the widow’s daughter
I rode out at the head of the Widow’s men not two hours later. They were uniformed in grey: sharp, imposing figures. Before them I rode like a rogue warrior, without uniform to identify me with any cause but my own, flushed with all that the ride could mean to me. I bade the Widow—and her daughter—goodbye as the tall black horse they had lent me pranced impatiently beneath me. With a shout and a slap of the reins, I gave the horse its freedom. We were off. We vanquished the stone drive in mere minutes, and with the men whooping behind me and the hooves of their horses tearing up the road, we charged on the north woods.
I signalled for the men to quiet themselves as we approached the woodland border. When we plunged into the forest world we were as silent as a band of men on horseback can be. I knew where to go. Lady Brawnlyn’s spy had given me detailed directions, but even if he had not, I would have had no trouble finding the bandits. I could read the forest. I knew what tracks were man-made and which were the marks of beasts or the tricks of nature. I could see signs of the men’s presence everywhere.
The robbers had made their headquarters inside a cave, hewn out of a rock that rose from the ground like the head of a great serpent. My eyes caught sight of its dark opening. I signalled to the men to fan out behind me, that we might approach the cave mouth from every angle. I rode ahead, into the clearing alone. The strong odour of revelry washed out from the cave’s dark maw: wine, meat, and the stink of drunkenness. I reigned in my horse and called out in a loud voice, “Ho, there! Come out and face justice!”
I heard a shuffling and low muttering in the cave, and then a filthy man appeared in the opening. The hair he had hung long and scraggly down the back of his neck. He leaned on the side of the cave and eyed me with one yellow eye.
“And who might you be?” he asked.
“I am called Hawk,” I told him. “I am come in the name of the Lady Brawnlyn to see that your thievery is stopped.”
The man looked up at me with an indescribable sneer. “Is that so?” he asked. He half turned and called into the cave. “Come out, boys, and see the whelp the Widow has sent us!”
Even as he spoke, he drew a broadsword out from the darkness of the cave and lunged at me. He had given me little warning, yet it was as though I had already studied his every move. It was nothing to me to meet the sword, to disarm him, to ride on the others who came forth from the cave. I gave a battle cry as my men poured out of the forest. The fight was over almost before it had begun. I knew that I had acted swiftly; strongly. I knew that I looked in the eyes of every man there like a hero. When I look back now, I know that it was the Giant’s training that enabled me to fight as I did, but I spared no thought for him then.
We tied the robbers and threw them over the backs of our horses like so many sacks of grain. The filthy man who had come out to meet me at the mouth of the cave rode behind me with his arms tied behind his back, and all the way he spewed curses and accusations from his mouth. I sat straighter, prouder, as I thought of the life this man had led and the way I had ended it.
We entered the town. All the people gathered to gawk at us from the sides of the road. Someone recognized the bandits and shouted out news of what we had done. The townspeople cheered, and I thought that my heart could not beat more proudly. A small part of me whispered that the Giant and all his fair host should be here to see me, but at the same time I did not think they would be pleased. The Giant, I thought, cared only for his small world. Ah, but had I not protected that world also by doing away with the bandits? And might I not someday reign over that world, if in the years to come the Widow should look favourably on me?
The low voice of the filthy bandit intruded on my thoughts, audible under the cheers of the gathering crowd. “What did she promise you, eh?” he asked. “What? Money? Or that daughter of hers?” The man laughed, his laugh like gravel in my ears. “She did, didn’t she? Offered you the whole world, young fool. All for the cause of ridding the forest of me.”
We had reached the gaol. I had no more patience for the man. I dismounted and hauled him down roughly. Within the hour the bandits were locked safely away, and I was once more on horseback, headed again for the house of Widow Brawnlyn.
* * *
It was evening when I rode up the drive at the head of my small band of men. They dispersed behind me as I dismounted, and a boy came to lead my horse away. I patted its sleek black neck, my eyes all the time on the doors of the house. I was eager to give account for my actions.
The butler led me again to a well-furnished sitting room, where I was surprised to find, not two ladies waiting for me, but three. My surprise was doubled when I recognized in the third the face of the Pixie. She looked up at me, tea cup in her hand, without a trace of guilt on her smooth brow. She was seated next to Genevieve. They contrasted like fire and storm. I was not sure I had ever seen so much loveliness in one place.
The Widow greeted me with a nod of her aged head. “Reports have already reached me,” she said. “A rider came in from the town. I could not be more pleased.”
I nodded. A flush of colour stole into my cheeks. Genevieve had her strange grey eyes fixed on me, and I could not help but remember at what future her mother had hinted.
“I shall call for you again,” the Widow said. “Is this agreeable to you?”
I answered yes. I was flattered. Flattered that she treated me with deference; flattered that she considered me a help; flattered by the way her daughter looked at me. And I was inordinately pleased that it was all done in front of the Pixie, who had only seen me as laundry-toter and water boy before this—the Pixie! I glared at her. Flattered I was, but I would have liked to wring her neck. How on earth had she come to be there?
Lady Brawnlyn gestured the Pixie’s way. She had not asked me to sit, so I stood, hot and without any idea of what I would say if the Widow inquired after my friend’s audacity.
“You did not tell us that you had brought a young lady with you,” Lady Brawnlyn said. “A charming creature—utterly delightful. Next time you must not be so remiss in introducing your friends.”
What could I say? I stammered an apology and dutifully promised to bring her with me when next I came. We left together, the Pixie’s arm in mine as I escorted her over the drive. “How did you come here?” I hissed once we were out of earshot.
The Pixie smiled sweetly at me—well aware that we were not yet out of eyeshot. “I followed you,” she said. “Not a word to Nora or the Angel.”
“I’m not a fool,” I answered.
I looked back at the house then. Genevieve Brawnlyn was standing in the open doors, her dark hair stirred by the wind.
Her eyes haunted me all the way back to the Castle.