Chapter 1

The small town was bursting at the seams; it was a country holiday, and everyone that could be there was in attendance. Traveling troupes, jugglers, tumblers, and puppeteers all drew large throngs of commoners, but the crowd was exceptionally large around a tall man with honest blue eyes and brown hair.

He had a charming smile that disarmed any fear of the silvery blade in his hand as it whistled and sang, glittering skillfully with his every move. He was daring anyone to fight him for the chance to win a prize.

The jingling bag of coins often caught men’s eyes more readily then the blade he wielded. For a few coppers or a piece of silver, they could try their chances with him—a duel of pure skill for a bag full of money.

A small youth with a green cap pulled almost over his eyes pressed his way to the front of the group, breathing heavily. He caught the tail end of the fight, his eyes carefully flitting over the faces in the crowd.

“Who will fight me? Surely there must be another man among you who is willing to try his mettle with me. Strong, brave, manly. Yes, you take a chance of losing that pretty piece of silver, but look at the bounty you could gain,” said the man, jingling the bag of coins as incentive.

Almost reluctantly, a man stepped forward. “I’ll fight you,” he said, flipping his coin towards the man.

The swordsman caught it with his free hand. His charming smile making another appearance, he dropped the coin into the bag, where it made a most satisfactory sound. “Very good, sir.”

The fight was short, for though the man had strength enough to hew an elephant in half, he had little cunning compared to the swordsman.

“Well done, sir. Should there ever be a battle, I would like to know you are on my side.”

The man turned away, grumbling, and disappeared into the crowd.

“Anyone else care to take a chance? Four men bested seems like a lot, but who knows—there might be someone better than I hiding in this crowd. We never know when we may meet our better. Are you hiding in the crowd ready to set my world upside down?”

The crowd glanced around hesitatingly; people began to disperse.

“Well, anyone?”

The youth curled his sweating palms into fists and then released them, pulling a single silver coin from a seemingly empty pouch that hung limp at his belt. He glanced around again, swallowing a lump in his throat.

The coin bag jingled fair with promises. “Come, you all can’t be tired of such entertainment. Think, sir, what would your fair lady say if you fought with me?”

“Mine would say I was fool,” uttered the man from the depths of the crowd.

“I am not so sure about that, sir. It is not every day you get such a chance as I am offering you,” he said, jingling the bag of coins again.

The man turned and disappeared. The crowd was thinning quickly now; a few hopeful onlookers stayed, wishing for one more fight with the swordsman and his glorious blade that never seemed to fail.

The youth turned the coin over in his hand again, glancing nervously around.

“Last chance. If someone doesn’t speak up now, I shall leave. A perfect chance gone forever.” He passed the youth and continued around. He had nearly completed the full circle that would end his offer of wealth...when a voice suddenly spoke up.

“I’ll fight you, since everyone else seems afraid to,” the youth said, stepping forward.

The crowd laughed and the swordsman turned around. His eyebrows rose. “I am sorry, but I do believe that you are a little undercut.”

“My coin is as good as anyone else’s,” he said, flashing the coin in his hand.

“You are barely old enough to be wielding such a sword.”

“I know, but I am willing to take the challenge.”

“You are a lad. A mere sapling.”

“Well, since you are such a tall tree, maybe a wind will come and blow you over.”

The crowd laughed.

“If you are certain you want to part with that silver coin, lad...”

“How do you know you won’t be parting with yours?”

“The day that happens due to such a youth as yourself, the world will have come to an end.”

“Well, maybe it’s my lucky day. Then I won’t need your coin; I’ll be walking on streets of gold.”

“You better watch your tongue, lad. You might be singing with the angels sooner than you think,” said the swordsman, swinging his blade back and forth, causing the air to whistle as he cut it.

“It is a risk I am willing to take, but let’s stop sharpening our tongues on each other. Will you take my coin or no?”

“If it is really as good as you say.”

“Better,” he said with an awkward toss.

The swordsman snatched it from the air and tossed it into his bag without looking. It made a pleasant sound as it landed among the others.

The youth wiped his sweaty hands on his doublet before withdrawing his sword.

The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. What kind of lad would let the world know he is that nervous?

The youth reacquainted himself with the feel of his sword with a few ready swings and took his stance.

“Are you sure you are ready? We could wait until you grow up, you know,” said the swordsman, looking over his small opponent.

“We could, but someone else might have bested you by then.”

“Well, I always like to know whom I have the honor of fighting. What is your name?”

The boy hesitated a moment before answering. “Bartholomew.”

“It’s a pleasure, Bartholomew, and I am Ransom. Are you ready?”

The youth nodded, his hat bobbing.

“You get the first chance to strike then,” said Ransom with a nod as he opened himself up for the youth’s attack.

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THE FIRST BLOW AGAINST Ransom’s sword was hesitant, soft, almost afraid. He glanced it off and held ready for a second, his stance inviting another strike. It came stronger this time and he deflected, letting it sing against the length of his blade.

Then the fight began in earnest. Ransom took his time mounting his hardened skills against the youth. The fight warmed up as Bartholomew’s skill showed. Their swords locked. Ransom looked into the boy’s eyes. They were earnest and intent on their swords. Desperation showed in the lad’s blue eyes. But was it really a he? Now so close, Ransom took a moment to study the youth intently. Smooth skin, clean hands and face, the hair so completely concealed beneath the hat, the soft pleasant scent seemed to hover about...was it a she?

Suddenly, instead of bringing the lock to a crisis, Bartholomew spun away. The next blow caught neatly against his sword.

All right; time to heat things up. You have had your fun, now for mine. Ransom’s blade flew through the air. It was matched blow for blow. Bartholomew’s skill surprised him, and in a momentary pause he looked again into the youth’s eyes. There was an intensity-desire-need-hunger—and desperation—lurking there.

They were eyes that reminded him of his own haunted youth. His heart lurched.

He’ll have to learn the hard way. Then, the youth’s spin away from him ran through his brain. It was a dance-like spin, the spin of a girl in a new dress. No...if this is who I am looking for...she is the one.

Time to raise the stakes. How much do you really know, and how much is left in your purse?

The swords began to sing as they clashed hard, strong, and frequently. In a close-range battle, Ransom severed the purse from the youth’s belt. It fell to the ground.

Empty. So that is why you so desperately wagered your last piece of silver for a chance at a small fortune. Time to bring this to a close.

He made his move. It should have flung the sword into the air and right into his hand, but the youth saw it coming and tried to recoil from the blow. The sword left Bartholomew’s hands and clattered on the cobblestones. They both lunged for it, but Bartholomew was there first. A headlong dash brought it into his grasp and, still on the ground; he whirled around, holding off the sword that was nearly at his throat. He tumbled away, rolling to his feet, blade meeting blade. As he stood, they locked swords.

Bartholomew’s eyes flickered around the crowd. His face paled for a moment, a flash of recognition flitting through his blue eyes. “This needs to be over,” he murmured.

Pushing away from the lock, Bartholomew’s onslaught against Ransom was sudden and full.

All right; let’s see how you handle this, thought Ransom, loosening the grip on his sword. The swords flew from their hands as he struck Bartholomew’s. They clattered to the feet of the onlookers.

The crowd was thick. They were all holding their breath, waiting for what would happen next—ready and waiting to cheer. But who was the winner? The man? The boy? Both? Neither? Would they run for their swords and resume the fight?

Bartholomew stood, waiting for Ransom’s cue.

“Can you wrestle as well as you fight?” Ransom asked.

“No, sir,” said Bartholomew, taking a step back.

Ransom’s face broke into a smile and he bowed slightly at the waist. “Well, call it a draw—for a later time.”

The crowd broke into a cheer. Bartholomew turned, shying away as he retrieved his sword.

Any other boy would be beaming ear to ear, eating up the praise and encouraging it, thought Ransom. He stepped towards the youth. “Well, I bested you, so that makes me the winner, and you bested me, so that makes you the winner. So, shall we split the spoils?”

“Sounds fair to me,” said Bartholomew, retrieving his purse from where it had fallen. “Did you really have to do this?” he asked, picking it up.

“Unfortunate casualty,” said Ransom with a shrug. He offered the youth a handful of coins from his own bag.

“Thank you,” Bartholomew said with a slight bow, and started making his way into the crowd.

“Won’t you join me?” asked Ransom, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“Join you?” Bartholomew asked, shrugging off Ransom’s hand and putting distance between them.

“Two swordsmen are better than one. It is a good way to earn a livelihood,” he said with a shake of his coin sack.

“Good for one person, but not two. Good day.” With that, he turned to lose himself in the crowd.

Taking his time, Ransom followed the boy as he mingled in and out of the crowd, changing directions several times. The boy seemed relaxed; he would have melted into the mass if no one had been looking, but people were watching him.

Bartholomew was flushing out his followers one by one, always staying just out of their reach.

Four men were following the lad. They gathered to team up on him when Bartholomew suddenly disappeared. The men looked around, baffled, but Ransom noted a girl with loose hair walking by, her cloak hood pulled around her, her eyes to the ground.

Ransom smiled. Silently, he followed the girl. She dashed into a side alley, and a moment later Bartholomew appeared, shoulders erect, running with the girl’s brown cloak in his hand. On reaching the edge of the city, he stopped and gave a low whistle.

A black horse came trotting up, and without assistance, Bartholomew swung into the saddle, galloping off into the open countryside.

Casually, Ransom made his way back into town to retrieve his horse. The four men were still standing in the square, looking through the crowd. Despite their disguises, they were not well hidden. They were the men of Lord Raburn.

Lord Raburn had a reputation. Anyone when asked, would tell you he was one of the kindest men alive, a good noble, and highly thought of. In the shadows of the taverns, in the heart of the dark, the truth barely dared to whisper. For three years, King Fredric had been fighting in the Crusades, and Lord Raburn had climbed from a barely noticed noble to Prince Alfred’s lord protector. He was feared and that reverently, save for the few who dared to poke holes into the kingdom he was trying to create.

There were two particular aching points at this time. An anonymous person who sang only in the dark and always referred to himself as Song Lark, who spread all kinds of nasty rumors that harked closer to the truth than people claimed to believe...and a girl.

A single girl shouldn’t have been much of a problem, if she had been a regular damsel, but Ransom knew she wasn’t. He smiled as he remembered his commission.

“Find her, earn her trust, and bring her to me.” That he would do.

At the edge of town, he mounted his horse and followed the trail. It would be a good half hour before Raburn’s men would figure out they had been fooled. They were too stubborn and sure of their own strength to believe that a mere girl could elude them. What other reason could there be? She had been on the loose for six months and was still unscathed, uncornered, and uncaught.

Casually following the trail, he entered the cool shadows of the woods. He hadn’t realized how hot it was until the trees shaded him from the burning sun.

The forest seemed to be steeped in a mossy breeze, and there was a thin, chuckling brook running through it. Bartholomew knelt at the brook’s side, taking a deep draft from his canteen. Laying it aside, he bent over the brook and splashed water over his face, rubbing the back of his neck.

I should just call Bartholomew a girl. It’s obvious. That, or he is a hopeless dandy, Ransom thought as he watched her adjust the hat sideways, then straight, then to the other side. Now it seemed to sit in a satisfactory manner.

As she reached back for her canteen, she turned fully around, her hand seeming to rest casually on her dagger. Ransom knew better; it was a trained action.

“I didn’t fancy that I would see you again,” said the youth, quirking a half wry smile.

Time to make fiction fact. “I almost thought that you were a girl.” Ransom let on with chuckle as he dismounted, leading his horse towards the stream

“What?” the youth tried to keep the look of surprise off his face. “Are you daft?” he said, plunging his canteen beneath the surface so it would fill faster—trying not to act edgy.

“Of course I am. You are very good player, but it won’t see you through. You keep too clean; someone is bound to notice. Oh, and cut your hair so you don’t have to keep it under your hat all of the time. It seems rude.”

“Thank you for the advice. I just might take it,” he said sarcastically, rising to his feet and securing the cover of the canteen.

“You fight well, but you use too many dance steps. Like that twirl you made. It reminded me of a girl whirling around in a pretty dress.”

“What? Dance steps? You are out of your head, sir.”

“Nonetheless, it proves to be a valuable asset to you. Next time you fight, don’t show feelings in your eyes; it might give people the wrong impression.”

“You are one sore loser.”

“You are desperate. You need the money. What else are you after?”

“None of your business,” Bartholomew said, stalking towards his horse and securing his saddlebags

“It becomes my business when you take half my earnings.”

“Then take the money; I want nothing to do with it!” Bartholomew tossed it arrogantly at Ransom’s feet.

Ransom ignored the coins and stepped beside the youth. “I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”

“Well, I don’t expect to answer it,” the youth said, beginning to mount.

Ransom grabbed Bartholomew by the belt, pulling him down onto his feet.

“Let me go!” he said, turning around to face his opponent.

The swordsman tightened his grip on the belt, pulling the youth into himself. He held him there as the youth squirmed against his firm hold.

“How dare you insult me in such a fashion!” said the lad, his face turning bright red.

“Those are awfully high words for such a lad. In fact they sound very much like a lady’s. Holding you this close would only be an insult to a lady, you know.”

There was a flash of metal. A dagger pressed into Ransom’s throat.

“Let me go.” Bartholomew’s eyes were cold and calculating. His mouth pulled tight.

The swordsman released the belt and backed away. Dagger in hand, Bartholomew stepped toward his horse.

“Don’t forget your earnings,” Ransom reminded.

“They aren’t mine,” he said with a quick mount. “Hya!” The youth disappeared into the forest.

Ransom looked after her with a smile, then glanced down at the small boot prints. Every sense told him it was a girl. What he had just held in his arms was a girlish figure, despite the baggy outline declaring otherwise. Yes, it was a girl. A girl in desperate need; one who was willing to challenge men to earn her keep and tell the truth. This was the one he was on the hunt for. How long would it take to earn her trust?

“Come on, boy, let’s follow her.” Mounting, he turned his horse to track her down.