The Knight's Trial

By Gordon Elliot

In the province of Triport, there is an old challenge that ensures only the best of the best can join the king's service as an honourable knight. Many attempt the Knight's Trial, but few succeed - often out-witted by the difficult puzzle that is presented to young hopefuls.
Luckily, Marrius is no ordinary young hopeful and his determination, honour and intelligence are his greatest tools in his quest to defend the royal family and the kingdom from sorcery, beasts, bandits and armies for the rest of his years.
As Marrius awaits his judgement, Francesca is in Port Laden, attempting a trial of her own. One of several girls owned by the innkeepers, Francesca has been forced into the world's oldest profession. When she falls pregnant, she attempts what no other has dared before to save herself and her unborn child - escape.
Little do Francesca and Marrius know, their destinies are entwined - before long, their actions will have a deep impact on one of the most important wars Triport Province has ever faced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: Jul 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781786299079

Book preview

Gordon Elliot

The Knight’s Trial

Copyright © Gordon Elliot (2017)

The right of Gordon Elliot to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786299055 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786299062 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781786299079 (eBook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2017)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.™

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Chapter One

A young woman stood outside the office door, her hand raised to knock on its dull and rough surface. She could hear the raised voices of her employer and his partner.

Take her to the surgeon, have him cut it out if necessary, she is no use to me like that, the man ranted.

You know what happened to the last one? the woman replied and the young woman raised a smile that came and went quickly as she thought of Sarah, her friend of five years at the inn. Pregnant as she was by a customer, Sarah had been allowed to leave and have her child. Her hand moved to strike the wood and stopped; she could feel the roughness on her knuckles as the words hammered through the door and into her head. The infection. She died in agony, it could happen again! the woman explained.

She was not sure how she stopped herself from making contact with the door; she was sure, in her mind, that she might be allowed to leave, like Sarah. The young woman reeled, the words knocking the bones from her legs causing her to stagger backwards and drop to her knees. She clutched herself and still the angry and vicious words hurtled through the door to bombard her, words that caused her eyes, once filled with hope and expectation, to silently erupt with tears, like the water from the pump in the yard.

Then this time we let the others see; hear her screaming in agony. Perhaps then they will realise the rules are there to be followed. the man growled. Tomorrow, during the quiet time, take her and get rid of the bastard growing inside ’er, he ordered.

The young woman turned and ran to her room, sobbing. Two hours’ crying and her pillow was soon wet from tears. She only stopped when she accepted that she had to run away.

She had already confessed her situation with another. She was just a girl, but she had been her greatest friend and together they worked out how she could escape. The young woman wanted the girl to join her, but she was so young and frightened that she decided to remain.

Grabbing her only treasure; the bag that the orphanage said she was found in, the woman left as dawn arrived and hurried along the streets of Port Laden to begin her bid for freedom.

At first light, the man hurried to the young woman’s room to explain and chastise her and found it empty; the bed unmade, her bag gone. Dresses hung in the wardrobe, undergarments and night clothes were neatly folded in drawers.

Good, you are making an early start! he exclaimed. On his way downstairs, he saw his partner talking to some of his other girls and realised that no, she had not taken the young woman to have the bastard removed; the girl had more than likely slipped away early and had escaped. He clenched his fists. He would have to take severe action to keep everyone in line, including his partner.

Later that day, three men sat at a table in the inn, deep in whispered conversation. The women working the inn avoided the table, knowing one of the men and knowing that disturbing them would not be taken well. Hands waved and heads shook as the quiet conversation continued. A bottle refilled glasses as the day continued and, finally, hands shook and two of the men stood and left. The third man eased back in the chair and savoured his drink, a satisfied smile on his face. The meeting was taking place because the inn owner also ran a brothel on the premises. His self-appointed partner was in charge of the girls and had failed him. She had told him that she was sure one of the girls was pregnant. He had wanted to throttle the woman, that girl had been taken to help pay a debt and would be no use to him pregnant. He had instructed his madam to take the young woman and have the bastard removed. He had gone to the young woman’s room that very morning to confront her and inform her of his decision and that the cost involved would be added to her debt. He found her room empty and her bag gone. His immediate thought was that she was on her way to the back streets of Port Laden, but having then seen the other woman, realised that the young woman had fled the inn. His meeting had been to ensure that all of his remaining girls would not step over the line or think that they, too, could escape him. The woman was currently searching for the missing girl while the men he had just engaged would go and ensure his property did not get ideas of freedom.

*

The figure moved as quickly as the forest would let her. Her long legs and slender body gave the impression of her being somewhat fragile, but she was determined and that determination was empowering her now. With footsteps crunching on the frozen ground, her red coat caught on low branches and the rough bark of the trees scraped her arms and legs as she hurried. Through the snarled branches, she could see the sun resting on the ground like a giant orange. The red, orange and yellow shades of soft light were visible through the bare branches. The woman paused as a branch caught her hood and her head whipped back as it pulled a clump of blonde hair from her scalp. The discomfort from the branches, as they scraped her skin and pulled at her hair, was worth suffering. As uncertain the future may have been, it was the certainty of what lay behind that caused her to endure. She was running quite literally for her life; to go back, or be caught, would mean there would be no tomorrow for her. Wisps of frozen breath drifted from her mouth as she turned her head, still and quiet, listening for any sound from her pursuers. She opened her leather bag and removed a pig’s bladder flask and took a drink, gently wiping her gloved hand over her mouth before replacing the stopper and returning it to the bag. The woman lifted her head to look up at the heavy clouds moving towards her from the south, clouds that would bring snow in on the wind and tide from across the sea, snow that would prevent her from the journey if she didn’t reach the village and the coach stop before it fell. Bunching up her hair, she lifted her hood and continued her journey.

The light had all but gone; the woman could just about see her own breath leaving her mouth. She stretched her right arm out straight and moved it left and right as she tried to follow the path through the woods. With the light diminishing, she struggled to see the terrain, losing her footing on occasions and stumbling. Soon it was pitch black, but she had to keep moving, using her arm to find a route through the forest. She kept remembering the map in the office of the inn where she had worked. Port Laden, the town, lay to the east, the border was north-west. The woman knew she had to travel through the woods that lay to the north, then across the grazing land to the river, then west to the village and the overnight coach stop. The woman also knew that she had to reach there by dawn or she would be caught, returned to Port Laden and the inn. Her pursuers’ lanterns may help them through the forest, but they would also help her, by giving their positions away. She just had to hope and keep moving. She cried out in pain as branches and rough bark prodded and scratched her. They hurt, but not as much as being caught. Cold tears ran down her cheek as that thought gripped her. She stopped, wiping her eyes, gripping her bag closer to her body, taking a moment to regain her composure.

*

The inn was busy with customers drinking, gambling and giving the numerous girls attention. Two men served drinks behind the bar and girls moved around the main floor of the inn as men groped and pinched them. Some were taken by the hand and led upstairs to one of the rooms.

Behind the bar was a door and two voices could be heard in muffled angry conversation. The woman had called the inn home for twenty years. She likened herself to any merchant, as both offered a service for coin. She had known the man sitting at the desk for fifteen years, since he first entered the inn looking every inch a toff, but with the manners of the street. She often used her body to her advantage, even receiving coins without having to sell all her wares, but at twenty-two, she discovered she was much too old for him. Merrick, as he preferred to be called, had moved from Oceania and was looking to obtain a business. Hubbard saw an opportunity and soon, with her help, Merrick owned the inn and brothel. Hubbard had bartered the opportunity to run the brothel in return for her help. Now, as she stood there in the lilac dress that Merrick adored because it revealed the cleavage of her voluptuous breasts and ample amounts of skin across her shoulders and neck, she hoped it would lessen the beating she expected. Merrick she’s gone. Run away.

Merrick didn’t react to the news straight away, just pulled at the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. The gold cufflinks glinted in the lamplight. He thought himself a civilised businessman and, why not? Most of the men who frequented his inn and brothel were civilised. Right now, as he sat drinking whiskey, a clergyman, two judges, the prefect, a noble and three shipping merchants were sampling his product line. Hubbard, the woman who ran the brothel for him, stood expecting a hiding and so he just smiled. Merrick owed her a little leeway, but he was not going to appear too soft. Hubbard had proved her loyalty and discretion; in fact, she was the only person that, in forty-two years, he could say he trusted. He had a penchant for young girls and often indulged himself and Hubbard had never tried to use that against him. Even when he had succumbed to her wiles and his manhood failed, Hubbard had not ridiculed him or spoken about it.

Good riddance, she was trouble from the first day.

We need to get her back.

It will cost us too much.

We can work her extra to get it back.

I should charge you for her loss.

The woman stared hard at him. Merrick, if we let her go, the others might get the same idea.

Merrick stood and his smile showed his yellow stained teeth. He loosened the tan coloured cravat. She turned to glance away as he poured a drink from the bottle on the table beside them. You should have had better control over her, he told her and as she went to step away, he reached out and gripped her chin firmly. As he moved her head to face him, she didn’t struggle, but let his foul breath drift over her. I have a solution in hand: you will make sure your girls follow the rules and this never happens again. He paused and narrowed his gaze at her. Or I will need a new partner? he growled, and released his grip. Now, go earn us some money, Merrick ordered.

Merrick poured himself another drink and then hurried to the rear door as someone knocked hard on it. As the door opened, it revealed a large man with a scar under his right eye.

We have her, the man with the scar said. Merrick nodded and put his drink down before he picked up a lantern, moving out into the rear yard. He looked left and right before nodding to the younger scrawny man sitting on top of a wagon. The man made no response and Merrick followed Scar Face as he moved alongside the wagon to the rear. Then, he watched as Scar Face took the lantern from Merrick, raised it and shone the light over the wagon to reveal the lifeless body of a young woman. Her face was swollen and bloody, covered in bruises and cuts, hardly recognisable, with her blonde hair matted with blood. The men had beaten her to death and from the looks of the body, had continued after her death. Merrick nodded.

Just as you asked, Scar Face said with a grin of delight on his face.

And she won’t be missed?

Street girl, no one will look for ’er,

Merrick moved back and looked at Scar Face. I need you to dress her.

That is not what we agreed.

Merrick nodded. I understand that, so another fifty then for your trouble.

Scar Face looked up at the other man and silently asked his question, the third man nodded and began to climb down. Okay then, Merrick.

Merrick smiled and entered the inn and returned a little while later with a dress and a leather pouch. He watched the big muscular man move to the rear of the wagon and drag the corpse as if it were just a rag doll. He grinned as Scar Face ripped the girl’s dress from her and then dropped her to the ground. Merrick nodded as he gave Scar Face the dress and then paused with the pouch hovering over Scar Face’s hand.

You keep quiet about this – all of this. Remember it will be your necks in the noose.

Scar Face nodded. We know how to keep quiet, he said gently, grabbing the pouch. Merrick watched as he emptied it into his bloodstained hand and then, having counted the contents, he returned the coins to the pouch, closed it up and placed it inside his jacket. Always a pleasure Merrick, he said, offering his hand.

Leave her covered in the yard and burn that rag, Merrick retorted, shaking Scar Face’s hand. Collect her about ten tomorrow and have her for your pigs, Merrick added before entering the inn.

*

The street was quiet as the boy wriggled the cap from his pocket and settled it on his head, hurrying through the streets, his path lit by the oil lamps that lined the streets high above him on sturdy wooden poles. His pace was quick, his direction a journey he had taken twice a day for four of his twelve years; two of those years with his father, the last two alone. He passed shops and the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air from the bakers and the sound of swish of steel on steel as butchers sharpened knives ready to cut the meat carcasses. The boy hurried on past the dressmaker’s shop, the barbers, the main store, bank, post office and funeral parlour to the east end of the street and the large timber building that marked the eastern edge of Knowlesford. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the sturdy padlock and placed both key and padlock in his pocket. He then grabbed the cold metal handle in both hands and first pulled right, then as the door began to slide open he moved to place his back against it and pushed it all the way across. Once the door was open, he hurried inside and passed the empty stalls on both sides of the main walkway, passed the right side of the wonderful coach to the back area where an oil lamp waited patiently for him on a hook. Reaching up on tiptoes he released the lamp and pulled a box from his back pocket and carefully lit the lamp. He carried the lamp and, first moving back along the left of the barn, checked the first three of the six horses, then he went round the coach and back, checking on the second three, returning to the left side of the barn. Reaching on tip-toes he placed the lamp on a hook between the first and second stalls to the left of the barn and began to feed and water the six restless horses.

*

The woman stopped as her hand moved and touched nothing; she was finally out of the forest. She let her hood down once more, allowing the chill of the breeze to add more colour to her already red cheeks, her breath drifted from her mouth as if smoke from a chimney. She looked up at the clouds which were getting closer and she still had a way to travel. She looked around at the darkness and then back to the clouds, a moon would have helped her, but it also would have helped her pursuers. She took out her flask and took the last mouthful of water and then lifted her hood and continued her journey. From the map, she knew the river lay across the grazing land and then it was west to the village and the coach stop. Often she had stood and seen the six horses pulling the magnificent coach along the main street towards the port, full of passengers ready to board the ships and then returning with passengers from ships. The expense of Port Laden hotels and rooming houses meant that the coach travelled out to the village for the overnight stop. The woman quickened her pace, gaining a false confidence on the apparently level land.

The woman unwisely hurried amongst the flat grazing land lay ruts and furrows. With a high-pitched squeal, she fell, pushing her hands forward to protect her as she dropped to the ground, losing her grip on her bag. Her mind focused on the pain shooting through and around her right ankle; she gripped at it through the leather boots. Her wrists also ached from attempting to stop her hitting the ground. Sprawled on the cold hard ground, the pain was severe. The woman sat up, rubbing her ankle through the boot; she was almost sure she had not broken anything, just turned it badly. She chastised herself for being foolish, all her haste was now wasted. She would continue, but slowly and in some pain. Then, panic; her bag! She realised that she no longer had it in her hands. She looked around in the dark, frantic, her head spinning left, then right, then her body turning, but it was pitch black, she could see nothing. On hands and knees, she began to search the ground, first forward then turning. The cold rough ground scraped her knees through her clothes. Finally she stopped, as her hands touched the leather strap and she pulled the bag to her body, then turned to sit. Relief drifted over her as she checked the contents. Once she was certain everything was correct, she stood and immediately cried again as her ankle gave way and her body crumbled on the right side. The woman knew she could not wait, she had to continue and after taking two agonising steps, she stopped and looked up at the sky. It was one heavy grey cloud and she couldn’t tell if it was moving. Which way was north? She turned slowly, her sense of direction lost. For a moment she stood in panic, trying to decide, looking for an indication of the wind direction and then she smiled, pink lips curling up to kiss red cheeks. She removed one of the black leather gloves and held her hand up, turning it slowly, eyes closed, feeling for the wind. It wasn’t long before she slipped her hand back into the glove, turned to her right and began walking, ignoring the pain the best she could. With every step the agony was etched onto her face until she stopped once more. Through the darkness came the sound of water; ripples gently lapping stones. She had reached the river and turning west, she continued her journey with the knowledge that she was nearly at Knowlesford.

The woman made slow progress. Her glances up at the clouds were out of panic and pain shot through her foot with every step. She knew her ankle was not broken and the pain was easing slowly in the cold, but still she cursed her stupidity. It could have been the end of her. The woman paused, moving to the bank of the river. The chill of the water would numb the pain further, but at what risk? She was already chilled to the bone. She had hardly any feeling left in her hands. She turned to look back and found her spirits lifted a little as, to the east, the sky was brighter; dawn was coming and surely the coach stop was not that much further ahead. Moving back from the bank she continued forward, the approaching dawn pushing her onwards and as a glow appeared on the horizon, she almost tried to run.

Knowlesford was there – the coach and her salvation. She had beaten the snow, her pursuers and even the cold of the winter’s night; Merrick and that Hubbard woman would never hurt her again. The pain was forgotten in her euphoria. Her stride lengthened as the hue in the distance became brighter and dark forms materialised: Knowlesford, a village she had heard talk of, but had never seen. She pictured shops and houses waking to the first light of dawn, the coach and horses standing proud outside the coach stop, the horses scuffing their hooves, their heads lifting and falling, impatient to set off, to trot and then gallop. She imagined herself sitting warm, comfortable and safe, looking out of the window as she travelled to safety.

*

The boy turned his attention to the coach as the last horse was fed and, on opening the door, he was once more surprised by the interior. Lush red velvet covered the seats and matching velvet curtains hung over the window. The curtains were edged with a one-inch gold border and the seats were edged with gold braid. The boy brushed himself down, releasing the stray bits of hay and straw from his clothing before climbing in. He neatly pulled back and secured the curtains with the red and gold plaited cord before gently fluffing the six red cushions with C C embroidered on one side. He then climbed out and went to the back of the barn and collected a bucket, filled it with water and took down two cloths that were hanging near the hook with the lamp. The boy took the bucket and cloths and returned to the coach and began to wash the interior. The wooden panels, back and front, above the velvet seat backs, the side panels and doors and finally, the floor and lower seat fronts. He stood admiring his work, ensuring everything was as clean as he could make it. Then he ran to the entrance of the barn, threw the water away and hurried back to fill the bucket once more. Then, using a step to reach up, he stood by the open doors and cleaned the window glass inside and out on both sides. After emptying the bucket again, he returned to the back room and from a chest he removed six red blankets with gold tassels and the letters C C embroidered on them. He placed them on each of the seats and stood back to thoroughly inspect the coach before closing both of the coach’s doors.

The boy finished harnessing the last horse to the coach and stood admiring his now completed work; the coach was clean, the harness brass polished, the horses fed and groomed. It looked a wonderful sight and then he turned and stared, looking back to the entrance. His eyes opened wide in surprise and puzzlement; a woman, a lady, stood in a knee length red coat, a flowered dress reached her calves and her brown boots had scuffed the straw on the walkway as she had entered.

He quickly removed his cap, clutching it tight to his chest, revealing light brown hair, neatly trimmed but untidy from hurriedly removing his cap. His brown eyes went down and then up again, to a face, red cheeked and surrounded by golden hair. Her lips moved but he heard nothing, the woman’s expression changed, her lips moved again, faster, longer words. The boy stood still, wondering why this lady looked like one of the many street children he played with against his mother’s wishes. Perhaps she was one of their mothers; with the scuffed boots, torn and dirty dress and coat, she could be, but why come to the barn? Why try to talk to him? The boy took a step forward and stopped as the woman clutched the bag she was holding tighter to her body. The boy raised a smile and then pointed to his head with both index fingers individually, as if cleaning his ears and shook his head. The woman released the bag and let it fall to the floor and then knelt on both knees, her head now level with the boy. Using her fingers, she tried to talk slowly, mouthing the words as her fingers moved.

I need passage on the coach, she said.

The boy smiled, replaced his cap and then moved his fingers fast. He hurried past the woman to the entrance and stopped and turned. The woman stood still, not understanding the rapid signing of the boy and watched as he returned to her side, picked up her bag and took her hand.

Come, he uttered, the word slightly intelligible. With his smile, he encouraged her out of the barn and into the cold streets of Knowlesford.

*

Merrick looked down at the sack-covered heap on the ground and then turned as the office door opened. He watched the woman, Hubbard, that he had spoken with the last evening, followed by ten girls and two men, enter the yard. They lined up in a crooked semi-circle, each wearing differing apparel, some dressed, some in underwear and others in nightwear. He stood with the heap between him and the semi-circle of people.

You are my property, bought and paid for. If I see fit, then one day you will have paid me back and you can leave, but not before. He paused, giving each a hard, stained yellow-tooth sneer. Mrs Hubbard has no doubt reminded you of your duties to the inn, the customers, Hubbard and myself. Francesca thought that she could avoid paying back her debt, run away – perhaps you thought she had, maybe you thought you might try next. He stopped and grinned, looking down at the covered heap. Seeing a slight realisation appear slowly on each of the faces in front of him, he continued, If any of you want to run away like Francesca, then you will end up like her. He stooped and pulled the sacking off the heap to reveal the young woman in a dress they all knew was Francesca’s. Gasps and muffled short shrieks erupted in the yard, heads turned away and girls comforted girls. She was warned and ignored my warning, look at her and remember you are mine until I say otherwise. Now, get back inside and see to yourselves, he snapped and watched as everyone but Hubbard entered the office back into the inn.

You found her! Hubbard lifted a quick smile.

No! She has gone, but, he pointed to the inn, they do not know that and never will, so now you make sure they behave or you will suffer with them, he ordered. Cover it up and get my breakfast ready, he added as he hurried away and into the office.

*

The woman walked along the streets, the oil lamps still burning as the sky began to brighten. The woman had often walked the cobbled streets of Port Laden, gazing longingly into windows as she dealt with tasks given to her by Hubbard and Merrick. Once a month, being a woman meant she earned very little and Merrick did not allow his girls to be idle. So, they were given other duties: laundry, sewing, gathering supplies, even buying material to make dresses for the other girls. The shops were always alluring, but as she now walked in the chill air of Knowlesford, they took on an almost magical appearance. Even the rabbits hanging in the butcher’s could not dispel the magic. The dresses looked like they belonged on royalty and the smell from the baker’s was even more inviting, causing her to pause for a beat. Hunger growled in her stomach and the boy stretched his hand and gently pulled, inviting and encouraging her to continue. She turned and looked at him, his face so innocent, smiling at her and she found herself smiling, an action she long thought would never appear on her face willingly. The pair continued up the street and then she stopped as the boy went to enter the inn. She grabbed rudely at her bag and clutched it to her chest. Fear was replacing all the other emotions that had enveloped her in the last five minutes. The boy turned, looking puzzled, his fingers quickly talking to her, but she looked at the door, then the window.

An inn… perhaps they knew Merrick? Maybe there was a network and he had warned them she might come? Now there she was and there he was, inside, waiting. Visions of Merrick haunted her; his yellow stained teeth and foul breath waiting inside, the back of his hand hitting hard against her cheek, his hand grabbing her hair as he dragged her to his buggy and then there would be the ride back to Port Laden, the obscenities pouring from his mouth and then more beatings.

The boy moved towards the woman and touched her hand, she looked down and saw his smile. Come, his little voice said. His hand pulled on her and she nodded. Resigned to her fate, she followed as he opened the door and released her hand and then ran across the main floor of the inn. She inched further in and closed the door. No sounds; no loud man’s voice, perhaps Merrick wasn’t there. The fire lured her further into the main area, past tables and chairs, the smell of polish in the air. She removed her gloves and began to warm herself by the fire.

My lady, a woman’s soft voice made her turn and she saw the boy holding a woman’s hand. Her brunette hair was in a bun, baking flour was smudged over her face and white apron. You require passage on the north coach? she asked and the woman nodded, reaching into her bag to remove the leather pouch. The innkeeper laughed and stooped to look at the boy and their fingers danced along as they talked. Then the woman ran her fingers through his light brown hair before he turned and left. The innkeeper stepped forward. There is time to pay later, my lady, you may wish to freshen up, have breakfast. How far will you be travelling? the innkeeper asked the woman and watched the nervous expression change to uncertainty and fear as she looked at the pouch. As if reading the woman thoughts, the innkeeper smiled. All is included in the price of passage my lady,

The woman saw through the kind lies and smiled, I am no lady. My name is Francesca,

I am Isabelle, innkeeper and mother to Jake. He says you talked to him.

Francesca blushed slightly and nodded, Rather badly, I think, and slowly, she admitted.

Isabelle nodded and gestured with an outstretched arm. Come, freshen up, she instructed. You know someone who is deaf? Isabelle inquired.

Francesca nodded as her expression and tone turned solemn. Yes. A friend.

Then she is lucky to have a friend who wants to learn to sign, Isabelle praised her.

She’s dead! Francesca said sharply. Isabelle reached and squeezed Francesca’s hand. She was crossing the street, didn’t hear the buggy or the shouts of warning and by the time she felt the vibrations, it was too late, Francesca admitted and Isabelle nodded with a solemn expression on her face and decided not to further the topic.

Here, you may freshen up and then have breakfast; take your time, the coach will not leave without you, Isabelle assured Francesca, as she opened the door to a room.

Francesca entered the room and then turned her head quickly to look at Isabelle. Someone is here! she whispered.

Isabelle shook her head. No, they are for you: fresh clothes, shoes and a coat, old ones that I no longer wear, you seem to have need of them, Isabelle explained and smiled, putting a hand on Francesca’s shoulder before leaving. Now take your time, I must wake the others and cook breakfast, she informed Francesca as the door closed.

Francesca stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what was happening to her. Such kindness from a stranger, from an innkeeper… could it be real? Was there something else happening? She shook her head, trying to evict the thoughts from her mind and laid the leather bag on the bed before picking up the dress and holding it to herself. As she spun in a circle, the dress lifted slightly in front of her and Francesca smiled, a full broad smile. Smiling twice in one day, in the same hour – unheard of, but she liked it. Francesca undressed to her underwear and noticed the cuts to her arms and legs; the branches, bark and frozen ground had left their marks on her, but she didn’t mind, for now they were all behind her, only more smiles lay ahead. She washed and dressed and slipped into the shoes. She felt like a lady. Picking up her bag, she draped the coat over her arm and headed to the door. Francesca looked back at the bed, at the red coat, the tattered dress and the scuffed boots.

Goodbye, Merrick. May you rot in hell, she snarled and then grabbed at her mouth before letting out a soft giggle and closing the door. As she moved away from the stairs towards the side door, she could hear chattering; two men’s voices and a woman’s. A chill ran up her spine as Merrick and Hubbard flashed across her mind. They were beyond the door, waiting for her. She tightened her grip on the bag and coat, then, having steeled herself, pushed open the door. The room fell deathly quiet and four heads turned towards her, three seated at the table and Isabelle standing as she served breakfast to them.

She smiled. Come, sit; your breakfast is ready, she told Francesca, easing the chair next to the seated woman out. Your travelling companions, my lady: Colonel and Mrs Deville, they are heading to the fort, and your driver, Mister Meekham, she introduced them to Francesca and they all nodded and uttered greetings as she moved to sit. Miss Francesca is heading to Forgedale, Isabelle stated,

Across the border. What business do you have there? the colonel pried.

Francesca looked confused and stayed silent. Isabelle placed a plate in front of her and replied for her, she is to be married. Mrs Deville smiled and nodded approvingly.

Why there, are Triport men not good enough for you? the colonel said angrily.

Colonel, your manners please, sir. The poor girl is a bought bride, she came in on a ship from the south. Unfortunately, she was ill on the voyage and missed the coach. She has only just managed to catch up, now please let the poor girl eat. Her business is not yours, Isabelle said with such firmness that the four immediately turned their attention to the food and remained silent. As she ate, Francesca watched Isabelle. She wanted to ask about her husband, Jake’s father, but knew she could not. Maybe, like her, she found herself unwed and with child. He may be dead; a soldier killed by bandits or a sailor lost at sea. Perhaps he succumbed to the sickness that visited the provinces just over two years ago; many died and such was the death rate that King Edmund declared all dead should be burnt. Francesca mopped her lips, easing the unpleasantness. Whatever the fate of Jake’s father, Isabelle’s husband, it could not take away the strength she showed; here she was running a business, bringing up a child and seemed content and happy. Francesca smiled. Hope for her own future was growing with every minute.

Chapter Two

Triport Castle was a grand building, positioned centrally in the province, surrounded by two walls, one enclosed the castle and was only accessible through a double portcullis, the second protected the castle town, a village surrounding the castle that was populated by castle servants and their families and many shops and markets. The outer wall had gates at the main compass points, permanently guarded by the army. The inner area was patrolled and protected by the king’s knights; twenty of the best swordsman, pistol shots and archers that the province knew. They were the elite of fighting men, revered almost as much as the royal family themselves. The royal family were King Edmund, his Queen Jennifer and their daughter Helena.

That day, a soldier was being escorted from the outer west gate flanked by ten of the king’s knights dressed in their full battle dress, standards fluttering on pikes held high and firm as they marched. The tall muscular soldier was walking proud, head high, dressed in his light chainmail with a breast plate and open faced helmet. The sun glinted off the metal and everyone stopped to admire the spectacle. Some even cheered and clapped, for there was a soldier deemed worthy of the Knight’s Trial. Success meant acceptance into the king’s knights, failure meant a return to the fort and never again would he be given the chance. He marched proudly, confident in his ability, unwavering in his forth coming commitment to the knights and the crown, for if accepted he would pledge his life to the crown. The castle seemed to grow bigger as he neared, the clinking of metal almost deafening, but he could hear his heart beating, rhythmic, but fast, faster than it had in any battle he had fought and in the western territories he had fought many a skirmish with the bandits, but now as the outer portcullis was raised, his mouth went dry and his voice seemed to be disappearing down his throat. The men stepped forward under the first portcullis and he heard it rattling close behind him. He had no option now but to continue; anything else would be deemed a failure and he would be led by a drummer slowly out of the castle and all around the castle grounds so that everyone would know his failure and then he would be thrown out of the west gate.

*

Francesca was the last to finish her breakfast and with no luggage she sat waiting. How much do I owe you for my passage? she said nervously, fingers tentatively loosening the string on the pouch.

Answer me one question first, Isabelle said and Francesca looked up, more fearful of her answer than the question. She nodded. Do you run from the law and punishment, or something else? Isabelle inquired and stood, one hand on her hip, the other wiping loose tendrils of hair from her face that hung from the untidy bun. Specks and smudges of baking flour still littered her face.

Francesca looked at the pouch and then back up at Isabelle, I run from an innkeeper who bought me and worked me. He wanted to… she paused, tears slipping down her face.

How long are you? Isabelle asked, Francesca looked up, puzzled, wiping tears from her cheeks. Isabelle smiled. I am a woman, a mother. How many months? she stated, touching her own body.

Francesca mimicked Isabelle and gently stroked the increased bump. I am unsure. Three times I have missed, Francesca admitted.

The innkeeper, is he the father?

Francesca paused. She looked horrified at the thought and shook her head wildly. "No, a