Believing Your Eyes
Chapter 1

England, 1199

"Full wise is he that can himselven knowe."
The Monkes Tale
Geoffrey Chaucer

The horses thundered along the overgrown, snowy trail, startling a woodchuck into a panicked flight across the forest path. Laughing, the high spirited riders called out to each other, watching as the frightened creature disappeared into the depths of the woods.

The landscape seemed completely innocent and new in the bright white of a fresh blanket of snow. Amongst the oak and chestnut, with sunlight glinting mischievously through branches, the men couldn't help but feel lighthearted.

The blonde-haired one pulled ahead suddenly. The crisp air made his breath puff in white, frosty clouds as the leader cheerfully shouted out a challenge to his companion, then kicked his sleek, white horse into a gallop.

Laughing, the dark haired man spurred his black mount and raced after the first, his horse ploughing up the snowy trail with its hooves. It was only a matter of moments before he had caught and passed his friend.

The woods stretched on in a sea of branches and sparkling icicles, while above, long streaks of clouds wafted across a pale-blue sky. The horses seemed to fly across fallen logs and narrow streams. The distance between the two horses grew until the forward horse was out of sight.

After a half mile of chase, the second man rounded a corner and found, to his surprise, the dark-haired rider in front slowing, holding up a hand. Curious, he pulled to a neat stop next to his companion and looked in the direction the first pointed, the horses snorting softly as they caught their breath. Echoes of the chase died down, and the horses quieted. The pause lengthened as the men surveyed the woods with alert eyes. The two waited, watching, hearing only the sound of snow sliding off branches in the distance.

The forest seemed, suddenly, very quiet.

"What is it, Stephen? Did you hear or see something unusual?" softly whispered the second man, finally shaking the snow off his blonde hair. He wrapped his brown traveling cloak more tightly against the crisply bitter wind. Ahead to his left the sun was streaming through a gap in the trees, and the silence seemed almost palpable now.

He shivered slightly and looked around again. Gulping, his left hand lowered his to the hilt of his sword, loosening the leather clasp on the scabbard with a deft twist of the thumb. "Do you think the Grays have ventured this far already? Is that why you recommended we patrol the far borders?"

"Hush, Ian," came the soft, steady reply. Stephen motioned for Ian to be patient, and listened intently again for a moment. He pointed to himself, and to the west side of the clearing. Then Stephen indicated for Ian to move to the east. Ian nodded, slipped off his horse and tied the reins securely to a nearby birch. He turned to Stephen, but dropped his eyes to hide the fright he knew must be visible in them.

Ian had been trained well in the ways of arms, but although he was past 20 years old he'd not been in many actual combat situations. He worried that Stephen would laugh at his nervousness. He’d grown up with Stephen, practically considered him his brother, but sometimes the gulf of experience seemed too vast to cross. Finally looking up, though, he found understanding and encouragement waiting for him. Stephen firmly clasped his arm and smiled slightly. "Courage," he whispered before slipping noiselessly into the woods.

Despite Ian's best intentions he found his heart suddenly thundering in his chest. He stood a moment to regain his composure; as he did, the silence seemed to grow more oppressive and ominous. Shaking off a sudden, wild instinct to mount and gallop away, he calmed himself by glancing over the sturdy, elegantly decorated breastplate and bracers he wore. He reminded himself that he was well equipped and well trained - he was ready for this. Then, taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and approached the clearing Stephen had pointed out.

Ian was Stephen's junior by ten years, and was constantly impressed by the knowledge and skill Stephen had garnered on his travels. Ian again acknowledged his father's good judgment in asking Stephen to supervise the training of the Citadel's army. In the past few years, Stephen had rarely been at home, instead spending his time finding work around the countryside. Even the few months he could spare now seemed worth years of lessons taught by the local trainers.

The winter sun was bright against the open field of snow, and it took Ian’s eyes a few minutes to adjust from the relative shadows of the forest. He felt a bit clumsy in his protective gear, but knew it to be a better defense than the thin leather Stephen wore. The thought helped to steady his resolve.

Wading carefully through the snow along the edge of the clearing, Ian looked more closely into the open area, and stopped suddenly. The mounds he had taken for stumps and drifts were not natural formations after all. Eight to ten snow-coated, rough-looking men lay sprawled on the ground, their darkened blood marbleizing the pure snow around them. To one side, hidden by trees until now, a cairn of ash sent wispy tendrils of smoke upwards, the melted snow around it languidly extinguishing the edges of the low flame. Ian kept alert for signs of movement, but saw none. As he ventured into the center of the blood-stained clearing, Stephen signaled an all-clear from the trees and came out to join him.

"They are all dead. The few survivors ran off north," Stephen commented, pointing to a swath of tracks leading out of the clearing. "Those belong to the wild men. Look - they are running all over the place." Ian nodded to himself; he remembered from his lessons that a well-known weakness of the Grays was their lack of discipline. He looked up past the tracks with concern; a new wave of the storm was beginning to darken the edges of the sky overhead, and a light snow gently drifted to slowly swirl into their prints.

Stephen motioned towards the glowing embers. "Someone was left alive, though," he added quietly, walking towards the low mound of ash and stone. "Grays would leave their dead for the wolves. These bodies have been given a decent sending. I wonder who..." His voice trailed off as he gazed into the reddish glow, then, with a puzzled look, he picked up a stick and pushed something out of the coals with it.

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Believing Your Eyes - a medieval romance Leslie's homeland has been overrun by bandits. Desperation drives her to plead for assistance from a neighboring noble and his son, Ian. Ian's wenching ways and arrogance stand in sharp contrast with the quiet nobility and honor of Stephen, their best swordsman. Leslie's heart is broken when she discovers that duty has bound him in an engagement to another woman. Once Ian decides that Leslie must be his, Leslie is swept into a conflict of honor. One where death seems to be the only possible outcome ... Believing Your Eyes - a medieval romance on Amazon.com

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