Chapter 1

            Rosa stared out into the pouring rain.  Her hands gripped the door frame of the small thatched cottage where she lived with her mother at the edge of Hawthorne Village.  She watched the eddies of water swirl in the mud outside the door.  She could just make out the next closest cottage in the village through the branches in overhanging the footpath.  Her mother Melindea was leery of people and preferred to keep to herself: thus their cottage nestled right against the edge of the forest.  Even though their cottage was out of the way, the people of the village sought out Melindea for her gift of healing.

            Just this morning, Melindea had left Rosa behind again as she headed down one of the twisting trails through the dark forest.  Rosa begged to go with her, and yet again, Melindea found a reason to leave her behind.  “It’s pouring rain today, and you have no cloak,”  she said.  “Besides, if someone from the village needs help, you can care for them until my return.  You know nearly as much as I now.”

            Rosa stamped her foot as she remembered the morning’s conversation.  Her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.  She had never seen any of the larger world.  She rarely left the cottage and surrounding yard.  Her furthest journey was to the village, and that was only with her mother’s company.  Her mother didn’t wonder at Rosa’s impatience to escape.  She just didn’t see it.  Rosa looked back into the forest one last time for any glimpse of her mother’s return.  She wasn’t surprised to see nothing but the rain and mist through the trees.  When Melindea left to gather her healing herbs in the forest, she usually didn’t come home until dusk or even later.

            Melindea turned from the door and surveyed the single room she shared with her mother.  To her left a low fire smoldered and hissed in the great stone fireplace that filled half the wall.  Unlike most of the village cottages, this fireplace didn’t crowd the center of the wall, but hunkered to one corner closest to the door.  In the back corner, drying herbs and roots hung from the rafters.  Low shelves below stored a mortar and pestle, various bowls, and jars of lard and other fats for making ointments.  A long wooden table was pushed against the back wall.  It could be pulled out to make room for guests to eat dinner, a rare occurrence, or for an examination table to treat patients.  Two beds filled the back corner, covered with the brilliant colors of Melindea’s latest patchwork quilts.  Rosa let her eyes drift to the last corner, the corner where shadows hid the padlocked trunk.  Iron hinges and a stout clasp held the lid tightly against the box.  Thick leather straps wrapped the oak planks in a tight embrace.

            For as long as she could remember, Rosa had wondered what secrets the trunk held.  As a small child, the trunk had drawn her to the fancies of imagination.  She had ridden countless miles on a prancing stallion as she sat astride the trunk.  On other days, the trunk became her sailing ship, taking her to tropical islands she had only hear about in her mother’s stories or a fort to hide from dragons and equally terrifying WolfRiders that mothers in the village threatened their children with. As she grew older, she dreamed of what lay within the box.  Was her mother hiding piles of colorful jewels, maps leading to buried treasure, gowns of silk and damask?   Her mother refused to answer any questions about the contents of the trunk, saying only that none of it mattered any more.  If it didn’t matter, why didn’t she open it or get rid of it, Rosa wondered.

            As she stared at the trunk, Rosa fingered the key hidden under her apron.  She had found it during her mother’s last trip through the forest.  She had climbed up into the rafters to clean out the old herbs that had dried beyond their usefulness.  The wet spring had caused many of the herbs Melindea had collected to rot.  The key had been hanging from the rafters behind the rosemary and sorrel.  She had found it from above; she never would have seen it from below.  She hadn’t seen it all.  As she reached for a rotting clump of mint, she heard the metallic clunk as it banged against one of the nails holding braids of herbs.  She could tell from the rust covering it that it had not been used in a long time.  Forgetting her mother’s assignment, she climbed down the ladder grasping the key in one hand.  She scrubbed the rust off with sand and oiled it with grease for the lamps.  She tied it snuggly behind her apron and scurried to finish cleaning out the rotten plants before her mother’s return.  Ever since it had burned against her skin underneath her skirts as she waited for her mother’s next absence.  The cold metal

            Now Rosa held the key against the weak sunlight seeping through the open door.  She suspected it opened the lock to the trunk.  Did she have the courage to see what was inside now that she had the opportunity?  her  She rationalized to herself.  “I’m not really crossing her.  She never said I couldn’t open it.  She just wouldn’t tell me what’s in it.”  Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed into the shadows and knelt before the trunk.  She stretched forth her arm and inserted the key into the lock.  She twisted her wrist.  To her surprise the key turned easily and silently.  The hinges creaked as she lifted the lid and the scent of mint and sorrel wafted out.

            Rosa breathed in the scent and wondered at the combination.  Her mother had warned her never to mix these two herbs.  Why were they stored together in the trunk?  She lifted the heavy canvas that lay in wrinkled folds across the top.  Underneath she saw a torn and stained dress.  She held it against her shoulders.  It had been made for a much larger woman.  Who had worn it?  Surely not her mother—at least not any time recently.  She lay the dress aside and peered at the object lying at the bottom of the trunk.  She gasped as she recognized the fine leather of a saddle, bridle, bit and reins.  She stroked the soft grain and felt something firm underneath.  Tugging it out from under the saddle, she pulled out a saddle bag.  Her fingers trembled as she struggled with the buckle.  The pounding of her heart sped up.  Somehow she knew  that the contents of this bag would change her life.

            Rosa pulled out a red cloak.  Its folds caught the flickering light from the fire across the room and seemed to glow.  Unlike the dress, the fabric was not marred by any tears or stains.  Rosa spread it out and guessed it had been made for a large man.  It looked like the cloaks worn by the WolfRiders, complete with hood and a leather clasp.  Even knowing that the cloak would be much too big, Rosa couldn’t resist the opportunity to try it on.  The swirled around her ankles as she fastened the clasp across her chest.  She pulled the hood over her head and spun.  To her surprise she did not trip over the hem—it just barely swept the ground above her toes.  It was a perfect fit.  Rosa stepped over the cottage threshold and out into the rain.  The cloak shed the rain better than a duck’s feathers. 

            She turned toward the path to the village from habit, but paused before she stepped out of the yard.  She knew her way around the village, but so did everyone in the village know her, too.  Surely, someone would mention seeing such a bright red cloak to Melindea on her next visit.   Rosa circled slowly, eying each of the paths that snaked through the undergrowth and disappeared into the forest.  Which one had Melindea taken this morning?  She couldn’t remember.  No matter.   What sunlight fought its way through the clouds seemed to focus on one path to the east of the cottage.  That path seemed to call to her.  “Come see where I lead,” it whispered to her heart.  Rosa walked across the muddy clearing, ready to answer the call when Melindea’s voice broke through the spell.

            “What are you wearing?”  she demanded as she strode out of the woods now behind Rosa.

The prologue is done, and I finally have a clue as to where the story is going next.  It’s funny, I can only see a little ways ahead, but as I keep writing, I learn a little more.

* * * * * A powerful wrenching of her abdomen brought Melindea back into the present.How long had she been in this room now? A day? Two days? Between the storm raging outside the narrow slits of windows and the smoke seeping into every nook and cranny, Melindea could not tell the passing of day into night and back again. It was as if time no longer existed outside their ever strengthening contractions. She sat up and gripped the hand opposite even harder. She felt the other maid’s corresponding pain course through her own hand and back toward her belly. As the last of her resistance ripped away, she saw dark curls appear in the opening of the woman before her. As in synch as their bodies were now, she supposed the same sight appeared beneath her. Instinctively, she reached forward to cradle the head that now pushed toward her. The other maid did the same. With one last mighty push, each woman held the other’s baby.

Melindea lay back, exhausted, but the other woman would not let her be. She grasped Melindea’s hands and pulled her up. She held up a silken thread and a silver knife. She showed Melindea where to tie the thread and then used the knife to cut the babies from their mothers. At the sight of the knife, Melindea tried to gather both babies to her chest. Was this madwoman going to sacrifice her baby right now? Seeing Melindea’s fear, the woman hid the knife in her skirts and motioned for Melindea to push again and again. At last both women were free of the afterbirth and turned toward their babies.

The two girls, for both were girls, lay on the mattress, breathing quietly. Melindea traced her finger down the side of first one face and then the other. She marked identical curves around each chin. Two noses wrinkled at the same moment before each sneezed. Both faces were framed with dark curls that were just like Ivan’s. As Melindea took in the miniature Ivan’s lying before her, she panicked. Which child came from her body? She looked at the other woman, who smiled and waved at both infants. “Choose yours,” she seemed to say. Melindea placed a hand on top of each head. Which child would live? Which would become a sacrifice while her mother rotted in the dungeon below–or in this very tower? Who cared what became of the mother as long as the WolfRiders had their sacrifice? Melindea shook her head and reached for the baby on the left. She picke her up and cradled her to her breast. The other woman did the same with the infant left lying on the mattress,

Stealthily, Ivan stepped out from behind the flames in the fireplace, placing his finger in front of his lips. In his arms he carried a bundled blanket. Behind him stood a frightened housemaid. Melindea watched as he handed the blanket to the young maid and pushed her onto the bed. He motioned to the other woman, who gently sat beside the maid with her own child. She wrapped the baby in an identical blanket and smiled at Ivan as he tucked the rough cotten sheets over the both of them. Ivan then motioned for Melindea to follow him through the flames. The heat from the fire seared her skin, but she did not burn as she stepped in each place Ivan stepped around the fire and stooped through a low door hidden behind the flames. Once through the door. Ivan straightened up and turned to Melindea with a soft blanket. He took the child from her arms and gently wrapped her in it before kissing her forehead. With his finger before his lips, he motioned for Melindea to follow down the twisting, narrow steps. Melindea bit back the questions burning in her throat. She clutched her child to her breast with one hand and reached for Ivan with the other. Ivan grasped her hand and squeezed as they descended. Melindea held onto that hand as if it were the promise to keep her safe Ivan had given her that morning in the village square.

After endless steps and spirals, they reached the bottom. A heavy oak door with iron hinges blocked their way to escape. Ivan turned and held Melindea close. Very little light seeped through the cracks, but Melindea could just make out the faint tracks of tears glistening on his cheeks.

Ivan whispered, “I cannot go further with you. I must return to the ranks of the WolfRiders before I am missed and before they realize the births have occurred. I promised to keep you safe, and I will not send you away empty-handed.” He let go of Melindea with one hand and reached behind him with the other. He brought forth the long red cloak Melindea had first seen him in. Ivan draped the cloak around her shoulders and buttoned the clasp around her throat. “This is not a WolfRider cload as you first guessed. It was given to me by my Gram and has magical properties. Wear this cloak at all times until it brings you home to my Gram. She will care for you and tell you what is to happen next. I do not know if we will meet again. It will be dangerous for you and the girl if I would lead any to you. Please, call her Rosa, and keep her safe. My love goes with you as you travel through this dark night. Outside the door waits a horse with provisions for a week. If all goes well, you should reach Gram by then. If not, you know how to find food from the woods. Remember mint and sorrel. County to five hundred before you move.”

Ivan pressed a heavy key into her hand, kissed her cheek, and fled back up the stairs. Melindea stood motionless, numb with shock. She was being cast out into the stormy night with nothing but a horse and provisions and a cloak. Magic or not, it wasn’t going to provide much protection from the storm. She bit her lip as if by doing so she could bite back the fury building in her heart. This was the safety Ivan promised? As she debated which way to flee–back up the staircase or out into the stormy night–, she counted steadily to five hundred. By the end, she made up her mind. She would not go crawling after Ivan. She would disappear into the world beyond the reach of the WolfRiders.

Gripping the key with white-knuckled fingers, Melindea inserted it into the lock and turn. The door opened slowly and silently on well-oiled hinges. Outside the wind shrieked through the trees and lightening lit up the sky. Melindea could hear the WolfRiders chanting the prophecy in the distance between peals of thunder. It would not be long until their frenzy could no longer be contained. Melindea swung a leg into the stirrup and leaned her daughter, Rosa, against the horse’s neck. She pulled herself up, clambered into the saddle, and picked up her daughter. Holding the reins with one hand and her daughter with the other, she kicked her heels into the horse’s side and fled into the night. The red cloak rippled and swirled behind her, but no one took any notice.

The storm spent itself out by morning. Melindea stopped by a clear brook for a drink for herself and the horse. As she nursed Rosa in the wavering sunlight, she undid the clasp of the red hooded cloak. An immense weight fell off her shoulders with it. Maybe Ivan had been right about the cloak being magical. Now that the storm was over, Melindea wanted nothing more to do with Ivan or his cloak. She certainly did not want to show up at his Gram’s doorstep. She was worse than empty-handed. She came with a child, claiming it was the daughter of the General himself. Who would believe it? And what danger would she be in if they did? No, it was better to hide the cloak and find her own way in this world. She had nearly completed her training with her own Gram. Surely she could find a village in need of a healer, a village where people didn’t ask too many questions.

She considered dropping the cloak in the stream and letting the water carry it away, but in the end she folded it and placed it in the saddlebags beneath the loaves of bread and cheese and water skins. “With my luck, the stream would wash it straight back to the WolfRider castle,” she thought. “Besides, I will need to make Rosa some clothes before long, and it is good material, hardly worn at all.” She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the snarls in her firey locks. She splashed the cool water on her face and straightened her skirts the best she could. Once she felt more presentable, she remounted the horse and turned down the least traveled path, into a new future

Another woman, big with child, stood next to the bed in the center of the room. On the pillow next to her lay a bouquet of mint. Melindea slid her eyes along the bed. It was furnished simply. This one was not covered with soft silks and lavish pillows. Plain cotton sheets were tucked in tightly beneath the straw filled mattress. Instead of a gilded headboard carved with curving roses, this bed stood with a plain board at either end. On the pillow on the far end, two sprigs of sorrel were tied with a piece of string. The smell of mint and sorrel mixed with the smoke. Melindea almost swooned and reached for the wall. Condensation dripped down the cold stone. She began walking along the outer wall, trailing one hand against the cold, wet stone. The other woman motioned toward the bed. Melindea shook her head. She was not ready to give birth yet, not until Ivan came for her. He had promised to keep her safe, but here she was, locked in a tower with no escape. She surveyed the room as she walked. The two windows were too narrow for even a small woman to squeeze out of, much less one large with child. Besides, the ground was more than a hundred feet below. Even if she should squeeze out and survive the fall, she would soon be trampled by the mounted WolfRiders circling the base of the tower. She glanced again at the door. It’s heavy oak panels showed no weakness. The keyhole had been filled with wax. She had no doubt that the four guards who had escorted her up the stairs where still just outside, as much to keep Ivan out as to keep the women in. Which one of them would survive this night’s ordeal? Melindea wondered if Ivan had promised the woman next to the bed safe escape as well. She sighed before continuing her circuit around the tower cell. Fifty steps brought her back to the door where she first began.

Then the WolfRiders came. Ivan had warned Gram a few days before. He told her to send all the unmarried maids out to gather in the south woods for the coming week. “The Riders are coming from the north,” he said. “Melindea will be safe as the healer’s daughter and next in line. Don’t let the others come back until you send word it’s safe”.Within the week, five black horses galloped out of the woods and halted in the village square. Black hooded cloaks swirled behind each masked rider. A horse and rider stood guard at each corner. The last rider rode slowly to the center and dismounted by the well. He pulled his sword and grasped the hilt with both hands as he knelt before the surprised villagers. Melindea squinted into the rising sun. It looked like a sprig of sorrel was caught between the rider’s fingers. She could not see under his mask to know if was her beloved Ivan. What other man would carry sorrel? Was it a sign meant for her?

Still mounted, the other four riders pulled out scrolls of parchment and began reading in unison:

By word and deed of the Order of the WolfRiders,

to the people in each village of _______________

In order to fulfill the prophecy of the magistrate,

the General of the WolfRiders must wed, not once, but twice.

Two women will give birth and one survive.

Two children will be born, one to rule and one to sacrifice.

These events must occur on the same night within the year. As a result, the Order of the WolfRiders must take the new General to each village to choose his wife. The first has been chosen for him. Now he will choose the other. Will the unmarried maidens of age line up before him. The one who can answer his question will become his wife.

A shocked silence followed the pronouncement. No one moved. A whip cracked through the air and four stallions reared up. Their hooves clattered on the cobblestones and echoed throughout the square. The soldiers dismounted and began searching through the crowd. The soldiers pushed aside villagers and pulled girls into the square. None of them were of age. “This is our last village. If no one here will step forward to to answer the General’s question, we will take this one to be his bride,” said the leader. He tugged on a girl’s arm until she stood before the kneeling General. She trembled in her torn dress, biting her lower lip until it bled.

Melindea felt a firm push on her back. “It’s him,” whispered Gram. “Go to him.”

Melindea nodded and stepped forward. “I will answer the General’s question,” she said. “Let Claire go. She will take my place with the healer.” Melindea smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and wished she had not let the berry stains go untended last night. Nothing for it now. She’d not had enough warning, but was grateful for what Ivan had done. How had he known the girls would be in danger? What would he think when he found her gone? Or was it Ivan kneeling before her now? She took three steps forward and knelt before the soldier with the sprig of sorrel. She looked at Claire. “Go to Gram. Take care of her.” She looked back at the soldier. “I am ready for your question, lord.”

The soldier did not look up. Instead he stretched out his hand and opened his fingers. Leaves of sorrel and mint lay scattered across the gloved palm. “Here is your question.”

Melindea smiled. Of course. She thought back to the first meeting with Ivan. “You should never mix sorrel and mint,” he had told her as he seperated the leaves scattered from her basket. Wordlessly, she began to separate the leaves in his palm. She left the sorrel in his hand and dropped the mint into her own. She hesitated once the leaves were seperate, unsure what to do next. She did not have to wait long.

“You are the first to answer my question correctly,” he said as he rose. He grasped the sword with both hands and raised it above his head. He brought the sword down and twisted it in a circle around Melindea. “I sever your ties to this village and bind you to me. As you have spoken, the girl Clair will take your place with the village healer. This village will not be left to sicken and die, even though you, the next in line, come with me, never to return again.” He returned the sword to its sheath and stretched out his left hand to Melindea. The sorrel leaves remained in the palm. She instinctively understood and stretched out her left hand with the remaining mint. As they clasped their hands together, he proclaimed, “Let it be said this day that mint and sorrel were joined together. We wait to see what remains.”

With one fluid motion, he remouned his horse and pulled Melindea up before him. “It is I, Melindea. Trust me, and I wil keep you safe, no matter the prophecy. Do not let any know that we have met before.”

Those first few months in the WolfRider castle, Ivan kept his word. Melindea wanted for nothing–new clothes to wear, new dances to learn, new delicacies to savor. Every day was filled with learning the duties and protocol of the castle. Every night was filled with Ivan. Then, sooner than she expected, this pregnancy began and all her days led to this impending birth. Ivan’s visits became less frequent, not because he didn’t want to see her, but because he had to slip past the guards that now paced outside her door. Each night he didn’t come, Melindea wondered if he was with the other wife. Who was this woman that was chosen from court for him? Did she love Ivan as she did? Did he love her? Was she, too, heavy with the expecation of childbirth?

Here’s the first part of my novel.  I’m still trying to figure out the best way to begin.  I don’t like the first two paragraphs at all.  By the third, I’m a little more into it.  Maybe I can work in some of the information from the first paragraphs later.  I’m not sure how well the dialogue works.  What do you think?  The actual story won’t be about Melindea, but about her daughter that is born this night.

Prologue

Smoke from the smoldering fire snaked around the floor and settled in dark corners, if there could be corners in a circular tower. The stacatto tap of rain against the leaded window panes offered a counterpoint to the clomping boots of General Ivan Wolfe. The General stopped pacing long enough to take a drag on his cigar. He stared at the flickering flames in the grate to avoid the scene in the center of the room. He could see only one way out, and it was strewn with peril.

Behind him, two women lay facing each other in the canopied bed. The sweat that glistened on their bodies matched the condensation sweating off the stone walls. The wind shrieking outside the tower walls harmonized with their groans at each contraction. The two women giving birth in the tower this night had never met before, but both loved the General. Only one could survive this night and remain at the General’s side. The other would be offered as a sacrifice before the WolfRiders.

Melindea gripped the hand of the other maid across from her in bed. Even though they had never met before today, they were tied inextricably together in life and death. At first they had worked against each other, each mistrustful of the other, each knowing that one would live and the other die. As her contractions begain, Melidea wanted nothing to do with this woman who had shared her Ivan. She refused to look at the other’s face, to hear her name or her groans. She growled through each of her own contractions, denying the other woman any rest between her own. But as the contractions bore down more and more, Melindea forgot her anger in the all-consuming pain. She realized there would be no other midwife, no other woman for comfort and assistance with this birth. She glanced at the face of the woman across from her. She guessed the terror in the maid’s eyes reflected that in her own. Even though they could not talk upon the threat of losing their tongues, an understanding passed between the two women. No matter what happened after, they were in these births together. At first they just tried to match their breathing; then they clasped hands to help each other through the contractions. Slowly, their bodies began to synchronize the rhythm of rest and contraction.

Above, a lantern cast an oily light over the women’s sweaty bodies. Outside the canopy, dark shadows flickered in the firelight and the stone walls sweated condensation. Melindea could hear the clomping of the General’s boots against the staccato tattoo of the rain outside, but she could not make out his form. Why did she have to love this man? No, why did the man she loved have to be the General Ivan Wolfe? In the rest between their now simultaneous contractions, she thought back to the first time she had seen him. He was just Ivan then, or so she believed.

* * * *

He came crashing through the underbrush where Melindea was gathering sorrel leaves for Gram. Too frightened even to leap out of his way, Melinda stared at the dark-haired man perched atop a snorting black stallion. A blood red cape swirled behind him as he wheeled the horse and cursed under his breath. Melinda gathered her skirts and retrieved her basket. The sorrel leaves had scattered, but no matter. She turned to flee back into the woods just as he spotted her.

“Wait! I didn’t mean to startle you.” His left hand gripped both reins as he reached to stroke the stallion’s neck with his other hand. “Steady, boy,” he whispered to the horse. To Melindea, he said, “Something spooked my horse.”

“Startled me?” Melinda crossed her arms. “You didn’t startle me. You nearly flattened me with your horse and spilled my leaves and now I must go home and explain to Gram why I come home empty handed. You should know better than to wear such a cloak in these woods. It’s no wonder your horse spooked.” Now that her fright was over, Melindea fought to rein in her temper. Hot pin pricks burned behind her eyes as she blinked rapidly. She bent down, picking up common leaves along with the spilled sorrel. She should know better than to speak her mind so to a stranger. Once her temper got going, there was no telling where she might stop. It was one thing to complain to Gram about the injustice in her life, but quite another to speak to a stranger, who might be a spy for the fearsome WolfRiders. Who else would wear a cloak like that or ride a horse with such fire? The boys and men from the village didn’t have cloaks at all–just short capes to block the worst of the rain and snow. Not many had mounts either. Those who did had stubborn mules or slow ponies, not stallions.

“Let me make it up to you,” he offered. The rider dismounted and led the stallion to a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. He whispered soothing words to the horse as he tied him to an oak tree. Then he removed his cloak, folded it, and placed it in a saddlebag. “I think you might be right about that cloak. I was foolish to wear it in these woods. I am truly sorry my mistake frightened you.”

The rider strode across the clearing and stood before Melindea. Without the hooded cloak, he appeared younger, more innocent than threatening. His soft brown eyes peered at Melidea from under a mop of black curls. “Am I forgiven?”

Melindea looked up to see him smiling at her and nodded curtly. Her hands automatically returned to gathering leaves from the forest floor.

“My name’s Ivan,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Melindea.”

He knelt and reached for the basket. “Melindea, you shouldn’t mix the mints with the sorrel,” he said as he deftly seperated the leaves.

“You know leaves?” Melindea asked. She sat upright and stared in surprise. Most men in the village had no interest in learning or gathering leaves. They left that for Gram and now her. Of course, they still came to the cottage every time they had a headache or a gash.

“Yes. My gram was the village healer. When I was a boy, I went with her through the woods to gather leaves. I would not have wanted to come home empty handed, either.” He laughed as he brushed his hands together and stood. He stretched out a hand to Melindea as she rose. “May I meet you here again–next Friday?”

Melindea nodded. That had been the first of many meetings wih Ivan. In the begining, she had kept it secret from Gram, but nothing escaped Gram’s sharp eyes for long. It was just as well Gram didn’t know the secret of the tower tonight.

* * * * *