Arrow To The Heart (De Bron Saga) (2 page)

“Lenient!
It’s December—winter.  A time when a man most surely needs his garments.”

“You are a wealthy
Norman. You can replace them as easily as a snake replaces his skin.”

Kendrick's parting words were unfit for gentle ears, a rumble of swearing. "Your father should have been gelded to prevent the spawn of such a son," he said over one shoulder before he disappeared through the trees.
             

By way of a vine the archer returned to his perch high in the tree and watched as the ti
ny procession left the woods. "My father sired no son, Norman, but a daughter.  'T was the Lady Rowena who bested you just now, and no other."  With a rustle as soft as the wind,
she
was gone, to bide her time until another day.

Chapter Two

"BiGod, barefoot and half-naked. What an impression I will make on the Prince," Kendrick grumbled as he clenched tightly to the horse’s reins. He was still smarting from his encounter with the young archer, but he would not allow himself to be humbled. He would not!

“The prince, indeed!” Chadwick was indignant. “If you ask me, ‘T is his duty to see that honest folk be able to ride through England’s forests without being accosted by roguish thieves.”

Humbley’s long hair swished from side to side as he shook his head. “Such a thing would not have happened across the channel.
Mais no
, as the French would say.”

“Aye, but it happened here, ”Kendrick exclaimed, “and that has changed our plans somewhat, I fear.” Oh, how he regretted now his decision to travel on ahead of his baggage.

Indeed, they did find themselves in quite a quandary. Here they were deep in the forest, in winter, three men with only two horses. The servants understood why their lord was in a quarrelsome mood. Having lost his horse, Kendrick had no other choice but to ride with one of them, that being Chadwick, whose lean form would leave more room for Kendrick to comfortably sit at the front of the saddle. Humbley’s poor horse was doing well, meanwhile, to support Humbley.

“It has changed everything. You wanted to make a grand entrance but now….. Oh, what shall we do!” Chadwick’s mournful wail sounded in Kendrick’s ear.

“Wring that blasted lad’s neck!” Kendrick answered as he stared broodingly across the River Trent. Nottingham Castle lay far to the south of this seemingly endless forest. Would he ever get there? At the moment it didn’t seem so.

Humbley seemed to read his lord’s thoughts. “Yon forest goes on forever……”

“Or at least it might as well,” Chadwick observed.

Sherwood Forest stretched northwards for more than twenty miles from Nottingham and the
Trent. It was a journey made even more cumbersome now considering the circumstances. Despite that fact, Kendrick’s anger soon gave way to common sense. He had to think clearly, had to make the best of what had happened.

“Somehow, someway, I have to find some proper garments and
footwear, for I will not set foot in that castle looking beggardly.” Nor in fact did he want to have to tell John the story of his fleecing. That would hardly be a way to earn the prince’s confidence.

“Find garments?” Humbley cried out.

“And footwear….” Chadwick echoed.

How were they going to supply their lord with clothing suitable for his upcoming meeting with John? Neither short, stocky Humbley, nor tall, lean Chadwick, owned anything suitable for such an audience. Nor in truth could Kendrick wear their clothes even if they did have anything suitable.
Even though Kendrick was tall, he was not as skinny as Chadwick. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. Humbley’s garments, to the contrary, would be far too large. Even so, because they desperately wanted to please him, they offered up their own clothes.

The generosity of his servants’ gesture touched Kendrick. “Nay. ‘T
is better to find another way.

The relationship between Kendrick and his two servants was one of complete devotion. Humbley and Chadwick had remained loyal to Kendrick and the de Brons throughout all of the past yea
rs’ misfortunes. They too longed for the return of the lost power and prestige once claimed by the lord and his family and to the superiority that their own once well-lived lifestyle had provided.

“Another way.” Humbley thought a long while then exclaimed, “Per..perhaps we could do what that pesky lad did and…and steal some garments.” He was proud of that idea.

“Steal?” Chadwick was indignant. “Steal from whom?” It was true. The forest seemed to be deserted. There were no travelers this late time of evening.

“Why…why from some fine lord or other journeying along this rutted road.” Humbley looked Kendrick up and down. “Hopefully one who is close to my lord de Bron’s size.”

“Forsooth, steal indeed.” Chadwick looked down his nose at his fellow serving companion. “Even if we were to come upon some nobleman or other, we dare not take a chance on such an action, lest we find ourselves in dire trouble.”

“Well spoke,
Chad.” Kendrick gently chastised his other servant. “We must use caution, Humbley, and adhere to all of the prince’s fine rules. We are no longer under the French king’s jurisdiction. From now on all ways are John’s way.” He emphasized, “All ways.”

Humbley chuckled. “What ye mean, my lord de Bron, is that from now on Chadwick and I will be
kissing John Lackland’s noble ass.”

“A crude assessment, but true, I fear. If we do not want to spend the rest of our lives as exiles we might well have to learn to be compliant.” Though the de Brons had come from
Normandy, Kendrick felt a much stronger kinship with England. He wanted very much to stay. If that meant putting up with a few of Prince John’s idiosyncrasies, so be it.

“Most certainly we do not want to look like exiles,” Chadwick exclaimed, getting back to the subject at hand.

“Most particularly we do not want ye to look like a peasant, my lord de Bron. We must find a cloak, boots and tunic.”

“And a horse.” Chadwick sighed wistfully, longing as it were to once more be riding alone.

“Surely somewhere beyond this foul forest is a village.” Perhaps if they were truly lucky they might even find a tailor. One who could work a miracle. Surely, that was what was needed.

Kendrick and his men traveled all night, stopping periodically along the way when it became necessary. It was a slow and tedious trip but at last with the first light of day they saw the village nestled along the east bank of the river. Now they knew their haste was going to be rewarded.

Even at this early morning hour the village was a place of bustle, clutter, and commotion. The squeal of cart wheels, the clip-clop of horses, the bawling of hogs being butchered, the shouts of peddlers and tinkers, the hissing of geese, the crow of roosters, the barking of dogs, the laughter and the high-pitched voices of children, were a sharp contrast to the soft night sounds of the forest.

Stone construction was still rare in
England, thus the small houses were timber-framed with walls of wattle and daub. The thatched-roofed dwellings stood at odd angles with fences and embankments fronting the street. Near the river was a small village green, the manor house and the mill, which was powered by three oaken waterwheels. Across the narrow dirt road stood a communal oven where the villagers were obliged to bring their bread. It was the stone stable, however, that immediately drew Kendrick’s interest. Besides housing cows, oxen, carts, tools and harnesses, it sheltered a few fine horses which belonged to the lord of the manor.

“I want the black one. See to it, Humbley.”

Succumbing to the lure of the coins that the manservant had hidden beneath his tunic, the manor lord soon parted with that fine animal. Kendrick was pleased, yet because of the bargain made he did swear beneath his breath that he had been robbed yet again.

“Alas, I fear a tailor in this place is as scarce as hen’s teeth, however, my lord.” Though
Chad and Humbley went from door to door they were met with either blank expressions or looks of suspicion. Sometimes they were even shown out-and-out hostility.

“An uncooperative lot.”

“Poor and slovenly!”

“Aye, ‘tis a far cry from the French court and the wealthy towns thereby
,” Humbley added. “Forsooth, even that manor lord looked a bit tattered and torn.”

It was true. The villagers appeared to be far from prosperous. Undoubtedly they were suffering from difficult times. Perhaps that was why Kendrick’s sorry state of undress had not even been gawked at. Dressed, or rather undressed as he was, he was still better attired than many of the villagers.

“Because of Richard’s crusade,” Kendrick quickly concluded. “He needed a great deal of coinage to further the lust for his own vanity.” He was scornful of the king’s ferocious and savage warfare which had sucked the dominions almost dry of funds. All the while Richard had been an absent king. Meanwhile the venture had enjoyed limited success, for it had proven to be impossible to regain Jerusalem.

“Alas, the politics of the day which has benefited the few has impoverished the many,” Chadwick said dryly.

“Thus…..we will find no fine garments here.”

But they did locate an old brewhouse where they stopped for a drink of ale and a breakfast of pigeon pie. The murky wooden dwelling stunk of stale wine and recently brewed ale but after the long ride Kendrick, Chadwick and Humbley welcomed it. It felt good to be sitting on something besides a saddle.

“To the future here,” Chadwick toasted, taking a seat besides de Bron on the hard bench. “And to John. May he be an understanding soul.”

“To John.” Ta
king a drink of the ale, Kendrick scanned the crowd, noting their worn Phrygian caps, hoods and faded dun-colored garments. Like all those who worked hard for a meager existence, they were old before their time, their faces drawn and frowning.

“Not an overly jolly log,” Humbley observed.

“Not at all….” Kendrick said beneath his breath. Though he had tried hard over the years to put aside all recollections of his own heritage, it all came cruelly back to him now. He was bastard born, the son of a Saxon villein—Zabrina—and Reynard de Bron, the brutal Norman feudal lord who had taken her against her will. He had been born in a poor village much like this one to people much like these.

Villeins. Peasants. Serfs
. That was what Kendrick’s once noble Saxon family had been reduced to over the years. Just like these people they had worked hard and died young, always giving to their overlords, taxed beyond their means. His mother had died in childbirth, a victim of her fate. Kendrick too would have died it not for his Aunt Kendra and the fierce pride and sense of rebellion that had burned inside her veins. A pride and rebellion that had goaded her to  escape the sad reality of her fate and climb beyond. A pride he didn’t want to forget…..

“They do not seem to welcome visitors.” Chadwick’s voice startled Kendrick out of his musing.

“Nay, I do not suppose that they would.” And why should they? Strangers who came to the village undoubtedly came not to give but to take. Sadly, Kendrick let his eyes move over the men gathered under the brewhouse’s roof.

In response the brewhouse’s patrons were appraising Kendrick and his two men, doing little to hide the fact that they thought them to be intruders here. They were, in fact, openly hostile.

“God’s teeth, they act as if their poverty was our doing!” Humbley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not our doing but John’s, or so I heard the villagers whisper.” Chadwick pointed out the obvious, that unjust taxes, raised land rents and wrongful fines had taken a severe toll
.

For just a moment something inside Kendrick wanted to cry out himself against the injustice of it all. It was not right that men could so mistreat other men and proclaim themselves lords and masters. Instead, he merely clenched his jaw and aid, “What is done here is John’s business.”

Nevertheless, Humbley made it a point to let some of the villagers in on the injustice that had been dealt his lord. “Robbed he was, by as fierce an archer as was ever looked upon.” Motioning with his hands he made it appear that the archer had been at least six feet tall. Kendrick’s misfortune in the forest, however, was being heralded with little sympathy.

“Why, they even seem to condone such thievery.” A fact which
galled Kendrick, doubly so when he saw with his very own eyes why. “My cloak!”

Sweeping into the small room of the brewhouse, one of the villagers wore it proudly.

“BiGod!”

Perhaps had it been any other time, Kendrick would have allowed the poor man to keep his newly acquired treasure. As it was, the truth of his own desperation goaded him into action. Rec
ognizing the fine woolen fabric, Kendrick rose to his feet and moved forward to get it back.

In response several of the villagers came up against him, forming a protective wall. They might give in to those to whom they owed fealty, but they would not give in to him.

“That cloak is mine! Give it back.”

“Nay, for it belongs to him now.”

Despite his frustration, Kendrick was forced to back away lest there be trouble. Nor was the cloak the only stolen item that resurfaced. Kendrick’s tunic and boots were likewise discovered adorning new and very thankful owners. True to his word, the young archer had given them away. In the end, the only way that the lord de Bron was able to retrieve his garments was to buy them back at a ridiculously high price. Was it any wonder then that as he and his servants rode out of the village he seemed to hear a voice within his head laughing at him?

“That damnable archer….” Looking over his shoulder he almost imagined that he saw him, hiding again in the trees. Ah, but to his relief as he traveled on his way he realized it was naught but an illusion. Or had it been?

Oh, the excitement of it all! The exhilaration! Rowena laughed aloud as she climbed through the window of an old thatched-roof cottage in the village.