The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) Read Online Free Page A

despondency, Mitri hung her head. Evidently naught would escape the torching—not Lord Harold’s estate, not the outlying farms, not the only home she had ever known. The entire region appeared to have gone up in flames.
    Her world had turned upside down, and she had nowhere to go.
    Save to an honorable death.
    These men-at-arms would spill their seed within her and then pass her around to the rest of their troops. Better to end it cleanly. Better to throw herself into the bonfires up at Lord Harold’s manor estate than have Ysenda return and discover her bloodied body used up and broken, then tossed like refuse on the road somewhere. And even if she did somehow come through the repeated assaults, she would most likely live out the remainder of her days an invalid and a burden to her sister.
    Mitri shook her head. Nay, Ysenda would be far better off without her. She would not be her sister’s responsibility, a weight holding her back. She would not be a yoke around Ysenda’s neck. Her sister was a survivor; even in these dire circumstances, she would make her way in the world—providing she did not have Mitri, a timid mouse afeared of her own shadow, dragging her down.
    The burning settlement was more than a stone throw’s distance but less than a half-day’s journey. Mitri headed there.
    Avoiding the main road and keeping to the cover of bushes, she hid from group after group of retreating soldiers. The men-at-arms left the besieged area like rats from a sinking ship. Laughing and jeering, drinking their horns of ale, the cruel warriors related tales of how earlier that same day they had fanned out over the countryside , plundering and raping and killing as they went. Their victims had probably pleaded for a swift death as opposed to a slow incineration, and these murderers celebrated!
    Pray, over what did they rejoice?
    Surely not over a few sacks of stolen cabbage!
    One soldier held up a skin of mead. “Death to the usurper, King Stephen,” he toasted. “Long live the Empress Matilda, the true and rightful heir to the throne of England and our future queen.”
    After the cheers died down, the soldier continued his speech. “And this day, our commander, Axehand, has contributed mightily to that end. The settlement here is no more. All five score villagers are dead and Lord Harold with them. Let this be a warning to others who support the pretender to the throne.”
    And then Mitri understood. Insurrection had sparked this destruction. ’Twas common knowledge that Harold, the baron landlord up on the hill, was a loyal supporter of King Stephen. These must be Matilda’s men, bloodthirsty mercenaries to a one, come to destroy a loyalist’s holdings.
    Mitri had never imagined such cruelty existed. Before horror struck this day, villagers in this remote hamlet far removed from the hustle and bustle of London died of old age, peacefully abed.
    Dear heaven! First famine, and now this. What else must the common people endure in this anarchy?
    Best to feel naught than suffer this horrible grief.
    Numb to everything, Mitri dragged herself on. Inside the charred gates of Lord Harold’s smoldering demesne, she held a hand over her nose and mouth.
    ’Twas no use. The heat and smoke, the sight and stench of burned bodies strewn amid the ashes of their meager possessions, proved too much. She cracked like pottery, the fragmented pieces too many to repair. Marching boots pounded in her head; a wooden portal splintering replayed before her eyes. There was no escaping her broken thoughts.
    Save one.
    The central bonfire beckoned like a candle in the dark. She did so love candles. The fire was her escape.
    Her ripped kirtle sweeping the soot, she started for the leaping flames.

Chapter Two

    On his return trip from Talon’s keep at Ironguard, Spur reigned in his mount and scanned the smoky sky.
    A brisk breeze ruffled the leaves today, the wind’s westerly direction foretelling the cause of the ominous gray cloud drifting