by Karen Miller
Someone had laid out clothes for her at the foot of the sleeping-shelf. Dark blue woollen hose, a heavy green cotton shirt, lighter cotton underthings. Thick woollen socks. A wide brown leather belt and brown leather half-boots. Boys’ clothing. A piercing reminder of happier days, and her brothers. But before she could think about making herself presentable she had more urgent matters to consider …
Someone, thank God, had left a chamber pot under the sleeping-shelf. She used it hurriedly, in case one of the others returned, then shed her clerica robe and shift and pulled on her new clothes. They fit remarkably well. Her hair was a disaster but she couldn’t see a brush or comb anywhere. Ah, well.
No-one noticed her standing on the van’s top step. She looked around, breathing in the fresh air. They were in a lush field, near a trickle of stream. The unhitched horses had been safely hobbled and were snatching enormous mouthfuls of grass. It seemed as though the rain had passed. The few patches of cloud in the sky were high and filmy, blowing west. Birds sang lustily in the field’s lone oak tree. Early bluebells added colour to the peaceful scene.
Her unlikely travelling companions were all accounted for. Mr Jones cooked the sausages over a small fire ringed with stones. Ursa had the contents of her physicker’s bag spread on a cloth before her and was closely inspecting them. At a small distance Helfred was on his knees, oblivious to the wet grass, his back to the others and his head bowed low in prayer. She could hear his prayer beads clicking. And at another distance was the foreigner, Zandakar.
“Mr Jones?” she said, her gaze fixed on the stranger. “What is he doing?”
“Highness!” He scrambled to his feet. “You’re awake.”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”
He came forward to help her down the van’s steps but she waved his hand away, still looking at Zandakar. Rebuffed, he looked too.
“He calls them hotas, Highness.”
Memory assaulted her. Helfred on his knees, neck bent, one heartbeat away from a broken neck and death. Zandakar standing over him, unmoved .
“Who is he, Mr Jones?”
“A friend.”
She spared him a pointed glance. “Who speaks hardly any Ethrean, looks like no man I’ve ever seen and who, on the surface at least, doesn’t seem quite safe . How well do you know him?”
An uncomfortable silence. “Your Highness, do you trust me?” said Mr Jones, at last.
Dear God. What have I stumbled into? But she’d come this far on faith and hope … “Would I be here if I didn’t?”
“Then—if I said he was needed, no matter how strange he might appear?”
“Does that mean you trust him?”
“Highness!” Mr Jones sounded shocked, and hurt. “Would I let him so close to you if I thought he’d do harm?”
The graceful dark man leaping and spinning across the green grass was naked to the waist, his skin terribly marked with fresh scars and old ones. They suggested a barbaric past. Violence and suffering on a scale she’d never known.
“He seemed willing enough to harm Helfred, last night.”
“He thought Helfred was a danger. He wanted to protect you.”
She felt her lips curve into a smile. “Yes. He did.”
“ Is Helfred a danger?”
“I doubt it,” she said, dragging her gaze away from the lithe, fluid Zandakar to consider her praying chaplain. “Not so long as we keep him close-watched.”
“I’ll do that,” said Mr Jones. “He’ll not betray us.”
But could the same be said of his strange friend? “So you vouch for Zandakar?”
He nodded. “Highness, I do.”
“Very well.” She took a deep breath and considered again the morning’s restful beauty. “Mr Jones, I don’t wish to sound ungrateful but this all seems terribly … relaxed … to me. I thought running away would have a greater sense of urgency.”
Mr Jones shrugged. “The horses can’t keep going forever, Highness. And neither can we.”
She looked at him more closely, and felt a sudden pang of remorse. After a long night of driving he was clearly weary to the bone. He still wore the same clothes, rumpled and grass-stained now about the knees. His hair was a bird’s-nest, his beard sadly in need of comb and scissors.
“No. Of course not,” she said, gently. “Have you had any rest, Mr Jones?”
“Never mind about me, Highness. How are you feeling?”
Lost. Adrift. Overwhelmed. Uncertain . “I’m fine. Where are we?”
“A little ways past a village called Finchbreak. A good lot of miles away from Todding and the clerica.”
“But still in duchy Kingseat. If only just. Whose field is this?”
“I don’t know, Highness,” he said, shaking his head. “But the gate stood wide and there are no animals pastured here. If someone comes to enquire we can pay them a few piggets, or move along if they insist.”
“Yes. We mustn’t cause trouble. So you have money with you, Mr Jones?”
“Of course.”
She felt her face heat. I’ve never carried money. People just give me things … or they appear when I need them, as if by magic . She’d never thought about it before. Never had to. Does that make me spoilt? I think it does. How … uncomfortable . “I have no money, Mr Jones.”
He smiled. “I know. Not to worry, Highness.”
Yes, but I do worry . “Mr Jones, you are not the Royal Treasury.”
“He is today,” said Ursa, looking up at last. “Jones, aren’t those sausages cooked yet?”
“Cooked enough, I expect,” he said cheerfully. “And the tea’s brewed too.”
“Then we’ll eat,” said Ursa. “And then we’ll decide what to do next. The princess is right, we must get a move on.”
Rhian frowned. If she wasn’t careful this masterful woman would take over completely. “I told you last night what we’re doing next. We’re going to duchy Linfoi.” And before the physick could say something argumentative she marched over to Helfred, who was still on his knees. “Chaplain. Breakfast.”
Helfred’s lips stopped moving. He opened his eyes. “Thank you, no. I am fasting, Highness. A penance for my soul.”
“You can’t fast, Helfred. You’re going to need all your strength on this journey.”
His complexion was still pasty, his chin richly pimpled. The whip-cut on his cheek had been daubed with green ointment. Without his customary air of self-assured condescension he seemed strangely younger. “I must.”
“You can’t,” she insisted. “You’re going to have to do your fair share of the work. Driving the van, grooming the horses, cleaning their harness—”
“What?” he said, and for a moment was his old self again. “I am a chaplain, I don’t—”
“Helfred, you’ll do what I tell you,” she said, leaning close. “Give me any trouble and I’ll bind you and gag you and tie you to the van’s roof.”
His eyes widened. “You wouldn’t .”
“Try me,” she said, and stepped back. “Now come and eat breakfast with us. I won’t invite you again.”
He wasn’t a stupid man. He stood and stalked over to Mr Jones and Ursa, who were organising plates and a canvas cloth for them to sit on while they ate.
Feeling suddenly shy, she approached Zandakar, who paid no attention to anything save the rhythms of his mysterious hotas . A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his face and scarred chest. His eyes were closed, his expression serene.
“Zandakar,” she said softly. “Zandakar, breakfast.”
He kept on dancing, spinning in place with one knee raised, one arm straight above his head, the other bent, fingers extended as though poised to strike.
“Zandakar.”
This time he heard her. His eyes opened. He stopped spinning in a heartbeat to stand tall and still and lightly breathing. His physical control was complete. Absolute. He inclined his head, briefly.
“Rhian.”
“Breakfast,” she said again, heart poun
ding beneath her borrowed cotton shirt. “You understand?”
He smiled. “Zho.”
Dear God, scarred or not the man was shockingly handsome. Who was he? What was he doing here? It was a mystery she would solve, sooner or later. She beckoned. “Come, then. Come and eat.”
There was bread to go with the sausages, and a crock of butter. Honey for the tea and a splash of milk.
“Not that it’ll go far with two extra mouths to feed,” said Ursa. “And I know I’m one of them. I’m just saying. We’ll have to tighten our belts between here and Linfoi.”
Rhian nodded. “But not for long. It’s quite a fast trip by river-barge.”
“True,” said Ursa. “And the sooner we make it the sooner we’ll be home again with this rumpty-tumpty put behind us. But before we tidy ourselves up and head for the nearest river-station there’s the small matter of appearances to deal with.”
“Appearances, Ursa?” said Mr Jones, around a mouthful of sausage.
“Yes. We have to change them as much as we’re able. Hair’s got to come off, and beards too. There’ll be eyes out looking for us soon, if they’re not looking already. We’ve got to do our best to fool them.”
Mr Jones swallowed. “My beard? But Ursa, I’ve worn my beard for nearly twenty-five years!”
“Exactly! Shave it off and cut that mop of hair close to your skull, I doubt even Hettie would recognise you, Jones.” Ursa turned. “And we’ll have to get rid of your fine tresses too, Your Highness. Pity you’re not a blonde. If you were I could dye your hair dark to boot. But I’ve no hope of dying that black hair gold. As for you, Chaplain Helfred—”
Helfred, who’d barely touched his food, shrank from her. “Out of the question. You cannot—”
“Oh, but I can,” said Ursa, grey eyes glinting with a touch of ice. “For a start I can get you out of that habit. Last thing we need to do is advertise we’ve got a man of God in the van. Peddlers don’t traipse about the countryside with their own personal chaplain. So it’s into plain clothes for you. And while I’ve got the shears and razor out I should probably—”
“No!” said Helfred. “You cannot take my hair, woman. Only venerables bare their skulls to God. I am not a venerable, I will not smirch the—”
Ursa bared her teeth. “You’ve already smirched, Chaplain. You used God to intimidate a young girl in your charge. So we’ll hear no more of smirching from you. But since you are a man of God I’ll just cut your hair short like Jones.”
Helfred still looked appalled. Rhian sighed. “Stop being precious, Helfred. It’s only hair. It’ll grow again.”
“You do not understand,” said Helfred, in a low voice.
“I understand completely,” she contradicted. “I just don’t care. And finish your breakfast! Unless you want me to have Zandakar hold you down so I can force it down your throat?”
At the sound of his name, Zandakar looked at her enquiringly. Helfred stared at him, eyes popping. “This heathen? You’d allow this—this—”
“Helfred, I’d help him.”
“But he’s a heathen !” Helfred protested. “He’s barely civilised, he speaks almost no Ethrean! Your Highness …” Amazingly, words seemed to fail him.
On the brink of commanding Helfred to choke on his own tongue she stopped, and smiled. Now, that’s a good idea … She turned to Mr Jones. “I think I know what to do with Helfred.”
“Yes?” said Mr Jones. He was still fingering his riotous beard, his expression mournful.
“Whatever else he might be he’s a well-educated scholar. He can teach Zandakar to speak fluent Ethrean, far more swiftly than the rest of us combined. He might even be able to teach him to write it a little. If that would be helpful. Would it?”
Mr Jones laughed. “I think that’s a fine idea, Your Highness. They can sit all nice and inconspicuous in the van while you, me and Ursa ride up on the seat. Nobody need ever know they’re travelling with us.”
“Which is a good idea,” Ursa added. “Because the further north we go the harder it’s going to be, explaining away a big bald dark-skinned man who looks like he could break any one of us in half without blinking.”
Silence, as they all considered Zandakar.
“Yes,” said Mr Jones. “It’s a very good idea. Provided it’s just everyday Ethrean and not scripture. There’s no need to confuse the man. Chaplain?”
Helfred swallowed. “I suppose it’s better than grooming the horses.” He sounded surly. Looked sulky.
“No, that’ll be Her Highness’ task,” said Ursa. “Grooming, feeding, taking care of the harness. And cooking our meals too. Cleaning up after. I doubt anyone’ll look twice at a roustabout young lass with dirt on her face and under her fingernails.”
She snorted. “They will if you keep on calling me ‘Your Highness’. Best you all start calling me by some other name.”
“Such as?”
“Becky,” she said, after a moment. “And Mr Jones is Pa. And you’re Tant, Pa’s older sister. A peddling family on its way north, minding its own business and finding no trouble. That’ll be us when we’re with other folk. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Mr Jones. “Now let’s get ourselves clipped and shaved and dressed how we should be. We need to be on the road before someone stumbles over us.”
Marlan sat behind his library desk, fingers steepled before him, and stared at Dame Cecily in blank astonishment.
“The princess is gone ? What are you saying, Dame? How can she be gone ?”
Dame Cecily’s cheeks were parchment pale. Her rich overdress was travel-stained, her habitual air of calm authority stripped away by this calamity.
I will strip her of more than that before I’m done with her!
“Well, woman? Answer me! How can Princess Rhian be gone from your clerica?”
“Eminence, I am at a loss to explain what’s happened,” said the dame, her gaze downcast. “When the clerica retired after supper last evening she was in the infirmary, recovering from her chastisement. The night passed without event. When we woke for dawn Litany she was … gone.” Her hands clasped each other tightly. “And so was her chaplain. Your nephew. Helfred.”
Helfred? “That is not possible.”
Dame Cecily looked up. Was that a gleam of malice in her eyes? “Eminence, I am accustomed to telling the truth. Chaplain Helfred is nowhere in the clerica. We have searched the grounds and buildings to the last half-inch. He is not in residence. He and the princess absconded through the night.”
Yes. Malice in her eyes, a faint triumph in her voice. She thinks to escape punishment because Helfred is somehow involved. She is mistaken … but that can wait . “What happened yesterday? What untoward events occurred that might help to explain this mystery?”
“Nothing, Eminence.”
“No strangers loitering at the gates? None of the dukes’ men come to press their suit again?” Because he wouldn’t put it past them. They were venal, snatching men.
“No, Eminence.”
“ Nothing beyond what you were expecting?”
Dame Cecily shook her head. “No, Prolate Marlan. Only a brief visit from a childhood friend. She desired some rare physicking herbs from our gardens. She ate supper with me and left soon after.”
A childhood friend? That meant the woman was old. Old women were not his concern. “No other visitors?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
He leaned forward. “Are you quite certain? Dame Cecily, you cannot hope to save yourself from retribution. The girl was in your care and you have failed to keep her. If there is something more to tell, then tell it. Mincing words now is pointless.”
“I mince nothing, Prolate,” said Dame Cecily, stung. The malice was gone, replaced by fear. “I am as eager to learn where she is as you are.”
I doubt that . “And tell me, Dame, how did the princess spirit herself away? On foot? On horseback? Did she take a clerica cart?”
“They left on foot, I think. No horse or mule or car
t is missing.”
They. Helfred, when I find you … “In which case she cannot have travelled far.” He unsteepled his fingers and laid his palms flat to the desk. “You did right in coming to tell me yourself,” he said, his voice cool and even. “Return to the clerica. You and your devouts are henceforth under Writ of Seclusion. Until I have lifted it, personally lifted it, you will admit no visitor save myself to the clerica grounds. You will speak of this matter to no-one save myself. You will not set foot past the clerica gates unless you are summoned by my express wish. Disobedience will be met with dire consequences.”
The dame curtsied. “Yes, Your Eminence.”
“You are dismissed.” He permitted himself a cold, cruel smile. “When this matter is dealt with I will turn my attention to your punishment, Dame Cecily. Until then I suggest you and your devouts make prayer your life.”
“Eminence,” the dame whispered, and wisely withdrew from his sight.
When he was alone and did not need to guard himself, he released his rage in a shout and pounded his fists on his desk.
Gone? The bitch is gone and Helfred with her? What mischief is this? Who is responsible?
Someone had to be responsible. The girl wasn’t able to do this alone. One of the councillors was involved, he was sure of it. During a visit to the clerica a plot had been hatched. Rhian and one of the poppycock dukes’ men, huddled together scheming against him.
I curse their black souls. I will see them pay.
But how to deal with this? If he called a council meeting, if he let them know Rhian was gone … Imagining the furore that would erupt, he shuddered. No. Impossible. This news must be kept secret from the council. He would find Rhian and Helfred too. Return them to the clerica and act as though nothing had happened.
And I will make them regret the day they were born. Them, and the councillor who would dare cross my purpose. Do they take me for a fool, these pathetic dukes’ men?
Breathing heavily, he yanked on the bell rope beside his desk. A moment later Ven’Martin opened the door and slipped inside.
“Prolate?”
Martin was his man through and through. Reliable, dependable and utterly discreet. He could trust Ven’Martin as he trusted himself. Even his firebrand piety was useful, when properly guided. “Get word to our chaplains in the councillors’ establishments, Martin. They must increase their vigilance for any whisper of … unusual occurrences. And send for Commander Idson.”