The Lord's Bride Read online

  “Slow thy step!” the sheriff insisted. There was something queer about the man, and Martin wished to question him further, but the young fighter did not slow his step. He bounded around the sheriff with easy alacrity and began haring off in a northerly direction.

  “Halt! Halt in the name of the law, you young hot-head!” Sheriff de Stafford also took to his feet. He was perhaps not as agile as the younger man, but his legs were longer and with great strides he soon overtook his quarry.

  “Unhand me!” The bladesman swore and sought to pull away from the sheriff’s grip.

  “You do not make demands of me,” Sheriff de Stafford chastised his prisoner. “Tell me, what ill-deeds have you done this night? Why does your blade run with blood?”

  A well-furred chin was lifted in defiance. “Ask the women of the convent what ill I have done, and they will tell you none. For I was their protector when the king’s man was tucked up in his bed.”

  “You speak rashly and rudely.”

  “I speak so, for my quarry has now escaped.”

  “Do not be so certain of that, young buck. Cease your quivering and your leaping and listen to sense.”

  Sure enough, the sheriff’s words rang true. In the distance, the sound of altercations could be heard. It seemed that the bandits had not escaped and even in that moment, they were being brought to justice.

  “I have my men patrolling this forest each and every night,” the sheriff explained, dark eyes glittering in the moon’s silver glow. “Those miscreants will be punished for what they have done, according to the rule of law, not according to your will.”

  “Then I must be satisfied.” The young man drew back out of the sheriff’s grasp and bowed low. “Good evening, Sheriff de Stafford.”

  “Do not be so hasty to depart,” the sheriff replied. “I do not know your name.”

  “Nor shall you. My name is my own business.”

  “All business in Staffordshire is my business,” the sheriff replied. “Your manners are sorely lacking. Perhaps you need a lesson.”

  “I need no lessons, m’lord, but I must bid you goodnight.”

  The sheriff made a move to arrest the young man once more, but the second time he was too fleet of foot and took to the trees with a swiftness that was at once admirable and entirely familiar.

  Not content to be so easily deprived of his quarry, Martin gave chase. The scurrilous wretch would not escape his wrath. Though the fleeing man was perhaps not a criminal, and though his actions had undoubtedly saved many at the convent, the sheriff had no intention of allowing the miscreant to escape without the discipline that was his due.

  The young man reached the cover of the trees and thence began a game of dashing and darting to and fro, leaping through the woods with great alacrity. Heavier and larger, Martin could not move quite so easily, but what he lacked in nimbleness he made up for in size and speed.

  In the end, the younger man’s arrogance was his downfall. He grasped a branch, meaning to swing upon it, but was foiled when it broke off and sent him crashing in a heap. Martin was upon him in an instant, heavy hand falling on the knave’s neck.

  After a brief moment to ensure that the fool had not broken bones or otherwise seriously injured himself, Martin hauled him to the nearest stump and pinned him there.

  “Unhand me!” The fellow boomed in his incongruously not quite deep voice.

  “I will unhand you when I have meted out that which is due,” Martin replied. He had a firm grip on the back of the man’s nape, and though the knave struggled and tried to push his way out of the hold, he lacked the strength necessary to do so.

  “Settle yourself,” Martin said. “You will not be standing for some time.”

  Without tarrying further, he pulled off his belt, doubled it over, and began plying the leather lash across the seat of the fellow’s britches.

  There was nothing gentle about the thrashing Martin handed out. The belt lashed back and forth, making swift and serious contact with the posterior beneath him. There was no shortage of fight in the fellow, who kicked out with his feet in a futile attempt to escape. Martin soon put a stop to that behavior by cracking the belt across flailing thighs whenever a kick was launched in his direction.

  “You won’t end this that way, my boy,” he growled. “This stops when I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson. Next time I ask you a question, you will do well to answer it. Now, what is your name?”

  “Robert,” the young man growled. “Robert de… Robert de Robert.”

  “Robert de Robert? You would lie to me? In this position you would lie? I will not hesitate to down your britches if you do not comply.”

  “My name is none of your concern!”

  “I could take you into custody,” Martin said. “I could make your life very unpleasant…”

  “You’re already doing that,” Robert hissed between his teeth.

  “More unpleasant than this.” Martin bought the belt cracking down across Robert’s hindquarters. The answering jolt in the slender man’s frame told him that the point was being made. “What is your name, knave?”

  “Robert de Robert!”

  “You insist upon continuing this charade?” Martin lashed the belt down three hard times, once across the crown of Robert’s cheeks, once across the lower reaches and once across the upper thighs. Each of the lashes evoked a grunt and squeal of pain which sounded rather effeminate to Martin’s ears—a sure sign that the effects of the belting were being felt.

  “My name is my name,” Robert gasped. “Let me go.”

  “I will not let you go,” Martin said, “until your identity is revealed to me.”

  The knave began to thrash about, so much so that the britches themselves started to come apart. This Robert de Robert was not strong, but he was determined. Martin found himself hanging on to the back of the fellow’s britches, waiting for him to become tired.

  But Robert de Robert did not tire. Robert de Robert struggled until the stitches of his britches came apart completely, the waist and seat coming loose in Martin’s hand. Two very red buttocks were revealed, along with something that made Martin stare. There were no manly parts beneath the clothing. There was the soft, downy covering of hair which failed to disguise the tell-tale nether-lips of a lady.

  Freed by the failure of her clothing, the welted young woman took to her heels. Spurred by the effects of a very sore bottom, the maidenly miscreant made good her escape, whilst Martin stood, stunned and still holding the britches she had so recently vacated.

  Chapter Nine

  News traveled swiftly to the convent that the thieves had been arrested. They would go before the sheriff in the morning and were all expected to hang. It was good enough news, but the abbess was not entirely satisfied with the evening’s outcome, for her favorite postulant was still missing. It was not until the sun rose that Mary made an appearance, coming out of the maze where she had apparently been sleeping and making her way into the chapel where most of the convent was clustered.

  “Mary, where have you been?” The abbess cried the question.

  Mary curled up her hands and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “I was tired, Mother. So I slept amidst the flowers and the bushes. It is so pretty to sleep with sweet flowers closed up all around one and to rouse oneself with the coming of the light, unfolding with the petals.”

  “Did you not hear the commotion?”

  Mary shook her head and gazed wide-eyed towards the wrapped body which was quite obviously missing an important part of its anatomy. “Where is his head?”

  “It was forfeit for his crimes,” the abbess said. “There was much ill afoot last night. You should have been tucked up in your bed, postulant.”

  “Thoughtless crimes, no doubt,” Mary quipped, ignoring the abbess’ censure. “He clearly failed to keep his head about him.”

  “Mary!” The abbess reached out and laid a light slap to Mary’s wrist. “It does not do to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I
am sorry, Mother.” Mary folded her hands in front of her and bowed her own head. “I am sure he was very headstrong.”

  “Take to a spade,” the abbess ordered. “Though he was a criminal in life, this man will have a hallowed resting place and a proper burial. You will play your part in it.”

  * * *

  Grave digging was one of the many duties Mary would have left to a servant in her younger days. As postulant, it was another rough task that would certainly be described as bringing her closer to God. She set out digging with the best will in the world, putting dull shovel to heavy sod over and over until her back was aching and her arms weak with exhaustion. It was not a pleasant task, but at least it took her mind off the still stinging lashes that burned beneath her postulant’s dress. She shuddered to think how close she had come to being completely caught. All would have been lost if he had seen her face.

  With thoughts like those occupying her mind, she made good progress. By the time she stopped to mind her steadily sinking situation, the hole was deeper than she was tall. Her postulant’s smock was entirely mucky with mud. It had recently rained, and the earth was wet, crawling with pink worms.

  “Sorry my pretties,” Mary crooned to the displaced beasties. “Soon there will be plenty of good food for you to feast upon.”

  “What dark thoughts you are given to, Mary.”

  Sister Lucia loomed at the top of the grave. She was not dirty. Not a hair was out of place. She had been tucked up safely indoors, no doubt bending knee to the Lord yet again. Sister Lucia was known to pray for excessively long stretches, sometimes days at a time. Some of the nuns were proud of her for it. Others were annoyed that it meant she rarely peeled a potato or swept the floors or bent her back to menial labor of any kind.

  “It is all part of God’s order,” Mary replied, plastering her sweetest smile across her face. “The Lord giveth and he taketh away. Ashes to ashes, man to meat.”

  “That is not how the saying goes.”

  “It should be,” Mary said, sticking her shovel into the heavy earth. “Can I be of service to you, Sister?”

  “I am ensuring that the grave is dug properly and piously. You will speak no more to the worms. You will keep your thoughts on the Lord.”

  “Yes, Sister.” Mary flicked the spade upwards, sending wet clods of dirt spraying out of the hole. Several of them landed upon Sister Lucy’s personage, for which Mary apologized profusely.

  Her apologies fell on deaf ears. Sister Lucia’s usually dour features twisted into a mask of instant rage. “You did that on purpose, you wretch! Come out of there and let me beat you.”

  Mary held the spade pointed end up. “It was an accident, dear sister.”

  Sister Lucia did not believe it for a momentary second. She pressed her sleeves up above scratchy dry elbows and beckoned for Mary to leave the grave.

  “The abbess would not be pleased if I was to leave my task before it was done. Perhaps you could beat me later.”

  “The abbess has gone to the manor to speak with the sheriff. She is not here to save you. Now come out of there at once, before I summon the sisters to drag you out.”

  Mary’s pretty eyes narrowed at the threat, but she did not stoop to speaking rudely. “Please, Sister Lucia. Have mercy on a poor soul.”

  “You have been shown nothing but mercy,” Lucia snapped. “You may have the abbess fooled, but I see you for what you are. Tanning your godless hide is God’s work. Now come out of there!”

  Mary did not come out. She set about digging the hole with even greater energy, digging into the earth as a means of escape. Sister Lucia would surely not follow her down into the grave.

  “Mary, come out at once, or you will not like the consequences.”

  Paying no heed to Sister Lucia, Mary dug deeper still. She dug so deep in one spot that when she was standing in it there was no way she could have hoped to have reached the top of the grave.

  “You disobedient wretch! You have secured your punishment.” Sister Lucia stalked away, leaving Mary very satisfied in herself. She had no intention of allowing the impatient woman to wield an instrument of discipline against her skin. Some of the nuns considered flagellation good for the soul, but Mary did not.

  After a time, Sister Lucia returned, not with a ladder as Mary had feared, but with four nuns carrying two great slabs of wood.

  “Place them over the grave,” she ordered.

  “But Mary is…” one of the nuns began to object.

  “Place them over the grave!”

  Mary stood and scowled as one great plank was laid over the hole, partially shutting out light.

  “If you will not come out, you can stay in there,” Sister Lucia declared with cruel triumph. “You can stay there until tomorrow morning. Enjoy your night in the graveyard, Mary.” She waited for Mary to begin begging and pleading, but it did not happen. Mary stood with her shovel and a blank expression which gave no impression of fear.

  The second slab of wood was laid down, and for a moment, all light was lost. A small whimper escaped Mary’s lips, but she held it back. Soon her eyes began to adjust and she was able to see the walls of the grave around her.

  “Fool,” she murmured to herself. “I still have the shovel.”

  * * *

  That evening, the convent was full of nervous women. Some managed to sleep, but many were still caught in thoughts of what could have been and what still could be if robbers and bandits began making regular incursions. Many thanks were offered in prayer for the unknown hero who had routed the bandits and to the sheriff for ensuring their subsequent capture.

  When screams rang out around midnight, they roused the entire convent once more. Not all went out to investigate the cause of the cries. Some made haste out the doors and took cover in bushes and outbuildings, and one or two made a run to de Stafford manor, where the abbess was still visiting.

  Those who were brave enough to come to the aid of the screamer found Sister Lucia beside herself, her hands trembling, her face pale. The reason for her fright soon became clear. There was someone in her bed. Someone dead. On closer, reluctant inspection it became clear that it was the body of the robber. Some prankster had decided not to let it rest in the chapel, but to move the grizzly remains to Lucia’s private cell.

  “Mary did this,” Lucia declared. “It can be no one else. I will flay her hide for this, mark my words. This time she will not escape my wrath.”

  “Mary is in the graveyard,” one of the nuns replied. “How could she possibly have done this thing?”

  “Who else could have done it?”

  “The devil?” Hushed whispers went around the nuns. With the abbess gone for the evening, the seat of sense had been left empty. Rumors began to fly, suggestions of demonic impulses and ungodly events.

  “She cannot still be in the grave!” Sister Lucia screamed the words, her very last nerve having been broken by the horror in her bed. “Push the wood aside, and you will see she is gone!”

  Some of the very bravest nuns made their way out into the graveyard to see if Lucia was correct, or indeed, if poor postulant Mary was still trapped in the hole of her own making. They bought lanterns with them, but they provided little light on that dark night.

  Initial inspections confirmed that the wood was still in place and appeared not to have been moved.

  “Mary? Mary, are you there?” A nun crooned toward the soil whilst others made signs to ward off the devil and any evil spirits that might have been lurking in the area. It was a very cool night, with mist floating above the ground, cloaking ankles in white froth.

  “Mary?”

  There was no response.

  “Push the boards away.”

  With great reluctance, the nuns moved the heavy wooden boards off the grave.

  “Hello, sisters!” Mary’s cheerful voice rang out from the dark hole. “Is it time to come out now?”

  Everybody agreed that it was certainly time for Mary to come out. Indeed, it was time for all to
be safely barricaded away inside the convent.

  “You all look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Mary quipped as several hands helped her out of her subterranean cell. She was covered in filth so thick there wasn’t an inch of her smock that wasn’t covered in mud. She was also trembling with cold and damp, her nose bright red.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Sister Magda crooned, forgetting her fear in the face of Mary’s pitiful aspect. “You need warming up. Come, sit by the fire, and we will draw you a bath.”

  So it was that Mary’s very long evening ended with a sumptuous bath and a belly full of the very best venison stew. Lucia did not bother her, for Lucia had retired to another cell to gibber herself into restless sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  “I hear there have been queer goings on at the convent,” Edward reported to the sheriff. “They say dead men have walked there.”

  “It is a sanctified place,” Martin replied, barely paying attention. He was trying to read warrants for various criminals, each of them finely etched on parchment. It was a good three days since Martin had made the acquaintance of the wench in the woods, and he was still rather puzzled by the matter. The sight of her well-shaped bottom bounding through the trees had left quite the impression on him, so much so there seemed to be no room in his mind for any other thoughts. “I have no doubt that miracles take place on that hallowed ground.”

  “And what of the masked rescuer? Was he one of those miracles?”

  “No. He was a creature of undeniable flesh,” Martin said, laying down the parchment. A smile twisted his lips. “A man of spirit, undoubtedly, but a man nonetheless.”

  “A walking dead man, a robber who assumes the form of bush and bird, and a rescuer from the shadows. This is a full-fledged mystery.”

  “Not one that will earn you the attentions of the king, Edward,” Martin cautioned. “Stay your enthusiasm for these petty matters, and focus on the greater crimes.”