30 Day Image Prompt Competition - August

Day 11 Prompt 2 - The Maiden

The old man entered the large doorway to the stables, pausing for a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloomy interior after the bright sunlight outside. His long, white robe skimmed across the hard packed floor, high enough to avoid touching the dirt but low enough to reveal only the faded leather sandals upon his feet. His footsteps made no sound as he walked along the main corridor, flanked on either side by empty stalls.

His mouth twisted with distaste at the heavy aromas of straw, manure and horseflesh. He was not a man who enjoyed the company of horses. He much preferred to travel in a covered carriage with the windows closed so that he could not see, hear or smell the horses. Despite his aversion, though, he was here, walking in a stable, to meet with a man to give him a proposition from the highest authority known.

At the end of the stable, he could see a tall, muscular man grooming an impressive looking black stallion. Muscles rippled beneath a bronzed skin as he swept the brush along the horse’s muscular flanks in a rhythmic motion. The horse, whom he had heard was a fearsome beast, stood relaxed in the doorway to the stall as he chewed on the hay poking out of a metal basket. His eyes were half closed in contentment as the man continued to work the brush over the ebony hide.

Neither man nor horse showed any acknowledgement of his presence and the old man wondered if he had achieved the impossible and managed to approach the younger man without him noticing. As he neared the man and horse, an ear flicked lazily at his approach and he felt a sense of triumph rising up inside him.

“Really, Martog, you know it’s impossible to sneak up on me.” The man gave the stallion one last stroke of the brush before he ran his long fingers over the silky coat, seeking out any imperfections before turning and facing the old man, a mocking smile upon his chiselled features.

Martog stopped and sighed inwardly to himself. He really should have known better, he told himself. No one had ever sneaked up on Caillen of Navarre without him knowing about it. “I did not want to disturb you in your work,” he replied, his cultured tones revealing the years of study he had carried out.

“Of course not,” Caillen replied, his tone showing his disbelief of Martog’s statement. The old man obviously had something of great importance to impart for him to enter a stable.

He placed the brush back in the leather belt that held his grooming supplies and returned the fastened roll to the shelf where his equipment was stored. The stallion snorted his disapproval as Caillen returned him to the stall with a fond pat before resuming his lunch of fresh hay. Retrieving his shirt from where he had left it, Caillen rubbed it across a bronzed chest crisscrossed with scars to dry himself off before throwing it lazily over his shoulder.

“You are looking well, my lord,” Martog said, wishing that Caillen would say something. This was an errand he had not wanted to do and he had told his master the very same thing to no avail. His orders had been simple, find Caillen and request him to carry out the task for him. Simple enough when you were hundreds of miles away but very difficult when you were stood in his presence. He swallowed, wondering why his robe felt tight around his neck, constricting his chest and making it difficult to breath.

“What does he want, Martog?” he asked, knowing that there was no other reason for the old man to be here.

“The King has requested that you go to Tynan and escort Lady Jenna of Tynan to the Church of Navarre.” If Martog noticed how Caillen’s broad shoulders tensed when he mentioned Navarre he gave no indication of it as he continued with is request. “The King is most anxious that you do this for him as he feels that the young lady’s life is under great threat.”

“No.” Caillen glared at the old man, his stance both defensive and aggressive. Powerful muscles bunched in his arms as he folded them across the impressive expanse of his chest. “He knows  I will do nothing for him.” His voice was icy, sending shivers along Martog’s spine. It was no secret that there was no love between the King and Caillen and that Caillen would have nothing to do with him or anything associated with him.

“He knows that but has asked if you will not do this for him, would you do it for the young lady? He is most concerned for her safety.”
Caillen glared at him, the pale amber eyes glowing like a flame in the darkness. “If he is so concerned for her safety, then I am sure that a man of his power can attend to her protection with no effort at all.” He lowered his arms and moved to walk past Martog, his temper bubbling beneath the surface.

“Caillen, please. He is worried that if he personally intervenes there could be a catastrophic war. He has come to you because you are the best at what you do and he knows  there is no one better to do this task.” Martog looked at the younger man. He did not want to beg but time and the lady’s safety were precious and he would do all he could to ensure that Caillen helped them.

Caillen stopped and turned, wondering who the woman was if the King, with all his power as king of the gods, could not effect a rescue without causing a war. “She must be a special woman to command such a dilemma from him. Who is she, another of his illegitimate offspring or perhaps she’s to share his bed and her family disapprove.”

Martog glared at Caillen. “She is neither of those thing,” he declared in his most haughty tones. “She is a kind and gentle lady with a special gift that puts her in danger from those who seek to abuse this gift.”

Curious, Caillen moved to stand before Martog. “What gift does this lady possess that endangers her so?”

Martog saw no reason to lie or hide Lady’s Jenna’s ‘gift’ from Caillen. He would find out soon enough when he took the mission. “Lady Jenna was born with the gift of magic.”

“That cannot be so. Magic is not passed on to females, even those who come from parents with the gift.”

“Lady Jenna’s parents do not possess magic, nor does anyone in her family. Nor is she anyone’s bastard,” he added before Caillen could make that assumption. “She is a mortal child, of mortal parents, born with magic. Your grandfather does not wish to see her gift attract the attention of those who would seek to do her harm over it. This is why he wants you to bring her to Navarre.”

Caillen felt his beast growl within him at the mention of his grandfather and swiftly quelled him with the iron control he had learned to develop. Whilst he could control himself when people discussed, Altos, King of the Gods, in his presence he struggled against the rise of anger when they spoke of him being his grandfather. That had been a position that Caillen had never allowed him to have ever since he had learned the truth as a small boy.

“He is a fool if he things I will bow down to his wishes,” he growled, his eyes flashing in the gloom of the stable before he turned and walked out into the sunlight.

Martog watched, sensing the battle raging inside the warrior before him. He had warned Altos against making this request of Caillen but the king had been adamant that Caillen was the only man for the job. Now they would have to wait for his decision.

Lady Jenna of Tynan was bored. Very bored. Seated in the prayer room with four other young ladies listening to the droning tones of the senior abbess as she instructed them on the prayers they were studying was not how she wished to spend a summer’s evening.

Cerulean blue eyes flickered over to the stained glass window where she could see the curtain of the great willow tree swaying in the gentle breeze. She wanted to be out there, riding across the green pastures with her sisters and brothers. Having fun not being closeted away studying for something she did not want.

“Lady Jenna. Please commence reading the first verse, as I instructed you to do moments before.” The cold, curt tones of the abbess cut into her thoughts and Jenna blushed as she realised she had been caught daydreaming again. No doubt that would lead to another lecture later on this eve. Quelling the disappointment rising within her, Jenna raised the leather bound prayer book and began to read the first verse in her quiet but clear voice.

The boredom returned as soon as she had finished and the girl next to her continued the reading. She had just turned 20 years of age and here she was pledging herself to a lifetime of servitude to the gods and those in need of holy comfort and support. Out of the corner of her eye she studied the other girls in the room. They were younger than she was, quieter, retiring types who were far better suited to this life than she was. How could her father had deemed that this was to be her life?

The row of candles upon the altar caught her eye as they flickered in the draft. She watched the flames dancing, imagining them growing, twining with each other to perform a graceful, sensuous dance. She watched, enraptured as the flames moved across the tops of the candles, dipping and twirling, twisting around each other as they swayed to the beat of a secret drum.

It was only when the young girl next to her gasped did she realise that all the girls were staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear. Breaking contact with the flames, she looked down at the cold, stone floor, her own cheeks burning with flames of her own. How could she be so stupid to do something like that when others could observe her? That was how she had ended up in the abbey, because of her foolishness.

“Lady Jenna!!!” The abbess was coldly furious and Jenna knew she was in great trouble now. Schooling her features to reveal nothing of what she was feeling, Jenna turned to face the furious abbess.

“Yes, my lady Abbess,” she replied in her most conciliatory tone. It had always worked on her father when she had gotten into trouble before him.

“You will retire forthwith to your chambers and await me there. I am most disappointed with you. Now, go!” A white gloved hand pointed to the door and Jenna stood and reluctantly took her leave of the rooms occupants. It obviously wasn’t going to work today, she thought.

Inside her barren chamber, she stared at her reflection in the tall mirror and hated what she saw. The pure white of the headdress, with its high neck, made her naturally pale skin even whiter, almost ghostlike. Her fiery red hair, a banner for which she was known by, was pulled so tightly back from her forehead there was no sign of it showing beneath the white fabric.

Her blue eyes, their shade so sharp it seemed to blaze out at her, stared back at her from beneath the intricate design across the middle of her forehead, marking her to be a maiden in training for Holy Orders. She wanted to get a cloth and wipe the ink from her skin but knew that would only anger the abbess even further. This was her life, now.