by K. M. Grant
Morwenna got up. The lie was so blatant. She felt sorry for Ellie, but her fear of de Scabious was greater. She could hear the sergeant coming across, the keys at his belt clanking. If she were caught in here now with Ellie, it would be assumed that she was part of whatever had been going on. Pictures of Elric being taken from her and finding himself at the sergeant’s mercy hit her like a series of punches, and before Ellie could even put out her arm, the woman was at the door, calling for the soldiers.
The sergeant came across, nursing a thunderous hangover. “You’re late with the laundry, you lazy hag,” he growled. “Let’s hope your son is a better timekeeper than you when he eventually comes into the constable’s service. If not, we’ll soon make him hop, skip, and jump.” Morwenna tried to say something, but he roared, daring her, a lowly laundress, to address him directly. “You should beg my pardon for your impudence,” he barked, before making an aside that had the soldiers grinning and laughing.
Morwenna blushed, then came back into the armory, her lips a thin line. She did not speak, but looked at Ellie and handed her a servant’s dress and hood from her basket. Gethin turned puce and looked into the fire as Ellie changed and rolled her own stained clothes into a bundle. When she walked with Morwenna across the courtyard, the groggy soldiers took no notice of them. They parted at the bottom of the tower steps, and Ellie ran back to Old Nurse. The old lady was beside herself.
“Ellie, oh, Ellie,” she cried. “I woke up and you were gone. Dearie, never do that again. Where on earth have you been?”
“Never mind, Old Nurse,” laughed Ellie, stripping off the servant’s clothes. “Get a fire going. We’ll have to burn all these dirty things. Is there any hot water?”
“But—”
“Not now. A fire and hot water first.” Frowning, Old Nurse built a bigger blaze, and Ellie pushed all the damning evidence into the hearth, where they took a while to catch fire.
“Take care,” said Old Nurse. “They are wet. We don’t want too much smoke.”
She clucked about. Ellie was chilled to the bone, with what appeared to be weeds in her hair and a very peculiar expression on her face. But at least the stricken pallor of the past weeks had been replaced by a look that was more familiar. Old Nurse filled a basin and rolled up her sleeves. “Now, where on earth have you been?” she asked, bustling, scrubbing, rinsing, rubbing, and finally washing Ellie’s hank of hair and whirling it about like a horse’s tail. Ellie was wiping between her toes, but she looked up, and it was not only the scrubbing that made her face shine.
“Oh, Old Nurse,” she said, keeping her voice down despite her excitement. “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up early and went outside and into the armory. That dim-looking boy, the one they call Gethin, well, he took me into the stable, and I saw Sacramenta. Then, oh! Old Nurse, you can’t imagine. I went into Will’s cell.”
Old Nurse let go of everything and sat down heavily on the bed. The danger! She could have done with some fortifying wine, but she had none. “You saw Master Will?” she repeated.
“Hush!” warned Ellie. “No, not exactly. The thing is, Old Nurse, he wasn’t there.”
Old Nurse clutched the fur rug. “What do you mean, he wasn’t there?”
Ellie seized Old Nurse’s hands. “I was frantic,” she said. “It was so dark, and the filth—” She pulled the old lady closer to the fire. “Anyway, there was a draft and”—her voice was almost inaudible—“I found a tunnel, Old Nurse. Will must have escaped.”
Old Nurse took a moment to understand fully what Ellie was saying. Then she stood up. “And what will happen when de Scabious comes back and discovers this?” she asked, her face now as red as it had been white. “What then? My sweet, the constable is not going to like that. No. He won’t like that one little bit.”
“But by that time Gavin may have come, and we may be rescued!” said Ellie, willing to believe anything in her new state of hopefulness. “Will must have gone to get him.”
Old Nurse sat down again. “Ellie, my dear, dear child. Have you not been listening? What’s the use of that if King Richard is dead? Your best hopes lie in getting John on your side, and that’s not going to happen if Gavin attacks de Scabious.”
“Richard’s not dead,” said Ellie obstinately.
“I’m afraid,” said Old Nurse, frowning, for she did not want to send Ellie back into a decline, “that Gavin thinks he is. This is why he is not here already.”
Ellie sprang up and droplets flew from her hair. “Never say that in my presence again,” she cried. Then she dropped her voice, so that it was both low and menacing. “Old Nurse, I love you very much. But until we have proof, until we have proof, you hear, that things are otherwise, our king is Richard. And whatever happens to us here in this tower, at least Will is out of it, so I can sleep and”—Ellie hesitated only momentarily—“even die, with an easier heart.”
The fire roared a little, and as Ellie threw back her head the sparks caught the green jasper, making it glitter.
Old Nurse looked at the girl she had known from a baby, whose childish tears she had dried and whose bruised knees she had bathed, and then she did something she had never done before. She curtsied. She did this as best she could, for she was hardly the shape for it and many years out of practice. “My Ellie,” she said once she was safely back on both legs. “How proud Sir Thomas would be if he could see you now.”
Ellie knelt down in front of the fire again. Suddenly her elation and bravado vanished, and she felt drained and exhausted. But it had been worth the risk to know that at least Will had escaped. Old Nurse drew up a chair and picked up a hairbrush. As she worked she sang an old song that her own mother, another old nurse, had taught her when she was even younger than Ellie. Her throaty tenor was soothing to both of them, and when she insisted that Ellie should rest in bed for an hour or two after her ordeal, the girl slept and got up refreshed.
But the fat old lady did not sleep. She sat staring at Ellie’s necklace, weeping silently for what had been and for what she feared was to come.
12
It had taken less than an hour for Marissa to regret riding Dargent out of the Hartslove gates, but she had been too proud to go back, assuming she could have found the way, which was doubtful. The horse was willing enough, but used to the clear instructions of Will or Hal, he grew nervous at Marissa’s uncertainties. Every so often he stopped and neighed loudly. The girl could feel his whole body quaking, and although she tried to soothe him, the tone of her voice was unconvincing.
“Come on, Dargent,” she said, hating the wheedling sound she made.
When they reached yet another crossroad, the horse tossed his head. “Straight on,” said Marissa. “I’m sure Will’s prison must be straight on.” He reluctantly obeyed.
After a little while, they took a right fork in the road, then another one, then a left—until after less than half a day, Marissa realized she was hopelessly lost, not even knowing which direction she was facing. Dargent could feel his rider’s confusion, and wrenching the reins from her hands, he began to nibble at the spring leaves within his reach. Both were relieved when other travelers came by, led by a group of monks. Marissa settled Dargent next to them, hoping they were going north, for that is where she felt she should be heading, but really just glad for the company.
A few journeymen of slender means had also latched on to the monks. They eyed their new traveling companion, wondering what she was worth. But something in her expression made them pass her by. Some women just looked like trouble.
At nightfall Marissa shivered, regretting very much that she had not brought a cloak. However, the monks were kind and took pity on her. In the morning she got back onto Dargent, feeling quite proud of herself.
“I am traveling to rescue somebody,” she told one of the brothers grandly. “I’ll do it or perish in the attempt.”
He lowered his eyes before Marissa could take offense at his look of amused disbelief.
From the top of a ridge a
bove the road, Kamil could also see the monks. Unwillingly forced to descend from the high ground to cross the river, he took his place behind them as they all headed for the bridge, for the river was too deep to ford. Kamil hated the crush, but he was not unduly worried about people’s curious stares. Despite some suspicion when he bartered for food, he had encountered no hostility and was enjoying the approaching spring, with its torrential showers and sudden, dazzling sunshine. He thought King Richard was wrong to dismiss England, for it seemed a fruitful place, and even though the snow stubbornly clung to the high ground, Hosanna was already finding plenty of tender new grass. He and the red horse settled themselves at the back of the procession.
But out of his sight beside the bridge, the mercenaries were hanging about once more. Having had their fun with Hal, they had dispatched him to John for hanging, and were traveling along the trade routes looking for further diversions. Monks were always good sport, and Missing Fingers and his friends soon blocked the road, demanding to know for whom the monks were praying as they walked and chanted.
“For the king,” came the stock answer.
“But which king?” Missing Fingers grinned. It was almost too easy.
There was silence. Then a young monk unwisely piped up. “For Christ our King,” he said brightly.
Missing Fingers drew his sword and poked the young monk on the chin. “But we have an earthly king as well.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now, who would that be?”
The young monk shivered. “W-w-well, now,” he stuttered, “th-th-that will be your master and ours.”
“The king needs a name,” Missing Fingers persisted.
“We just call him the king,” the monk whispered.
The mercenaries laughed. “Shall we force our holy brother to choose?” they asked each other with mock seriousness.
“Yes, yes,” came the response. The crowd was growing all the time.
“Name him,” said Missing Fingers to the monk. “Name him right now. Which is it, Richard or John?”
The monk just shook his head. Missing Fingers got off his horse and, as he did so, spied Marissa.
“Well, what have we here?” he brayed. “A fair maid in need of protection! What a piece of luck! Protection is just what we can offer.” His friends whistled.
“Keep away from me!” Marissa stared straight in front of her.
But Missing Fingers sidled up to Dargent. “That would be failing in my duty,” he declared. “I’m supposed to help people in distress.”
“I’m not in distress.”
“Well, you soon will be.” And with that Missing Fingers pulled out a dagger and pricked Dargent’s hind quarters. It had just the effect he desired, for the horse, first surprised, then maddened, leaped forward and bolted. Marissa was at once thrown backward, losing her reins. She recovered enough to grab the saddle, but then could only cling to Dargent’s neck as he thundered over the bridge, scattering the crowd, some of whom had little option but to leap into the river.
“Lady riders!” bellowed Missing Fingers, thrilled with himself. “Now I’ll go and rescue her!”
But before he could clamber onto his horse, he found himself flat on his back, bleeding heavily from his head.
Kamil had not intended to get involved. It was none of his business, he reasoned with himself. But Hosanna thought differently. When the procession had stopped, he refused to stand still, and when Missing Fingers drew his dagger, he reared and plunged through the gawking spectators until he knocked the mercenary over and, leaving the imprint of a shoe on his forehead, galloped away in pursuit of his friend. Kamil was powerless to stop him.
Dargent headed straight up a path leading through some fields, then up through trees, and eventually out into open country. He might as well have been riderless, for Marissa, terrified by the speed, could do nothing to slow his headlong flight. The ground grew rough, and several times the big bay almost fell. From behind, Kamil could sense the rider’s fear, and now he urged Hosanna on. Not that Hosanna needed urging. Flattening himself out, he quickly began to catch up. At first, hearing the pounding of hooves almost on top of him, Dargent panicked and galloped faster, but something in the rhythm of the vibrations resonated in his mind, and soon the horses were galloping side by side. Marissa could not look, but Dargent could, and his ears slowly crept from flat back to pricked forward. Too breathless to whinny, he checked and then, automatically, tried to tuck himself in behind the familiar red tail.
When he was able, Kamil leaned down and grabbed Dargent’s rein. He did not recognize the horse, although, like Hosanna, he had been on crusade, but he could feel that capture was not unwelcome. The reckless gallop soon became a canter, then a trot, and finally, as the horses slowed to walk, Marissa fainted. She came around to find herself stared at by a dark-eyed stranger, and her first reaction was to be defensively angry.
“What do you want?” she demanded, sitting up, feeling fragile as a leaf but determined not to show it. Kamil said nothing and moved away. Marissa put her hands on the ground to steady herself and, as she did so, saw Hosanna. The shock was very great. At first she thought she must be mistaken. She stood up and straightened her dress, acutely conscious that she and this stranger were quite alone. “Who are you? Where did you get that horse?” It was all she could think about.
“I am just a traveler,” replied Kamil curtly.
“Not from here,” said Marissa, and her voice, despite her fright, was tart. “Nor from anywhere in England.”
Trying to disguise her limp, she hurried over to where Hosanna was standing, blowing. When he turned to her and she found herself reflected once again in his wise eyes, she knew she had not made a mistake. “Hosanna,” she said, without thinking. Kamil listened intently. Suddenly panicking, Marissa felt for the ruby brooch. She almost cried with relief when it was still there and put her hand up to touch the horse’s white star. Then she turned on Kamil.
“This horse is not yours. He belongs to William Ravensgarth. How did you come by him?” She was imperious in her questions. “Are you a friend of Constable de Scabious?”
“I have no friends here,” said Kamil carefully. He had no idea who this girl was, and the fact that she knew Hosanna troubled him deeply. He wanted to get away from her. “Can you ride again? If so, I shall leave you.”
“Leave me? Not on Hosanna. He’s not yours.” She fixed him with a glare.
“So you say.” He took Hosanna’s rein. She could not stop him.
“Please,” said Marissa suddenly desperate. “Where are you keeping Will? I only want to see him.”
“I am not keeping him anywhere.” Kamil vaulted on.
“How did you get his horse, then?”
“I bargained for him.” Kamil wheeled Hosanna around. “Now, if you don’t mind, I will be on my way.”
But Marissa was determined. She found a pile of stones and struggled into the saddle. Kamil ignored her and rode off, but Dargent was soon stuck to Hosanna’s tail and would not be shaken off. Eventually Kamil had to accept the unwelcome company, and he and Marissa rode on together, their hostile silence in noticeable contrast to the easy familiarity of the horses.
Hours later as the sun began to set, Kamil, as was his habit, searched for the sheep sheds he had come to rely on and eventually found one filled with sheep fleeces. He made a fire and, with surly courtesy, shared his food, then spread some of the woolly hides out for Marissa to lie on. The girl said nothing. She knew with certainty that Hosanna would not leave her behind.
Kamil looked down on her as she slept. Why, he thought, she’s barely more than a child. He noticed the scars on her arm and her twisted leg as he covered her with Dargent’s blanket and went outside to sleep himself.
In the morning, after he had got the horses ready, he tapped her with a stick until she woke. She came out of the shed to find Hosanna at Kamil’s shoulder, licking his hand for the salt. “He likes you,” she said with surprised resentment.
“We’re old friends,” Ka
mil replied.
Marissa was jealous on Will’s behalf. “I don’t know who you are,” she said. “Constable de Scabious may have imprisoned Will and given you Hosanna, but that makes no difference.”
Kamil watched as the horse moved over and sniffed Marissa’s hair. “But I think you are one of those Saracens,” the girl said, almost spitting the word Saracen. “In any case, I feel sure you are our enemy.”
Kamil did not respond.
Marissa grew peevish, and when Hosanna moved back to Kamil, she got up and went to stand beside him. Kamil stood up too, and he and Marissa glared at each other over the horse’s withers, Hosanna’s great red mane spread over their fingers. Almost without thinking, Marissa stroked and divided the long hairs, wondering about the shorter hairs where the sergeant had let Will’s sword fall, then began to braid. Hosanna lowered his head so that she could reach, and although it was such a small, polite gesture, Kamil’s heart sank a little.
Gradually, as she plaited, Marissa wove her yarn, telling Kamil how she had come to Hartslove, how she admired Will and Hosanna, and how she had been sent to find them both. “Will loves Hosanna,” she said, “but he also loves me.” To add weight to her words, she let go of the braid to show off her ruby brooch. But as she held it up, Hosanna tossed his head, unraveling all Marissa’s work and knocking the brooch from her hand. The girl quickly retrieved it from the ground, attached it to her undershift, and, undaunted, began her braiding all over again.
Finally Kamil spoke. “We must hurry to the castle,” was all he said, and although he betrayed nothing, he felt that every moment Hosanna was somehow slipping away from him. It had been too good to be true when the red horse was delivered into his hands. Now something else was at work. He said nothing to Marissa about his letter from Richard, only fingered it over and over as he repeated to himself, “You are mine, Hosanna. You are mine.” He needed to believe it.
They pressed on, but not as fast as Kamil would have liked, for Marissa was not up to it. There was no question of asking the way, for it was clear that Hosanna’s compass was set, and the following afternoon Kamil found himself gazing into a pretty valley below him.