JOLexcerpt

  “What a fine one he is.” A lady dressed in elegant garb tittered from beside her. Her lascivious gaze riveted to the
same spectacle. “On his way to save the day.”
     Gwynan turned her back on the blonde haired woman. She was more interested in surveying her options to form an
attack than gush coquettishly about her King.
     A vein of doubt welled up voicing her unease. Fool, you cannot best him, nor get through all his men. Her lips
formed a wicked smile as she recalled the rumors of his mistresses and his weakness for women, of which eighteen
children were the evidence. That was the way to get what she wanted. Amazed, Gwynan watched the King smile her
way and offer a small wave. It was like he had read her mind.
     A sound of disgust emerged from behind her. Gwynan spun to find the intimate gesture’s true target.
     “He will not have you, thief.” The blonde looked down her nose as if she were a mongrel. “You are too common.”
An arrogant smile curved the woman’s berry colored lips that matched her fine burgundy shift.
     “We shall see about that,” Gwynan challenged under her breath, while her chin rose in defiance. She set off to
shadow the procession destined for the rolling green fields that lay beyond the city’s confines.
     It was true. She could not call herself beautiful. Especially when compared to all the comely ladies she’d seen at
court, but she had something they didn’t. An earthy womanliness that made itself known by her quick wit, courage, and
the many things she’d picked up along her travels. Not to mention her sun darkened skin and cap of deep brunette
curls. It was true she looked a little less than her best at present, but underneath these rags lay a lithe figure that had
more than enough lusciousness to tempt a man. Especially if this pack, including their leader, lusted after the same things
that common men did.
     Trailing behind, Gwynan raced to keep up as the riders spurred their horses into a gallop.
     “We have no time to lose,” Charlemagne cried.
     His words fell amid their dusty wake. The grains merely augmented the layers her rough woolen raiments had
collected since leaving Mainz. Grime surrounded her toes like muck inside cloth slippers shod with a thin leather sole.
Her chest burned from the chill autumn air she sucked in to fuel herself for a sprint. Pumping her arms for all the speed
she could muster, her thin gray cloak flapped in time as she hastened to keep up. The packed dirt road, many times
traveled, was hard beneath the even beat of her feet. Her tempo caused the small bag with her few possessions to
bounce in time against her thigh.
     A mile outside the city they left the road. Their destination was a field whose lush grassy blanket was enhanced by
wild blooms and hemmed on two sides by thin outcroppings of trees. The brush would be a perfect place to hide until
she discovered their business and made her move.
     Gwynan slinked into the forest’s edge, using the slight slope of a hill to hide her arrival to their gathering. Her eyes
were trained on the lone figure swathed in the vivid color of royalty. Charlemagne dismounted, then accepted a bow
and quiver from one of the guards before pacing three steps away.
     What a strange way to hunt. She watched as the King carefully selected an arrow and set it against the twine. He
pulled it taut, angling the weapon toward the heavens. A cry spilled forth as he set the projectile free.
     She lost sight of it in the clouds, but the instant it hit its mark she felt the sting just below her heart. Stunned, Gwynan
sank to the ground. Painful needles tore through her chest. An agonized moan sprang from her throat, as she lay back,
thankful for nature’s lushness. She raised a trembling hand to the wound. It was no trick of her eyes. The thick wooden
sliver was firmly embedded in her flesh. She drew her hand back. It was marred by blackened blood.
     The party thundered toward her, heralded by the assailing noise from horses and men who were not only following
the arrow’s arc but also the alert of her cry.
     “Help that woman!” Charlemagne shouted. The order prompted two guards to dismount in hasty response.
     One knelt in the grass by her side, assessing the damage with less than gentle fingers. His long hair was golden like
the sun, while his eyes matched the sky above. The small smile he gave her told her not to worry, though his grave
expression belied otherwise.
     “How is she?”
     “Not well, sire. The arrow has lodged within her chest. If we do not take swift action she will die.”
     “We must take her back to Aachen.”
     “Sire, wait.” The second guard cautiously stepped forward. His dark hair stirred in the mischievous wind, as his
matching brown eyes caught sight of her pendant. He knelt as quickly as his heavy build would allow and drew it closer
for his inspection, paying no mind to the chain’s noose like tautness. A second later he dropped it as if scalded. Jumping
to his feet, he back peddled toward his liege. “She bears a black stone inscribed with a rune. She is a pagan!”
     Gwynan opened her mouth to protest the lie. She had never dabbled in the black arts. “Nay.” The single breathless
word emerged even too faintly for the man at her side to hear above the other’s ranting.
     “Braeden, she is still a woman in need of aid. Surely you would not leave her in such a condition.”
     “Sire, would you risk the wrath of God and the church to save her? We are told to put down all that is not Christian
and turn our backs on the olden ways.” He turned his attention to the man who was still at her side. “You know this as
well as I. We dare not let her live.”
     Her hand felt like lead as she raised it toward her ruler in supplication, begging for aid as best she could. The motion
twisted the shaft, agonizingly marring her tender flesh. A whimper tore from Gwynan’s lips. “Please?”
     “Come away, Roland. We have more to save than just one. God’s will must be done,” the King intoned.
     He was leaving her to die for the greater good. Perhaps her mother’s enchanted necklace was not her saving grace
after all.
     “Let me take out the arrow,” the man beside her begged, keeping pressure upon the wound while he fought for her.
     “You may,” Charlemagne answered. His expression was troubled, as if disturbed by the decision he’d made.
     Roland slipped his hand beneath her shoulders, wincing himself when her breath caught. He braced her back against
his thigh for support, cradled her with his arm and wrapped his right hand around the arrow. His voice was soft as he
bade her, “Take a deep breath. I shall free you after three.”
     She counted silently, fear rising up to choke her. He readied himself and pushed with all his might. A scream rang
forth, her pent up breath answering the searing pain from tissue being ripped open by the tip’s path. With a sobbing
whimper, Gwynan slumped into his embrace. The sound of splintering wood registered, before the sensation of the shaft
being exhumed from the depths of her chest.
     “Press here.”
     Rolland’s impassioned command registered, when she felt him guide her limp hand to the wound. Mentally, she
fought the nausea that threatened to spring up in reaction to the sticky dampness surging against her palm. Her slim
fingers were covered by Roland’s large hand, which sought to help quell the seeping of her life force. With care he
lowered her to the naturally cushioned earth.
     “Sire, something about this is not right.” Roland studied the remnants of wood. His brow knitted in trouble. “These
markings appear elfish.”
     Braeden stepped closer accepting the carved wooden arrow, careful to keep the blood from his fingers. “Perhaps
the evil magic it possessed was meant to kill. Maybe she did something without their favor and this was a way to repay
her. You must admit ‘twas a miraculous shot to land here.”
     “We are on a mission of God, men, so I will hear no more talk of such things,” Charlemagne’s voice boomed. “We
must go now. Leave her be.”
     The dark warrior ran to his horse, taking the reigns from a fellow soldier. He had not hesitated an instant in following
his King’s order.
     Roland lingered. His fingers were gentle as he stroked her face, before placing her errant hand atop her chest in
preparation for her to meet whatever maker she believed in. “I am sorry,” he whispered. A single tear slid down his
cheek. It would mark him as weak in front of his peers and the King. Yet he didn’t raise a hand to wipe it away. He let
the single remote sign of his emotion brand him, as he thought only of her.
     She could not answer, unable to gain the strength to wet her parched lips. An eerie chill settled upon her, causing
her hands and feet to grow numb. Her breath came in spaced gasps and her eyes lingered on him without seeing. This
was to be her end.