The Traveler: Bella's Tale

The Darkkin Chronicles: The Traveler

December 1799

South of Cedarwood Grange, Norfolk



         The sound of panicked whinnying and Dunnings curses pulled Emmaline, the Dowager Countess of Taverton out of the light doze she had fallen into after having departed, Cedarwood Grange for her Afton House, her home in London.  The chase lurched heavily as Dunnings pulled the conveyance to an abrupt halt.  The Dowager managed to catch hold of the strap above her head, just narrowly avoiding being deposited on the floor of the well appointed vehicle.  Immediately her mind leapt to the most dire of situations, highwaymen.  Maria, her maid, huddled in the opposite seat remained frozen with fear.  The aging countess reached for the small pistol she kept beneath the seat where Maria was perched.  Cautiously she moved for the door

         Dunnings, her coachman since her marriage to the sixth Earl of Taverton some thirty-five years earlier, was ahead of her.  He opened the door and peered inside.  “Nothing to worry about, my lady.  T’ain’t thieves.  ‘Tis only a great hulking brute of a hound blocking the road.  Spooked my team is all.”

         Knowing they weren’t in any immediate danger, Emmaline moved to exit the vehicle.  “How big of a canine are we dealing with?”  Her question answered itself, when she stepped down into the roadway and caught sight of the massive form outlined by the moon and the eerie glow of the carriage lanterns.  She knew without a doubt is was shaggy coated lurcher, common among the gypsy caravans that frequented the area.  Gypsies whose stories and legends, she had studied as a younger woman.  This lurcher wouldn’t have abandoned its caravan with major provocation.

         Sensing the smaller, calmer form watching him, the hound moved slightly to the left, revealing the reason for its desertion.  A tiny figure lay twisted in a tight ball in the middle of the roadway.  No sound issued from it, as Emmaline approached and caught sight of massive dark stains marring the freshly fallen snow.  The heavy smell of burned gun powered and the metallic scent of iron assailed the Dowager’s nose as she approached the child.

         Stooping down, she peered into the little figure’s face.  The tiny, perfect features were contorted with terror, the mouth open in a silent scream that never came.  Mittened hands were clapped over its ears in a feeble attempt to drown out the sounds of events just past.  The child’s breathing was shallow and labored as shivers racked the minute form, whether from cold or shock, the Dowager didn’t know.  At the present time there were only two things she could truly ascertain, something horrific had just transpired and the terrified child at her feet had seen it.

         As Emmaline reached out to touch the little girl’s icy cheek, the shriek that had been silenced suddenly erupted; bloodcurdling and pain wracked it split the frozen night air and echoed among the stars.  The child wrenched away from the Dowager’s warm hand, rolling onto her stomach she revealed a heavy fur-lined pelisse and velvet gown that had been nearly shredded.  The girl’s white flannel underpinnings were soaked with blood from four massive gashed across her back that were still seeping.

         It was in this moment, Emmaline saw the mark, the odd tattoo that separated this child from the rest of the world and placed her in a realm far beyond the keen of normal human thought.  The little girl bore the shredded remains of the Traveler’s mark of the Taboo.  A dragon with wings spread wide, dissipating into a column of mist.  This child was one of the Chosen her husband and the other members of the Assemblage had sworn to protect.  There was more behind this attack than just highwaymen.

         Dunnings shivered as the child began to scream.  He didn’t need his mistress to tell him to search the area.  Retrieving one of the lanterns hanging from the side of the driver’s seat, he glanced over his shoulder at the Dowager and the hysterical child.  She caught his unspoken look as he moved off into the woods.  All the while the little girl continued to wail.  Her screams echoed of the trees, seeming to carry for miles.  The keening of the child drowned out the furious howl of the winter wind and seared itself into the old coachman’s soul.  The scene hidden in a secluded copse was more suited to a battle field than the tranquil English countryside.

         The faithful retainer was shaken to the core as he came upon the final resting place of the child’s parents.  Massive paw prints had churned the snow and moist earth into mire, the stench of death and blood clogged the air, while the little girl’s crying gave voice to the ghosts that hovered close.  The Dowager was right, this had been no highway robbery; this was a massacre.  No living man could have been capable of the carnage revealed by the light of Dunnings’ lamp.

         The broken form of a slender young woman lay draped and broken across a fallen log.  Her face, contorted into the same lines of terror that graced her small daughter’s, stared sightlessly at the intertwined branches of the pines.  Her skin was bleached to the stark white of the snows, upon which she rested.  There was no blood left to lend her color; her throat had been torn out.  Compared to the remains resting at Dunnings’ feet, the lady’s death had been kind.  The old coachman knew she had been a lady given her attire and that of the little girl.  The fate of the gentleman would haunt him until his dying day.

         Dunnings booted foot made contact with a severed hand that skittered across the icy snow.  It caught in the blood soaked hem of the lady’s gown.  The burning metallic glitter of gold caught the flickering light of the lantern the retainer held aloft.  It was all Dunnings could do not to toss up his supper.  Steeling himself for the distressing task, the coachman crossed the small clearing and reached for the ring.  His hand closed around the still warm flesh of the severed limb and pulled the ring free the cloying flesh.  It was a dragon concealed with the twining tendrils of ivy surrounding a cursive M.

         With the ring in hand, Dunnings removed his coat and laid it over the crumpled form of the lady.  Her gaze no longer stared into the darkness of the night.  The remains of the man were no doubt scattered in the deeper shadows of the glade.  Dunnings didn’t make an effort to find them.  He turned and returned to the road where the Dowager waited.  The little girl had gone silent once more.  Her eyes burned silver in the moonlight as she watched the coachman emerge for the woods.  She knew what he had seen.  She sensed the metal clutched in his hand, heard the song of the gold and the keening of her mother’s soul.  She was the last of her family.

         Emmaline caught the line of the child’s gaze; the glare of the lantern seemed garish the moonlight as Dunnings approached.  She saw the look in the little girl’s eyes and felt the sudden change in her demeanor.  The aging countess anticipated the child’s reaction to Dunnings reappearance.  She drew a piece of the little girl’s tattered gown across her eyes, preventing her from shifting into smoke and disappearing into the night.  As soon as the blindfold was drawn across her eyes the girl went limp, her unseeing eyes fixed on Dunnings.  He wasn’t wearing his coat.

         Maria, in the meantime had finally calmed herself enough to actually be of use.  She jumped down into the road, bringing one of the lap robes with her.  She draped around the child’s shoulders, covering the injuries on the girl’s back.  She didn’t notice the intricate mark on the child’s skin as she helped the Dowager to her feet, the tiny figure was little more than a limp ragdoll in the older woman’s arms.  Blood, snow, and mud covered the front of the countess’s cloak and gown.  The child offered no resistance as the dowager handed her over to the maid, who carried her to the carriage.  The lurcher drew up beside Maria and leapt into the front facing seat where the maid promptly deposited the child.

         The little girl rolled onto her side and wrapped her fingers in the hound’s shaggy coat.  The dog stretched across the length of the seat, curling around his small charge.  Eerie silver eyes, identical to the blindfolded ones of the child, stared out into the chill night daring the beast that had slaughtered her parents to return.  Disconcerted by the hound’s steady gaze, Maria shut the door and returned to her mistress.

         The Dowager startled by Maria’s return asked, “You didn’t leave that child alone, did you?”

         Maria shook her head.  “No.  That hell beast of a dog is curled around her like a mother wolf with its pup.  With him watching, there is nothing that will venture near.  Not even me.”

         “Good,” the Countess murmured, turning her attention to Dunnings.

         “What did you find?” she queried.

         Dunnings handed her the odd ring.  “I found a battlefield.  It is as you feared; the child’s parents are dead.  The lady’s throat was torn out and the gentleman…”  The coachman blanched.  “All I was able to see of him was his right hand.  It bore that ring.”

         “Thank you Dunnings, your work tonight shall not go unrewarded,” the Countess said.

         Maria broke the tense silence that encompassed them.  “Any idea as to the child’s identity.  It’s as plain as day, she’s quality.”

         The Dowager looked down at the ring in her hand.  She knew the crest well.  The old Count had been a great friend of Henry’s back in the day.  “Moncrieff is the name of the family.  They had a large estate in Austria before the war.  Victor, the current Count’s father was an ambassador, well known and respected across Europe.  He died nearly ten years ago.  His son Hector, who I met on several occasions, inherited the title.  He has been in the employment of the Home Office since his father’s death.  He married one of my sisters’ nieces several years ago, a Miss Arabella Amesworthy.  I stood as their daughter, Isabella’s godmother.  She’s only seven months older than my other goddaughter Jonquil.  I haven’t seen her since the christening.”

         Dunnings brow furrowed in confusion.  “You think this waif is your goddaughter?  What proof do you have?”

         The Dowager’s smile was cold.  “Those eyes, Dunnings, she has the Moncrieff eyes.  Her father’s and grandfather’s were every bit as beautiful and chilling.  She looked at me with them only once before and I never forgot that gaze, like two shimmering stars plucked from the skies.  It is Isabella.  The ring you found only confirms her identity.  Only the highest ranking members of the Assemblage and the Taboo themselves possess them.  They never pass out of the direct line, father to son, mother to daughter.”

         “I don’t doubt your identifyin’ the child, milady, but what’s to be done with her?”  Dunnings said.  “Surely she must have some family, hereabouts.”

         The Countess shook her head.  “Unfortunately she doesn’t.  Her family wasn’t very numerous to begin with, but thanks to the war most of them are now either missing or dead.  Everyone she had here in England, again, it is much the same case.  My sisters are long dead and her grandparents, as well.  Even if they had been alive, they wouldn’t have taken her.  The Amesworthys cast Arabella off when she married Hector.  They knew he was more than he appeared to be.  They were right.”

         Tears gathered in Lady Emmaline’s blue eyes as she cast a speaking glance at the carriage.  “I’m all the family she has now.”





The End of the Prologue.