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The Warrior and Lady Rebel

By Teresa Smyser

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August 5, 1611

Lord Nicolas Fairwick couldn’t wait to return home. His men and horses needed to recover from their last encounter. Why the king had sent them on such a useless campaign, he couldn’t fathom. They gained nothing but lost much. Luckily, Nicolas returned with all of his men, except one. Poor Arnold. Trampled by his own horse when he became unseated during a skirmish. A wasted death. Nicolas shook his head. At least he had been more fortunate than Lord Sherwood and Lord Mathias of neighboring estates, who had lost numerous gallant knights.
“My Lord, what is up ahead?” Thomas asked.
Nicolas abruptly jerked back to the present at the sound of his brother’s voice. Something white lay on the roadside. He couldn’t quite make it out from the distance. “Thomas, take three men and approach with caution. It could well be a trap,” Nicolas commanded through a clinched jaw.
With one simple hand gesture, the rest of his men came to a halt. Each one kept a watchful eye on the nearby landscape ready to do battle if, in fact, it were an ambush. Thomas and the men approached with great care. The closer they came, the more clearly they could see. It was a body lying face down under a tree. The bare feet were slashed and bloodied. The dark hair matted with blood.
Thomas slowly dismounted as the other three men stood guard. Leaving his horse, he crept closer, his sword at ready. He knelt down beside the body and turned it over. Thomas sucked in a quick breath. A woman! Mud and blood soiled her garment. Looking about, he saw the ground around the body was untouched—no tracks of man or beast. It did not appear to be a trap, so he stood and motioned to Lord Fairwick.
Nicolas rode up to Thomas and halted. Ten of Nicolas’s men fanned out in a semi-circle around the body facing outward to be on guard against attack. Nicolas removed his helmet and rested it on his thigh. What he saw made his anger flare. Someone had badly used a woman and left her at his doorstep. Now she was his problem.
“Does she live?” Nicolas asked with irritation.
“She breathes, My Lord,” Thomas answered.
Nicolas raked his hand across his dripping wet face as he blew out a snort. “Bring her.” He replaced his helmet, nudged his horse, and proceeded down the path toward home.
Each man knew the history behind Lord Fairwick’s family. The woman was a bad sign.


August 5, 1611
Nicolas wasn’t sure what he would do with the woman. He hoped she died before reaching the castle, therefore, relieving him of a decision. He didn’t need another woman in his castle. His unwed sister was enough to deal with each day. Nicolas was tired, dirty, and disgusted with life. As it began to drizzle, he added miserable to his list of grievances. For all that was holy, God must be punishing him for his sins.
The one hundred men who accompanied Lord Fairwick rode in silence. The woman’s condition filtered down the line through whispers. They knew her future was bleak unless she recovered quickly and left the castle . . . or died. Only time would determine her fate.
Nicolas rode in front of his men. He sat erect in his saddle setting a prideful example for his men. They would enter the gates unashamedly. The knights and fighting men under Nicolas’s command were the best in the region. They had fought gallantly. Even though none could see any good coming from their campaign, no one had complained. Each time they rode out, it was at great risk to his men and his castle. However, the latest event—finding a woman—could bring a worse kind of disaster, if not to the castle life, to him.
After thirty minutes of travel, Thomas nudged his horse to catch up to his brother. Nicolas cut his eyes over as Thomas approached but made no move to recognize him. Mayhap, if he ignored Thomas, he would stay silent.
“Nick, a word with you?” Thomas asked.
Silence.
“Nick?” he repeated. Silence. “You can’t ignore me forever.”
“What say you?” Nicolas gruffly asked.
“This woman I rescued is heavy. She didn’t look big on the ground, but she’s dead weight. Since I have a wounded arm, might someone else see to her care?” he pleaded.
“Who would you suggest, Thomas? Who of the men is not weak from hunger and exhausted from our journey? Or injured? Who Thomas?” he asked angrily.
Thomas kept pace with his brother as he contemplated his reply. “You are correct, Lord Brother. When I think of the strongest warrior in our midst, I think of only one. Just one stands out as mighty . . . and strong . . . and vigorous . . . and . . .”
“Cease,” Nicolas belted out with frustration. “Hand her over. I will remember your whining ways. The next time we’re called into battle, you will be left home watching children.” Thomas made the transfer to Nicolas without requiring either of them to dismount. Nicolas was greatly annoyed with the whole situation. Yet, he wrapped the body in his cloak to give her a chance for survival.
Thomas just laughed at his brother’s gruffness. He had learned long ago to ignore his middle brother’s sharp tongue. He knew Nicolas loved him from the way he had seen to Thomas’s care since childhood. Thomas knew women brought out his brother’s dark side. One day he would find out the reason for it, but not today.
Thomas dropped back into formation and left his brother to his own gloomy thoughts. Darkness was quickly descending upon them. Thankfully, only a few more miles, and the castle would be in view.
Nicolas glanced down into the woman’s face. From what he could see, it was scratched and bloody. Her knotted hair stuck to one side of her face. He didn’t know why Thomas couldn’t carry her. She was as light as a child. One more peek confirmed his original thought; she wouldn’t last the night.
With a hand signal, Braden, his battle commander, was at his side. “Take Hastings and Elwood and fetch Agnes,” Nicolas commanded.
Those three men broke rank and rode off toward the village. They realized the seriousness of the injury when Agnes was summoned. She dealt with the critical ones. Many of the men were afraid of Agnes. Some secretly thought she might even be a witch. Of course, Lord Nicolas Fairwick trusted her—so must they.
Nicolas never tired of seeing his castle shining bright in the night. The gatekeeper heralded their arrival. Torches burned all across the parapet to welcome the weary travelers. Lord Fairwick crossed the wooden drawbridge first. He rode to the steps of the keep and turned to wait while his men rode past the gatehouse. All eyes were on him and his bundle. A few gasps quickly fell silent. No one would outwardly question his decision to bring a strange woman into the castle, but there would be much speculation.
“Phillip, have Abigail see that Collette prepares mother’s room for our guest,” Nicolas said with authority as he tossed Phillip a key he had extracted from the pouch attached to his belt. His older brother hesitated only a moment before he hurried to do Nicolas’s bidding.
Watching his men ride through the gates filled Nicolas with great satisfaction. The processional took some time, but it reminded Nicolas that he had returned with all of his men except one—Arnold. Nicolas quickly crossed himself at the remembrance. Once all of the men were safely inside the gates, Nicolas climbed down from his destrier, the woman still in his arms. With long, confident strides, he strode past Angus and Jarvis who were waiting on the top step of the keep to welcome him home. They were too old for battle, but Nicolas kept them busy with other duties. He hoped they wouldn’t question him, but he was not so fortunate.
“What have ye in thy arms, My Lord?” Jarvis asked.
“Naught of import, Jarvis.”
“But, My Lord, it looks like a woman.” Angus tried to peek at her, but Nicolas turned his shoulder and quickened his pace. He was in no mood to listen to those two or anyone else about his guest. Once inside, he strode past the great hall and made for the rooms above.
“Jarvis, be prepared to make ready all Agnes will need,” he bellowed over his shoulder. He waited for no reply as he took to the stairs.
After speaking with Abigail, his wife, Phillip had stopped at the top of the stairs in stunned silence. His head swiveled around to see Angus and Jarvis shrugging their boney shoulders in bewilderment. He slowly descended the stairs after Nicolas passed.
“What think you, men?” Phillip asked.
“Trouble,” was their only response.

* * *

As Abigail turned the key, the door opened on squeaky hinges. Nicolas had ordered the room locked after his father’s death, and no one had been in the room for years. Abigail stood watch as Collette scurried to prepare the room adjoined to Nicolas’s room. She knocked down multiple cobwebs before adding clean linens to the rope bed. One could access the room only by passing through Lord Fairwick’s room. The two rooms had once belonged to his parents many years ago. Abigail shuddered and quickly crossed herself as she remembered Nicolas’s and Phillip’s father. He had kept their mother, Lady Isolde, a prisoner in her own home. Many times she was locked in her room for inane reasons. Some of the peasants believed the room was haunted by Lady Isolde who was trying to right the wrongs done to her.
“Hurry, Collette,” Abigail snapped.
Collette rushed through her tasks to ready the room for the mysterious visitor. Once she was finished, she ran to fetch clean water leaving Abigail alone in the room.
“Is all at ready?” Nicolas asked.
With thoughts of ghosts soaring around in her head, Abigail practically jumped out of her dress at Nicolas’s voice. She whipped her head around to see him filling the doorway. All her thoughts about ghosts flew from her mind as she viewed the woman.
“Yea, My Lord,” she meekly replied as she curtsied.
“Stop with your act, Abigail. I have no time for it,” Nicolas said wearily.
A flash of anger briefly passed across Abigail’s face before she masked her emotions. She straightened up, pulled down the linens, and stepped away from the bed and him. He gingerly placed the woman on the bed and backed away.
“You will remain with her until Agnes arrives,” he said as he spun around to leave the room.
“But, but . . .”
Nicolas ignored her sputtering and stalked out the door.
“Of all the . . . ,” Abigail grumbled. “One day Phillip will take over his rightful place as Lord of this castle,” she whispered to no one.
Standing near the bed, Abigail stared at the woman. From what she could see, the fine, white linen gown was muddy with traces of blood, but her feet and head were quite bloody. Abigail picked up a candle and leaned closer. Bending near her, Abigail noticed an unusual ring on her finger. From the jewels in the ring, the woman was someone of consequence. She set the candle down on the table and reached for the woman’s hand.
“Abigail, what do ye here?” Agnes croaked coming into the room. She set down the water that Collette had given her when they had met in the hallway.
Abigail jerked back so fast that she stumbled over her own feet and bumped the table. She had enough presence of mind to grab the candle before it toppled onto the woman.
“Up to nay good if ye ask me,” Agnes cackled.
“Don’t talk to me like that, old woman,” Abigail replied angrily. “You forget your place.”
“Nay, I know me place. Ye forget yours.”
Abigail was furious. She needn’t be reminded of her lower position, especially by Agnes. With head held high, Abigail swiftly left the room without offering her help.
“Well, now, m’ lady, let’s take a look at yer cuts,” Agnes droned. She laughed to herself over Abigail’s reaction to her. She knew Abigail thought she was a witch. Many people were afraid of her because they didn’t understand her healing powers. Their fear kept them away from Agnes which suited her well enough. She liked being alone. It allowed her time to test new herbs. God had gifted her, and she wasn’t going to waste time dwelling on ignorant people.
Agnes gently wiped the woman’s head and face. The lump on her forehead was alarmingly large. Something or someone had struck her with a hard object. Agnes tenderly probed her head searching for other cuts and bumps. Unfortunately, the woman never stirred—not a good sign.
“M’ Lady, I must give ye a name. I can’t keep thinking of ye as ‘the woman’. Hmm, how about Lady Katherine? From the looks of this here ring, ye’re royalty. I wonder if Lord Fairwick noticed it. I dare say, nay.” Agnes continued talking to her as she methodically cleaned all the scratches and cuts. She hoped Lady Katherine would hear her voice and respond soon. The longer she went without waking, the less her chance of survival.
“Mmm, mmm, little lady, who beat ye and left ye for dead? Hmm? If only thy tiny, bloody feet could tell old Agnes the story.” Agnes tugged the cloak free from under Lady Katherine and then resumed humming to herself as she washed and bandaged the woman’s feet. Agnes had applied a cold compress to her face, but only time would heal the bruises and reduce the swelling around her eyes. Lady Katherine never stirred.
“She’s in a dreadful state,” Agnes commented. She didn’t have to turn around to know Nicolas was in the room. She felt his presence.
“Well, I know it. I’m surprised she is still breathing,” Nicolas whispered.
“Close the door. I want nary a one hearing us,” she said.
Nicolas did as requested. He knew the need of secrecy as well. He came to the foot of the bed and waited.
“Her clothing is of the finest cloth and this ring . . . we must tread carefully with this one. She belongs to someone of import,” Agnes remarked.
“Verily, I know it!” Nicolas boomed. Agnes gave him ‘the look’ and he had the decency to nod his head. “Forgive my loud voice,” he sheepishly replied.
He disliked it when Agnes made him feel like a young lad who had misbehaved. He was the Lord of the castle, and she didn’t care. Of course, that’s what he liked about her, too. She didn’t give him preferential treatment. Agnes treated everyone the same—friend or foe.
“I don’t need an ill-treated woman in the castle. I could easily be accused of her mistreatment if ’tis some trap,” he added crossly. “Unfortunately, my family history precedes me.”
Agnes stopped her ministrations and turned to Nicolas. “Ye are not thy father.”
“Thankfully, nay. But there are those who would bring me low over this incident and well you know it.”
“Ye borrow trouble before it’s time. Instead, ye should be pray’n for Lady Katherine’s recovery.”
“Who? You know this woman?” His voice had gone up a few notches in disbelief.
“Nay, M’ Lord, but she needed a name, so I gave her one. I couldn’t keep calling her ‘the woman’.” Turning back to Lady Katherine, Agnes resumed her work.
Thinking there was nothing he could do, Nicolas turned to leave. He was in need of a bath and food.
“Wait. There is something I want ye to see.”
Nicolas came to stand beside Agnes as she gingerly removed the blanket from the woman’s leg. “Look closely at her leg,” Agnes encouraged.
He took the candle and leaned in for a closer look. His stomach quivered when he saw her well defined calf and small ankle. “I see scratches and cuts. What is it you wish for me to notice?” he asked with frustration trying to hide his reaction to her shapely leg.
“She has no hair on her leg. ’Tis smooth as a looking glass,” she whispered.
Nicolas wrenched upright and took a step back. “What could have caused it?” he whispered back with wide eyes.
“I know not. A ritual . . . or possibly . . . torture?”
Rubbing his hand over his face, Nicolas said, “Speak of this to no one. I want no gossip traveling through the castle about it.” Emotions churning, he strode over and unlocked his mother’s trunk. Starring down at her clothes and harp, he took a ragged breath. “Lock the woman’s gown and ring in my mother’s trunk.” He placed the candle and trunk key on the table and wearily left the room closing the door behind him.
Entering his room, he found Brigette standing near the outer portal. He was glad Agnes had insisted he close the door. He loved his sister, but Brigette could be a tale bearer.
“What do you here, little sister? Wanting to help care for our guest?” he asked. Nicolas knew Brigette shied away from anything that resembled work. She was nearly fifteen summers, yet knew nothing about running a household. The fault was his.
“Nay, brother mine. I came to see how she fares,” Brigette inquired kindly.
“She does well enough, but . . .” Nicolas let his sentence trail off, for he knew Brigette’s mind. She was worried about her place in his affection and its being usurped by another. Nicolas looked up toward the ceiling as if in great thought. He could hear her fidgeting from one foot to another. “. . . if she heals nicely and turns out comely . . . hmm . . . I am in need of a wife . . .”
“What?” she screeched. “You wouldn’t dare. The king would have your head, and then Phillip and his hateful wife would take over. I couldn’t bear it,” she said dramatically as she fell into a heap on the floor. “You must send her away and quickly,” she cried.
Inwardly, Nicolas cringed at her performance. “I grow weary of your theatrics, Brigette. They do not affect me. I will do what seems best for all. I don’t need you to direct my thoughts,” he said impatiently. With feet apart and arms crossed, he said, “Get up from the floor and leave me.”
Pushing herself off the floor, she flipped her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. “Of course, Nicolas,” she sniffed. After wiping her eyes, she asked, “Why is she in Mother’s room?”
Leave it to Brigette to get to the heart of everyone’s curiosity. “We know nothing about this woman, Brigette. She could be friend or foe. Therefore, she is secure in this room with no way in or out without going past me. I also control who enters the room. Does that satisfy your inquiry?”
“Yea. Thank you, Nicolas.” He knew Brigette was trying to smooth over her miscalculation before exiting the room. She needed to stay in his good stead. Her future depended on it.
“Shall I call for your bath?” she asked.
“Yea, thank you,” he said absentmindedly. Her fluttering eyes were lost on him as his mind had already shifted to the woman or more importantly to his reaction to the woman. Afraid his father’s cruelty would manifest itself in him, Nicolas had forbidden unmarried women to live inside the castle walls. His mother’s suffering had left a horrifying impression forever etched in his memory. Now, not only was temptation lying in his mother’s bed, but she had ripped open a raw wound in his heart that he thought had scarred over. “God, forgive me, but please take her from this place tonight,” he whispered.

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