Dauntless (Valiant Hearts Book #1) (5 page)

Eyes trained on Red, he finally spotted his moment.

The battle fever in Allen’s blood pitched to a new level. Using one of the tumbling maneuvers he had practiced again and again, he dove forward, rolled on the ground, and knocked Red off his feet. Red’s weapon flew from his hand. With a bound, Allen was standing again, practice sword denting into the flesh at Red’s throat.

“Ho!” shouted James.

“Good show!” Cedric ran over to thump Allen on the back.

“I guess we know at least one warrior who shall be heading north.” James grinned.

Allen let up the pressure on Red’s neck, and Red stood and brushed himself off. “Do not discount me so soon. I shall best him the next time.”

“’Tis what you said the last time.” Cedric guffawed.

“Yes, well, let’s see how
you
fare against me.” Red snatched up his sword and returned to battle stance.

Cedric grabbed his own sword. “Is that a challenge?”

“Of course it is.”

Allen put a good-natured arm around James’s slender shoulder and drew him out of the way. James was only fifteen, but he had sharp natural instincts for battle, and he had proven to be a quick learner. Soon enough, he would be able to take on any of them. “You shall battle Cedric next. Now, in the spirit of knowing your opponent, what must you remember with Cedric?”

“He always leads to the left, and he gives away when he is about to strike by scrunching his lips together.”

Allen squeezed James’s shoulder, then let him go. “Exactly—like a girl searching for a kiss.”

They shared a chuckle over the comic image of Cedric preparing to strike.

“But keep in mind that with a true opponent you must think on your feet, James. Studying them, surveying them, even as you fight.”

James offered a wry expression. “You’ve told me that nigh on a thousand times.”

“And I shall tell you a thousand more.” Allen gave James a little shove. He wanted nothing more in the world than to keep these children safe. Having lost one family already, he would not lose another.

He leaned against his sword and mopped sweat from his brow, enjoying a moment of respite while Red and Cedric clashed weapons. The two had become skilled warriors and did not require his attention. Thus, he allowed his focus to wander to Sadie, who flipped neatly back and forth upon the balancing board.

Years ago, he had hidden behind the stables and watched a young Lady Merry perform just such tricks with the band of traveling tumblers—much as he had watched Lord Ellison’s soldiers train in the castle courtyard, and as he had watched Merry and her brother, Percivale, play in the forest. But he had always observed from a distance, respecting the separation between the classes.
Those who labor, those who pray, those who fight—his father had drilled that into him again and again.
“We are those
who labor, a part of God’s great tapestry. His
divine plan. Be proud of it, my boy. Embrace it.
Never strive against your God-given destiny.”

Had his father suspected that he secretly wished for more? While Allen loved working the fields and watching the grain sprout and grow beneath his nurturing touch—and was willing to play his role in life—something within him always longed to fight and pray as well. To protect his family. To connect with the Divine. Now he filled all those roles and more.

The realization stole his breath away at times.

He turned to study Merry, with her striking features, peachy lips, and softly curling hair the color of roasted chestnuts. As much as his world had changed, there still remained lines he must not cross. Particularly, he must control that lodestone within him that drew him toward her with increasing fervency. Like the other day in town, when the compulsion to rub her trembling fingers in his own, to savor their supple smoothness, had nearly overtaken him. Thank the good Lord that bashfulness had held him back as much as anything else. He might tussle and cavort with the others, offer them embraces of encouragement, but he could not bring himself to give Lady Merry more than the briefest pat.

From the beginning he had supported her in leading the group. Despite his humble upbringing, he obeyed when she ordered him to learn reading and swordplay. Only in the area of their spiritual educations had he noticed a gap, which he happily filled. He had spent much of his childhood dogging the parish priest, asking question after question about the Scriptures and church traditions, and he slid naturally into such a role.

Considering their unfortunate position as outlaws, Allen felt all the more compelled to safeguard their spiritual well-being. He encouraged the others to think of themselves as dissidents and
warriors, not thieves. They had been thrust against their wills into this role of renegades, and they did only what they must to survive in a cruel kingdom. Allen held tight to that conviction that eventually a noble ruler would take the throne again, and he longed to take up the sword to assist the noble FitzWalter and his barons from the north in their quest to establish Louis of France as the new and rightful king.

Looking again to Wren cuddled in Merry’s arms, he suppressed a desire to feel Merry’s arms around him thus and trained his eyes upon Sadie instead. He recalled watching Merry do partner tumbling tricks with the leader of the troupe that had visited Ellsworth Castle all those years ago, a brawny fellow with graying hair. Allen had often thought to try such tricks with her, except that he would never dare to touch her so intimately.

Perhaps he could give a try with Sadie, flipping her about his shoulders and allowing her to balance on his hands. Although it might not be helpful in battle, it certainly would prove entertaining for the others.

But he would put first matters first. And the first matter involved gathering supplies to feed the children this winter.

As he turned to encourage the new trainees, Henry dashed down the hill in a panic, interrupting the day’s practice. “Intruders! Intruders in the forest. To the hideaway. Quickly.”

The children burst into action. Clearing the circle. Covering the fire pit with leaves. Reinforcing the camouflage. Each having practiced their assigned task to precision.

Allen gathered the training equipment as Merry hustled Wren into the main building. Within moments he waved the last of the children through the door and ducked inside to join them in the shadowy room. He counted the group, taking a moment to peruse their faces.

Their silence unnerved him. This was no way for them to live.

Robert scanned the clearing as he manned the opening. “Methinks ’tis everyone,” he whispered, pulling closed the leaf-covered doorway, which would blend with the forest from a distance.

Counting heads for a second time, Allen hoped from the core of his being to discover he had been mistaken. But once again he came up short. Twenty-two. One missing.

His stomach clenched tight. “Gilbert!”

Timothy, riding upon his faithful mount, Spartacus, broke through the dense trees into a wash of sunlight at the top of a rise. He pulled to a stop. Though the earl had been gone three days already, Timothy had been overcome with castle business until this afternoon. He had less than two weeks left to catch the thieves before his lordship returned.

With a crackle of branches, his retinue of three castle guards—Hadley, Bradbury, and White—joined him upon the hilltop and reined in beside him. They were some of the earl’s best men—men trusted to maintain the secretive nature of this mission. Timothy did not wish for word to get out that they searched for the ghosts, lest they scare them away. The guards wore surcoats emblazoned with the earl’s gold-and-red coat of arms, but at least they’d left their chain mail at the castle, else the ghosts would be frightened off by its noisy jangling for certain.

He took a moment to survey the terrain. A valley with a stream flowing through the center, surrounded by more hills and more trees. To most, the forest looked much the same, yet he recognized this precise location. Frederick had once shoved him to the ground near yon boulder as they fought over who would take credit for the day’s kill of a feisty hare. And he had splashed in that very stream on a warm summer’s day with Derek and Randolph.

Hadley leaned over his warhorse and sighed. “Which way now, Grey?”

Grey.
Not Sir Grey, nor Lord Grey, nor even a polite Mister Grey, as one might expect from a guard of lowly birth. But surely the parish priest would call such prideful thoughts a sin. Once upon a time Timothy had troubled himself with thoughts of love and family, not of power and fame.

He would petition God for forgiveness later, but for now he answered, “Let us continue straight north, as we have been heading. That direction is full of these vales, any one of which could provide an excellent lair for our thieves.”

“Any of which might be, or might have been, this exact same valley, for all we know.” Hadley snorted back a laugh.

Bradbury managed to remain stoic, but White covered his mouth with his gloved hand to hide a smile.

Hadley continued, “I would swear we’ve been going in circles for well nigh an hour.”

Timothy hardened his gaze and clenched his jaw. He must not waver. He must not let these men undermine his newfound authority for even a moment. “Do you question my good judgment, man? For I feel obligated to mention that, in doing so, you question the good judgment of the Earl of Wyndemere, who entrusted me with this mission.”

Hadley cleared his throat. “I apologize. I meant only to jest, as we do amongst ourselves.” He jerked his head in the direction of his fellow guards.

Timothy’s jaw unclenched. Perhaps he had been too harsh. Soldiers did joke so. Perhaps he should be honored that they treated him as one of their own. “No, I apologize. I misunderstood.”

“I must confess.” White swept his hand in the direction of the valley. “The terrain all looks much the same to me. But if anyone knows this land, it would be you and your brothers.”

“Ah yes.” Hadley rubbed his dark-bearded chin. “I had forgotten. Your father is the Baron of Greyham, is he not?”

“Yes, these are our family lands. Our Manor adjoins the forest to the west.”

“This all seems rather pointless, though,” said Hadley. “If indeed the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest have come here to roost, I suspect they would not be easily spied by a group of noisy soldiers on horseback.”

“I have been thinking the same.” Before he left, Lord Wyndemere had insisted Timothy bring a contingent of guards on his search. But Timothy had already decided he would need to return to the woods alone and on foot later. “However, we might catch sight of footprints or a fire pit, a piece of fabric, perhaps. Stay alert for anything that could point to human habitation.”

“In the meantime, why don’t we hunt for a fine stag, as we are supposedly doing?” Bradbury slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled an arrow from his quiver. “What good is a hunting party that catches nothing? It will help to heighten our senses and keep us alert. We can bring home supper, if nothing else.”

“Might as well have a bit of fun while we’re about it, I say.” Hadley grinned.

“Why not? But let us leave the mounts behind for a while.” Timothy hopped down to tether his horse, and his men did likewise. He nocked his bow, then led them stealthily down the valley and up the other side.

How he adored this lush world of green and brown. All the vibrant memories it stirred. So different than his shadowy, grey existence at Castle Wyndemere. This forest fed a place deep in his soul. The cool wind grazing his cheek. The fresh scent of leaves and earth. The bright sound of birdsong. The— A snap of branches to his left drew his attention.

Thinking to spot a rabbit or a deer, he turned and drew back his bow. The guards followed suit. Something stepped through the thicket. As Timothy’s fingers twitched to release the bowstring, a child’s blue tunic alerted him. “Halt,” Timothy commanded his men before tragedy struck.

The small boy took one look at them, and his eyes grew huge. He tossed a bucket of berries into the air and dashed back into the bushes.

Timothy gave chase. What was such a young child doing alone in the woods, leagues from the nearest village? “Wait! Stop! We will not harm you. You are in no trouble with us. Please, let us help you.”

Hadley soon caught up to the child and spun him around.

The boy trembled. His chin quivered as if he might cry, but he drew himself up to his full height, which must have been all of four feet, and bit his lip. Judging by his missing tooth, the child could be no more than seven years of age. “I’m sorry, m’lord. Please don’t whip me. I’ve been lost in the forest for ever so long. I didn’t mean to steal your berries, I didn’t. But I got so hungry, you see.”

Timothy did not wish to frighten the boy further, but he also did not wish for the guards to think him weak. “I see no reason to press charges in such a case. Do you agree, men?”

“I suppose anyone might grow hungry when lost in the forest. No harm done,” said White.

Hadley and Bradbury nodded their agreement.

“Then never fear, little one. You shall not be tried for thievery under my watch.” Timothy crouched down to put himself at the boy’s height and ruffled his brown hair. He examined the clean freckled face, the healthy plumpness to the boy’s cheeks. Someone must be missing the lad terribly. “Tell us where you hail from, and we shall return you posthaste.”