Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. Real life got in the way. Thanks to all you patient people. Here is Chapter Two.
Note: as far as the Scottish accent goes, I will type their words in standard form, to make it easier to read. You'll have to use your imagination. :)
Chapter Two
Spring, 1297. Borders of Bramblebury.
Winter in Scotland turned into spring almost overnight. The boughs of the trees, once covered with frost, shook off the winter chill and made way for new buds. Thin blades of grass pushed their way up to the surface, reaching toward the sun. Animals that spent the long winter sleeping cautiously crept out of their homes--timid rabbits, sly foxes, mother does and new fawns.
The slight chill was evident in the morning air; however, this did not deter Marjory Debaye from taking her morning ride by the borders of the River Nith. The young woman, barely eighteen, relished this time of solitude away from Bramblebury, away from her governess--the loud, obnoxious Adelaide.
Clip clop, clip clop. Her horse's hooves could clearly be heard, the echo carrying off on the air. Marjory stopped every so often, taking in the beauty of the Scottish morn through her pale blue eyes, her ears catching the sound of seagulls cawing at one another near the river. The river flowed past the wheaten fields where she played as a child, long hours of seek and hide with her father; once, a clear-cut path led through the fields, past the estate of Bramblebury, to a patch of the most delicious, juicy berries--tart, yet sweet. The juice would stain her lips and fingers as she ate her fill; she'd line her pockets with them and take them to the cooks, who wouldturn them into berry pastries. She smiled at the memory of her father, laughing at the way she'd gobble the berries down; once, she bit into a bad one, a bug crawling out.
Just as quickly as the smile came to her face, it left, as her fear for her father's safety blotted out her happy memories.
Oh, her father. How she missed him.
King Edward had need of her father's help with the Scottish insurrection, and of course he went. After all, he was Lord John William Debaye, one of England's most gallant generals. Just the mention of his name put fear into the hearts of lesser men. Though she feared for him when he went away, she had total confidence in her father and her king that the rebellion would be stamped out in a month--two, at the most.
"May God protect you, father, from harm." At the close of her prayer, a strong breeze whipped her black hair about her face, obscuring her vision for a moment. Her horse whinnied, and reared up.
"Ssh, Blanchette. Ssh." Marjory kept a tight grip on the reins until the horse settled down.
"That a girl, Blanchette." She stroked one gloved hand over her horse's mane, it having a soothing effect on the animal.
A snap of branches could be heard from her immediate left, and her eyes darted in that direction. Nothing. Mayhap an animal, possibly a squirrel. But why did she get the feeling she was being watched? And why were the hairs on her neck suddenly standing up on end?
Stop it, she scolded herself. You are acting like a simpering fool. 'Tis nothing. Just animals. She didn't even believe her mind. All she could think about was that feeling of being watched. All of a sudden, she didn't want to be here anymore. Home never sounded so good to her as it did at this moment.
"Is that her, William?"
The Scotsman leaned forward on his haunches, pale blue eyes squinting against the morning light. "Aye, that's her, lad." William stared at the young daughter of the English general Debaye. She surprised him--he expected a rather grotesque woman, for her father lacked in looks. She must have inheirited her mother's beauty, he decided to himself. Her hair blacker than ink; her figure very vivacious. But he was not here to ogle the woman, he was here for one reason, and one reason only: money.
The "Scottish rebellion", the "Scottish insurrection," whatever the English called it, did not come cheap. Money for weapons, money for armor, money for horses, money for food. At first, he gained support from some of Scotland's most celebrated earls. As his renown grew, for better or worse, less of the earls were eager to offer monetary support. Never the mind. Kidnapping families and bartering for money did just as well. The end justified the means, though he never killed unless he absolutely had to.
A chill wind whipped through the air, blowing his blond hair around his eyes. In turn, it scared the horse the woman rode.
"Ssh, Blanchette. Ssh." She kept a tight grip on the reins until the horse calmed.
"That a girl, Blanchette." She stroked a hand over the horse's mane. William couldn't help but be impressed. Most of the women he'd encountered in his twenty-one years couldn't handle horses as well as this one could. Most would fall off the horses, whining about their dresses getting dirty.
He shifted weight to his other foot, keeping his gaze locked on the Englishwoman.
Snap. Fallen branches broke underneath, and the young woman turned her head in the direction of the sound.
"Shite," he grumbled, and threw his head over his shoulder, indicating to his men to be quiet!
She must have decided it was merely an animal of some sort, for she rode off in the direction of her estate. He felt relieved that the girl didn't come to investigate the noise--that would spoil his plans. If she had, her capture would have come sooner, rather than later.
He stretched to his whole height of six-and-a-half feet, feeling the effect of long hours of sitting, waiting. It hurt. He welcomed the hurt; it let him know he still lived.
William turned to his small band of men, most of them still seated, others taking his cue and standing to ease the achings in their legs.
"Alright men, listen up." Eyes turned to their leader, a man who commanded much respect. The man who would free Scotland from the hated English rule.
"I did my research, and found out from sources that the general Debaye is headquartered with Longshanks in Newcastle, no doubt planning how to stop me." He grinned, and his men grinned back. "So capturing the girl will be easy. We wait for the sun to set, then I--" he pointed at two men, "--Hamish, and Andrew, will steal into the estate. Hamish, you will head to the left wing, investigating any rooms there. Andrew, you have the right wing. I will search the upstairs. Whichever one of us finds her first, will hold our hand over her mouth just long enough to rob her of her consciousness--we are not to kill her. She is no good to us dead." He looked to Hamish and Andrew, who nodded in confirmation.
"When she is not conscious, we carry her out of the estate, and make our way north, out of the forest."
"William?"
"Yes, Hamish?"
The red-haired, burly giant, stood from his post. "What if we encounter anyone other than the girl?"
"Either knock them out cold, or rob them of consciousness. We are not to harm anyone, not even the girl. Though they are English..."
"Damn English," Hamish muttered in response.
William cocked a brow, then continued. "...we are not to harm them. Understood?"
Heads shook in the affirmative.
"Now, all we have to do is wait for the sun to go to bed." He sat back down on the soggy, mossy grounds, pulling his cloak tight about him.
And waited.
