A wooden carriage trundled down a dirt road, passing among orange and yellow trees. It was flanked by two guards in full armor, riding atop white horses and keeping blades at their belts. Inside was a young nobleman, in a dark green cotehardie with black hose. Brown hair framed his pale face and draped over his shoulders, and his nutbrown eyes were fixed on his copy of Canterbury Tales.
He was just getting to one of his favorite parts of the story when he felt the carriage come to a sudden halt, making him nearly fall over in the process.
"Wha-" he looked out the window and saw some ragged men and women coming out of the woods. Armed with swords, spears, and axes, they pounced on the guards. With only a few seconds to react, the armored equestrians were pulled off their mounts and cut into bits.
His heart began beating out of his chest and he quickly dove for the floorboards. He crawled underneath his seat, silently praying they would not look inside. Meanwhile, he could still hear the ensemble of ringing steel, whinnying horses, and painful screams. He had never been so terrified in his life. Hands folded, he feverishly whispered prayers in Latin.
Then, after only a few minutes, there was a deafening silence. A small part of him hoped the guards had prevailed, but that was a fool's hope. He saw with his own eyes how swift and numerous the bandits were; the guards stood little chance of fending them off, even with their superior weapons and armor. It was also a fool's hope to think that they would not look inside, because soon enough, the carriage door creaked open.
"No chests in here." He heard one of them announce.
Fur boots stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath them. They stopped dead in their tracks and there were a few seconds of silence. His heart sank into his stomach when he saw a face looking back at him.
"Found a little princeling though!" The bandit announced loudly with a smile.
"Wait, please!" His cries fell on deaf ears. Grabbing his arm, the bandit pulled him out from under the seat and shoved him out of the carriage. Trembling, he looked around to see the aftermath of the ambush. The horses had fled, the guards and driver were dead, and all around him were bandits in fur and leather.
He saw a woman in leather armor and an open-faced iron helmet. Tightly clutching a shining battleaxe, she was rather tall and muscular for a woman and seemed to be the leader of the band. All the others looked to her for new commands.
"A noble boy, eh?" She asked, observing the scared young man before her. "What family does he belong to?"
"York!" He announced proudly. "I am Francis, eldest son of the Duke of York, and he will be furious if he finds out that you've captured me!" It was a white lie, told in the heat of the moment. In truth, his was a minor noble house, and he was actually the youngest son. Somehow, in his mind, stating that he was the son of such a powerful duke would leave them too intimidated to capture him. This had the opposite effect.
"The Duke of York?" She smiled. "Then he will be willing to pay a lot of money for your return, and I know he has a lot of it. He's a relative of the king, and he even owns land in Ireland. Just imagine what's sitting in his coffers."
"But I..." he had assumed that would be enough to scare them, but it only made her more enthusiastic. "He'll send his men after you!"
"Assuming his men aren't all prancing about in France!" Her rough voice broke into a laugh. "I don't think he'll be so brash if we've got his beloved son in our hands, in any case. Now then," she looked around, still smiling "did we find anything else of value?"
"No ma'am." One of the bandits answered. "It seems this was going to be a simple trip, although we did find some fancy clothes."
"Still could be worth it. Take the clothes, and relieve those guards of their shiny armor and swords if you can. I'll take this hostage back to camp." She slapped him on the back so hard that he nearly fell over. "Get moving!"
They headed through the woods, leaves crunching beneath their feet. He was shivering in fear like a cornered dog. His lie wasn't effective, and now he had to figure out a way to escape. Being unaccustomed to thinking on his feet, he decided to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to escape. What the opportunity would look like, he didn't know, but he was too fearful to try anything at that moment.
"So, what exactly brings a little noble boy like yourself to this neck of the woods?" She asked.
"I fear that's none of your business." He turned his head away from her, unwilling to make any conversation.
"I was just asking. After all, it is a little strange that your father would send you out here with minimal protection. Was this a hunting trip or something? Were you being sent off to marry a noble girl?"
"Nothing of that sort, either."
"Hm..." she tightened her grip on the rope and dragged him along "doesn't matter either way. All I care about is that your father will pay us handsomely for your release." There was a moment of silence. "Oh, but where are my manners? I should be a better host!" She laughed, before looking to him. "My name is Morgana, captain of this band of outlaws you've had the misfortune of encountering."
"And how exactly did a woman become leader of this bunch?"
She scoffed. "You men, always looking down on us. Don't underestimate me, Fran." Tightening her grip, she tugged him along sharply, almost making him fall over again. "I didn't become the leader without reason."
Their conversation trailed off after that. Or, rather, he'd decided that provoking her wasn't a good idea. After traveling through the forest in silence for some time, they eventually reached the camp. Tents were scattered around and campfires were already being lit in preparation for the setting sun. Wooden chests and barrels, no doubt containing loot from past raids, sat in piles near the central campfire.
The handful of bandits that had stayed behind to look after the camp noticed the return of their captain and looked rather pleased with the sight of her bringing home a prisoner.
"Managed to catch a lad while you were out?" One of them observed, before letting out a laugh.
"Turns out the passing carriage was the transport for a nobleman." She announced, gesturing to him as if she had just caught a prized boar. "His father is the Duke of York too, so we might just be able to retire with this one!"
The bandits raised their fists and let out a cheer at the notion. He was thrown to the ground, likely as a means of preventing him from making a run for it. One ear against the ground, he could hear the crackling fire along with the footsteps and idle chatter among the bandits. They began streaming in, carrying what they could pilfer from his carriage. Mercifully, he didn't have much with him.
Eventually, he was picked up by one of the bandits. Looking up, he saw a beefy man with disheveled black hair.
"Where should I take this one?" He asked. Francis could tell by his accent that he was from Ireland, though why an Irishman would come to England was a mystery to him.
"Take him to my tent." Morgana commanded, looking back at him. "I'll be there in a moment."
"Aye." He chuckled softly, before carrying him over to the tent.
"Wipe that smirk off your face!" She snapped, apparently noticing his mild amusement.
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." His apology sounded rather half-hearted. Walking in through the hide flap, he plopped the nobleman on a wooden stool. "Consider yourself lucky, mo bhuachaill."
"What does that mean?" Francis asked, glaring at his amused captor.
"It means nothing." Apparently unwilling to reveal any further details, he sauntered out of the tent. "I'll let you put things together yourself." With that, he ducked out.
He sat in silence for a little bit, hearing slightly muffled chatter and the clinking of drinks. After what felt like hours, the captain finally entered. Morgana was carrying a tankard and a wooden bowl of porridge. While she was still in armor, she'd taken off her helmet. Her hair, fashioned into a wolf cut, was messy from wearing armor.
"Brought you some dinner." She announced, setting the meal on the table before going to untie him. "Captives are better use alive, so I won't let you starve. I doubt it's as good as what you're accustomed to, but it'll fill your belly."
He felt the rope loosen from his wrists, and then went to eat the porridge. It wasn't the most flavorful thing in the world, but he had to take what he could get; he felt fortunate he was being fed at all.
"We managed to snag a small container of black pepper recently, so it's actually slightly better than usual tonight." She said, sitting on a chair in front of him and crossing her arms. "After seeing what goods can be raided from a monastery, it's no wonder so many monks are fat and happy. Maybe those Vikings were onto something, eh?"
He wanted to say something in response to that gross comment, but decided against it. The tankard was filled with fresh water, and he took a long swig. The dry autumn wind had left him parched, and feeling the water rush down his throat was a great relief.
They sat in awkward silence for several minutes as he finished up his meal. He had swallowed the last bite when she said something that gave him pause.
"I should let you know that I normally don't put captives in my tent." She said. "I only do that when I take a certain liking to them. And you've got a nice look about you." Planting both her booted feet on the ground, she leaned forward. "What do you say we do it?"
He quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. Something about her yellow eyes was disarming; they were the eyes of a predator.
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of those brutes out there?" He asked, looking to a random corner of the tent.
"Brutes? Hey, they may not be the brightest but they're reliable as they come!" He could hear her chair creaking as she rose to her feet. "But in terms of sex...no. I prefer men who are smaller and more...delicate. I must be honest, you caught my eye the moment I saw you. You're really quite cute."
