Warrior's Moon A Love Story (33 page)

She slowly sat up, put a hand to her ribs to find that she was indeed bleeding and then carefully stood up.  Bartok would be far easier to ride anyway. 

It took twenty minutes to sneak in, get the painted horse, and sneak back out again.  She still didn’t have a saddle, but at least Bartok was tame and used to her.  As they picked their way through the trees back toward the roadway, she stretched her back and shoulders and rolled her neck, hoping her mother would eventually forgive her for being so blatantly disobedient.  Pulling the heavy cloak closer about her, she sighed.  This was looking like it was going to be a long, long night.

Far into the wee hours of the morning, she was beginning to wonder if she was hearing things because every other moment, she imagined she was being pursued.  She finally decided she was truly hearing someone coming and she got back off the road just in time to avoid being seen by two men who went galloping by on lathered horses.  Their horses’ labored breathing, white necks and flanks, and the pounding of their hooves were the only impressions she got as they went by.

Tiredly, she rode Bartok back out onto the road once they’d gone, and wondered if they were the same men who had been at Mordecai’s or if it was just another couple of highwaymen hoping to rob and murder a tired, lone traveler like herself on this dark and frightening road.

The sky was starting to lighten in the east, but she was still traveling and she began to fear she’d taken a completely wrong road altogether.  She should have been there by now.  Shouldn’t she?  When she’d come to Valais with Peyton and his friends, it had been a several hour ride from Rosskeene Manor, but that time they had gone straight from the manor to Valais.  Tonight, she had gone from the manor several hours across country to Navarre, thinking to give her message to Mordecai to deliver, and then from Navarre it was another four hours or so to Valais.  At least that’s what Peyton had told her once.

Still, even with all that distance, she definitely should have been there.  Trying to see in this darkest hour before dawn, she looked around for a high spot.  Maybe if she could get above the area around she could find something that looked familiar.  She traveled on up the road a way and then climbed to the only higher ground she could see and looked all around.  Nothing was familiar, but not far ahead there was a crossroad that would be labeled.  Maybe from there she would be able to figure out where Valais was.

Sitting Bartok at the crossroad, she shook her head in disgust.  She had indeed taken a wrong turn somewhere because the sign pointing to Valais was on an intersecting road.  She sighed and stretched, wishing she had brought more food with her.  She was starving.  At least the sign said Valais was only seven more miles.  There should still be time to make it before the funeral.  And it was getting light now.  Hopefully she could ride now without the suffocating fear that rode with her in the dark.

Resolutely, she pointed Bartok toward the city, wishing she had the energy to be more excited that she was going to be able to see Peyton.  Only seven more miles.  She wondered if she would be able to tell at all where to find him once she got there.

Slowly, as she rode in the gathering light, houses and farms began to appear more often.  Finally, the castle appeared in the distance and she felt a surge of hope.  She was almost there.  By the time she had come to a relatively solid gathering of dwellings she could see clearly in the early morning gloom, although there was no one about yet.  Except for that one small boy looking out the loft window above the shed there.  She glanced up at him, wondering why he wasn’t dressed warmer on this tooth chattering morning.

As she rode past, she looked curiously at the way the houses here seemed to be stacked one on top of each other.  It was a strange way to live from her perspective of having had the whole woods around her house to play in. 

Seeing movement, she glanced up to see that there were actually two more people about this early morning.  Two men.  Who were strangely familiar and just happened to be sitting their horses with crossbows pointed directly at her. 

Slamming her heels into Bartok, she literally leaped him down a side road away from where the two men were and raced for the space of a couple of houses and t
hen turned him up another lane.  Behind her she could hear their horse’s shoes clattering on the cobbles and she tried to evade them every time she thought it sounded like they’d changed directions.  Without a saddle, Bartok’s back was as slippery as a fish and she struggled to keep aboard him as they raced in and out of the tiny streets.

It would only be a matter of time until the two men split up and then they’d have her!  No sooner had she had that thought, than they did
split up and she ran Bartok even more frantically.  Once, as she turned past the corner of a house, something hit her a mighty blow to the back that near unseated her and left her with a fiery, burning pain all the way through her upper body.  She gasped in panic and kicked Bartok all the harder.  She didn’t have time to see what had just slammed into her, but a sickening suspicion that she had just been shot with an arrow made fear surge through her along with the searing pain.

People began to open shutters and look out and in desperation she raced back toward the main street and then ducked again into an alley and then into the open door of a barn there.  Leaping from the horse, she ran through the barn and out the small door on the other side and then into the next barn over, trying to ignore the seething pain that was now radiating through the entirety of her chest. 

She heard a sound behind her and whipped her head around to see if it was them as she began to search for some place, any place to hide, praying desperately all the while.  At first, in the dimness of the interior of the barn, she couldn’t tell what she was hearing and then a movement caught her eye.  The small boy she had seen in the top of a shed earlier materialized into a sun beam that cut through the alley of the barn.  He beckoned to her silently and she quickly followed him through another door and into a dark hallway that smelled of dust and cows and cobwebs.

He pulled the door to behind them and then they stood there, side by side in the near darkness, listening to the sound of her racing heart, the slam of doors and the clack of horseshoes outside in the cobbled lanes.  The men were shouting back and forth and then a woman’s voice shouted for them to get out as another voice called for someone to get help. 

Chantaya leaned her head back against the wooden planks behind her and realized in horror that there was something terribly wrong with her breathing.  She was coughing up something that tasted of blood.  She could feel the moisture of more blood dripping from the front as well as back of her shirt and she knew that whatever was hurting her was still there, catching on the rough weave of the fabric.  Both her head and her heart shrank from admitting what she suspected.

Putting a hesitant hand to her chest just above her breast and below her shoulder, sh
e felt the bite of sharp steel poking through her shirt and got an instant urge to vomit.  Not only had she been shot, but the arrow was still there, lodged in her and impaling all the way through her body.  She gasped in fear, remembering the way animals she had seen shot struggled for breath and then slowly, piteously died.  She would die!  She knew it.  Animals shot through the lungs always died.  They bled to death.  She would never see Peyton again.  Or her mother.  She would never get to be married.  Or hold her own child. 

A deep sense of sadness permeated her soul as she admitted to herself that worse than any of that, she had failed the king.  Failed.  Rosskeene would win.  After all she had done.  How hard she had tried.  She had failed.

A small sob escaped her lips and the child who stood so still beside her put a finger to his lips to quiet her.  As he did, his eyes got wide as they heard the sound of the barn door opening and the unmistakable sound of the two men entering.  The men walked through the barn opening gates and doors and crashing the items that got in their way viciously aside, and Chantaya realized she was praying silently again.

As they
neared the door Chantaya and the boy hid behind, there was a sudden movement and a gasp and then the sound of a rat squeaking.  One of the men began to curse as the other one let out a raucous laugh and the first one swore even more bitterly.  There was the sound of blows and they both cursed together.  Then more pummeling as they continued on toward where Chantaya and the boy waited.

Directly outside
Chantaya’s hiding place, the two men began to shout at each other and then there was another blow and a groan.  Slowly the groan sank to the floor and the other man continued on up through the barn, while the groaner mumbled more hoarse curses. 

It felt like hours that they waited, mouthing her fervent prayer, her breathing becoming more difficult and more painful while the man paused on the other side of the door.  The boy silently reached for her hand and held it desperately tight.  Finally, they heard the man move. 

They held their breath as they heard him grasp the handle to the door.  The latch squeaked and there was a grating sound and then the latch apparently came apart in his hand as a sliver of light escaped through where the latch had been and the man began to nearly rage in disgust.

Chantaya could hear him ranting about Lord Rosskeene and somebody named Ned, and then there was a crash across the way where he’d apparently thrown the offending handle.  With a final curse, the man stomped off down the way and out the door and Chantaya finally attempted to draw a deep breath.  It hurt like all the fires of hell and made a gurgling so
und that she could hear from outside her bosom.  The fear she’d been fighting surged.  She was dying.  She’d seen it too many times with animals to believe otherwise.

When the sounds of the men were long gone, the boy beside her finally reached and began to fiddle with the door handle in front of them.  The fact that they were apparently locked in this dark hallway hardly even registered as she
slowly sank to the barn floor and closed her eyes.  Fatigue nearly overwhelmed her.  She wanted to take a deep breath.  Desperately needed to take a deep breath, but all that happened when she did was pain and that sickening sound.

After several moments, the boy somehow got the latch to work.  He hesitantly pushed it open a tiny crack and peered out and then pushed it another few inches before looking back in at her.  When the sliver of sunlight hit the part of her shirt that was visible under her cloak, the boy sucked in a breath and dropped to his knees to open the cloak further.  It only exposed the arrow tip through a tear in the shirt and more blood and he looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes and said, “You’ve been shot!”

“Yes.”  She whispered, wishing she had more energy.  Then the boy, who appeared to be about seven or eight, did a strange thing.  He took a deep breath, nodded almost as if he was saying something to himself and seemed to take charge.  He looked around, then looked around outside the space they were sitting in, came back to her and said, “Come.  Let’s get you next door where you can stretch out and I can fair see.”  She grimaced and he leaned down and repeated, “Come.  I’ll help you.”

He was young, and small, but his sense of self gave Chantaya just the last bit of energy she needed to let him help her to the stall next door and make a decision herself.  She may not be going to make it to tell Peyton herself, but she wasn’t going to fail the king.  This small, but very capable child was going to succeed for her.

As she sank down into the straw of the stall, she asked the boy, “Pray, tell me, what is your name my little rescuer?”

“I am Daniel.”  He bent to begin working at her cloak, but she pushed him away.

She tried to smile at him and said haltingly, “Well, Daniel, my small friend.  You’re about to become a hero as well as a rescuer.  I need you to do something which is more important than life itself.  Far more.  I need you to take a message to one of the knights.  Can you do that, Daniel?”

“Yes.”  He nodded positively and then answered more tentativ
ely, “Sir.” 

She could see him hesitate as he looked her over.  Obviously wondering if she was male or female and it made her smile again as she said tiredly, “I need you to find Sir Peyton.  He’s a knight in the knight encampment near the castle.  He’s tall, with blonde hair and kind brown eyes and big shoulders.”

Almost eagerly, he said, “Yes, I know who Sir Peyton is. ‘Tis that he’s my favorite knight to watch in the competitions.  He wins at everything!  He’s the best!”

His enthusiasm warmed her heart, as she said softly, “Yes, he truly is the best.  Truly.  You
must
find him.  Tell him Lord Rosskeene is going to attack the king on the way to the cemetery as they cross the river near a ravine.  Tell him exactly that.  It’s very important.  Can you repeat it back to me?”

The boy repeated it word for word and Chantaya sighed in relief and then groaned from the pain of it.  She squeezed the boy’s hand.  “Good.  Good boy, Daniel.  That’s perfect.  Now go.  You must find Peyton.  Tell him.  No matter what.  Tell him.”  Her chest gurgled and there was bloody foam coming out of her lips as she paused to catch her breath and then added, “Take my horse if you can find him.  And tell Peyton, D
aniel.  Please.  Don’t let them . . .”  She had to rest a moment before she could finish, “Don’t let them kill the king.  Go.” 

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Godspeed Daniel.”