Page 7 of The Darkland

“To Monroe de Cleveley,” Micheline finished quietly, “as a bride for his only son.”

Mara observed her sister’s pained expression. She had been young enough not to mind begging, her aggressive nature having served her well. But Micheline, just over the brink of womanhood, had been embarrassed to display herself like a common trollop. Dancing for drunken soldiers, or singing in her piercing soprano for the few coins they would throw. It had been a shameful way to grow up, better left forgotten. But not before Edward le Bec bestowed one final act of humiliation by using his eldest daughter to settle a substantial gambling obligation.

Mara knew that Micheline’s humiliation ran deep, being likened to hard currency rather than flesh and blood. “Think on it this way, Misha.” She attempted to lighten the heady mood that had settled. “A wealthy husband and the title of baroness. Mayhap Father’s gambling habit will have positive results, after all.”

Micheline nodded faintly, feeling the first few drops of rain cool her flaming cheeks. “I wonder what he looks like.” She raised her eyes, meeting Mara’s gaze. “My husband, I mean. I have been wondering for two years.”

Mara smiled. “Dashing, I am sure.”

Kirk’s bellow echoed in the distance and both ladies turned toward the camp. “As dashing as Sir Kirk?” Micheline asked softly.

Mara shrugged. “He’s a beast. A misshapen giant.”

“He’s terribly handsome, Mara. Or hadn’t you noticed through all of your resistance?”

She had, if she were to admit it. A square jaw, thick dark lashes and a straight nose. And this morning she had even caught a glimpse of dark, shiny hair beneath his hauberk. Before he donned his helm and transformed into an evil fighting machine that took delight in dominating her.

“I have noticed that he is three times my size.” She turned her nose up stubbornly; there was no way Micheline would be able to wrangle a confession from her. “His fists are as big as my head.”

“Who cares about his fists?” Micheline smiled, almost seductively. “I was speaking of his face.”

Mara’s brow furrowed, refusing to agree with her sister’s assessment. Even though she realized she would very much like to. Turning away, she reined her old mare in the direction of the camp.

“I see they’ve pitched a couple of tents,” she said. “Come along, Misha. It’s been a long day for you.”

Micheline followed. “I am sorry you have to sleep in a tent, darling. I just… just cannot abide sleeping in an inn.”

Mara shrugged, far too carelessly. “But I can. And if I feel like going to an inn to enjoy a warm atmosphere and protection from the rain, then I shall. If Kirk Connaught is going to force me to accompany you to Anchorsholme, he’ll have to pay for his decision.”

Micheline looked shocked. “Why would you do this? The man is only doing his job, Mara. And inns are nothing but dens for gambling and debauchery. You know this to be true.”

Mara shrugged again, noting the campfire was blazing brightly. “I spent most of my time outside of the inns, Misha. Only you and father went inside. I have always found them to be rather… flavorful.”

“Flavorful?” Micheline was horrified. “How can you say that?”

They were nearing the camp perimeter and Mara shushed her sister firmly. “Not to worry, Misha. I would never do anything foolish.”

“But you are thinking foolish thoughts, little goat.”

From the corner of her eye, Mara caught sight of Kirk as they entered the camp. Seeing the travel-weary ladies, Kirk left the task of securing a section of tent and made his way toward them. Mara kept her eyes trained on him, the face Micheline thought was so very handsome.

“For me, these thoughts are not so foolish,” she murmured. “They are perfectly normal.”

“As I said,” Micheline closed her eyes in silent prayer, “foolish.”

*

Mara waited untilthe camp was quiet before making her move. The clouds had returned, as had the rain, and she made sure Micheline was asleep before stirring from her bed. The soft glow from the dying fire cast long shadows as she peered from the tent, watching the sentries pace the encampment. Waiting for the last pair of soldiers to disappear into the bramble, she slipped from the shelter and into the trees.

The village was visible about a mile down the road. Mud splashed on her worn shoes as she trudged down the thoroughfare, but Mara was unconcerned with the discomfort. She was determined to make it to town, to beg a few coins off a rich soldier as she had done so ably when she was young, and then indulge herself in a fine goblet of mead to toast her victory against Kirk.

Ormskirk was a smelly, dirty town. As Mara skipped along the road, dodging horses and men, her gaze fell on a large hostel by the edge of town. Looking through the window, she could see the laughing people and smell the smelly warmth. It was inviting and she quickly decided to become a part of it. Slipping in behind a group of well-dressed knights, she lost herself in the crowd.

No one noticed the tiny woman skirting the edge of the room, gazing curiously at what she had described to her sister as ‘flavor’. Soldiers gnawing on bloodied meat, wenches with painted faces seated on their lap. There was song and gaiety and the stench of close-packed bodies filling the air. As Mara made her way to the blazing hearth, she thought all of it to be rather exciting.

The fire was scorching. Warming her hands before the blaze, the smell of beef was making her hungry. Face partially shielded by the wet hood, Mara’s gaze scanned the room in search of a potential benefactor.

In the corner of the room sat a fat merchant, dining alone on a stew of turnips and mutton. Mara watched the man for a moment, sensing he was kind and hoping her instincts were right. Squaring her shoulders, she went to his table.