The Bard Speaks (6 page)

But to the ladies’ surprise, not one bounty hunter came forth even though all of them were tempted. The bounty was unsavory, the first put on the life of a woman and not just any woman. Ella Bandita had her admirers. Perhaps it was fortunate coincidence, but entire villages were liberated from oppression whenever she conquered a tyrant. Many were grateful she destroyed the Patron who made their lives a misery.

The last to hear about the reward was the man who accepted, the one most despised in his profession. This Bounty Hunter was a roughneck to his core, empty of scruples and full of greed. He almost looked like a dwarf with his short limbs and powerful torso; his large head and wide face covered with shaggy black hair and beard. When he promised the women relief from their distress, he seemed absurd to them. He hardly looked their picture of a hero, but he was the only man who came forth, so they were cordial to him. Not that he would have cared if they’d been rude. The thought of that fortune made his mouth water.

Once the bounty was accepted, Ella Bandita formally became an outlaw. The lawmen announced she was to be brought to them alive.

The Bounty Hunter started in early spring, at the start of fashionable seasons that would last through the summer. The Thief of Hearts would be on the prowl, but the Bounty Hunter was confident he’d find her within weeks. However, his prey proved more elusive. Months passed as he traced her haunts as he heard about them, scouring the country, following fresh tracks he believed would lead him to her. But she was always gone by the time he arrived. This infuriated him. Like most greedy people, the Bounty Hunter was miserly. He probably would have quit if he hadn’t gone through a small fortune of his own in his search for Ella Bandita. The lighter his purse became, the more his obsession grew. The fashionable seasons were coming to an end and he had spent almost everything he had. By the time he found his lead, he was bitter.

Several days before, Ella Bandita struck in the last of a series of fashion towns, but the witnesses there gave the same answers they had everywhere else. The work was tedious and the Bounty Hunter was no closer to his mark. His frustration got the better of him and, one day, he ignored his afternoon appointments to run his mare through the woods.

During his ride, he came to a bald spot in the trees. The undergrowth had been brushed away, leaving raw earth dotted with tufts of small green shoots. He pulled his horse to a stop and sniffed. He swore smoke still lingered in the air as he dismounted. Plowing the earth with one foot, he dragged the clearing until he found what he was looking for— bits of charred wood. Digging deeper, he found ashes mixed with larger pieces of wood where a fire pit had been buried. When he found a scrap of cloth, likely torn from a tent, he knew he had found her shelter. He scanned the site, imagining how it must have looked a month before when Ella Bandita made her camp there.

The Bounty Hunter shook his head over the money he spent on lodgings where he assumed a lone woman would reside. What a fool he had been. Everybody he spoke with said she had the grubby look of a vagabond. He never considered the woods and if he had, he would have found her months ago. All the cities and villages she traveled had a forest beyond the town walls, usually just outside the gates. His heart pounded when he imagined the fortune that would be his now that he knew where to hunt.

He found her two weeks later.

Ella Bandita struck again in a small village at the edge of the ocean, an unusual choice for her. This place had not the amusements that attracted people of fashion. Those who came were drawn to this town for the repose of morning walks on the shore, afternoons spent reading or in relaxed conversation. Evenings found the cafes and bistros crowded with visitors enjoying the seafood that made the village famous.

Her conquest wasn’t a gentleman on holiday, but the man who ruled there.

His family had the patronage for generations, all of them brutal and unforgiving. If the villagers had the good fortune of a fair and honest Patron, they could have prospered. Recipes were passed down only through families in this village renowned for its cuisine. But the penalties were so high and easily given, it was impossible for anybody to earn their way out of debt and the last of their Patrons was the worst of them all.

He committed his wife to a convent because she didn’t give him any heirs. He couldn’t divorce her, but that didn’t stop him from interfering in the courtship between two people in love. The girl got his attention with the deep flush to her cheeks and her rounded hips. She was the seventh born of ten and she looked just like her mother. When the Patron declared she was to be the mother of his children, her horrified distress and the anguish of her sweetheart didn’t move him in the least. He announced the date for the ceremony marking the occasion, so their pairing started with the proper respect.

Fortunately for the bride, the outlaw Ella Bandita liberated the girl from such a miserable fate, luring the groom to his downfall on the eve of their nuptials. He was found the next morning on the sands, waves crashing at his feet. The hard lines of his face were slack, his eyes vacant. The Patron had been cruel and despotic, but the villagers were shaken by what happened, incapable of their usual reserve. The Bounty Hunter arrived the day after the Patron met his doom and couldn’t believe his luck at the news. Ella Bandita might still be in the woods outside the village. And if she wasn’t, there would be a fresh trail.

He went straight to the forest and searched all day. He didn’t find her until early evening, and he was convinced she eluded him again until he smelled smoke. The Bounty Hunter tracked the scent, walking his horse deeper in the trees, the leaves getting their first golden spots. He saw the sun hovering above the horizon and hoped the smoke would lead him to his quarry. He had about an hour of light left.

Then he saw her. His eye caught tongues of flame a hundred steps away, and when he saw a woman pass in front of the fire, his heart began to pound. He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree, feeling that rush of pleasure the moment he found his prey. He walked over ferns to smother his footfalls, his senses coming alive and the Bounty Hunter made his way to Ella Bandita.

She looked just like the descriptions he gathered. A blonde woman with savage features and bedraggled dress, she wore breeches as he heard she often did. He was startled to see she also wore a holster with a pistol and dagger on her right, a small leather pouch on her left.

“Take her from the right,” he muttered.

The Bounty Hunter hid behind a tree, needing all his self-command to wait for the right time to move. She was the longest hunt of his career, and cost him nearly everything. Droplets of sweat sprouted on his brow at the thought of the wealth that would be his, feverish with his vision of life as a Patron. He pushed that fantasy to the back of his mind and forced himself to track her rhythm. Once he knew the pattern of motion unique to Ella Bandita, he could easily fall in step with her and catch her off guard. She was taller than he was and her stride was long. She secured her bags on the largest horse he’d ever seen, his limbs folded so she could reach its back, showing no tension of one who knows she’s being watched.

When she passed by the fire again, he fell in at her back, stretching his short legs to step into her gait. After three strides, he swung his right arm around to pin both of hers, unbuckled her holster and tossed it aside. Before he could bring his hand to her mouth, he yelled in surprise. Leading with the sharp heel of her boot, the woman kicked his shin and weakened his hold enough to jab her elbow in his stomach. He recovered and pulled her right arm behind her back, but the notorious Thief of Hearts did not surrender easily. She fought him in silence, kicking his other shin. He dropped to the ground and scissored her legs between his. Then she grabbed a roll of soft belly and twisted the flesh between her fingers. He pressed her chest and face into the earth with the heft of his trunk and pulled both hands above her head, heaving for air as he lay on her back.

The Bounty Hunter finally had her.

He knew his weight was a burden, but his prisoner managed to turn her head aside, glaring at him with one eye.

“So, you’re Ella Bandita,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for months.”

“What do you want?”

“I just got what I wanted, you.”

“Why?”

“You have quite a price on your head.”

“Really?” She sounded amused. “There’s a bounty on me?”

“Only the largest ever for one criminal. Congratulations, that’s quite an honor.”

“Who put up the reward?”

“You’ve made some enemies amongst the wives and the courtesans. Each week, another scorned woman dumps her gold into the pot.”

Ella Bandita laughed, her body shaking, but she never looked away from him. Her gaze was penetrating, even as she glared at him with one eye. Her tone of voice was almost pleasant when she spoke, but he could hear the menace underneath.

“Let me go, Bounty Hunter.”

“Forget it. It cost me everything to find you.”

“Not yet it hasn’t,” she chuckled. “It’s better to enjoy the life you know than chase one you’ll never have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I promise you that pot of gold is nothing more than a pipe dream.”

He had to hand it to her. She was a fighter. He always liked the ones with spirit, but never enough to let them go. And his other prisoners were men.

When he accepted this bounty, he never considered the legendary allure of his quarry a threat. He was a man driven by greed more than lust. Then his search endured for months, and his focus became obsession. All he thought about was the reward and becoming a Patron. He ignored the urges of his flesh for so long, the heat emanating from her body caught him off guard and stirring up his arousal that was intense in its need. It had been too long since he had a woman.

She cursed when he pressed against her, gripping her wrists with one hand and pulled his pants down. Her body was rigid before he reached for her breeches and pulled them to her knees. He tried to push between her legs, but she held fast against him.

“We both know I’ll take what I want,” he said. “This is nothing you’ve never done before, so why make it hard on yourself?”

He pushed his knee against her again, but her limbs were unrelenting. He sighed and pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her face.

“Well, aren’t you mighty?” she snorted. “At least be man enough to rape me to my face, Bounty Hunter.”

She glared at him, her one eye glittering.

“Fine,” he shrugged. “If that’s what you want. Any way suits me.”

He kept his hold on her wrists and rolled off her, surprised he felt her limbs relax. She wasn’t the type to surrender. Ella Bandita smiled at him once she was on her back and the Bounty Hunter knew he just made the worst mistake of his life.

He didn’t see the crystal at the base of her throat until it was too late. Half the sun had fallen below the horizon, but the deep orange glow poured through the trees and lit up its facets. Colors whirled around him and the ground disappeared, the world falling away. He breathed into the hiss of a predator and his will dissolved. Ella Bandita held his heart up to his face, but all he could see was her eyes, the coldest he’d ever seen.

“You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance, Bounty Hunter.”

It was a week before he was found. He may have died in those woods a forgotten man had it not been for the hunger of his horse. Once the old mare ate everything around her, she couldn’t reach the greens beyond the tree where she was bound. The nag made a ruckus of noise until a couple of watchmen came into the woods. The empty saddle on her back filled them with dread. They searched until they saw the Bounty Bunter in the deserted camp, his glazed eyes and witless expression telling on his fate before he said a word.

“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart,” he said. “…and ate it.”

****

The Bard’s voice was the last to weaken. He was just barely heard over the muffle of wheels rolling along the well-traveled road. The driver took care to keep the horses at a gentle pace to make the journey as comfortable as possible; and inside the carriage, the Bard's grandson, their Patron and Patroness listened with all their being. They were patient when the Bard stopped talking to catch his breath, their eyes misty. They were certain they would be the last people to have the honor of hearing him speak.

Nothing was left of the vigor he had most of his life. Flesh over bone all that remained of his powerful build. But his eyes hadn’t changed, his dark gaze as piercing as ever. The end of his life was near, but the Bard still made the trip to see his grandson off. He had grown into a fine looking youth, tall and lean, with long limbs and the same black eyes as his grandfather, his face framed with unkempt dark curls.

Their Patron and Patroness insisted on making the journey with them. They claimed their most comfortable carriage was ideal for the peak of autumn when the air was too bracing to ride in the open air. They said they would be honored to take the grandson to port and bring the Bard home. As thanks, the old man passed the time with one of his tales.

“The wretched fate of the Bounty Hunter spread faster than an inferno. Expensive ladies despaired she would ever be stopped. Men of the world were horrified they should ever cross paths with her. Yet the danger fascinated. Each man wanted to be the one strong enough to resist Ella Bandita, and her conquests were more than ever.”

His audience laughed, their applause starting two beats after the finish.

“You tell the most remarkable stories,” said their Patron, a twinkle in his eyes. “But I certainly hope I never attract the notice of your villainess.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said the Bard. “She leaves the good men alone.”

The Patroness grinned at him and winked.

“Bard, I’m getting the impression you admire your Ella Bandita.”

“She’s as wicked a woman as ever lived. But truth be told, I kind of do.”