Chapter Two #2
Mara’s brow furrowed, refusing to agree with her sister’s assessment. Even though she realized she would very much like to. Turning away, she reined her old mare in the direction of the camp.
“I see they’ve pitched a couple of tents,” she said. “Come along, Misha. It’s been a long day for you.”
Micheline followed. “I am sorry you have to sleep in a tent, darling. I just… just cannot abide sleeping in an inn.”
Mara shrugged, far too carelessly. “But I can. And if I feel like going to an inn to enjoy a warm atmosphere and protection from the rain, then I shall. If Kirk Connaught is going to force me to accompany you to Anchorsholme, he’ll have to pay for his decision.”
Micheline looked shocked. “Why would you do this? The man is only doing his job, Mara. And inns are nothing but dens for gambling and debauchery. You know this to be true.”
Mara shrugged again, noting the campfire was blazing brightly. “I spent most of my time outside of the inns, Misha. Only you and father went inside. I have always found them to be rather… flavorful.”
“Flavorful?” Micheline was horrified. “How can you say that?”
They were nearing the camp perimeter and Mara shushed her sister firmly. “Not to worry, Misha. I would never do anything foolish.”
“But you are thinking foolish thoughts, little goat.”
From the corner of her eye, Mara caught sight of Kirk as they entered the camp. Seeing the travel-weary ladies, Kirk left the task of securing a section of tent and made his way toward them. Mara kept her eyes trained on him, the face Micheline thought was so very handsome.
“For me, these thoughts are not so foolish,” she murmured. “They are perfectly normal.”
“As I said,” Micheline closed her eyes in silent prayer, “foolish.”
*
Mara waited until the camp was quiet before making her move.
The clouds had returned, as had the rain, and she made sure Micheline was asleep before stirring from her bed.
The soft glow from the dying fire cast long shadows as she peered from the tent, watching the sentries pace the encampment.
Waiting for the last pair of soldiers to disappear into the bramble, she slipped from the shelter and into the trees.
The village was visible about a mile down the road.
Mud splashed on her worn shoes as she trudged down the thoroughfare, but Mara was unconcerned with the discomfort.
She was determined to make it to town, to beg a few coins off a rich soldier as she had done so ably when she was young, and then indulge herself in a fine goblet of mead to toast her victory against Kirk.
Ormskirk was a smelly, dirty town. As Mara skipped along the road, dodging horses and men, her gaze fell on a large hostel by the edge of town.
Looking through the window, she could see the laughing people and smell the smelly warmth.
It was inviting and she quickly decided to become a part of it.
Slipping in behind a group of well-dressed knights, she lost herself in the crowd.
No one noticed the tiny woman skirting the edge of the room, gazing curiously at what she had described to her sister as ‘flavor’.
Soldiers gnawing on bloodied meat, wenches with painted faces seated on their lap.
There was song and gaiety and the stench of close-packed bodies filling the air.
As Mara made her way to the blazing hearth, she thought all of it to be rather exciting.
The fire was scorching. Warming her hands before the blaze, the smell of beef was making her hungry. Face partially shielded by the wet hood, Mara’s gaze scanned the room in search of a potential benefactor.
In the corner of the room sat a fat merchant, dining alone on a stew of turnips and mutton. Mara watched the man for a moment, sensing he was kind and hoping her instincts were right. Squaring her shoulders, she went to his table.
The man was a loud eater. Trying to appear as pathetic as possible, Mara clasped her hands against her breast.
“Kind sir,” she said dramatically. “Could you find it within your heart to spare a poor widow a few coins with which to eat?”
The man paused in mid-chew, his gaze moving the length of her dripping cloak. Swallowing hard, he coughed loudly and struggled not to choke.
“A widow?” He coughed again. Then, he looked annoyed. “Go away, lass. Can you not see that I am eating?”
Mara would not be dissuaded. “But – sir! I have not eaten in days, and my children….”
“Children?”
She nodded eagerly. “Nine of them. They have not eaten, either.”
The merchant raised his eyebrows. “You have nine children?” he repeated. “You’re hardly more than a child yourself.”
Mara drew herself up, proudly. “I am a woman grown, sir. And I would thank you kindly for helping to feed my children.”
“All nine of them.”
“Aye, sir.”
The man took a bite of bread, chewing slowly. “You’re not a very good liar, lass.”
Mara looked innocent. “Sir?”
He took another bite of bread. “Who are you begging for? Your husband? Father, mayhap?”
Mara shook her head. “Myself, sir. Myself and….”
He put up a hand. “I know, I know. And your nine children.”
“Aye, sir.” Mara thought she could sense some amusement in his expression. “Will you help us?”
He continued to gaze at her, chewing on his bread. “How old are you?”
Mara thought quickly. “Twenty-two, sir.”
“Twenty-two, eh?” He put the bread down, collecting his wooden cup. “You must have bore your first child at ten years of age.”
She refused to recant her story. Once he had her confession, she was certain he would refuse to give her any coin. “Thirteen, sir. I… I was a very young bride.”
“Indeed.” He drank deeply of his watered ale. A dog came around looking for hand-outs and Mara shooed it away as it sniffed her skirt.
“Well?” she almost demanded. “Can you spare a few coins, sir? Or must I beg elsewhere?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Demanding little wench, aren’t you? There is a fine line between robbing and begging.”
Mara sighed. “I do apologize. ’Tis just that my children are starving and….”
He put up a hand, snorting into his cup. “No more, lass. I shall give you a few pence and be gone with you.”
Mara held out her hand and he deposited five coins into her palm. Flashing him a brilliant smile, she clutched the money to her breast and made her way across the room. Just as she neared an empty table against the wall, a large hand suddenly reached out to grab her.
Mara shrieked as she plopped into an armored lap. “Let me go!”
Loud male laughter filled the stale air. “Relax, sweetling. I won’t hurt you.”
She twisted violently, her hood coming off in the process. Silky black hair cascaded down her back, drawing a sigh of appreciation from the table’s occupants.
“Ah, what have we here?” The knight gripped her with both hands, studying her beauty. “A fine, fine catch, I’d say.”
She struggled to be free, smelling the liquor on his breath. “I demand you release me immediately!”
“But why?” He shifted his grip, touching her face with a thick finger. “Christ, you’re a lovely one. Name your price.”
Grimacing with exertion, Mara shoved an elbow into his throat, managing to dislodge his hold. But no sooner had she bound to her feet than another knight grabbed her.
“Hold, lady,” he growled. “Not so fast. He asked you to name your price.”
Mara knew what they meant. She’s spent too much time exposed to the atmosphere taverns to interpret any other meaning. Her indignation was joined by a healthy measure of fear as she struggled to free herself from yet another accoster.
“No price,” she hissed. “Let me alone!”
The knight was strong. He and his three companions were enjoying her torment, drunk with too much food and alcohol.
“I shall give you five gold pieces, lass.” The first knight who had grabbed her, an older man, was searching for his purse in spite of the fact that she had shoved her elbow into his neck.
“I told you,” she grunted, succeeding in freeing one hand. “I am not for sale. Find your pleasure with another.”
“The whole world’s for sale, at the right price.” The knight who held her captive received a slap on the chin for his troubles. “Come on, love. We shall be gentle, we promise.”
With a grunt, Mara yanked herself free and stumbled over a chair, struggling to get away. The knights laughed, the older man rising to his feet in pursuit. Mara managed to get around the chair, planning to duck out through the kitchens when a powerful arm grasped her around the waist.
She could smell the ale on his breath, making her gag as his lips pressed against her ear. “Come along, sweetling. It’s been a long time since I have tasted flesh as sweet as yours.”
Mara’s feet were dangling off the ground, her slight weight nothing against his strength. For the first time in her life, she knew what it was to sense panic. And she had a load of it. Kicking and twisting, she refused to let him take her without a fight.
Wondering, as he struggled to get her up the stairs to his rented room, if the price of her spite against Kirk Connaught would be too high.
*
It was exceedingly late. The rains had lessened again, the highs and lows of harsh winter weather, leaving the landscape wet and miserable. The only light was from the fire or the torches men carried as they went about their rounds, protecting the camp perimeter and the ladies it housed.
Kirk had been tending Corwin’s charger, the animal having pulled a tendon during the journey. Leaving the charger with a wrap on its leg and a worried master, he made his way through the wet foliage and into the hub of the smoky encampment.
He passed Niles, sound asleep in a make-shift tent. The sound of the man’s snoring was enough to wake the dead and Kirk kicked the knight’s exposed foot as he passed by. The man rolled to his side and the obnoxious sound quieted.