The Huntress of Thornbeck Forest (A Medieval Fairy Tale #1)(2)

She headed for the little hut just outside the town wall, a place where many of the poorest people lived in makeshift shelters. She knocked on the house that was leaning to one side and held up with sticks, and little Hanns opened the door, peeking around the side and rubbing his eyes with his fist.

“I’m sorry for waking you, Hanns.”

“Odette!”

“Shh.” She put her finger to her lips, then whispered, “I brought you something. In the morning you will have some fried venison for breakfast. How does that sound?”

Hanns stopped rubbing his face, his mouth fell open, and his eyes got round. As Odette held out the leather bag, the air rushed out of him with an excited, “Oh!”

“Don’t wake your mother now. You can surprise her in the morning.”

“I will!” Without closing the door, he turned and, straining to carry the heavy meat, disappeared inside the dark one-room, dirt-floor house.

Odette closed the door and turned to hasten home while it was still dark.



Jorgen Hartman knelt before the altar of Thornbeck Cathedral and bowed his head. As it was the feast day of St. John the Baptist, he and many other people from town had come to pray. Some of the townspeople had brought herbs to the church for the priest to bless, which should give the herbs special healing abilities. Others, like Jorgen, were there because they had missed the midday Mass and wanted to offer prayers on this holy day.

Jorgen finished praying and rose to his feet. As he did, a woman several feet away caught his eye as she lighted a candle. She was lovely, with long blond hair that fell in curls down her back from underneath her veil. In the candlelight, her face seemed to glow with piety and sweetness. He drank in the beauty of her facial features as she knelt, making the sign of the cross. But then she drew the veil over her face as she bowed in prayer.

Since he didn’t want to stand and gawk at her profile, still visible beneath the veil, he made his way to the other end of the nave, perusing the stained glass windows depicting various stories and people of the Christian faith. He focused on the one where John the Baptist baptized his cousin Jesus and the Holy Spirit came down in the form of a dove. He’d always loved the brilliant colors of the windows and had often slipped into the nave as a boy, hiding in a corner to stare at the depictions and their bright reds and blues, greens and yellows.

The beautiful girl finally stood and was joined by a man. Was he her husband? Holy saints, let him be her father.

As they made their way toward the door, he tried not to stare. She passed by him and out the cathedral door without ever looking his way.

Perhaps he would see her at the Midsummer festival in a few hours.

Jorgen went to visit his friend Paulin, who had broken his leg and was not able to go to the Midsummer festival. Afterward, Jorgen joined with the crowds who were flowing toward the sound of the Minnesingers in the town center. Young maidens skipped along in their flowing dresses, carrying bouquets of flowering herbs and wearing woven crowns of white wildflowers.

There would be a bonfire in the Marktplatz and dancing, and unmarried maidens would be alert to find their future husbands. Now that he was nearing five and twenty years, even his mother had approved of him coming to the Midsummer celebration.

Winking, she had said, “Perhaps if you dance with some pretty maidens, one of them will dream of you tonight.”

He kissed her wrinkled cheek. “You should pray that whoever dreams of me tonight will be a good daughter to you.”

“I will and do not doubt it.” Her tone was gentler now. “She will be a good girl indeed to deserve you.”

He touched her cheek and looked into her faded blue eyes. “Thank you, Mama.”

Now he looked around and wondered which of the maidens, if any, his mother was praying for. Already he had seen a pretty red-haired maiden glancing back at him, and a raven-haired girl of perhaps sixteen smiling and waving at him.

As he drew nearer the center, moving slowly because of the dense crowd, the smell of fresh bread made him take a deep breath.

A baker stood outside his shop holding a tray of bread rolls. A small boy, perhaps six years old and dressed in rags, stood at the corner of the shop, his head peeking around from the alley where an even smaller girl stood behind him.

He caught his breath. It was little Helena.

No, Helena had been dead for more than fifteen years. The sight of her bloody body, lying in the street where the horse had trampled her, flashed through his mind like lightning. Her bright eyes stared up, and her mouth moved wordlessly as she fought to draw breath into her crushed chest. He could still feel her body growing cold in his arms while heartless, frowning faces stared down at him, and a man shouted at him to get out of the street.

The tiny girl who now stood in the narrow side street was not looking back at Jorgen. Instead, she was looking anxiously at the little boy peering at the baker and his bread. The look of desperation in the boy’s face seemed familiar. Jorgen watched, knowing what the boy was about to do, but also knowing he would not be able to get through the people in time to stop him.

The boy darted around the corner and ran toward the baker, staying close to the wall of the shop. While the baker was handing two rolls to a woman who placed a coin on the baker’s tray, the boy ran by and snatched a roll.

Perhaps he had not seen the woman on the other side of the baker, but she had seen him. She grabbed the back of the boy’s neck with one hand and his arm with the other. “Thief!” she cried.