the dangers we might pass on the roads and I do not desire to wait by myself until a new escort arrives. I am not unarmed and I know perfectly well how to use this. We shall travel the roads. The moon is nearly full; we can use its light to travel." I remove my blade slowly.
I can not help but feel glee. I have caught him off guard. I have little idea how to use this. Swordplay was not part of my instruction but I will not be played for a fool in this English realm. We will ride to my sisters quickly and without haste. Plans need to be made and I will not lose valuable time due to the dark, and a foolish superstitious escort. I place my thin blade back into its sheath.
The knight steps away and begins to mount his horse. "You are a foolish French girl," he spits. "You will get us both killed because you think your little dagger trick is impressive. Thieves rule the broken roads at night. This is not France; this is England, and if you go somewhere dangerous alone at night, no one will help you when it starts to go wrong."
The knight quickly kicks his horse into a gallop, while I follow suit. I can not wait till morning. My mother said I must arrive early. There are many of our faith seeking the eye of the king and if I am late, some other would catch his eye and my efforts would be wasted.
The beach breaks, and the horses pick up speed. It is exhilarating. These English horses have power. As they run across the flat terrain I can not help but admire the young knight in front —even if his attitude was unseemly—he is one with the horse. Though he is clad from head to toe in metal, he still has the grace of a swan.
The moon appears huge, towering above us in the sky. Its white glow guides us along the terrain and into the forest ahead. The knight glances back at me before we hit the muddy track. His voice utters no words but I can sense his unease.
Perhaps I was wrong to suggest we travel in the dark.
The forest has a perfectly beaten track. The pathway is littered with heaps of coalesced leaves and mud, already dry and beaten from the feet of earlier travelers. The horses can no longer gallop at a fast speed due to the amount of forks in the road, so we hold a steady pace which swiftly takes us to the middle of the forest, where the trees are thickest and the moon's light is the weakest.
Something feels wrong. As I slow my horse down to a trot, I try to assess the area. Dark forest, dark atmosphere. However, nothing seems amiss. Yet I was always told I must trust my instincts during situations like these.
"Sir," I shout.
He does not turn around. He is too far ahead; he probably hasn't heard me. He brings his horse up short and turns back to my direction. He must have noticed that I was no longer echoing his footfalls. He begins to trot back towards me.
"My lady, what is wrong? Has someone changed her mind? Does the darkness perhaps pose too much of a danger?" He gloats.
I can hear the laughter in his voice, the ringing notes of triumph evident in his speech. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I am a stupid French girl.
"My lady, what is wrong?" All vindictiveness vanished from his tone, replaced by genuine concern.
"Do you not feel it?" I whisper, my hands becoming cold.
"Feel what? Is this another French game? Because if it is, I am not falling for it. I have a job to do, My Lady, and like you mentioned earlier, we need to get there quickly."
He makes a grab for my reins, as I snatch them away from his hands. "Do not be a fool," I say harshly. "I am not playing games. There is something wrong with the forest. Something is not right." I look into his visor, hoping for a glimpse of his eyes. Nothing but darkness. I sigh. "We must leave the trodden path."
As I speak, I slip down from my horse on to the mud below. "Miss Champernowne, come back here." He says, loudly.
"Be quiet. I am not getting down and hiding behind the trees, and you mustn't shout to everyone where I am going." I counter, the empty forest echoing my words.
The knight sighs in frustration. "I understand you have traveled far and that our customs are different from yours. However, this is not the time to be adamant, Miss Champernowne. Now get back on to your horse, My Lady, or I shall throw you over mine!"
Instead of complying, I can not help but smile at his attempt of command.
I hear an exasperated hiss from behind his helm. I leave it be. English men get heated quickly, it appears. I begin weaving through the trees, pulling my horse by the reins behind me.
"I am getting tired of this cursed road. Do not mistake me, Sir, I do not get scared in the dark. In fact, I much prefer it, but something feels wrong."
He hears the loud, hoofbeats of horses behind him before he sees them. Past battles had hardened his senses and he reacts instantly. He steers his horse quickly to meet the oncoming charge. Three large horses come into view as they gallop around a corner on to the straight path. They move swiftly, accustomed to the forest path. Their features are blurred. The moonlight isn't strong enough this far into the forest, yet he knew they were not here for pleasantries. A glint of steel from the first rider confirms his suspicions.
"Miss Champernowne, run." He says, briskly.
I do not need to be told twice. I am already among the trees my horse left behind before he shouted the words. Running through the forest, dodging the trees, having no sense of direction. I trip over stray branches and scrambled up over slippy, mud ridden hills. Twigs snag my clothes, scratching my skin when I push them out of my way.
I do not know if they are behind me or not. I can only hear my heartbeat thudding through my chest. I stop behind a tree, daring to steady myself. A few moments later, my breathing begins to return to normal. I curse myself for my foolishness—running through the forest like a madwoman. My dress is now smeared with mud, my cloak torn to pieces, and my hands are caked with blood. And yet, after all these harrowing hours of roaming through darkness, I have gotten nowhere.
I strain to hear something, but all I can hear is the soft rustle of leaves against the wind, which seem soft in comparison to my still heavy breathing. The moon's light finds it hard to penetrate the dense forest and I can only make out the dark silhouettes of trees against the night sky. I take another slow breath, in and out.
A rough hand grabs my hood and yanks me backwards. All thoughts of escape flee my mind and I scream. A big hand clamps down over my mouth, turning my piercing screams into a mumble of noise.
"What is this I find hiding in the woods?" A man's voice slurs. "Bill said he saw something scuttle between the trees as fast as a little rabbit. Thought he was messing with me so he could have the horses for himself. Bill's a sly thief, you see. He always seems like the fortunate one—always deludes me into getting what he desires. But I guess I am the lucky one this time."
The man's breath stinks like old mead and it takes a lot of restraint not to vomit. He pulls me backwards by my hood and clamps one hand loosely on my mouth. I grip the drawstring of my cape, struggling as I pull forward unhooking the straps. The hood comes loose in the old man's hands but I am not fast enough. His hand pulls tighter around my mouth and his other hand grabs a handful of my white hair which has fallen loose out of the hood.
"Get off me, you English brute," I scream, my words muffled.
"Now, now. Don't be too loud. They're having fun with your young man down there but if they hear a pretty thing like you scream . . . well, who am I to stop them having their fun with you?" The old man says with a smirk.
I kick out at the man, fear rising in the pit of my stomach. It was a futile attempt—it certainly does not help that he has grasped my hair—and to him, my assault has only seemed like a small tap on his leg, not even enough to leave a mark. However pitiful the kick, the man did not take it kindly. Twisting my hair in his fist, he slaps me, hard, and shoves me to the ground. I fall as he releases his hold of my hair. My hand automatically comes up to my cheek. The slap was painful, and the cold breeze does not numb the pain. I make to rise but the man hits me again. I can not help but sob as the man pushes me back into the mud.
"I think I will enjoy this. Such a pretty wench," he slurs.
I lay in the mud, sobbing. The old man shoves me to the side so I am lying on my stomach. Placing his bodyweight on mine, he pulls open my cloak and tries to unfasten his own belt with slow success. A surge passes through me. Fear grips me as I realize what he intends to do. All pain forgotten, I begin to struggle. I try to kick again but he is too heavy. He simply laughs at my futile attempts.
"Such a beautiful wench, you are."
"I am not a wench. I am a lady. So let me go or you will be hunted down and hanged for the crimes you wish to commit!"
"Never been with a lady before," he snickers, fighting with his own clothing.
The glint of metal catches my eye. My attacker, too busy with his own clothing, has chucked his sheath into a pile of leaves to the left of my head. Tucked into his sheath is the cold, sharp steel of his knife. I can not reach the knife, and if I try to grasp it, he will see my intent.
I eye the knife, which glints in the moonlight, and I will it to me. To will it towards me, I must want it enough. I feel a surge of warmth travel through my body and the moon's dim light seems to brighten.
I hear the thrust of the knife before I see it. The man looks at me in bewilderment, then looks down at the blade piercing through his chest. Blood drips down his tunic. He raises a hand to touch the steel, shocked. Taking the opportunity, I crawl out from under him, only to sit a small distance away on the ground in exhaustion. The man looks towards me, his stance swaying. "Witch," he chokes before falling dead into the mud.
I sit there for a few minutes, looking up at the trees and the dark sky. "Witch." I whisper. A small smile crosses my face before I, too, fall on the floor from exhaustion and shock.