Betrayal

by Fiona McIntosh

  Tor edged into her mind but she pushed him away with a forced smile. She would not think of him now. She would try to open the link later. She knew he had to collect Lady soon or his father could not go about his business. Alyssa hurried downstairs, only to feel her good humour evaporate as she saw the woman tying on her bonnet and readying to leave.

  ‘Ah, there you are. You look well, my girl. I’m so very relieved.’ The old woman beamed and pulled on her shawl. ‘I’ll be on my way then, lass. I hope you didn’t mind my staying the night? I just couldn’t leave you in such a state, and so scrawny too. Here, look, I’ve made you some hot cakes and there’s a pot of tea brewing, so get some of it into you and I’ll rest easy.’

  She waddled over and hugged the stunned girl, then turned to pick up her cloth bag. Alyssa ran to the door and slammed it shut. The wild look in her eyes made the old woman exclaim, her hand clutching her throat.

  ‘You…you can’t leave. You can’t leave yet, I mean. I want to talk to you.’ Alyssa fought the tears. ‘Please, I don’t even know the name of the person who has been so kind to me.’

  The old girl studied her and then, to Alyssa’s relief, put down her bag and removed her bonnet.

  ‘My name is Sorrel.’

  She sat down and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

  Determined to hold her longer than the pleasantries would allow, Alyssa quickly poured two mugs of the tea.

  ‘And your name is…?’ Sorrel sipped the tea.

  ‘Oh, I thought I must have told you last night. I’m Alyssandra.’ She offered the old lady one of the hot cakes. ‘But people around here call me Alyssa,’ she added.

  ‘That’s a very lovely name you have.’ Sorrel nibbled her hot cake.

  ‘Thank you. My father made it up. My mother’s name is…er, was Alyssa. She was very beautiful, I’m told.’

  The old woman responded gently. ‘I lost my mother early too. It’s hard on a girl. How old are you now?’

  Alyssa took a sip of her herbal tea and winced. The heat burned where she had bitten her lip the night before.

  ‘Fifteen summers.’

  ‘Ah…this is an age when a girl misses her mother most,’ Sorrel said before switching easily into relating tales of her life as a travelling herbwoman.

  Alyssa found her stories fascinating, particularly as she too had a good understanding of herbcraft. The old woman then brought her story into the present, casually describing her most recent journey into Flat Meadows, where the village was apparently abuzz with gossip that one of its own was off to the Palace at Tal.

  ‘Everyone seemed so proud and excited. I happened to meet the lad—very handsome he is with those strange blue eyes. My, my, those Tal women will steal his innocence within hours of his entering the city gates.’

  She laughed conspiratorially but there was no laughter in her eyes. Instead, they watched the girl carefully.

  Alyssa felt confused. ‘I know quite a few people at Flat Meadows. Er, did you get the person’s name?’

  ‘No…I’m not sure I did. I was just passing through and stopped nearby the inn for a supper. Big lad, he is. Very shiny dark hair, brilliant cornflower blue eyes…like I’ve never seen.’

  ‘Torkyn Gynt,’ Alyssa said flatly, an almost deranged look creeping into her own eyes.

  ‘Never got his name, my girl. Ah now, wait, that’s right. Gynt does ring a bell. Father’s the local scribe around these parts?’

  Alyssa nodded miserably.

  ‘Well, they were all buying him ales and congratulating him. The celebrations spilled outside, that’s how I got to learn about it. The innkeeper mentioned he was going to be an apprentice to the famous Physic Merkhud.’ She coughed, banging her chest. ‘Whoever he might be.’

  Alyssa’s complexion had turned pasty. ‘I know Gynt but I had no idea he was planning to leave. Did anyone say when he was going?’

  Sorrel shrugged. It was deliberately casual. ‘This morning, I gather from all the excitement. The whole village was planning to turn out to farewell him.’

  Alyssa stood abruptly and began to clear the table. Her heart broke in that moment, though she remained composed. ‘Oh? I’m sorry I missed those festivities.’

  It took all her willpower to prevent herself showing her true feelings, which were ranging from anger to terror to grief as she cleared away the crockery. Sorrel had not added anything more to the conversation on Tor. It was not her fault; she could not know they were sweethearts with a betrothal understood.

  Alyssa forced herself to change the subject even though she desperately wanted to know more. She adopted a bright voice and began describing her own life.

  ‘I can’t tell if he blames me for my mother’s death somehow,’ she concluded sadly of her father.

  Sorrel stood and stretched. ‘Do you look like her?’

  ‘Yes, I’m told by the few who knew her that I’m her image.’ She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed, realising that she had told Sorrel earlier how beautiful her mother was.

  ‘Well, my dear, I would suggest that he loved your mother so much that every time he looks at you it hurts him all the more. He probably doesn’t get on with this life because he is constantly reminded of his old one.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Alyssa felt as though a door had been opened.

  ‘Perhaps you should stop doing all that you do for him. Maybe it’s time for you to leave and make your own way,’ the old girl said, brushing at crumbs on her clothes.

  ‘But how would he feed himself, stay sober? Who would look after him?’

  Sorrel snorted. ‘He would!’

  Alyssa was shocked but she also felt a twitch of excitement at such a suggestion.

  ‘And where would I go? I’m fifteen with no money, no prospects, and you’re telling me to leave my village.’

  Sorrel smiled and started to adjust her shawl around her shoulders. Alyssa felt rising panic.

  ‘Are you leaving now?’

  ‘Yes, my girl. It’s time Sorrel moved on. I have a long journey ahead of me and that silly old donkey braying out there is telling me the sun is getting high and we must cover eight miles to Twyfford Cross before the eve.’

  Once more the old cloth bag was picked up.

  ‘Perhaps, Alyssandra, you’d walk with me a while?’ She moved with purpose to the door, opening it to a damp afternoon. The drizzle had stopped but the sky still looked mournful.

  And then Alyssa genuinely shocked herself. She ran after Sorrel, startling the donkey.

  ‘Sorrel! Take me with you.’

  The old woman stopped and turned around. She looked grave but not surprised. ‘You don’t even know where I’m going after Twyfford Cross.’

  ‘I don’t care. Just let me come with you. I’ll be no bother and I can cook and take care of myself. I can run errands. I know how to saddle. I can write. I can earn money for us. I understand the herbals…’

  She was anxious, staring at the old girl.

  Sorrel looked to the sky momentarily and then back at Alyssa with some resignation. ‘I know you want to escape a miserable life, but what else are you running away from, lass? There’s more to this my big nose tells me.’

  Sorrel’s nose was huge, particularly when she twitched it for effect. Alyssa’s laugh was brittle with her grief over Tor, but she took the old girl’s hand in her own and squeezed it.

  ‘You’re right, there is more but I’m not ready to talk about that yet. If I go away perhaps there’s a chance my father will pick up the pieces of his life and build a new one without my mother’s memory haunting his every waking moment through me.’

  Sorrel put her arms around her. ‘What will you tell him, lass?’

  ‘I’ll write him a no—You mean I can come with you?’ She held her breath.

  ‘Well, I don’t seem to be able to get rid of you, do I?’

  The girl’s scream of thanks startled Kythay the donkey. The animal reared and pulled hard on his tied reins, hurting himself. Alyssa was startled herself
. She approached the wide-eyed animal murmuring a nonsensical stream of sounds. Reaching out, she gently stroked his forehead and down to his velvety nose. The wild look faded from his eyes and he stopped pacing and stamping the ground. In the time it took to pick up an apple Kythay had returned to his ponderous munching as though nothing had happened.

  Sorrel’s eyebrows were arched. ‘That was impressive. You have a way with simple beings, then?’

  ‘Always have…that’s why I was good with Tor.’ She whispered the last to herself before turning on her heel.

  ‘Pardon me?’ Sorrel’s hearing was still razor sharp.

  ‘Oh nothing. So, will you wait whilst I pack? There’s hardly anything anyway.’

  ‘Only bring what you are prepared to carry,’ the old girl called.

  She stared after Alyssa for a moment or two, then deliberately faced away from the cottage, focused and cast her simple message.

  The girl is mine.

  She felt his sigh of satisfaction before the measured reply came back.

  This has been a fortunate day, Merkhud replied.

  5

  The Rescue of Cloot

  Tor had been chewing on dust for hours when he finally eased his sore buttocks off Bess, the mare his parents had suggested he buy with some of the money from Merkhud’s rich purse. He was almost limping as they drew level with the ornately carved stone pillars which stood sentry to Hatten. Tor spat more dust before leading the mare into the bustling streets. Finding an inn was the main task.

  Merkhud had insisted that he bed down in reputable establishments, as had his parents who had given him a list of suitable lodgings. This promise he meant to keep, but when he arrived at The Pig and Whistle a fire had wrecked its chances of a busy season this year and, as a result, the second and third inns on his list were brimming with guests when he finally found them.

  Although he was exhausted Tor knew his priority was to care for the horse. After such a long ride she needed fresh hay, sweet water and a well-earned bag of oats. In fact he was convinced Bess was giving him an accusatory look as they passed a welcoming stable.

  ‘How about a rub down at Hatten’s premium inn for horses?’ he asked the willing mare as he stroked the white blaze on her forehead.

  Tor paid the stableboy and then tossed him another coin. He found himself in a gregarious mood, relishing the thought of a bath to ease his aches, a hearty meal for his grumbling stomach and an ale or two to help forget Alyssa’s lovely face.

  ‘Here’s an extra half regal for you—make sure she’s really comfortable tonight, eh?’ he said to the stableboy.

  Introducing himself as Bart, the lad assured Tor the horse was in the best possible hands.

  Tor was already walking away when he heard a scuffle and raised voices. He turned back to see a burly man clutching the thin arm of a young woman, who was struggling and cursing at him. Passers-by were laughing. It took only a moment before the bristly faced man was pushing his bulk and his charge in front of Tor.

  ‘Stop!’ The voice Tor realised, with some surprise, was his own.

  ‘Mind your own business, you stupid youth. She’s mine.’ The big man’s breath was enough to force Tor backwards a step. He barely ducked the well-aimed cuff.

  ‘Yours! You brute, Goron—I wouldn’t be yours for all the gold in Largoth. Now let me go, you devil’s turd.’

  The young woman emphasised her demand by kicking the hapless Goron between his legs. This raised another chorus of laughter from the gathering crowd. Poor Goron found himself on his knees in agony.

  Even Tor had to smile. ‘I think this young lady would prefer it if you allowed her to take her leave,’ he whispered to the man.

  He could not resist adding some clarity to this suggestion by releasing a spike of balled air squarely into the man’s stomach. Onlookers saw only that Goron winced, buckled again and let go of the scrawny girl’s arm. She bounded off, swift as a hare, turning just once to grin at Tor before disappearing into the mayhem of the busy streets.

  The crowd dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. Friends helped Goron to his feet and assisted him to limp to an alehouse, where Tor guessed he could soothe his wounded pride as much as his wounded groin.

  Tor picked up his saddlebag and wandered back towards the town square. He was being led by his nose to a popular stall where a woman was selling skewers of roasted meat. He joined the queue.

  There was obviously some event taking place in the main square for he could hear loud bursts of hooting and laughter. Tor imagined there must be a play of some sort being performed. Finally it was his turn. The woman looked up at him, a sour expression on her face. ‘How many?’

  ‘Two, please.’ He dug into his pocket for a couple of royals. It would not do to rummage through his pouch of coins; that would be asking for trouble.

  The woman dipped the skewers with their still sizzling chunks of meat into a sticky, dark sauce, and he exchanged his coins for the dripping, succulent food.

  Turning, he pulled the first chunk off with his teeth. As he walked towards the square, he was too busy rolling the hot meat around his mouth to notice what the noise was about. The simple food was delicious enough to bring a smile to his face as he wiped the juices from his chin.

  It was the first heartfelt smile to crease his face in days. Since finding Alyssa’s home deserted, then her father drunk in the village square, yelling obscenities and shaking a crushed note in his fist, Tor had felt lost. Alyssa had gone. Disappeared with some herbal woman to who knows where…or why. Her message had been brief, loving towards her father but made no mention of Tor. Surely she could not still be angry? He had told her he would contact her. He had made the detour to her village to ask the question he had wanted to ask at Minstead Green. He had hoped to persuade her to come with him. She would have said yes, he knew it. Why would she just leave?

  He shook his head clear of Alyssa for the umpteenth time but he could not shake the pain of loss.

  Tor arrived at the rear of the crowd in the square. The shouting he had heard he now realised was jeering. This was a mob and they were taunting something. He skirted the throng, two dozen people thick in some places, to get a better look. The second skewer of meat was forgotten for the time being.

  Pushing through the people proved difficult so he walked back to one of the square’s permanent shops. A man’s voice announced something but it was lost in the moment whilst people shooshed one another. Tor levered himself up onto a small ledge. What he saw shocked him.

  Kneeling in the middle of the square was a dazed man who appeared to be mumbling to himself. He was severely deformed, with a face that would scare children, and cause polite people to look away and the less polite to stare. He was crippled too, Tor assumed, from the twisted appearance of one leg. Adding to the poor wretch’s woes, his dealers in punishment had nailed his right ear to a post and his hands and feet were tightly bound. Tor could see that the angry red welts around his wrists were bleeding in places.

  The jeering mob was taking delight in pelting him with rotten fruit and one canny vendor had even taken to selling fish heads for a drack apiece. Men, presumably his captors, kicked him. The victim could do nothing to help himself yet he made no sound. Wittingly or unwittingly, the cripple gave his audience no satisfaction and this infuriated his torturers.

  Tor wondered what crime this man could possibly be accountable for. He finally found his voice and asked the shopkeeper.

  ‘Caught peeping in the ladies’ bath-house.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Tor’s exclamation caused the man to step back.

  ‘We don’t like his sort around here. Scares the little ones and the fine ladies. Just his appearance at the market yesterday saw business take a turn for the worse. I tell you, it’s unsettling for folk. He’s no good to anyone and should have been done away with at the hour of his birth.’

  Tor snarled at the smug shopkeeper. His lighthearted mood of just moments ago had evaporated. The roasted meat juices w
hich lingered in his mouth now tasted acidic. He tossed the second untouched skewer at the shop front where it was fought over by several very lean dogs.

  Suddenly the noise of the jeering, the smell of the people gathered and the memory of the humbled, deformed cripple overwhelmed him. Tor was tired too. He needed that bath, some ale and a place to rest and forget what he had witnessed. He strode away with purpose, pushing past yet more people streaming into the square to get a look at the prisoner. As he shouldered his way past a buxom woman, her flesh all but wobbling in anticipation of the ghoulish entertainment, he heard the gentle voice in his head. Help me…please, it said.

  Tor whipped around. ‘Who said that?’

  A couple looked at him as though he was hearing voices, which he found grimly amusing.

  The voice spoke again in its deep yet gentle pitch. I am innocent of the charge. Won’t you help me, please, Torkyn Gynt?

  He ran back towards the shop front and returned to his ledge, ignoring the protestations from the keeper. Once again the scene of humiliation assaulted him. He wanted the man to look at him; wanted proof that it was the prisoner speaking to him and not his imagination.

  He cast across the link. Who is this?

  Cloot. I am the prisoner. I am wrongly charged and seek your help Torkyn Gy—. The man’s voice broke as a nasty blow from one of the guards smashed into his nose.

  Tor could see more blood, this time spilling from the man’s face. He felt incensed. This persecution was a pursuit of entertainment rather than justice; he was sure of it.

  Cloot…the link is open, draw on my strength if you can.

  He pushed strongly through the crowd this time, with no idea why he had suggested the prisoner should attempt to use him as support. He had never tried such a thing, did not know whether it could be done. It was simply all he could think of, and as for reassuring the poor wretch that he was coming…it was ridiculous. What was he supposed to do and why was he doing it?