Page 41 of The Unencumbered Warrior
The cart creaked into the village, its wheels dragging through the mud, the mare weary and spattered with flecks of dried blood. Heads turned. One by one, villagers stopped what they were doing to stare, and people emerged from cottages, eyes widening at the sight of Raff seated on the bench, blood streaking his face, shirt torn, his eyes burning with something wild and desperate.
But it wasn’t the sight of him that made them cry out, it was the empty space beside him.
“Ingrid?” someone called out.
“Where’s Ingrid?” Edith shouted, fear sharpening her words.
The cart barely stopped before Raff leapt down, stumbling as pain lanced through his side. “Chafton’s men,” he ground out, his voice angry. “They took her.”
A stunned hush fell.
“They ambushed us not far from here. Knocked me out and dragged her off.”
Murmurs swelled.
“They came for her?” Latham asked warily. “Why?”
Tolan said what they all feared. “They think she’s a witch.”
Raff spun to face them, rage crackling in his voice. “She’s not! She is a kind woman, a skillful weaver who has been nothing but helpful and giving to you all. You all know her! You know she is a good woman.”
Instead of rising anger, he saw hesitation, worry etched into furrowed brows and nervous eyes. A few exchanged uneasy glances. Others looked down, refusing to meet his glance.
“You expect us to go against Chafton’s warriors?” Tolan asked, almost apologetic. “They’ve got a skilled troop of warriors and the chieftain’s law at their back. If we defy them, we risk the same fate.”
“Aye,” another added. “If we help her, they’ll say we aided a witch.”
Raff’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. “So that’s it?” he barked. “You’ll let them take her and do nothing to save her?”
No one answered.
He stared at them, his chest heaving. “Cowards,” he spat, and turned away.
He didn’t get far before a hand gently caught his arm. He turned to find Edith standing there, her face pale and streaked with tears. “Raff…” she said softly. “I want to help. I do. But I’ve a husband… children. If they come for me next—if they see me as a traitor—what happens to them?”
Raff pulled his arm from her grasp, his voice rough. “Ingrid would’ve helped you. All of you. Without a second thought. That’s who she is.” He paused. “You don’t deserve her.”
He walked on, leaving her sobbing behind him.
When he reached their cottage, he hesitated. The door stood closed, as it had when they’d left that morning—together, cautious yet smiling because they were together, unaware of what the day would bring.
He opened it slowly and stepped inside.
A heavy silence met him.
Her shawl was still draped over the chair. Her basket of wool rested by the hearth, a thread of yarn trailing like a path that led nowhere. He crossed to it, kneeling and brushing his fingers over the spun wool.
“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve taken you away the moment rumors started spreading. I should have insisted.”
He rose abruptly, anger boiling up to meet his grief. His hand caught the wooden bowl on the table and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered, the pieces clattering across the hearthstones like bones.
“This is my fault.”
He gripped the edge of the table, head bowed. Did the witch know this would happen? Had the wish—had she—brought this down on Ingrid?
From the very first moment, Ingrid was the only one who had truly seen him. While others dismissed him or looked through him, Ingrid looked at him. Spoke to him. Trusted him. Loved him.
Had that love somehow broken through the curse?
