Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (2 page)

Wyndeshire, England
Late August 1216

“I hear tales that the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest might have descended upon our very own Wyndeshire.” Lord Wyndemere looked up from sharpening his favorite sword. “What hear you?”

Timothy Grey shivered at the intense stare his employer shot his way. It somehow matched the cold stone walls of the surrounding armory. “No doubt the overactive imagination of some fool villager.”

“Perhaps.” The lord ran his finger along the glinting blade. “Perhaps not.” Light gleamed against his balding head in a manner that intimidated rather than amused. His remaining salt-and-pepper hair and matching beard framed sharp features. Though a fair man, he could be ruthless if crossed. “I shall not tolerate thieves in my realm.”

“Of course not, my lord.” Timothy continued polishing Lord Wyndemere’s gilded shield with a smooth white cloth.

“They have plagued those to the east for years. And word has it they might be the ones who stole that chest of taxes headed to the king.” The lord performed a thrust and parry, testing the weight and balance of his weapon.

“Ghosts stole the gold? Whatever shall they do with it in the netherworld?” Timothy chuckled at the ridiculous notion.

“Ah, but we, my good lad, are not silly villagers. We understand that the ghosts must employ some human form. A new and most brilliant band of thieves, methinks.”

“Stealing gold intended for taxes? Sounds more like Robyn of the Hode than the Ghosts of Farthingale if you ask me.” Timothy held the shield to the thin streams of light pouring through the barred windows and spotted a smudge on the upper right corner.

“True, not their typical thievery. But over the past month we have had reports of hams, turnips, even tunics gone missing from these parts, with nary a sound nor a wisp out of place. Either the Farthingale ghosts have moved to town, or we have acquired our own.”

“We should await proof before we trouble ourselves with the matter. Nothing has gone missing from the castle thus far.”

“Ah, my stalwart Timothy Grey. Always cautious and prudent. Little wonder you have grown to be my most trusted assistant.” Lord Wyndemere tousled Timothy’s hair as though he were a child and headed out the doorway.

Timothy did not let the abrupt departure halt his polishing. Lord Wyndemere knew his own mind and rarely shared it with others. No doubt some random thought had flitted through his head and launched him on a new mission. Or his stomach had rumbled, sending him in search of a kitchen maid. Or . . . as Timothy considered the comely kitchen maid, he realized his lordship might be thinking of something else entirely.

His face heated, and he focused on his work, banishing disturbing images from his head.

Oh, to be a lord. To jaunt off at the slightest whim. Master of his own fate. Never answering to the beck and call of superiors. But he would not likely know that pleasure. His sisters might receive the courtesy titles of Lady Ellen, Lady Ethel, and Lady Edith, but never him. Never a nobleman’s son who had been “blessed” with eight elder siblings. Nine children! Such families were all but unheard of in their corner of England.

Blast the hearty Grey stock.

He would forever be Tiny Little Timmy, runt of the Grey clan. Never mind that he had passed nineteen summers and two yards in height. Never mind that he had mastered both sword and lance and his shoulders had at long last broadened to fill his velvet tunics. No, people would forever go about ruffling his hair, even if they must reach up to do so.

A pox upon his flaxen white-blond hair.

He would never be the strongest. That would be his brother Derek, the valiant warrior off on crusade. Nor the smartest. That would be Frederick, the priest in London town. Nor even the handsomest. That would be Randolph, no doubt somewhere wooing the ladies. He would never give his parents the most grandchildren. Ellen had a twenty-year advantage in that area. And he would never, ever be called Baron of Greyham. No, only his father and someday his eldest brother, Noel, would be called that.

Unless he did something drastic, he would be just plain Timothy Grey for the remainder of his pathetic life. Just a plain scribe. A plain servant. With his plain grey eyes to drive home the point.

At least for the time being he had escaped to help Lord Wyndemere in the armory, but soon enough he would be back to transcribing correspondence at his desk. Thank goodness he
was at least smart enough to read and write, to learn Latin and earn some sort of employment. Otherwise he would have rotted at home as the family pet for all eternity.

But as Lord Wyndemere himself so readily admitted, Timothy had grown invaluable to him in a few short years. His steady temperament the perfect complement to the earl’s impulsive ways. More and more often his lordship called upon him to help with a variety of tasks. Perhaps in time Timothy might gain favor. Perhaps please the king. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he worked terribly hard and made himself indispensable, he might earn a minor title and a small piece of land to call his own.

He inspected the shield before him to make sure it was perfect. No, it yet required one more round of buffing. So he continued.

Timothy was a patient man. He would do his job, await his opportunity, and then seize it with all his might. Someday he would conquer some foe, unveil some plot, perform some feat so legendary that he could no longer be ignored.

Some feat . . . like capturing the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest.

Merry Ellison surveyed the newly constructed camp. Their little huts were both durable and disguised to blend with the surrounding forest. Small children dashed and squealed through the circle between the dwellings as they played an energetic game of chase. How lovely to see them settled into their new home and behaving as normal, happy children once again.

The trek had taken weeks. They had skirted several large towns and walked through endless forests before coming to this area far to the west of their old camp. Finally the scouts spotted this perfect vale, surrounded on all sides by a ring of hills and with a creek nearby.

Merry took in a deep draught of air, tinged with Scotch pine and meadow flowers. Home again. At long last.

“Lady Merry, Lady Merry!” Abigail nearly crashed into Merry in her enthusiasm.

“Whoa there.” Merry caught her by the shoulders as the youngster slid to a halt.

“I’ve lost my tooth.” With great pride, the child held the bloody, hollowed tooth for examination.

“Oh, how . . .” Merry quelled the churning of her stomach. “How wonderful.”

“Gilbert tumbled me to the ground, and I bumped my chin and it fell out from right here. Look!” She pointed to the gaping hole in her gum. “But don’t you worry. Been loose for weeks, it has.”

Merry did take a moment to look—at far more than Abigail’s bleeding gumline. The child’s blond hair shimmered in the sunshine to match the healthy golden glow upon her skin. Though her tunic was a bit grubby and rumpled, it was made of fine lavender linen.

Each of the children owned several tunics now, as well as warm woolen cloaks, and sturdy shoes. Although they lived a rough life by Merry’s former standards, she had never seen the peasant children so plump, healthy, and well-dressed back in their home village. When they first escaped, many of them had been dressed in tattered brown rags.

Little Wren wobbled up beside them upon her chubby toddler legs. “Ma-wee, Ma-wee. Me have teeth!” She grinned with teeth together and gums spread wide to display a row of tiny teeth the color of pearls. Then she began to cough. A rough, croaking cough.

Merry withheld a frown. For the past two autumns, Wren had been struck by a malady of the lungs. Might it be starting again? Merry determined to check her supply of herbal remedies
soon. But no need to concern the child now. “Those are lovely, my little Wren. Be sure you let Abigail scrape them clean with a stick each night before bedtime.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wren stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Merry doubted many of the children had cleaned their teeth before she took over their care.

Even their huts looked better constructed than the wattle-and-daub homes of the peasant village surrounding her father’s castle. Though she had long considered her father a fair and brave man for standing against the king, she now considered their entire social order as fundamentally unjust.

Red poked his head through the doorway of the largest construction project—a wooden fort of sorts, which could serve as a storage facility, group dining hall, meeting place, and even a school when time allowed. “Lady Merry.”

Just plain
Merry
, she grumbled to herself, knowing saying it aloud would accomplish nothing. “Yes, Red.”

“The council of elders is ready for you.”

Council of elders, indeed. Merry held back a grin at the ludicrous title. When first they had all been orphaned, she appointed this group of “elders” to help her lead. At the time they had ranged in age from thirteen to fifteen. Now, two years later, this esteemed group ranged from fifteen to her own seventeen years of age. She thought giving them an impressive title would instill confidence, and somehow it had. Even for her.

If only her beloved older brother had not gone back to help on that ill-fated night. If only he had stayed with the children as her father instructed. If only . . . Her life was full of
if only
s. If only her father had not plotted against the king. If only King John was not so epically evil.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. Focusing upon what could have been served little purpose.

But somehow their band of raggedy orphans had managed eight seasons alone in the woods, outside of the law, keeping everyone alive. Even their precious Wren, the infant they had carried into the forest that horrible night.

“God give you good day,” she said to Big Charles as she ducked through the low doorway of the hut, and he merely nodded. Charles rarely spoke. Due to his childish mind and huge size, he had been assigned as permanent guard of the camp, a task he performed with admirable diligence.

Inside the dim room with walls of woven branches waited Red, Cedric, James, Allen, Kate, and Jane, all in a semicircle. Merry assumed an air of dignity she did not feel and lowered herself onto a large stump. She pulled back her hood, giving them an unobscured view of her feminine features and hair. Although she had bobbed her brown tresses to chin length long ago, the silken curls would ever give her away as a girl.

She cleared her throat. “Welcome to the first official meeting in our new home.”

They cheered.

“Let us begin with reports. Kate, you first, please.”

“Supplies are holding.” Kate brushed her own straggly brown hair from her eyes with a regal air of authority. These former peasants took great pride in their new positions. “We have plenty for two fortnights, assuming hunting, fishing, and minor raids continue with the same degree of success.”

“Fishing and hunting are going well,” reported Red.

“Raids upon wealthy townsfolk and manor homes have proven profitable, although I still wish we would leave some sort of token,” Cedric said, with an incorrigible wiggle of his eyebrows. “The Ghosts of Farthingale Forest strike again. Perhaps a single wisp of white cloth.”

“That would serve no purpose but to demonstrate our
arrogance and leave a trail.” Although amused by his wit, Merry glared in his direction.

He sat a little straighter. “I merely jest, Lady Merry. Of course I would never do such a thing. Anonymity is our friend.”

“Stealth . . . ” Kate opened the chant, and they all joined in. “ . . . anonymity, and restraint. These are our allies. These three we shall never betray.”

“Excellent.” Merry clapped her hands together. “Let us never forget it. This pledge has taken us further than we ever dreamed.”

“And now we have an entire coffer of gold coins to guard,” said Allen, head of camp security.

That gold had lain heavy upon Merry’s mind since the moment she had stolen it. The chest contained much more than she had imagined. A small fortune. She feared she had made a dreadful error that would move the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest from fanciful local legend to notorious thieves worthy of capture. But the deed could not be undone. “When we resume full-scale missions, some of the men must always stay behind to help Big Charles guard the camp. And the time has come to train the boys who have passed ten years of age since our initial formation. How many is that, Jane?”

Jane served as surrogate mother to the younger children. She had a commendable system for organizing them and assigning tasks. “Only three boys have passed their tenth birthdays since the first round was trained, but I believe Sadie fancies herself the next Lady Merry. Methinks she will insist to be trained as well. She’s already quite handy with the bow.”

“Four, then,” said Merry. “Excellent. Allen, you can begin training at once. And do not dare go easy on Sadie.”

Years ago, all the older girls besides Merry had chosen traditional female roles. Excitement thrummed through her at the
thought of raising up another woman warrior. “Be tough on that girl.”