The Stolen Bride

Sofia reeled back with relief.

Sir Griel held his hand out, his black eyes snapping with command.

“Give me your hand, Sofia.”

She was too frightened now to refuse, and instinctively held out the one that did not yet clutch at her bleeding wounds.

He shook his head once. “Nay, the other. Give it.”

She did as he said, and placed her bloodied hand in his own. He smiled down at it and then lifted it to his lips, seeming to relish kissing her trembling fingers through the blood that covered them. Afterward, he licked his lips of the droplets that remained. Sofia’s stomach lurched at the sight. Free of his touch, she backed away and stared at him with horror. She had thought him merely violent and cruel, but now she knew him for a madman.

Sir Griel made a slight bow.

“I will bid you good day, Mistress Sofia, and pray to visit with you again soon, with a far happier greeting.”

Sofia was painfully aware of the dozen men who had stood silently throughout their lord’s brutal attack. They must all of them be knights, and yet not a one of them had stepped forward to keep a lady from injury. Such was the measure of power that Sir Griel held over them.

Her shoulder burned as with fire, and her surcoat was bloodied. Sofia was ashamed to stand before such an assembly of strangers—with none of her own people, not even a servant to give her company—so completely vanquished. She strove to regain as much dignity as she could by drawing herself up, lifting her hand to cover her wounds once more, and saying, coldly, “Good day, my lord.”

He walked out of Ahlgren Manor with his men at his heels, and Sofia sank into a chair near the fire, yet holding her hand against her shoulder. Slowly, after the sound of Sir Griel’s many horses faded away, the servants began to come into the room. They showed an immediate concern for their lady’s bloody wounds, but she turned them away, and accepted no aid, not even from her father, who entered the great room last of all.

“You must accept him, Sofia,” he said, desperation in his tone. “He’ll kill us all—aye, even you—if he does not get his way. Here, daughter, let me send for the leech to bind your wounds. You cannot go about untended.”

Sofia shook her head and rose from her chair.

“Nay, Father. I’ll tend it myself, as I have tended many such small hurts before. Have no fear. None of the villagers will know what has happened here, if all remain loyal in their silence.” She cast her gaze over the servants, who nodded their agreement.

“But, Sofia,” Sir Malcolm protested, “you cannot go into the village today. You must rest and recover, and think of what you will say when Sir Griel visits us next, for you know it will be soon.”

“There is too much to tend,” Sofia told him stonily, weary and stunned by all that had occurred. “None of it can be put off. I will change my clothes and go, and rest after. As to Sir Griel,” she said as she moved slowly toward the stairs, “I believe he means to give me a measure of time to think upon the folly and danger of refusing him yet again—and you may be assured, Father, that I will use that time wisely, in finding the way to avoid him forevermore.”

Chapter Two

“There,” said Anne the baker’s wife to the women who were gathered near the warmth of her husband’s great ovens. “He’s coming, just as I said he would. Every day, he comes. At noon, and never later.”

The women, as one, leaned to peer out of the baker’s windows at the tall figure walking through the village, drawing ever nearer. Kayne the Unknown was indeed a man worth looking at, and so they all agreed, young and old alike. He was surely the handsomest man ever to set foot in the village of Wirth, as well as the strangest and quietest.

He’d arrived one afternoon a year ago, a stunning figure riding atop a large, black destrier such as only a knight of the realm might possess, tall and powerfully built with hair so blond it was almost white. All the people had come out of their doors to stare at him, wondering how such a man had come to visit their small village. He had gone straight to the abode of their only blacksmith and, upon learning that Old Reed wished to quit his work, bought his home and smithy for so great an amount of money that all who’d heard of it had been amazed. On such a fortune, Old Reed would be well able to spend the remainder of his days in the finest luxury.

But then Kayne the Unknown had done something even more surprising. He had given Old Reed his home and smithy back, freely, in exchange for the promise that the older man would remain in Wirth and help the newcomer set up his own shop, and on those occasions where his skill might prove lacking, impart whatever knowledge might be required.

He’d left Wirth for some few days following that, and those who had applied to Old Reed for every detail had been gravely disappointed. The old man smiled and nodded, but said nothing, save to say that the stranger’s name was Kayne, and that he’d refused to give any other. Shortly after he’d gone, rumors began to fly that the stranger had bought the finest piece of land to be had in Wirth, three full acres that Sir Malcolm Ahlgren had always refused to part with—until now, when enough money had been offered. But where would a mere blacksmith find such money? And why, having it, would he continue to labor at such a trade?

Long before his return the villagers had begun to call him Kayne the Unknown, and to whisper that he wasn’t quite right and therefore not to be trusted. Only a madman—or worse—would labor when he had no cause to, or spend his money in a village so poor and lacking as Wirth. Nay, something was far wrong with Kayne the Unknown. He’d assuredly bring evil and ill-doing to Wirth with his strange ways, and it was decided among the villagers that those of them who were true and Godly folk would stay far clear of such a man.

Kayne the Unknown had returned with several men—carpenters and masons—and built the finest dwelling that anyone in the village had ever seen, apart from Sir Ahlgren’s manor home. It had wooden floors instead of plain earth, and real glass windows like those to be had in the richest castles in England, and a stairway leading to the upper floor, rather than a ladder. Next to the dwelling a large barn had been built, part of it to stable horses, and part to hold a new, and very fine, smithy.

He lived with Old Reed while all was being built, but he made no attempt to introduce himself to the village, or anyone in it. When he went to buy his bread and eggs and other goods, he spoke quietly and briefly, giving but the least return to any greeting or question, and was on his way again before one could do more than attempt the simplest exchange of courtesies.

Two months after he’d first ridden into Wirth, Kayne the Unknown had opened his gate for custom, and on the very same day Old Reed shut his. But no one in the village took their smithing needs to the newcomer, not for many weeks, preferring instead to make the journey to nearby Wellsby to make use of the blacksmith there.

But one night, five months and more after Kayne the Unknown’s arrival, a fire had started in Harold Avendale’s dwelling, and become so quickly fierce that no one dared rush in to save the family—no one, save Kayne the Unknown. He’d burst the door wide with a mighty thrust of his powerful body and gone charging in past the smoke and heat to bring out not only Harold and his wife and children, but even a table and three chairs that had not yet caught fire. And he’d remained, after all this, his blond hair singed nearly black and his face and hands angrily red with many burns, and helped to douse the cottage with water from the village well.

When it had all been over, the damage great but enough left to rebuild, Harold had sought to give Kayne the Unknown his thanks—though it would be impossible to impart enough gratitude for such gifts as the lives of his family. But Kayne the Unknown had disappeared, and could not be found.

For many days afterward, the gate to his smithy had remained shut, and he’d made no visits to the village. Harold and his wife had taken him two loaves of bread and a pail of fresh milk one morn, not daring to enter his dwelling, but leaving the offerings of gratitude at his door. Otherwise, the only person who’d had the courage to visit Kayne the Unknown had been their own good lady, Sir Malcolm’s daughter, Mistress Sofia, who had been seen entering his dwelling each morning and evening following the fire, always with her maid and always with a basket of her medicinal treatments. She had looked very grave the first two days, both coming and going, but by the third day had regained her usual calm manner. By the fourth day, she had declared herself—when asked about Kayne the Unknown’s progress—well pleased.

One month later, Kayne the Unknown had opened his gate again, and the villagers had come, one by one, to seek his services. Before the noon hour there had been a line ten deep until Kayne the Unknown, his burnt hair cut short by Mistress Sofia and one of his hands yet bandaged, had at last asked those remaining to return the following week, for he had more than enough to keep him busy until then.

His bravery in the fire had not been enough to make Kayne the Unknown completely acceptable to the village, but it had been sufficient to make him acceptable as their blacksmith. And a grand blacksmith he was, at that, as able as Old Reed had been, if not moreso. If Kayne the Unknown was yet content to keep his own company and remain quiet and apart, no one complained of it so much anymore.

But they did continue to whisper. And with good reason, for he was a man possessed of strange habits, who went out riding late at night on his great destrier, its hooves making a loud, eerie sound as he rode through the village in the dark chill of both night and early morning.

No one in Wirth, save Mistress Sofia and her maid, had been allowed into Kayne the Unknown’s dwelling, but there were rumors that he had many rare and extraordinary possessions. A locked chest filled with a treasure of precious jewels, and books—which surely he must be able to read, if he had them—and many strange weapons which no mortal man had ever before seen or been known to use.

And some of the villagers vowed that they had seen Kayne the Unknown meeting with frightening strangers during his nighttime wanderings. Men dressed in armor, on horseback, like ghostly warriors come out of battle.

Aye, there was much that was odd and fearsome about Kayne the Unknown, and the villagers of Wirth spent a great deal of time trying to discover all there was to know of him. Especially the women, who could scarce understand why a man so handsome and moneyed should not also have a wife. There was many a pleasing maiden in the village, and the mother of each would have happily seen her daughter wed to Kayne the Unknown—aye, despite his strange and quiet ways.

“Now, watch,” Anne said, nodding out the window. “He’ll stop and buy eggs from Mistress Jenna. Only half a dozen or so. Always wants them fresh, he does, every day.”

“He needs laying hens, so he does,” one of the women said. “A wife would fetch him fresh eggs every morn, and see that his bread was baked.”

“Aye,” said another. “A man like that needs a good wife to care for him.”

“Ah, look. He’s coming,” Anne said. “Hush, all.”

Having carefully arranged his recently purchased eggs in the basket he carried, Kayne the Unknown was indeed at last approaching the bakery. His white-blond hair had regained it’s length after the fire, and though his face still bore some few faint scars from his burns, these only made his handsome, finely boned features more notable. He was a tall, muscular man, with a powerful stride and solemn manner. His blue eyes seldom sparked with emotion; his shapely mouth seldom smiled. His manner, though ever respectful and polite, was constantly reserved and cool. In all, it would have been hard to find a more attractive or less attainable man than Kayne the Unknown.

Anne hurried to greet him at the bakery’s long, open window, where he stood as the lone customer.

“Have you my bread ready, Mistress Anne?”

“Aye, Master Kayne.” She handed him the two fine loaves that she’d only just set aside. “Out of the oven but half an hour past, and still warm.” He took them, set them in his basket, and handed Mistress Anne two coins.

It was the same exchange as occurred each day, in the same manner, with the same words and actions. Giving a nod of his head, Kayne the Unknown turned and continued his course through the village, on his way back to his own dwelling, leaving the women in the bakery gazing out the window after him.

Kayne recognized at once the two servants who were standing outside his smithy gate, and his heart reacted accordingly, giving an almost painful thump. His step faltered, and he nearly came to a halt, but at the last moment he made his feet continue their steady course.

Mistress Sofia’s maid and one of the young menservants from Ahlgren Manor were far too interested in their private conversation to take much note of Kayne. He’d almost walked past them and into his smithy before the maid curtseyed and said, “Mistress Sofia is waiting inside for you, Master Kayne.”

“Very well,” he murmured, and pushed his gate wide to walk through, out of the heat of the summer sun.

It was blessedly cool and shaded inside the large building, save for the far corner where the forge glowed red with its constant fire. Mistress Sofia Ahlgren was sitting on a long bench at the opposite end, in the coolest, darkest area where the horses were stabled. She seemed not to have heard him either opening or closing the gate, for her head was lowered and she made no movement to raise it in greeting. Indeed, she made no movement at all, but sat very still, head bowed, hands clutched together in her lap, almost as if she were at prayer.

Kayne made no special attempt to be silent as he neared her, and his steed, Tristan, whinnied in loud welcome at his approach. She surely knew that he was there, yet she gave no sign of it. He set his basket aside on a worktable and stopped at Tristan’s stall to scratch the horse’s soft black nose, not far from where Mistress Sofia sat. He waited for her to look up and acknowledge him, but she remained silent and still, and Kayne stayed where he was, gazing down at her forlorn figure.

He remembered the first few times he’d seen the lady of Wirth, just after he’d come to the village, going about each afternoon in pursuit of her daily chores. He had readily admired her beauty—as surely any man would—but had given little thought to her, otherwise. He’d known many beautiful women in his day, and had long since learned that they were best kept at a distance. Apart from that, he knew too well the condition of his soul, and of his heart, that they could no longer be touched as when he’d been a youth. War and death had put them beyond reach.