The Princess and the Rogue (2 page)

Later that night, after he had thought it through, he penned a letter to Morgaine, and gave it to a trusted courier.

“See that this gets into the hands of Lady Morgaine at Bathen Castle. It is for her eyes alone. Go quickly now.” The courier bowed and accepted the letter. He left that night.

* * *

The Great Northern Forest, King Richard’s pavilion

When the summons came, Sir Roland Ferris put aside the chore of repairing his armor and strode without delay to the headquarters of his liege, King Richard of Angleterre. Maybe it was good news. It should be, he reckoned, because the war was over. Richard had defeated the Boschii hordes from Germania at the Niah River and was now preparing to make the long trek south, back to his home. He had been at war for two years. After constant raids on his borderlands from the Boschii raiders, he had decided to take the war to them and it had worked. The campaign had defeated the enemy and the border was secure once again. Roland was therefore anxious to return to his home to see to his aging parents.

A relatively young knight, Sir Roland was, nonetheless, the son of a valued ally, the duke of Durham. Roland had turned out to be one of King Richard’s most trusted lieutenants, living up to his legacy. He had fought bravely in the campaign against the Boschii tribes and Richard had noticed, promoting him quickly over other, older knights.

The guard stood aside to let Roland enter. Richard was seated before a large table, poring over maps.

“It’s one thing or another,” said Richard, exasperated. Now in his late forties, Richard ruled most of Angleterre, having wrested the throne from his cousin some fifteen years prior. His reign had united kingdoms that had been previously hostile to one another, making it easier to repel invaders that posed threats to their common lands. But it was a never-ending job. Hostile invaders seemed always poised to strike along Angleterre’s borders to take what they could.

“Sire? You sent for me?”

Richard motioned for him to come in. “Yes, Sir Roland. I did. I know you are anxious to be on your way home to Durham.”

“I am, sire. My family is there and my father is not well.”

Richard pondered for a moment. Then he nodded. “I understand. Your father is an old friend and I wish him well. But I want you to take a minor detour on your way and pay a visit to another old friend and ally, Robert Greystone, the king of Westvale.”

“I would be honored, sire.”

Richard continued, “Westvale lies on our western border, a buffer between us and the Ieryn. There is an old earldom in that part of the world, legally under Robert’s jurisdiction, but remote enough that they pay little attention to the king of Westvale and less in the way of fealty. The earl died and his wife has claimed the lands and title. She is the Countess Morgaine of Bathen. Here.” Richard pointed at a spot on the map. Roland leaned in to see. “On the edge of Darkwood Forest.

“The kingdom of the Ieryn lies on the other side. They are undisputed rulers of the great western desert, wealthy and warlike. For generations, back to my great-grandfather’s time, they have had designs on Westvale, and if they took that land, Angleterre would be next.”

Richard stood up and began pacing. “I’m concerned about King Robert because I have not heard from him for a time. I have heard he’s taken ill. I am also concerned about the countess. There have been rumors.”

“Rumors?” said Roland. “What kind of rumors?”

“Of dark practices. And other things. After the earl of Bathen’s wife died, Morgaine just appeared one day. Soon she had married him. Then the earl himself died, taken by some strange wasting illness.” Richard paused, then added, “Some say she is a witch. The countess is said to be adept at training females taken as plunder by Ieryn warlords. She returns them in a state that makes them fit to warm the beds of rich Ieryn merchants and princes. And the Ieryn border is just across Darkwood Forest. You see my concern?”

“You think it possible that this countess may allow the Ieryn into Westvale?”

“I don’t know. I just think it prudent to check on my old ally.” Then King Richard frowned, and added, “Morgaine is a blood relative of Robert’s chief minister, Tomas Cramden. Maybe they are closer than we think. See what you can find out. I’ll give you a letter of introduction to give to Robert.”

Roland bowed. “I will do as you ask, sire.”

“Poke around a bit. See what is going on there. Try to find out if there is anything to these rumors.”

Roland nodded and turned to leave.

“One last thing, Sir Roland.” Roland stopped and turned. “Robert Greystone has a daughter who is quite lovely. If all is well with King Robert, your trip may not be a complete waste of time.” This time Richard favored him with a bemused smile. “I hear King Robert is most anxious to find a suitable match for her, and you are, after all, the eldest son of the duke of Durham.” The smile turned to a wicked grin.

Roland nodded, turned, and made his way out of the pavilion
.
Only then did he allow himself a thin smile.
So, a lovely princess. Things could be worse.

* * *

Bathen Castle

In her private library, Morgaine perused the message from Lord Cramden that had just arrived by courier.
An intriguing plan, and it just might work,
she thought. The trick, of course, would be to find an imposter who looked enough like the princess that the deception could be carried off.
And I’ll keep this message just in case. Not that I don’t trust my cousin, but…

Then she smiled.
So he wants me to apply my special type of training to the young princess, does he?
The idea appealed to her. It was one thing to train simple village girls captured in raids or spirited away from their homes, but a highborn princess? Now there was a challenge.

The plan required a suitable subject, one who looked the part. She’d send out her spies in the morning. There were lots of naïve village girls. She’d find someone suitable, tell her story, and teach her how to act like a princess. Then she’d snatch the real princess right out from under Robert’s nose. Once Princess Juliet was secure in Bathen Castle, the training would commence.
Something I very much look forward to,
thought the red countess.

Chapter Three

The Village of Kern, near Bathen Castle

On Tuesdays Scarlett went to the market to sell medicinal herbs, poultices, and ointments for the convent. It was mostly safe then. She walked with Sister Bernice and Sister Patricia, covering the three miles to the village of Kern in about an hour. Actually, the good sisters insisted on accompanying Scarlett on these treks, whether they had duties or not. The young woman attracted more than her share of attention from the local gentry. It might have been the flaming red hair, the pretty face, or the shapely figure, but more likely it was a combination of all three. So Sisters Bernice and Patricia stood alongside like Praetorian Guard, ever watchful as Scarlett both sold medicines and exercised her knowledge, picking the best plants at the best prices for the convent’s infirmary. Later the trio would venture into the forest and supplement their goods with wild herbs, fungus, and roots.

The convent of Saint Agnes had taken Scarlett in as a young child. She had been found wandering in the forest, but what had become of her parents, no one knew. That had been over thirteen years ago. The sisters had raised her, taught her, and given her a task. She had been fascinated by the healing arts and had learned medicine from Sister Marian. They’d also given her a name, Scarlett, for her lustrous mane of red hair.

So on a bright Tuesday morning the trio made its way to Kern, leading the wagon pulled by the convent’s rather tired-looking, and only, donkey.

“They say it is becoming more dangerous along this road,” said Sister Patricia, casting a watchful eye about as they walked along.

“It is the bandit, Rand LaFlors,” said Sister Bernice. “The road here does skirt the edge of Darkwood Forest.”

“I don’t think we have anything to fear from Rand LaFlors,” said Scarlett. “He only robs people with money. We’d be a poor haul, I’m afraid. The pennies in my pocket are hardly worth his time, sisters. I’m more afraid of the men in the service of the red countess.”

Both of the sisters crossed themselves at the mention of the name. “Don’t even use that name, Scarlett. It gives her power. The woman is evil, I can feel it in my bones,” said Sister Bernice. “Pray the good lord protects us from her ilk. We have fallen upon ill times since the earl died.”

Scarlett shuddered. She was aware of the rumors. Several young girls from Kern and neighboring villages were reported to have disappeared. Some thought the girls had been abducted by the outlaw, Rand LaFlors, and secreted away to his hideout, deep in Darkwood Forest. Others thought that they were taken to serve Lady Morgaine at Bathen Castle. That was not so unusual in itself. Often young girls were sent by their families to enter service in the houses of the landed nobles. What was unusual was the rumor that some had been taken against their will, and had been cut off from their families. Just last week a council of villagers in Kern had dispatched a courier to King Robert asking for assistance. Either way, the villagers needed help.

* * *

Gwri tried to be inconspicuous. He pawed through the fruits and vegetables at the market stalls as if he were really interested in buying, but the proprietress, a beefy farmer’s wife, fixed him with a suspicious glare. Soon she might call for a constable, thinking he was about to steal something. That wouldn’t do. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed. But he rarely was. Gwri’s singular talent was that he was a spy, and a good one. Small and wiry, he moved with a furtive grace that made him almost invisible. That’s why he’d been picked for this task. So unlike Morgaine’s men-at-arms who made everyone run and hide whenever they were about, Gwri just blended in, observing, listening, and taking note.

Red hair,
his mistress had said.
Long red hair. And young. And pretty
. Well, that was a tall order, to find a maid of those qualities. He’d hit market days in four surrounding villages and, so far, nothing. But it was a mission at which he wanted to succeed. The red countess rewarded her servants who delivered.

He’d gotten a taste of that a week before when she’d summoned him to her private punishment chamber. At first his blood had run cold. The infamous room, deep in the bowels of Castle Bathen, was a place to which no one went willingly. He’d heard the stories. So he had sweated nervously, which had caused his wool singlet to itch and chafe as he’d been escorted to see his mistress.

But to his delight, it was not he who was destined for the post or the block. As he was shown inside, he could see a pair of maids, pretty ones, too, naked as the day they were born, bound to the whipping frames. A frame of this type consisted of an upright post with a short padded trestle joined to it at waist height by a brace. The post had manacles for securing the hands. The naked maids were bent over the trestle, their arms stretching forward to the manacles on the post. The posture accentuated the thrust of their succulent buttocks, much to Gwri’s delight.

Morgaine noticed Gwri and motioned for him to stand back. She then grasped a rod made of stout switches from a bucket of brine and shook it. Gwri heard her scold the girls about something having to do with a broken glass and then she proceeded to give each one what must have been the flogging of her life.

Gwri couldn’t keep his eyes off the flexing, bounding buttocks as the switches fell. The girls’ skin turned pink, then red, with repeated applications of the birch rod. There was much wailing and many fervent promises of better future conduct, jiggling of breasts and buttocks, and stamping of feet, but Morgaine was not deterred. A full three dozen strokes were meted out to each maid before the flogging ended.

“Did you enjoy watching, Gwri?” said Morgaine as she replaced the third or fourth rod, the others lying in frayed pieces on the stone floor. Her eyes shone brightly with excitement and her face was flushed as if the exertion of administering a flogging had energized her. At the frames the girls sobbed miserably.

Gwri nodded. Already he was thinking that he’d have to visit Milly, his favorite tavern wench, to relieve the mighty erection he sported.

“Then you will do as I ask, and I may invite you again. Perhaps I can teach you to wield the rod.” Then she fixed him with a harsh glare. “On the other hand, if you fail me, you may find yourself secured to one of these,” she said, pointing to the whipping frames.

Gwri hadn’t needed any further motivation, and that is why he watched the crowd intently. The village folk moved from stall to stall, sampling, squeezing, and occasionally, buying. Then through a gap in the throng he saw her. At first just a flash of red. But he knew—it was the hair. He followed, straining to get a better look, while trying not to be obvious about it. He slid into the shadow of a tent where he could see her unimpeded. Yes. No doubt about it. She had shimmering long red hair, she was young, and she was exceedingly pretty. Now to shadow her and see where she went. Then he’d inform his mistress.

* * *

Several days later

Scarlett awoke in a soft bed covered with silken sheets and cozy warm blankets. Where was she? And how had she come to this place? Then to her horror she realized she was naked. Her clothes had been taken from her. She pulled the sheets tightly about her to cover her nakedness. She looked around. It was a large room with stone walls covered in rich tapestries. Sunlight streamed in through a wide open window through which she could see distant fields and hills. The bed was huge, with tall posts draped with gauzy fabric to form a canopy.