Chapter 4: the wild girl

Ashtree Hall, the Heartlands of the Twin Kingdoms

Brother Talvard often reminded Trystan that many things were easy to say, yet not so easy to do. So when Trystan offered to bring the ragged girl food from the castle pantry, he felt confident in his plan. As he crept past Cookie and Helga, his nerve began to falter.

He was all alone. Arl had stayed with the girl; the dog was good for many things, but a stealth mission was not one of them. He would sooner make a mess of the kitchens than be of any use to Trystan in this operation. Still, the boy missed the hound’s reassuring presence. Cookie was hard at work over the pots and pans, lifting a spoon to taste the spicy-smelling broth, then sprinkling salt and pepper over roasted fish. Helga, the maid, was expertly peeling potatoes and humming “Lady Lester’s Lover” softly to herself.

Trystan inched past them and down the stone steps to the pantry. Fortunately he knew the way well, for many nights he had stolen this way for a chunk of cheese and bread, or, if lucky, a sweet pastry. He opened the door, mindful to pull it back only halfway, for the hinges tended to creak loudly.

In the dark, he felt around for a loaf of bread, some dried ham and a couple of apples and hastily threw them into a sack. If Cookie were to catch him in her pantry again, she would have his hide for sure. He took a breath and tried to compose himself. Now was not the time to lose his nerve. Not here. He smiled as his hands felt for the soft icing on the lemon cakes, and he stuffed one into his mouth. He took another three for the ragged girl and hid a fourth in his pocket for later.

Somehow he made it outside without alerting a soul. With his lord father and most of the men gone to Hardhall, the castle was in a tranquil state of idleness. Big Benn slumbered in the guard tower as Jedd and Arryl drank and played cards in the courtyard. None of them noticed Trystan slink through the open gate and out into the woods.

*

“Here you are, as promised,” Trystan announced triumphantly as he dropped the sack at the girl’s feet. She grunted in reply and began rummaging through the stolen food.

She was likely around his own age, Trystan thought as he looked her over. She was a mess under the mud and stains of travel. Her matted, tangled locks fell wildly around her, with leaves and twigs still stuck to them. Her face was badly sunburned, her golden hair dirty, and her knees and elbows scarred with old scrapes. An acrid smell clung to her, yet her eyes… Her eyes were black, as black as a starless night, both captivating and frightening. She caught him staring and glared menacingly, making Trystan blush and look down at his feet.

“Not enough,” she snapped with a hint of bitterness after she’d inspected the sack’s contents.

She stood, dusting off her hands. The rags she wore might once have been a dress, but now she looked as if a swamp had clothed her. Ragged, tattered, full of holes and beset by dried old bloodstains.

“What… how?” Trystan protested. “There’s enough there to feed an army!”

“An apple, mouldy bread, barely enough cheese for a baby mouse, a scrap of dry ham and a cake sweet enough to rot my teeth?” the girl said accusingly. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s more than that hare…” Trystan tried not to show it, but he felt hurt.

“The hare you let go? You owe me. This is not enough.”

“I shall bring you more on the morrow. I promise.”

“Fine… I guess.”

The girl sighed as she leaned against a tree and took a bite of lemon cake.

“Those are my favourite,” Trystan said in a low voice, wanting to ease the tension.

The girl cast him a scornful look, yet her black eyes softened as she licked off the icing.

They sat in silence for a while. Trystan was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, so he plucked up his courage and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Going north.”

“Why north?” Trystan persisted, immediately suspicious. “Are you a traitor?”

“The rebellion ended years ago,” she said, with a sneer. “Besides, it is not your concern.”

“Well… you are in my lands. I have a right to know.” Trystan huffed and crossed his arms, tiring of the girl’s attitude.

“Your lands?” she scoffed.

Trystan noticed the air of cold, command in her voice. It was the type of voice one wanted to hear in approval, not anger. And definitely not in ridicule.

“You see, my father’s…” Trystan faltered.

“So not yours.”

He reddened and fell silent once more.

“This cake is really good,” she said softly and he thought perhaps she must have felt somewhat sorry for him.

“I know, they’re my favourite.”

“You said that already.”

“My name is Trystan,” he said with an awkward shrug.

The girl nodded, yet did not give her name in return. She stroked Arl’s fur as the hound nudged playfully at her.

“I haven’t had something like this since… well, in a very long time,” she at last admitted when she’d eaten the third lemon cake and licked her fingers clean.

“I could bring you more, if you like,” Trystan said, wanting to take care of her, despite the way she had of sounding dismissive without trying.

The girl looked him over with weary black eyes.

“How long have you been in the Heartlands?” he asked.

“Not long.”

“Do you sleep out here? Does it not get cold? What about the rain?”

“I manage.”

“I can show you a better place if you like,” he offered. “I know these woods like the back of my hand.”

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Fine…” she mumbled.

*

Nestled in the small wood, away from the castle and prying eyes, the clearing with the great oak was a short walk from where they had met. Trystan often went there to read when the weather was fine, or sometimes to play at being a knight with Arl and his brother Varen. But, he realised, Varen had not played with him in a very long time.

“There is a stream not far from here,” he said, gesturing towards a thicket of trees where flowing water could be heard faintly.

“What of it?” she said, frowning.

“I just thought you might –” He cut himself off, not knowing how to put it nicely.

“Might what?” she demanded.

“Might want to bathe,” he said in a low voice.

The wild girl glared at him, then sniffed herself and cringed.

“You’re right, I stink.” She snorted, and Trystan gave a nervous laugh, feeling some of the tension between them lighten.

“And you don’t need to worry about food. I can bring you more.”

“My thanks,” the girl said, polite now.

She seemed to be more comfortable with him, he thought, though her jet black eyes never stopped darting around every tree, as if she expected someone to spring out from the wilderness and grab her.

“The oak provides good cover from the sun and the rain,” he said as he pointed eastwards, “and the castle is that way. If you want I could ask Mother –”

“No.”

“As you wish,” Trystan stammered.

“Don’t tell anyone I am here, or I’ll come in the night and cut out your tongue.”

Trystan smirked at that.

“Do you not believe me?” she said, her voice deadly serious as she pulled out a rusty knife from within her rags and waved it about menacingly. “You would not be the first I cut.”

Trystan did not believe her, but he kept that to himself.

“I promise I won’t tell. Why are you here anyway?” He held her gaze, hoping to break her silence on who she was. “Did you run away from home?”

“I said already, it’s not your concern.” Her tone made it clear she did not wish to speak more of it.

Trystan sighed; he had agreed to help her because, in his stories, knights always aided those in need, and she seemed to be desperate, even if her guarded and cold demeanour tried to hide it. Still, something about her ways made him feel uneasy. As the orange glow of the setting sun pierced the canopy above, he took his leave.

He fully expected she would be gone come the next morn.

*

Wind howled and rain drummed against the window. In his tower, Trystan woke with a shiver and rubbed his eyes, hearing thunder rumble in the distance. The summer storms could be as bad as the winter ones, he thought, as he took a candle and went over to peer out into the night sky. It was the hour of the fox and the forest was a sea of darkness, the light of the twin moons was covered by clouds. He wondered if the girl was still in the clearing under the oak where he had left her, out in the storm. He frowned and lit an old lamp, so as to give himself more light. He could bring her some old blankets, maybe a candle or two for warmth, but if Mother knew he had left the castle after dark to go to the woods…

He steeled himself; a knight would do what was right, and helping the girl seemed right to him. The wind wracked the trees and the rain whipped at his face, but he pressed on, determined to find her in the clearing under the great oak tree. He had covered himself with a motheaten robe and was carrying a bundle of heavy blankets and a few candles in one hand, and the old lamp in the other. The forest floor was slick with mud as he walked through the underbrush, cursing softly at the torrential downpour and the uncomfortableness of it all. Still, he could only imagine how the girl was feeling. When at last he found her, the poor thing was miserably huddled by the trunk of the oak, what remained of a fire fizzling out at her feet. She hugged herself as she shivered, soaked from head to foot. Trystan stumbled through the dark and threw a heavy, dry blanket over her. She was startled to see him, yet nothing could disguise her obvious relief. No words passed between them as Trystan lit one of the candles he’d brought with the fire from his lamp.

He handed it to her.

She smiled.