She had been left alone in the room for quite sometime now... Just how long she had no real idea. He and his men had captured her small band of "freedom fighters" as they had been termed by the people who still spoke with a free voice. But unfortunately, these numbers were dwindling much too rapidly. She hung her head, and her long hair trailed to the floor around her. She had been separated from the others in her group. No one had said anything, and unless they had separated all the women, she could only surmise that they had discovered she was the "leader" of the band. She shivered against the cold stone of the floor, covered only by a thin mat of woven reeds. For a castle, it certainly was sparsely furnished. The stone was not gray though, but rather a warm soft yellowed with age color. She had seen the castle so many times, this last year from the outside, but never from the inside.
She had not seen much of it though as they had been brought through the gates. Almost from the minute they had been captured, she herself had been blindfolded and gagged. She did not know if they had subjected the rest of her band that way also. Funny, even though she had not chosen to be a leader, they had chosen her. She considered a far cry from a "good leader." But they had managed to evade capture for over a year, so she guessed she must have been doing something right. Or at least she had, up until yesterday at twilight. She heard faint noises coming from just beyond the wooden door that prevented her escape. There was only one window, and it was more than 6 feet off the ground. Suddenly the door flew open. Two guards, both well over 6 feet stood there. She stared up at them from her place across the room, on the floor. Then the guards parted, and he walked in.
He was tall himself, over six feet, and very broad shouldered. His hair was darker than she remembered, but it had been trimmed to a fashionable length. He was no longer the rebel, she was. That was the difference this time. His light brown eyes bore into her own green ones for several long moments of silence. She noticed his mustache was still present, but straggly beard of the vagabond rebel leader of the past was now gone. The silence continued as if both refused to be the first to speak. His own eyes had scoured her face and figure eagerly, though he was a master at concealing his emotions. It had been a year since he had seen her face to face. She was still the same, basically. Although he could tell that a year of running for freedom, and living off the land had taken a toll on this beauty of old. She was no longer the pampered only daughter of the usurper of his own thrown. She was now his captive. The tides had turned indeed. As she stared up at him defiantly, he could see that she was thinner from the crevices in her face and collarbones. Her clothes though were ragged and baggy, so he couldn't tell how much she had changed physically yet. Her hair was so much longer now, and he had never seen it unconfined before. God, he thought to himself, she was still the most appealing woman he had ever met. If only...
But he had learned long ago, while a usurper occupied his lawful position as ruler, that you dealt with reality, not what ifs. That was a waste of time in the real world. Then he noticed the bright purplish bruise that she had pulled her hair forward to conceal. It was across her right cheekbone. Obviously, the little vixen had put up quite a fight, as several of his men had reported. Not verbally reported, but many of his men, even though they had taken the band of rebels by surprise, had suffered a number of cuts and bruises themselves, especially since he had specifically stated that if anyone of the band was seriously injured, so would be the whole group of soldiers be that he had sent out after them.
After several long minutes of staring at each other, and in spite of steel-like control over his emotions, he could feel himself becoming more and more aroused by the site of her. He turned abruptly from her, and walked from the room. She heard him say, just before the door closed, "It is time. Have all of them prepared as planned and brought to the main hall in two hours. The sooner we deal with this, the sooner we can return to normal."
His words sent a chill of fear through her veins. She herself had long ago prepared herself to die, if need be, in defense of her father. But she could not help but worry about her group. She curled up her knees to keep warm, wrapping her arms around them. They had been just 7 women when they had started a year ago, she remembered silently as she waited for the guards to return. She had somehow managed to escape. Her father had died in the last hours of the battle to defend the castle stronghold. She had spent her entire life, except for the last year, in the castle. She had thought her father was the natural ruler. She had never been exposed to any rebel factions. She had been carefully protected and shielded. Her mother had died many years earlier; she could barely remember her at times. And her father, well he had been a emotionally remote kind of man. She could not remember a single time when he had spontaneously hugged her. The only time he touched her, or even really saw her, was at celebrations, when other guests and royalty were present. Ha! She laughed at herself now. She had not been royalty all along. Her father had taken the throne by force, having no right to it by birth, or by the king's edict. He had seen a young boy/man trying to hold together what his father had bequeathed to him. And he had struck. He had tried many, many times over the years to kill the true ruler, but he had always failed.
Of course, she had only learned all of this after she had fled from the castle. It had not been all that hard to escape. Lord Braden's men had looked at her with her lily-white skin, soft hands that had never truly done a lick of real work, and saw her as no threat. So no guards had been posted outside her door, or in the hallway. Her father had kept her isolated in a remote part of the castle, far from the main hall, and the other sleeping quarters. That had been Braden's only mistake... was letting the guards decide she was no threat. If he had had his way, she would have been placed in his bed, and kept there, until he tired of her. But she had not had any inkling of what the new lord had been thinking. All she had known was fear, and the need to survive had overwhelmed her. And so, with the aid of old nursemaid Selma, she had fled into the night, alone, for the first time in her life.
She had wandered for several days, before coming upon a small group of women. They were all alone, no men, that is. She soon learned that they were alone themselves, all for different reasons, but they had somehow found one another over time. They had taken her in, given her shelter, and protection. They had given her old clothes to wear. And they had not pried into her past.
Over time they had all become friends, and she had revealed who she was. It was then that she had learned the truth. Learned that her father had "stolen" his throne from another, learned that true, rightful leader was Braden, and learned that if she wanted to survive, until she could decide what to do, she had a lot to learn. And so, Lady Madeline had ceased to exist, and an earthy creature known as Maddy had come into existence.
Her early days had been very hard, never having had to do anything at all around the castle. And with her new friends, well she had learned a lot, to put it mildly. It wasn't long, after the blisters healed that her hands became strong. And she sought out any knowledge that she could find. There had been an old man they had come across, and he had taught her many secrets of fighting, with many different types of weapons, including her hands. And then she had decided to help the people they came across who were in need. And of course, the only way she could find to help them was usually to "borrow" some of Lord Braden's money, animals, food stores, weapons, whatever she deemed necessary, to help these people survive. And slowly, a legend had been born, and a name put to the legend. Lord Braden had been assailed from stories of pilfering, sometimes more, from all over his land. And the name was always the same- Maddy. He didn't know who this was. He didn't connect the disappearance of the refined, delicate Lady Madeline with the scruffy thief Maddy. He had no real reason to even consider it. He had ranted and raved at his men for weeks after her disappearance. He had led several bands himself out to find her, but they had found nothing. Not even her body, and he had unconsciously steeled himself for that possibility from the first day he had learned of her escape. Upon interviewing the old woman Selma, who had been her lady's maid, he had found out how truly ill-prepared she was to cope outside the protected environment she had been raised in.
It had been about 5 months ago, when he had learned the true identity of the pesky Maddy. He had been at a festival, and there had been hundreds of people milling about. He and his men had agreed to participate in some sparring, and weaponry shows for the public, as entertainment. A small fee was charged, at his suggestion, and this could be used to help the people who had less in that area. He had been standing off near the side of the exhibition area, not really paying attention to what was going on in the center of the ring. One of his soldiers, a braggart himself, had accepted a challenge from an outsider. Rumor had it later on that it was to impress a woman that he had done so. So this soldier of his, Sir Randolf, had agreed to swordplay with another, and a wager had been placed.
Well, the word had passed quickly. A thick crowd had gathered directly around the two combatants. And it was the cheers, louder than anything else he had heard that day, that drew his attention finally. He had made his way through the crowd to see Randolf in the dirt, and on his backside. Standing over the fallen soldier, was the challenger. A slight, smaller in stature man, who held his sword proudly. It was an odd looking sword, very old in appearance. The challenger had held the purse with the winnings aloft.
