The Lion's Crown (The Emberlyn Chronicles Book 1), page 5
“That night, he was stacking his peat to dry when a tiny voice called out to him from the bog. Again and again the voice called, but he ignored it. When he was about to go inside, his leg caught in a snare. The hobs had laid a trap for him. Together, a dozen hobs dragged him, swearing and screaming, into the bog. They found the deepest water they could and cast him in, leaping upon his head every time he tried to come up for a breath.
“People from the village had been roused by this time, and they all stood at the edge of the bog, watching but doing nothing. For unlike that man, they knew the danger in displeasing the hobs.
“After that man was drowned, the hobs didn’t come to the villages along the Bleaklands anymore. The people called to them across the bog and left gifts of meat and ale, but still they never came. And we Bleaklanders have had to work harder ever since, for there are no hobs to mend our clothes and tools as we sleep.”
Penny watched heads nod around the meeting-house. Had Mary Briar told this story for a reason? Was she suggesting the people of the village leave gifts out tonight, just in case?
Mary began another story. This one was about the Ember Lion; it was the story of how the first King Edward drew strength and bravery from his encounter with the creature. After that, she spoke of how to keep wraiths away by always keeping a lit candle by your bedside. A dying fire in the fireplace wasn’t enough, it was said; one needed a strong, bright flame to drive away a wraith. If was also said that wraiths could only move at night, and during the day, if they couldn’t find a deep, dark place to hide, they would disappear until night came again. Penny thought about that dark hollow that Owen had been whispering toward. She’d never heard of people talking to wraiths before, much less them talking back. She didn’t dare ask Mary Briar if there were any such stories.
After this, Penny overheard people discussing the shadowy thing George Ashberry had told them about. All day she had heard the word “wraith” whispered throughout the village. It had been unofficially decided that that’s what had come out of the Hobswood to haunt them.
Edgar Marsh, Fenhold’s alderman, put another peat log on the fire and got it burning nicely with a clump of dried moss. “Last log for the night,” he announced. “You’ll want to be going to your homes before long.”
Mary Briar looked as though she was going to begin one final story, but a shout from outside pulled everyone’s attention away from the storyteller.
A man named Thomas Arden, who was on the night watch, burst in through the doors of the meeting-house. “It’s James Tupper,” he panted. “Bring weapons! Bring fire!”
Several of the people in the meeting-house had carried lanterns and unlit torches with them. There was a rush to light them at the fire pit, and then everyone was through the door, following the shouts. The commotion was coming from somewhere near the tower of the Fenhold. Penny made sure not to let go of Owen’s hand as she pushed her way through the crowd to try and see what was happening. She caught a glimpse of James Tupper lying on the ground. Several men with torches were kneeling over him. As she struggled closer, she saw that Tupper’s body was rigid, and his flesh was white, as though it had been drained of all color.
The word “wraith” made another pass through the crowd, and Penny was about to withdraw when a hand grabbed at her from the darkness. “It was you!” Elizabeth Tupper screamed. The woman slapped Penny’s face then leapt at her. Both women went down, and Penny lost hold of Owen’s hand.
She yelled as she tried to fend off the other woman’s slaps and punches. Around them, the villagers stood dumbfounded, watching the spectacle.
At last a large hand closed over Bess Tupper’s arm and yanked her off of Penny. “Get that woman away from here!” George Ashberry’s voice bellowed.
Elizabeth Tupper collapsed to the ground as several men tried to guide her away, and they ended up lifting her by the legs and arms to carry her off.
As soon as George saw that Elizabeth Tupper was secured, he reached down and helped Penny to her feet. “Are you hurt?”
Penny’s face stung from Bess Tupper’s attack, but she didn’t feel there had been any serious injury. “I’ll be all right. Owen! Where’s Owen?”
She spun around, looking for her brother. She spotted him standing above James Tupper’s body, confusion and curiosity in his eyes.
“Come away from there,” Penny called. On top of everything else, she didn’t need Owen doing anything to the body. Elizabeth Tupper and many others already felt he was to blame. And even though none of them had ever seen one—or heard of anyone who had seen one—the signs of a wraith attack were well-known from the stories: a cold, stiff body, drained of all life and color.
To her great relief, Owen obeyed her and walked back to where she was standing. “Tupper,” he said, pointing back at the dead man.
“Yes. But we have to leave him be now.” She looked over at George Ashberry. “I don’t care what others think; Owen and I can’t be alone tonight. Not after this.”
George nodded. With all eyes on them, he led Penny and Owen away from the Fenhold and back to his hut. Inside, a fire was burning gently. Penny had noticed he hadn’t been in the meeting-house and was glad he’d been home, keeping his fire tended. She didn’t want to spend another second in darkness.
George made a bed on the floor for Owen. He fell asleep instantly, as usual, and Penny sat with George at the edge of his bed, staring into the fire.
“It’s not just because of the wraith,” she said at last. “I’m afraid of what others might do to him.”
She felt George’s arm slip around her waist. She was too scared to think about whether or not she wanted it.
“I’ll keep him safe,” George said. “I’ll keep you both safe.”
“Thank you. But what do we do tomorrow? And the day after that? And after that? If people go on believing Owen brought a wraith to the village….” She sniffed. “He did bring it, George. I saw it in the Hobswood, in the hollow of one of those black trees. It was the same thing we saw last night, I know it. And now James Tupper is dead.”
George let her rest her cheek against his shoulder. “Have you any money?” he asked.
She shook her head. “The merchants don’t buy as much peat in the summer. I’ve been stockpiling for when they come around in the fall. I’ll have some then.”
“I have a bit of money. Not much, but some. If… if you want to leave the village, I can take you away from here. Together we can find a new place. A new life. We’ll go somewhere far away from the Hobswood, far away from wraiths and bogs and Elizabeth Tuppers and everything else. I want to keep you safe, Penny. I want to do it for the rest of my life if you’ll have me. And I love and accept Owen as my own brother, you know that. He’ll always have a home with us.”
Penny was crying freely now. George Ashberry had never been anything but kind, and she knew she’d never find another man like him. If she refused him now, after all this… but she couldn’t say yes. Not just yet.
“I’m too confused just now,” she said into his shoulder. “Please ask me again tomorrow.”
George raised her face to his and kissed her. A thrill coursed through her, and her body ached for his touch. She pulled back from the kiss, gazed into his eyes and nodded, letting him know she was willing. Even if she could not yet say she’d be his wife, she wanted this. At least this.
George glanced over at Owen; he was turned toward the wall with the cat curled beneath his arm.
“He never wakes up,” Penny whispered, “not till dawn.” She stood and began removing her clothes. George watched her, his elbow on his knee and his chin resting on his palm. When she finally pulled off her undergarments, she stood shaking slightly, wishing he would move or say something. He held out his hand to her, and she stepped back toward the bed. He ran his hands over her skin, making her jump as his fingers tickled her. At last, he guided her onto the bed and she lay down, waiting for him to undress and join her.
Chapter Seven
The Peat Road
In the morning, Ivy was gone. On his pillows, Sir William could still smell the lavender perfume she’d been wearing, and he lay breathing in the scent as Quentin knocked repeatedly on his door. William finally answered, telling him that he’d be ready shortly.
William dressed and gathered his personal belongings. He hadn’t brought any servants with him to Granisle; he’d had no idea he would be asked to go into the Hobswood. He picked up the letter he’d written as Ivy slept. It was for his family, telling them that he would not be returning for a long time. He hadn’t made mention of the Hobswood, only that he’d be traveling in the service of the king. If he didn’t return, they could inquire and learn the specifics. He sighed. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was not a matter of if.
When he opened the door, Quentin was slumped against the wall, but he immediately straightened. “Morien says you must leave before noon.”
William frowned. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“I slept that long?”
“I came in with your breakfast at seven, but you could not be roused.” A glimmer in Quentin’s eye told William he suspected or had seen something. Still, the fact that he wasn’t in chains meant Quentin hadn’t told.
William cleared his throat. “I hope all is well, Quentin? With everyone in the castle?”
“Sir?”
“Nothing bad has happened, I hope.”
Quentin grinned. “All is well, sir, and I expect all to remain well.”
William nodded. “Good. This is a letter for my family. Will you see that it’s delivered to them?”
“Of course, sir.” Quentin took the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
William fished around in his things and found his coin purse. He withdrew a gold crown and placed it in Quentin’s palm. “And this is for your service these few days.”
Quentin bowed deeply. “It has been my privilege. I do wish you good fortune on your journey.”
William mumbled his thanks, and Quentin picked up his pack and began leading him down the spiral stairway. As they made their way through the castle, William looked for Ivy, but he didn’t see her. Quentin led him out the front entrance of the castle proper and to the stables inside the outer wall. In front of them, Harold Swift, Stephen Laurenge and Alfred Pierce were waiting. William saw that his horse was saddled and weighed down with two bulging bags.
“The king has anticipated all of your needs,” Quentin said, “and should you be hungry before you stop to eat, I placed a roll and some cheese in the top of the right-hand saddlebag.”
Quentin secured William’s pack to the back of the saddle and nodded. “Good luck to all of you. May the Ember Lion watch over you!”
William smiled and mounted his horse. He winked back at Quentin as the four knights guided their horses away from the stable and through the outer gate of the castle.
As they crossed the bridge over the Deerford River, Harold Swift pulled a folded parchment from his vest pocket. “Our map, Sir William. When you did not arrive this morning, Morien left it in our care.”
William held the reins with one hand, unfolded the map and smoothed it against his thigh. From Granisle, they were to take the Peat Road southwest until it branched. The southern branch continued to Reevesby, the largest town at the edge of the Bleaklands, but the branch which turned west led to Fenhold Village. In all, it would be a journey of a little over eighty miles.
As he’d unfolded it, William had noticed there was some writing on the back of the map. He turned it over and read. It appeared to be a message from Morien and stated that according to his readings, they must enter the Hobswood on the fifth day after their departure from Granisle. William wasn’t convinced Morien’s calculations were entirely necessary, but he would keep to them, as allowing four days for travel meant they wouldn’t have to push their horses.
Four days on the Peat Road, one night in Fenhold Village then into the forest… all that assumed nothing went wrong. Convincing the man who’d gone into the woods to join them might not be a simple matter, king’s order or not.
Still, he wasn’t alone in these decisions. Perhaps the other knights knew more about the Bleaklanders than he did. Harold Swift was riding beside him; Stephen Laurenge and Alfred Pierce were behind.
“Sir Harold,” William said, “have you been to the Bleaklands?”
Harold nodded. “I spent some time hunting highwaymen who were robbing the merchants traveling along the Peat Road.”
“And the others?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Then I must rely on your past experience. What are the people like?”
“Down in Reevesby, they’re like most folk. But the small villages where they dig the peat… they’re hard, rough people, from what I could tell. I never spent much time associating with them, for obvious reasons.”
“What are their views of the Hobswood? Will it be very difficult to convince this boy to go with us?”
“If he’s touched, perhaps not. His family might be another matter. The Bleaklanders fear the Hobswood with a passion. This village we’re going to… I spent some time staying with the lord whose land it sits upon. To hear him tell it, they’re as children when it comes to such things. He, himself, put no stock in their superstitions.”
“Do you?”
Sir Harold reached up, lifted off his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. But why do men enter and never return, if it’s just a wood like any other?”
“Perhaps there are primitive peoples living in it. They might kill anyone who enters. I’ve heard stories about the jungles south of the great desert far to the west; the people there live without steel, without horses, without crops. They live in the trees, hunting birds and monkeys. It’s said they also eat human flesh.”
Sir Harold laughed. “I, too, have read Sir John Aldrich’s supposed account of his travels to the great desert and beyond.”
“Then you doubt his account?”
“My grandfather met a man who knew Sir John. He says he never went more than a few days’ ride past the borders of Gronstave. Hardly mysterious, treacherous lands.”
William folded up his map and tucked it into his vest pocket. “Perhaps not. I do admit that Sir John’s stories were rather incredible. But there still might be such peoples in the Hobswood.”
“There might.”
William didn’t know what else to say on the matter. Whatever speculation they might make, there was no way of knowing what they might find in the Hobswood. As they rode through the streets of Granisle, his stomach began to grumble, and he reached his hand back to unhook the strap holding the saddlebag closed. He found a cloth-wrapped bundle he guessed to be Quentin’s bread and cheese. As he pulled it out, his fingers grazed the edge of what felt like a book. He drew it out along with the bundle of food and held it open against his leg with one hand. It seemed to be a copy of the book King Edward had been reading from when William had first met him. The king’s book had been large and bound in a rigid, ornately embossed and gilded cover. This copy was only a bit larger than his palm and bound in plain, soft leather, but it seemed to contain all of the same information. There were the accounts of the previous expeditions into the Hobswood as well as collections of stories about the wood—the superstitions of the people he and Sir Harold had just been speaking of.
Glad to have something to study when they stopped in the evenings, he tucked the small book back into the saddlebag and set upon his meager breakfast. As he put a square of the sharp, flavorful cheese into his mouth, he wished he’d given Quentin two crowns instead of just one.
By nightfall, they had traveled halfway to the fork in the Peat Road. A coaching inn was marked on the map, and William had intended to make it their stopping point for the day. When they reached it, however, they found it full. They bought peat logs from inside, and William led the party to a fenced pasture behind the stable and let their horses loose to graze. They made their camp on the near side of the fence, and after they had eaten and laid out their bedrolls, William smiled at his companions across the fire.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose we must get used to sleeping in the wild.”
“One more night in a bed would have been nice,” Alfred Pierce said, frowning as he reached around to adjust the saddlebag he was using as a pillow.
“There’s a town at the fork,” Harold Swift said. “I stayed there many times when I was tracking highwaymen. There are two decent inns to choose from and one more that will be acceptable for a single night.”
Stephen Laurenge grinned from his bedroll. “Any decidedly indecent places?”
Harold winked at him. “Certainly. If you’ll have the energy for it after another full day of travel.”
“I might summon up some hidden reserve,” Sir Stephen said, his smile widening.
The other men laughed but soon fell silent. William knew what was on each of their minds. His own thoughts drifted back to the night before, the night he had spent with Ivy, but he was too tired from a day in the saddle to linger on those memories for long. The sound of conversation drifted toward them from the inn. He had momentarily considered using their papers from the king to demand a room but had decided against it. He was glad the others either hadn’t thought of it or had also felt it wouldn’t be right to throw someone else out.
He felt for the book about the Hobswood that he’d set next to his bedroll. Picking it up, he turned the pages but couldn’t quite make out the small letters in the dying firelight. But he didn’t need to see the words to know what some of them said. Hobs, wraiths and even demons were said to haunt the wood. If there was some primitive tribe living in the Hobswood, could these stories have come from them? Could they have been intentionally frightening the Bleaklanders to keep them away?
