Scarlet Moon (Once Upon a Time) (3 page)

Peter just continued to stare at her, and tears slowly began to trickle down his cheeks. He looked as though he were struggling to speak. Finally he gave up and just shook his head.

“Come,” she said, still gripping his arms. “I must take you to see my father. We will dine and you will tell us everything.”

He nodded before clasping her in his arms once more. After a moment he pulled away with a pained laugh. “Lead on, lady.”

She smiled self-consciously, brushing off her trousers hastily. She had begun wearing them long ago. They offered better protection from the sparks of the fires with which she worked and better covered the scars she carried. Seeing Peter reminded her of a time long before, when she had still dressed like a girl and behaved like one.

Quickly she dampened the fire in the forge and checked to make sure nothing else needed immediate tending. Satisfied, she took his hand and led him from the shop toward her home.

Warm memories of childhood filled her as they walked. She watched Peter as he looked around him with eyes that seemed slightly bewildered. He caught her watching and gave her the ghost of a smile.

“I never thought I would see this place again. Somehow I expected it to be different, changed.”

“Like you?” she asked gently.

“Strange, the thoughts one has when far from home.”

“Well, you’re back now, safe. You can put such thoughts behind you.”

“One day, maybe,” he admitted. “But that day seems far away.”

His words struck her as strange, but her worry for her brother pushed them away.

Suddenly a man cried out, “Peter!” and rushed toward them. Peter jerked and twisted toward the sound. He relaxed visibly after a moment.

“Hello, Marcus,” he called good-naturedly.

Marcus embraced him and then turned. “Peter has returned from the crusades!” he shouted.

Within moments people were streaming from their homes, shouting Peter’s name and rushing forward to touch him. Two men lifted him high into the air and paraded him up and down the street, laughing with joy. Ruth’s father rushed up and they delivered Peter into his arms. He crushed his nephew with a happy cry, and Ruth felt tears burning her eyes.

Peter is the returning hero, but where is my brother and when may we welcome him home?
She shook her head, willing herself to be patient just a while longer.
Peter will surely have news.

Down the road her father led the impromptu parade honoring his nephew. Ruth began to walk slowly, trailing behind. In her heart a nameless fear began to form, and she felt as though a shadow had passed over her. No matter what she did, she could not shake the thought that some darkness was about to touch them all.

When she entered her home, she found her father and Peter already seated at the table. She joined them and within minutes they were all eating. She watched Peter under lowered lashes as he wolfed down his
food. He attacked it, eating so much so fast that she thought surely he would explode.

Out of courtesy, her father said nothing and neither did she. Instead they both ate and watched and waited. At last Peter pushed back his plate and shifted in his chair. He lifted his eyes and they darted between Ruth and her father.

“Thank you,” he said. Hesitantly he continued, “It is good to see you both, to be here again.”

“You are a welcome sight to us,” her father answered gruffly. Ruth glanced at him in time to see him wipe away a tear.

They sat for a moment, the silence thick with unasked questions and answers they were all afraid to hear. Finally Ruth broke it. “Tell us your story.”

Peter nodded slowly. “We sailed to Spain. It was a long journey and many died along the way. From there we sailed to France, and then down the Mediterranean Sea to Acre. There we fought. Some of us went on to Jerusalem, but many did not.”

“And what of Stephen?” Ruth asked at last, unable to bear it any longer.

Peter said not a word, but instead dropped his head into his hands and began to sob brokenly. Ruth stared fearfully across the table at her father, who held her eyes only for a moment before turning away.

“What of Stephen?” Ruth asked again, her voice trembling.

“He fell, outside of Jerusalem. He was killed in the battle; he died so quickly. One minute he was there and the next he was gone. They killed him and there was nothing I could do to stop it.”

All she could do was stare at him as he was talking. Over and over in her mind she told herself that it couldn’t be true, even as the emptiness in her heart convinced her that it was. She didn’t look at her father; she couldn’t just yet. Stephen was dead. They had both known it could happen. If she was honest with herself she had suspected it for years, but there had always been a part of her that held on to hope. Jerusalem was far away and the battle was doubtless long and hard.

She stared down at her hands and noticed in an almost detached way that her fingernails were cutting into her palms and drawing blood. She forced herself to relax her fingers. Tiny droplets of blood beaded on her hands and fell onto her pants. That didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered.

“Everyone loved Stephen,” Peter continued. “He helped save so many. He even saved the duke’s life. He was so grateful he gave Stephen some of his own armor to wear, marked with the duke’s seal. I brought it back with me; he would have wanted you to have it.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a breastplate. He offered it to Ruth and she took it with trembling hands. The duke’s seal, that of a crescent
moon, was emblazoned on the front. She had seen its like before. She passed her hand over it and then cried out as she took a closer look. There was a red stain splashed across half of the moon.

She stared in horror, the hair along the back of her neck standing on end and a sick feeling beginning to overwhelm her. At long last she looked up, her eyes seeking out Peter’s.

“It’s blood,” Peter said, confirming her fear.

The fog lay heavy upon the land, covering all in a shroud of gray. Death hung thick and rank in the air, and Ruth could smell the blood of some woodland creature that had been freshly slain in the night. The earth itself was dying, the cycle of the year coming to an end as one by one the days of autumn slipped from existence, beyond the grasp of a mortal man.

As she walked the barren path the black corpses of trees appeared slowly from out of the haze. The birds that remained were hushed, awaiting the coming of the sun in the last moments of the lingering night. All was silent as the grave, and Ruth thought of her beloved brother whom she would see no more. His body lay somewhere in that distant land held by the infidels, a fallen warrior in the pope’s holy wars to claim Jerusalem.

Ruth cared nothing of popes or wars or infidels; she only knew that he who had loved her best in this
life had preceded her to the next, and that she would give all she owned or would ever have for one last glimpse of his precious face.

But still, she put one foot before the other, moving on just as nature and all of life did and must. Far off in the woods a branch snapped. Almost unconsciously her hand tightened around the hilt of her brother’s dagger. It was hers now; he would never return to claim the dagger, the very one he had used to save her from the wolf so many years before.

She peered into the darkness, wishing for the eyes of an animal so that she might see what they did. Nothing moved, at least not that she saw. A shiver danced up her spine and she turned her eyes back to the path. As she continued to walk her legs tingled slightly where there were scars. They too had never forgotten the feel of the wolf’s fangs.

In a sack upon her back she carried her brother’s armor. She couldn’t think about it, though, or she would start crying again. Lost in thought, she didn’t see the body until she was nearly upon it.

She jumped and let out a startled yelp as she realized that a man lay across the path. He lay still, as though he were dead, and he was completely naked.

At her cry he stirred and then suddenly jumped to his feet.

“Who are you?” Ruth gasped, averting her eyes.

For one moment he stood, panting like a wild deer, before turning to flee into the woods.

“Who are you?” she shouted after him.

Only silence met her question. She strained her ears but could hear nothing.
Is he hiding just out of sight, watching me?
she wondered. The thought sent a chill of fear through her. She clutched her dagger tighter and hurried on.

Who could he have been, and why was he asleep naked in the forest?
Questions crowded her brain, each demanding to be heard and answered. Above her the trees began to whisper to themselves, and she could feel the hair on the back of her neck rising. She realized that her heart was pounding in fear, and she broke into a stilted run. At every step the armor banged against her back, a painful reminder of her grim errand.

Above her the trees continued to whisper and sway; dark warnings crowded her mind, and she did not know if they were real or imagined. Faster her feet flew, the path familiar to them as it twisted through the trees. At last she slowed as she neared her destination.

Ruth’s grandmother, Giselle, lived deep in the forest. Her house stood, proud and alone, in a small clearing. As Ruth came into sight of it she saw smoke curling slowly from the chimney, blending with the fog until the two were indistinguishable.

The door hung a little crooked so that all manner of insects found their way underneath and inside. Grandmother always just sighed and carried them
outside. There was not a straight board in the whole of the house. Giselle was gifted at many things, but carpentry was not among them. Still, she took pride in having done all the work herself.

Not that she bad a choice
, Ruth thought bitterly. Her grandmother had been banished from the village before Ruth was born, amidst accusations of witchcraft. It was a miracle the villagers had been content to only banish her and not burn her. Ruth shook her head.
Grandmother is no witch; she just asks questions no one else will and manages to find the answers.

Ruth reached the door and knocked lightly before pushing it open. “Grandmother?”

“Hello, dear,” the old woman called cheerfully. She was stirring something in a large pot hanging over a crackling fire.

Ruth carefully set down her sack and walked over. “What are you experimenting with now, Grandmother? Another healing potion, or a fertilizer for your garden, perhaps?”

“Breakfast,” Giselle said with a chuckle, her blue eyes crackling with good humor, “and you’re just in time to join me.”

Ruth wrinkled her nose. “I already ate,” she fibbed.

Giselle clicked her tongue. “What have I told you about lying to me? You’ll have some—it won’t kill you.”

“That’s what worries me,” Ruth said with a sigh.

She sat down on a chair and looked around the
house. It was cluttered, as always, with all of her grandmother’s things. Row after row of glass jars lined crude shelves. They held a variety of plant life that Giselle used in making her salves and ointments. On a small table were still more jars of different-colored oils. Several pots hung around the hearth, and there were more contraptions and jars spread around the room haphazardly.

On one wall hung a large piece of parchment with black dots marked upon it. Ruth knew they represented the stars in the summer sky. Mapping the stars was one of her grandmother’s latest projects, and on several nights she had managed to enlist Ruth’s aid.

“I didn’t expect you until Thursday,” Giselle commented as she removed the boiling pot from the fire.

Ruth nodded, her throat tightening as her eyes drifted to her sack.

“What is it?” Giselle asked sharply, as though sensing Ruth’s change of mood.

“Peter came home yesterday from the crusade.”

Giselle lunged forward with a cry of excitement. She hugged Ruth tightly and when she pulled back tears of joy were filling her eyes. “And Stephen?” she asked after a minute.

“They killed him,” Ruth sobbed.

The tears of joy turned to tears of sorrow as they held each other and cried.

After eating, Giselle reverently removed Stephen’s armor from the sack Ruth had brought. As Ruth again caught sight of the bloodstained moon, she shivered.

“It was given to him by his lord, as a reward for his service,” Ruth explained.

Giselle nodded slowly. “I can see that.” She passed her fingers lightly over the moon. “I saw a scarlet moon once, when I was a child. It rose in the night sky, the color of blood. My mother told me it was a bad omen, a marker of death. I didn’t believe her then, though I confess this makes me wonder now if maybe she was right.” She shook her head.

“Can you do something with it, make it into something I could wear?” Ruth asked, her voice hoarse from crying.

Giselle nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe I can make something you can wear for protection as you walk through the forest.”

“You’re the one always telling me I have nothing to fear from the woods.”

“It’s not the woods I’m worried about,” Giselle said meaningfully.