Lost in the foothills
of the mountains, Bridget meets the elf, Windswift the Wanderer. He offers to
guide her across the mountain range. But what is the elf doing in human lands?
Can an ordinary, or almost ordinary, human girl trust a cold hearted elf to
lead her to safety?
Epic fantasy adventure and romance with darker overtones. This story weaves elements of folklore and a quest for a safe haven in a land where magic is real.
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Chapter 1
Bridget Bramble fastened the buckle to close
the satchel and placed it on the table next to her basket. She spun on her toes,
gazing at her cottage and breathing in the homely scene. The spicy fragrance of
the herbs hanging to dry melded with the lingering scent of the barley cakes
she had baked yesterday. Jars of preserves and powders lined the shelf above
her plates, bowls and cooking pots.
She had lived alone in the cottage in the two
years since Granny had died, following her tradition of supplying herbs for the
villagers. But she needed to replenish her stock and this foraging expedition
was overdue. She had used the last of the white fungus three weeks ago. The
shell-shaped fungus grew only in a special grove of birches at half a day’s
walk from her cottage. The trip had been postponed by tending to a sick child
and a spate of rainy days.
The girl had recovered. Yesterday, the clouds
had lifted and she had prepared for the day-long expedition into the woods garnering
seasonal fruits, herbs and the white fungus. She planned to fill the basket with
ripe berries and nuts. Everything was ready for her trip.
She tapped her fingers on the leather satchel.
It held plenty of cloth bags to carry the foraged plants and a pair of leather
gloves to protect her hands from thorns or poisonous oils. She had packed two barley
cakes, a chunk of cheese, an apple and a leather flask of ale for her midday
meal. She always carried her small knife, the fire starter and a pouch of
medicinal herbs. Her cloak and hat were on the hooks by the door. She had fed
the chickens and checked that the ashes in the fireplace were cold.
She lifted the brown felt hat from its hook,
and jammed it over her head, pulling the rim low over her ears and forehead.
Only her ponytail swung loose on her back. She grinned, as gleeful as a truant
lad, and eager for a day’s freedom from humdrum chores.
A rap on the door made her frown. It meant a
delay.
Annoyed by the interruption, she placed the
satchel on a chair and went to see who was her early visitor.
Randall stood outside, an anxious expression on
his face and a linen bag in his hand.
“Bridget,” he said, “I’ve come for the dried madder.
We’re ready to dye a new batch of wool.”
“Come in.” She swept the basket off the table
to make room for his bag. “Sit down while I fetch it.”
As she opened the door to the larder, her
brother demanded, “Why are you dressed like that?”
She glanced down at her working clothes. Randall
ought to recognize her outfit from their hunting expeditions with Papa. She had
worn the same clothes for those weeklong trips in the wilderness. The boy’s
trousers Randall had outgrown, a faded blue woolen shirt, a man’s leather
jerkin and ankle boots. Only the jerkin was a newer acquisition, freshened up
with a set of her horn buttons. She preferred the freedom of a man’s clothing
for lengthy trips into the woods. If she were mistaken for a boy at a distance,
it might save her unwanted attentions.
She said, “I’m going foraging in the woods.”
“Man’s clothes. You’re so unfeminine,” he
scolded. “How can you expect to attract a husband if you go around wearing a
man’s clothes?”
She squashed an angry retort. It was useless to
argue with him. He was only voicing his wife’s opinion, likely shared by the
old biddies in the village. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. Her clothing had
nothing to do with her unmarried state. He knew the real reason as well as she
did. The blacksmith’s son had spread the rumor she was a witch and hated men.
The lies were his revenge for the spell she cast when he caught her alone and
tried to rape her.
Pressing his point, he said, “You shouldn’t be
living alone.”
“I don’t want a husband,” she snapped and
immediately regretted her outburst. Locating the jar with powdered madder root,
she poured a quarter of it into Randall’s drawstring bag. “Here’s the madder.
Do you need anything else?”
He thanked her, rubbed his short beard and
stared at her for a moment. “You could come to live with us.”
Leaning her palms on the table, she dismissed
his offer. “No. Hen’s teeth, Eveline and I would be at each other’s throats.”
He looked unhappy. “Bridget, I’m worried about
Eveline. She’s bulging with the baby. Her ankles are swollen and she’s too
tired to do her usual housework.”
“She should rest,” Bridget said. “The baby’s
not due yet. Not for three or four weeks, I’d guess.” She understood his
worries. Their first child had been stillborn.
“You’ll come, won’t you, to help with the
birth?”
Touched by his trust in her healing abilities,
she said, “I’ll be there. Send for me once the pains begin.” Ever since she was
ten years old, she had assisted Mama and Granny at births. Now, she served as
the village’s only herbwife. Despite the rumors, her neighbors often called on
her to help with difficult births and severe illnesses. Her trip to replenish
supplies of medicinal herbs was as important as making charms for healing.
Sorting through the jars, she selected a mixture of shredded raspberry and
peppermint leaves. “Give Eveline a pinch of this mix in hot water at midday and
make sure she rests in bed.”
Randall picked up the package. “You’re a good
sister. I shouldn’t grumble about your clothes or how you choose to live.”
She gave him a goodbye hug to prove she still
loved him despite their disagreements. Holding the door open, she watched him
limp down the lane toward his house in the main village. Eveline might gripe
about her sister-in-law’s weird habits, yet she never berated Randall about his
lame leg. They were happy as a couple. Was Randall right? Would she also be
happier with a husband? Maybe. If she found a man to love her and approve of
her skills in herbcraft and carving magic buttons. She shook her head. Nobody
in this neighborhood fit that description.
When her brother hobbled out of sight around a
bend in the path, she returned to her kitchen and replaced the jars in the
larder. Glancing though the window at the sky, she considered her delayed trip.
She had meant to leave at first light, and the sun was already halfway to its
zenith. Even walking fast, she could not reach the birch grove with the white
fungus before late afternoon. Should she extend the trip and sleep overnight in
the woods? The autumnal weather was mild and she had often camped in the wilds during
the week-long expeditions with Papa.
A shout erupted from the lower village.
Dogs yelped.
Bridget groaned. Not another interruption.
She peered out of the
window overlooking the lower cottages.
Armed men were marching
in a double line along the road into the village. She counted a column of fifty
soldiers. Their helmets, sword hilts and spear points glinted in the sunlight. They
wore thick doublets over leather kilts dyed dark red. A helmeted man rode a
black horse in the vanguard, his blood-red cloak billowing in the breeze. Walking
behind the leader, another man carried a banner, flapping in a blur of red and
black. In the rear, other men led horses pulling two empty wagons.
As they advanced, her
trepidation grew. Why were they entering the village? Had they come to collect tithes
for King Athelric? Surely it was too early in the season. The tithe collectors always
came after the harvest was gathered. And none of the king’s soldiers wore red
kilts. Who were these strangers?
Elder Grantham stomped
onto the road to confront the leader of the foreign troop. Old Grantham called
himself the village chief and fancied he ran the place. He raised his hand and
asked a question, his words inaudible at this distance.
The cloaked leader
barked an order.
A man in the front rank
punched his fist into Grantham’s face.
The gray-haired old man
crumpled, his body thumping onto the road.
Aghast, Bridget gulped.
Grantham might be a pompous ass, but what hellish person would mistreat a
defenseless old man?
A woman screeched inside the adjacent cottage.
The enemy leader gave a hand signal.
The foremost ranks split into groups. Five men rushed
into the nearest cottage and dragged the occupants onto the road. A second set
of men entered the house and carted out boxes of valuables. They worked
methodically, moving from one cottage to the next in an organized manner.
Villagers yelled in anger, or screamed and begged
for mercy. The raiders beat off the scant opposition and herded the others into
a field.
No wonder there was little resistance, Bridget
thought bitterly. Two weeks ago, Jarl Keegan had commandeered eight of the
strongest men in the village and the best riding horses for his troop. He had
led them away to Castleton in response to a command from King Athelric. Since
their departure, no messages had come from the Jarl or his men. Rumors swirled around
the neighborhood about battles and marriage celebrations, although nobody knew
the truth.
Suddenly furious,
Bridget resolved the horrid foreigners would not capture her or steal her best
buttons. Shutting her eyes, she rubbed her fingers over the charm-inscribed
buttons on her bracelet and considered what to do. Her cottage stood on the
edge of the woods, up a small lane and well separated from the rest of the
village. She should have a few minutes respite before the raiders arrived.
Randall and his
pregnant wife lived in the main village. But she had no way to defend them against
the attackers. Few of the spells in her scant knowledge of magic were designed
to harm people. She had only once used her best weapon, the repulsion spell, to
escape when the blacksmith’s son had grabbed her. Repulsion made an effective
defense against a man at close quarters, but it would not work on an enemy at a
distance. Her only option was to flee before the invaders captured her.
Luckily, her man’s
clothes were good for running and she had a day’s worth of food. What else
could she take for her flight?
A scream, abruptly cut short, propelled her
into action.
Her thoughts buzzing in alarm, she ran to the
chest by her bed and grabbed her most precious belongings, the blue bag with her
best buttons, her sewing kit and carving tools. She stuffed them in a second satchel
along with a spare shirt. She hesitated over her three books. The herbal
treatise and book of ballads were too heavy to carry a long distance, although
she decided to keep her great grandparents’ travel journal. Its pages had a
wrinkled cover of oiled leather. She tucked the small book into the folds of
the shirt. Returning to the fireplace, she grabbed the tin cup for heating
water. Finally, she surveyed the shelves in the larder. The jars of preserves
were too heavy, but she added three apples, the rest of the barley cakes, a bag
of shelled walnuts and strips of smoked mutton in store for the winter.
She arranged the straps of the two satchels
crosswise over her shoulders. Flinging her cloak over her back, she fumbled to
fasten the button at her neck. She nudged the rear door ajar and peeped out. Just
beyond the doorsill, a well-trodden track led uphill into the woods. Raspberry
and currant bushes lined the path and provided a screen from the marauders in
the village.
Heart thumping in fright, she lowered her hood
over her head. She crouched below the tops of the bushes and scurried up the
path into the shelter of the trees.
