Wildewood Revenge (10 page)

“How far must I walk before I reach
Wildewood
?” he asked.

Miles took him by his shoulders and pointed him west, towards the tree line of a great forest which cloaked the hill before them. He pointed then at a dark shape which could barely be made out, peeping above the canopy.

“Do you see that, Edmund? There amongst the trees, do you see the stone of the tower?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“That is
Wildewood
, Edmund, my home, and yours too now. Our trail will be easy to follow through the snow.”

“And what of yon beasts in the wood?” asked Edmund anxiously.

Miles smiled. “I will ask them to let you pass safely.”

He swung himself up behind Grace without comment, nodded once more to Edmund then kicked the horse into a canter. Despite the earlier altercation with Grace and the strange encounter with the sheriff, he was exhilarated. That glimpse of
Wildewood
had set his heart racing, it had been so long since he’d last seen it, and even the forest seemed more impenetrable. He wondered what he would find.

Grace clung onto the front of the saddle as Miles urged the horse faster through the snow. The horse seemed to have caught Miles’ mood, picking up its pace and covering the distance to the tree line in long fluid strides. Soon they were in the forest with the trees closing in around them. Miles felt her alarm as she braced against him and for once he could understand where it came from. There was a sense of mystery and unease in the darkness between the trees. He slowed the horse and picked his way carefully.

“Where is the path?” she asked eventually as it appeared Miles was riding into nowhere.

It was the first time she’d spoken since leaving the sheriff and he guessed the words had slipped out accidently. He knew women; they could maintain a silence longer than any man for reasons known only to them. He smiled to himself. She had chosen to remain with him, despite her opportunity to escape. To be fair it wasn’t much of a choice and she’d obviously been influenced in his favour by the sight of the dead men, but he doubted the basis for her choice would be that
straightforward.

“The path is right here, you just have to know where it is.” He tightened his grip on her waist and felt her wriggle against him stubbornly. He tightened it further. He could be just as stubborn. As they broke through the trees into a large clearing he pulled the horse up sharply and paused to gaze at the place where he had spent his childhood; the place which held many happy memories and where he had first formulated his plans for revenge.

Chapter Eleven

Beyond the expanse of snow-covered
parkland, Grace saw her first glimpse of
Wildewood
. Set against a background of impenetrable forest, the building was constructed from mellow cheviot stone and to Grace’s untutored eye, it best resembled a small castle or fortified house. A castellated tower stood to the western end of the building. At the centre of a high retaining wall a stout pair of wooden gates led to an inner courtyard. The gates were ajar hanging unevenly on massive, rusted hinges. Ivy cloaked the outer walls halfway up to the stone slab roof. Some of the straw thatch on the smaller, adjoining buildings had fallen in and young trees were beginning to push their way through. An air of neglect enshrouded the entire place.

Miles urged the horse onward walking him slowly through the entrance and into the courtyard. Metal horse shoes sparked against the weathered cobbles, echoing coldly around the empty space. The place was deserted, had been for many years. Lichen hung eerily from the gnarled branches of trees and clung to the stonework as if in a bid to camouflage the place from the outside world. Miles slid from the horse and lifted Grace down. He remained silent and Grace saw the look of desolation on his face. She wondered what he’d expected. Perhaps he’d left family here and they’d perished in his absence. She reached out, despite herself, laid her hand on his arm and for a long moment he simply looked at her hand before blinking and pulling away.

“Did something happen here, to your family?”

“Yes, something happened to my family,” he answered stonily, as he turned and walked away. The horse trailed after him, reins dangling.

No one came running to greet them. There were no welcoming noises from the buildings and no smoke from the chimneys, not even a barking dog or clucking chicken. Perhaps she’d
made the wrong choice after all.
Perhaps she should have thrown herself on the mercy of the sheriff. Miles had made it quite clear that all he was interested in was a ransom which she knew would not be paid. What would happen, she wondered when he realised she was worth nothing? She waited a moment in the snow, cold and hesitant but when he failed to return she made her way with difficulty up the stone steps leading to the first floor entrance and the heavy, oak door which led into the main building.

Stepping out of the brightness into the inner gloom, she paused awhile, waiting for her eyes to adjust. As they did, she realised she stood within a great hall, an oversized carved stone fireplace at one end and a stone staircase at the other. Massive oak beams held up the roof and mouldy straw covered the floor. She heard rustling and saw movement within the litter. The place smelled of decay and damp and the droppings of vermin living within the debris. She wrinkled her nose and tried not to inhale too deeply as she limped to the centre of the hall. Turning in a slow circle, she took in the sad spectacle before her. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung from the walls. Once vibrant with colour, they were shabby and drab, nibbled by rodents, their threads hung like sinister cobwebs. Near the fireplace a plain wooden table had been tipped over and a bench lay smashed.

Grace righted a chair which had once been placed to benefit from the warmth of the fire, and as she did her fingers found the delicate carving on the seat back. Flowers and fruits graced the mellow wood.
A lady’s chair.
She crossed to the fireplace, taller than her, and could just make out letters carved in the stone, although she couldn’t decipher their
elaborate script. A basket lay upturned on the hearth; she imagined the soft, white wool of an orphan lamb. This had been a family home and something had happened to destroy it. She felt a great sadness overwhelm her and the unease in her belly grew.

This was no dream.

She glanced at the stairs but doubted her ability to climb yet another flight unaided. Her leg throbbed, a reminder of the strange circumstances which had brought her here. Weak sunlight tried valiantly to enter through a number of tall, leaded windows set high in the walls. Although glazed with coloured glass, the tints were muted with grime and allowed little heat from the sun to enter. The room was cold and unwelcoming. They would need a fire and Miles was nowhere to be seen.

She could attempt an escape while he was otherwise engaged or she could make herself useful. With a shrug, she chose the latter, picked up an armful of wood from the shattered bench and slowly deposited it in the empty hearth before casting about for some dry straw to help the fire catch. With difficulty she knelt on her good knee and arranged the wood and straw in a pyramid stack and then she rose and patted her pockets until she found the box of matches which she knew were there. She struck the match, set the straw alight and carefully pocketed the box. The straw caused smoke and Grace had a moment of doubt when she wondered at the state of the flue, but then the wood took hold and the fire drew as it should and the smoke went up the great chimney.

She looked about aga
in. T
he straw was definitely alive and she didn’t care much for sharing her living space with vermin. Fly would have some fun when he was let loose in here she thought with a smile, but he wasn’t here yet and she felt the need to clear a safe area around
the fire. Picking up another length of wood from the broken bench she used it as a makeshift broom to sweep away the straw from the area adjacent to the fire. Beneath the straw the floor was flagged with stone and although it was grimy, she could see that c
lean
it would be beautiful.

She limped over to the table and with great difficulty dragged it to her cleared area. It was too heavy for her to right by herself.

“What are you doing?” Miles stood in the doorway. His eyes flashed from her, to the fire crackling in the hearth and the swept floor.

Grace turned and wiped the sweat and grime from her face with her sleeve.
“Helping.”

“I thought you wanted to go home?” He watched her moodily and she was suddenly uncertain.

“I do,” replied Grace, pushing all thoughts of bad things to the back of her mind. “But I need to keep warm in the meantime.”

He stepped towards her and she took a hesitant step back.

“Why did you not request help from the sheriff?”

“Because you told me not to.”
She edged back further until she felt the upturned table at her back.

“And of course you always do as you’re told,” replied Miles with a raised brow.

“You threatened me.” Grace’s indignation at the recollection
was muted by caution. “You said
if I valued my life I should say nothing.”

“I did not threaten you, Mademoiselle, I merely warned you. You saw the bodies?”

“Of course I saw the bodies.” How could she have missed them?
Real bodies with blood and gore.

“You made the right choice.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us.”
Miles crossed to where she stood, heaved the table upright and set the remaining chairs against it. “Where did you find the flint to start the fire?”

Flint? Grace stared at him as her hand closed around the matches in her pocket. She opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find anything sensible to say. Everything that had occurred since he’d revealed they were in the midst of medieval Northumberland seemed to prove his account. Crazy or not, she thought it wise to play along and pushed the matches to the bottom of her pocket. She caught his eye, briefly wondering if he could tell she was hiding something. He raised a brow questioningly and she guessed he probably could, but was content he would never guess why. They held each other’s gaze and Grace waited for Miles to speak first. It took a few moments.

“You have no reason to fear me.”

“I don’t,” she lied.

“I have no wish to hurt you. You must understand that. But I need the ransom. Look around, this place has been badly neglected in my absence. I suspect the rest of the demesne will be in a similar state.”

“But do you not see? I can’t get you the ransom. I’ve already told you, I don’t know the bishop I don’t know anybody here.” Grace’s voice was laced with frustration, why did he not believe her?

Miles shrugged as if she hadn’t spoken. He cast his gaze to the stairs. “There are bedchambers above. My mother enjoyed her privacy.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “How nice,” she replied sarcastically as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“Does the wound continue to cause pain?”

“A little, but I’m fine.”

“You mean okay?” added Miles with a weary smile.

Grace wished she’d never asked Edmund about him, wished even more that Edmund had not mentioned about the bad things. Here he was trying to be pleasant and all she could think about was just how bad, he might be. She wasn’t sure what was worse knowing what someone was capable of, like the sheriff and his bodies, or imagining the worst when you didn’t know the truth.

She tried a different tack. “Look, I’m sorry about your family, I guess you were expecting this place to look better, but it won’t take much to clean it up. Don’t be disheartened.”

“Why do you care about this?” He gestured with a sweep of hi
s arm to the dishevelled hall.
“I’m holding you against your will, I’m going to sell your hide for ransom, and yet...”

Grace shrugged. “You took care
of me. I suppose if you hadn’t
I would be lying dead in the bog. I should be grateful, although I’ve no doubt you and your bow probably put me in the bog in the first place, but hey, I think I can do a bit of tidying up for you in return. So, are you going to show me the upstairs? I could do with some privacy.”

He took her arm and she clung onto his soft woollen sleeve as they mounted the stairs. It was difficult, with only one good leg, trying to climb stone steps which were much steeper than she was used to. He slowed to her pace. He could have ca
rried her more easily. She half-
expected him to sweep her up impatiently but he seemed happy to let her be the martyr, and of course she would. She would not ask for his help.

There were two large rooms upstairs connected by a narrow passageway. It appeared that it had been created at a later date, perhaps in deference to the lady of the house and her desire for privacy. Grace considered that given the choice, she too, would not wish to share her
accommodation within scent of beasts housed in the byre beneath the main hall. Along its length a series of small arched windows looked out over the courtyard. At the end of the passage a leaded bay window overlooked a walled garden. The first room they entered was gloomy and cold and Miles set about making a fire in the small stone fireplace. Grace noted how easily he struck the flint to create the flame, knew she would never have managed without the matches.