The Baron of Rothmoore

The roar of the cannon rang in his ears. Blinded by the flash of gunpowder he flailed about with his arms, reaching for Pepi. She had been standing in front of him. Panic seized him as he realized she was not there. Milliard colors danced before his eyes making him dizzy as his sight returned. Through the blur of stinging tears he could see Pepi lying in the gutter at his feet. The noise was deafening as the gun roared again. He threw himself down on top of the girl and felt the slick of blood as footsteps rushed by, jostling him in an effort to get out of the range of the cannon. He held on to Pepi, cradling her in his arms, calling her name.

He woke with the thud as he landed on the floor beside his bed. Hauling himself back to the edge of the bed, he sat with his head hanging in his hands. The dream again. He drew in a deep breath as a faint wave of nausea made him weak, the adrenaline receding from his blood stream. Would it never stop? He used a corner of the sheet to wipe his face. By God, someday I’ll find that little bastard of an Artillery Captain who ordered the grapeshot turned on the crowd. Someday, Pepi, he promised. He curled himself back on the bed and tugged up the blanket.

Sun, shining through the overhead leaves of the surrounding trees cast dappled patterns on the three deer grazing in the clearing where the young artist gave sure strokes to the sketch he made. Perfect, he thought. The doe and twin fawns seemed almost tame and the setting was perfection. Blue sky, with a soft early June breeze stirring whipped cream clouds. The afternoon sun was warm on his shoulders as the artist relaxed and began filling in the background. A sense of peace filled his mind, the first in a long time. Now here, on his own land, he could put the dream from Paris behind him in the peaceful spring of the English countryside. He took a deep, appreciative breath of the clean air, tinged with grass and wood, the musk of deer, all mingled with the faint smell of the ocean not far away.

He had spent the better part of the past two years in Paris at the Art Institute run by the renowned painter, Jacques Louis David. Though the school offered some protection from the various factions that came and went trying to control and govern France during ’91 and ’92, it was difficult not to be drawn into the revolution. Clear in his mind was the memory of bread lines that turned into a blood bath as the hungry citizens rebelled against the empty shelves. They were starving, but protest brought arrest, quick trials, and the guillotine. He escaped Paris using his mother’s name, de Morlaunde, pretending to be addlepated to keep from being conscripted into the army. He worked at farms when he could, or drew caricatures of the people in the villages for food, finally making his way into Prussia and back to England.

The doe raised her head, scented the air, and with silent communication to the fawns, all three deer bolted into the trees. More annoyed than startled, the artist turned as two riders came into the clearing. "Walter," he yelled, "do you always go crashing through the woods scaring everything in your path?"

The man he called Walter stepped down from his horse. "Aye, little brother. If you stalked deer with your gun instead of charcoal, you might add something to the dinner table." With a good-humored laugh, he turned to the other rider and called to the artist, "Come here, Robbie. I want you to meet our neighbor."

The neighbor was a girl. Sitting astride her horse, she appeared quite comfortable with her wide peasant skirt pulled high enough to show her legs almost to the knee. An old-fashioned long bow was fastened to the flap of her saddle and a quiver of arrows hung across her back. Sturdy boots and stockings did little for her modesty when she swung her leg over the horse as Walter reached to help her down.

Rob stood with sketchpad and charcoal stick in his hands, silently cursing Walter for ruining his solitude. For whatever reason, he felt a priggish urge to immediately dislike the girl, but she only smiled at Walter then looked at Rob.

He put down the pad and stepped closer, more from curiosity than politeness. She was tall, that was his first impression, and younger than he had thought. While not as tall as his brother, he was still above average height, and she was looking right into his eyes, maybe only a hand shorter. Dark hair and a light complexion did nothing for a rather long face which was more than plain, he thought, but her eyes were quite unusual. Clear green with a black ring around the iris, they appeared almost transparent, and there was no denying she was staring at him with an unwavering gaze.