The Picnic
Clovermead was in better spirits by the time she rode out of Chandlefort with Lady Cindertallow and Waxmelt for the picnic. She’d persuaded a servant the day before to replace the shattered mirror and not mention anything to her mother, which was a great relief. She hadn’t relished explaining how it had come to be broken. Then she and Sorrel had gone exploring in the cellars in the evening, and she had found an actual secret passage! It only led from the wine cellar to the laundry room, but even a short secret passage was nothing to be sneezed at. They had also found a great many empty wine bottles in the laundry hamper that covered the passageway. Sorrel suspected the laundrywomen had been pilfering good Queensmart vintages from her mother for quite some time. Sorrel hadn’t mentioned Saraband once that evening, and the world was a better place. Even the oppressive summer heat had broken as a north wind blew in from the Chaffen Hills, and now it was pleasantly warm as Clovermead, Lady Cindertallow, and Waxmelt rode through the fields on a path that curved between two lines of lush olive trees. The olives’ gray-green leaves shimmered in the sun, and their branches extended in a canopy over the path, like a vaulted chamber in a green temple. One Yellowjacket rode ahead of them and one behind, each carrying a sword, tablecloths, and hampers of food and drink.
They had their picnic in a hayfield that belonged to Lady Cindertallow herself, who kept it for winter fodder for the Yellowjackets’ horses. Within its border of ditches and olive trees the tall grass fraternized with daisies and buttercups, while bees and butterflies flitted from petal to petal. The Yellowjackets spread the tablecloths on the grass and scattered pillows, baskets of food, and bottles on top of them while Clovermead and her mother took the picnickers’ horses and tied their reins to a tree. The picnic began with cucumber salad and ginger beer, went on to freshly baked white bread and roast chicken, and finished with fresh strawberries and sorbets packed in ice. Clovermead talked with Lady Cindertallow about horses, The Astrantiad, fighting practice, and the fine art of chewing hayseeds, of which Clovermead had much lore to share. Waxmelt listened quietly and took only a few bites from each course. The hot sun shone down, and by the end of the meal Clovermead was stuffed and drowsy.
“And how are your handwriting classes going?” her mother asked.
“Wretchedly. I’ve gone cross-eyed learning to write beautiful, flowing, insanely difficult script. It’s very pretty, but it’s not worth the bother.”
Her mother laughed. “You would understand at once why a good, clear hand is an essential skill if I made you read the latest letter from the Mayor of Low Branding. The man has an especially crabbed hand. I fear he will drive me to spectacles.” She wiped her mouth with a soft linen napkin. “But enough of handwriting.” She turned to Waxmelt. “Lord Wickward, we came here to discuss the servants. Tell me what you propose I do about them.”
Waxmelt took a moment to gather his thoughts, then spoke with precision. “I have told you often enough, Milady. Pay them more and work them less. Show them a little respect.” His voice was as calm as ever, but now his eyes blazed. “We are as dear to Our Lady as you, but you lords and ladies treat us as beasts of burden. Do you know how much it rankles in our hearts to see nothing but contempt on your faces, when you deign to notice us at all? We have our dignity too.”
“Bootblacks? Chambermaids?” Lady Cindertallow laughed incredulously.
“I polished any number of pilgrims’ boots when I was at Ladyrest Inn, Ma’am,” said Clovermead. “I cleaned their rooms, too—well, I didn’t always sweep under the beds, but that’s not the point. I did all the work the servants do here. I’m not ashamed!”
“That is an interesting point.” Lady Cindertallow smiled. “And it comes back to me that I didn’t care tuppence that Ambrosius was a tradesman’s son when I fell in love with him.” She turned back to Waxmelt. “I will grant that I should treat my servants with some respect, Lord Wickward. But it seems to me that I do already. I give them justice. I protect them from Chandlefort’s enemies. Isn’t that enough?”
“You protect your cows,” said Waxmelt. “You give your pigs equal amounts of food from the trough. Are we more to you than beasts?”
“Honestly?” Lady Cindertallow looked at Waxmelt steadily. “Lord Wickward, when I was a little older than Clovermead, I saw a mob in Lackey Lane burn down a bakery. Food was scarce and dear that year, and half a dozen stable-boys insisted the baker sell them cheaper bread. He refused and locked the door on them when they would not go away. The street was full of hungry servants. The stable-boys whipped up the other servants until they started throwing stones at the bakery windows. Then they threw a torch. They would not let water be brought from the well to douse the flames. I came with a squad of Yellowjackets as soon as I heard what was going on. Bootblacks and cooks and chambermaids threw bricks at us to keep us away. They dumped vegetable carts into Lackey Lane to keep us from charging them. By the time we had fought through to the bakery, it had nearly burned to the ground. We barely got the baker’s family out in time. Their clothes were black rags, and half their skin was blistered. The servants didn’t spare a second glance for the people they had meant to kill. They were too busy stealing loaves of bread from the charred timbers. I confess I have found it difficult to regard the servants as entirely human since then.” She smiled grimly. “What would such wild beasts do with money and free time, Lord Wickward?”
“I once saw a lord beat his servant half to death,” said Waxmelt quietly. “He had money and leisure, he was not maddened by hunger, and he was a wild beast too.”
“I think both of you should be politer about wild beasts,” said Clovermead. “The two of you make it sound like us bears are much nicer than any of you Chandleforters. Be angry at each other, but leave us out of it.”
Lady Cindertallow laughed abruptly. “All right, Clo,” said Waxmelt. “I won’t say a word against anything with four legs.” He turned back to Lady Cindertallow. “Milady, I’m sure we both have many bitter memories. Can we set them aside? What can I do now to convince you to treat the servants better?”
“Nothing comes to mind,” said Lady Cindertallow.
A distant trumpet blasted a long, rising blare. The Yellowjackets scrambled to their feet and Lady Cindertallow followed them the next instant. It took Clovermead another second to remember what the signal meant: Strange riders, danger.
“It can’t be,” said Lady Cindertallow. Her face was pale. “There shouldn’t be bear-priests within two hundred miles of here. They’re attacking Queensmart.” The trumpets blasted again, and Lady Cindertallow cursed. “Where are they? By Our Lady’s girdle, give me the direction!” She fumbled at the reins of her horse. She had tied them tightly around the tree and was muzzy and clumsy from her full lunch. The trumpet blared two double beats. “From the west. Dear Lady, they’re coming here.” She grabbed the carving knife from the chicken’s carcass. Clovermead looked for another knife, but her mother had taken the only one. She was weaponless.
“How did they get past the south forts?” asked Lady Cindertallow. “Why wasn’t a warning sent?” Her eyes blazed with murderous fury. “I would never have let you beyond the walls if I’d thought—” She could not finish her sentence but growled as deeply and raging as any bear. “If you’re harmed, I’ll flay my border guards alive,” she concluded. Lady Cindertallow looked over the peaceful linens spread on the grass, then turned angrily away. “No time to waste. Back to Chandlefort, as quick as we can.”
“You’ll be safer if you ride with me, Father,” said Clovermead. “I’ve practiced some cavalry maneuvers with the Yellowjackets.” Waxmelt nodded, and he stumbled after Clovermead as she ran to her pony and untied him. Clovermead helped her father up onto her pony, then untied Waxmelt’s horse and gave him a whack. He whinnied and began to canter back to the Castle. Clovermead scrambled up in front of her father, and they began to ride.
The Yellowjackets had their swords out. Lady Cindertallow and one Yellowjacket rode ahead of Clovermead and Waxmelt; the other
Yellowjacket brought up the rear. Clovermead listened for hoofbeats, but all she heard was the blaring trumpet. Beyond the meadow the olive trees blocked their sight. They rode into the groves, and the curving path, so attractive before, now slowed them down to an agonizing trot. Far to either side she could hear the shouts of farmers running to their houses. The land looked at peace, but the trumpet blasted its warning of danger. Fear and terror, it repeated; terror and fear.
They came out of the olive groves and into a cornfield that bordered a canal. All Clovermead could see around her were the corn’s chest-high stalks, waving in the slight breeze, and the olive trees encircling the corn. A scarecrow stood awkwardly in the center of the field.
The scarecrow moved. He put a horn to his lips, blew a baying cry, and charged through the corn. He drew his scimitar: The handle was made of carved bone and the blade shone with a liquid gleam. The scarecrow wore a helmet over his face, he rode a dark horse, and all around Clovermead three more riders wavered into sight. Bear-priests. The furs they wore were gray blotches, and their bronzed, jagged teeth were snarling and open and shone in the sun. The three bear-priests and the scarecrow came from all directions with unsheathed scimitars in their hands. The bear-priests answered the baying horn with ululating howls.
The Yellowjackets and Lady Cindertallow drew their blades and formed a triangle around Clovermead and Waxmelt. Then the bear-priests were on them, scimitars slashing. Both Yellowjackets were fighting bear-priests, her mother was fighting the howling scarecrow, and the fourth bear-priest had gotten past them and had raised up his scimitar in front of Clovermead. Clovermead swung an arm grown large and furred and clawed at the bear-priest. His scimitar curved under her swinging arm and cut toward her eyes, and then Clovermead ducked as the scimitar whistled over her head, past Waxmelt, and sliced a stalk of corn. The head of corn sighed and fell, and the bear-priest rode away.
Clovermead turned and saw the helmeted scarecrow disarm her mother with one blow of his sword. “No!” Clovermead cried (or did she only roar her dismay?), and she kicked her pony’s flanks and galloped desperately hard toward her mother while Waxmelt clung to her waist. The scarecrow struck down at Lady Cindertallow with his sword, she stumbled backward, and Clovermead lashed out with her long paw to knock the bear-priest’s wrist to one side. His scimitar sliced down her mother’s forearm and through her wrist. Clovermead roared in anguish and struck him backhanded with all her might. The scarecrow flew through the air and crunched against a tree at the edge of the cornfield. His helmet flew off his head.
It was the tall man. A stray sunbeam gleamed through the leaves above him and lit up his pale face and his curly red hair.
“Mallow Kite,” said Lady Cindertallow from her horse. Her face had gone pale. “No. It can’t be.”
“But it is,” said Mallow Kite. “Lord Ursus has raised me up from where you left me. I am revenged on you at last.” He turned from Lady Cindertallow to where Clovermead gaped at him, and he shrugged at her apologetically. Then he twisted himself around the tree, Clovermead heard him running, and he was gone. His dark horse neighed, stomped on the earth with a crack that shivered in Clovermead’s bones, and ran after his master.
Birds cheeped in the trees. A mouse scampered through the green stalks of the field. Clovermead could hear the water flowing in the canal and felt Waxmelt shaking with relief in the saddle behind her. Somewhere trumpets blared, danger, and two dead men lay among the trampled corn. A bear-priest and a Yellowjacket had slain each other and fallen side by side.
“I’ve been a fool,” Clovermead whispered in numb horror as she stared after Mallow Kite. I ask you in your father’s name not to mention me to her, he had said. I think she would try to kill me. Clovermead had listened to Mallow, she had said nothing, she had even dragged him from the Ballroom to save his life, but he was the killer, not Lady Cindertallow. A tear trickled down Clovermead’s cheek. “Mother, what have I done to you?”
She turned and saw Lady Cindertallow staring at the trees. “Mallow,” her mother whispered. Her teeth were chattering, and she made the crescent sign. Blood dripped steadily from her hand and forearm—and she swayed in her saddle.
“Milady!” Waxmelt cried, and Clovermead swung off her pony and ran to Lady Cindertallow. Her mother half-fell from her horse, and her unwounded hand fell on Clovermead’s shoulder for support.
“I feel faint,” said Lady Cindertallow. “And my arm itches. Clovermead, help me down.” She tried to remove her feet from her stirrups, tottered, and fell heavily into Clovermead. Clovermead staggered beneath her mother’s weight, barely held her, and laid her flat on the ground. She looked at her mother’s cut flesh and saw yellow venom ooze in the blood. Lady Cindertallow looked at her arm and groaned. “A poisoned weapon,” she said. “I should have expected Mallow would use that against me.” She turned to one side, vomited, and fainted.
Waxmelt came up by Clovermead and knelt over Lady Cindertallow. “Let me look, Clo,” he said urgently. Clovermead moved to give him room, and he tore off her mother’s sleeve at the shoulder. Then he gently pulled the cloth away and made sure to draw every thread out of Lady Cindertallow’s gashed arm. Clovermead gasped when she saw her mother’s wounds. The flesh around them had bloated and turned black.
“Fetch water from the canal,” Waxmelt snapped to the remaining Yellowjacket. “We have to clean her wounds.” The Yellowjacket nodded and scampered away. Then Waxmelt bent over Lady Cindertallow’s arm, put his mouth to the ragged cut, and sucked out the oozing venom. He spat the yellow liquid into the grass, then sucked more from her hand. The Yellowjacket came back with a flask of water, and Waxmelt sloshed some onto Lady Cindertallow’s wounds and some into his mouth. He spat out more watery venom. The touch of the poison had swollen his lips.
Lady Cindertallow’s wounds still bled. Clovermead saw glints of yellow venom sinking ever deeper into her mother’s blackened flesh. “Will she live?” asked Clovermead. Don’t let my folly kill her, Lady, she prayed frantically.
“If we get her back to Chandlefort in time,” said Waxmelt. “I’ve gotten rid of what venom I can, but some’s gotten into her blood. She needs a doctor.” He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and bound it lightly around Lady Cindertallow’s wounds. Then he beckoned to the Yellowjacket. “Help me carry her to her horse.” The Yellowjacket ran to help him lift Lady Cindertallow from the ground.
Lady Cindertallow opened her eyes as they pulled her up. “Stop,” she said. “I can walk.” They let her go, and carefully Lady Cindertallow took a step. She looked at her bandaged arm and at the dripping blood visible through the cloth. “Do you hate me that much, Mallow?” she asked in horror and in anger.
“Who is he?” asked Clovermead. She growled with shame and fury. “I’ll kill him! I swear it, by Our Lady.”
Lady Cindertallow laughed, with rising hysteria. “Kill Mallow Kite? You can’t.”
“Let me try,” said Clovermead. Her claws scrabbled at the air.
“He’s dead already,” said Lady Cindertallow. “Long in his grave.”
Chapter Five
Under Siege
A dead man, thought Clovermead as they rode through the wooded lanes toward Chandlefort. Her head was swimming. His flesh was cool. I kissed his cheek. Behind her, Waxmelt held the dead Yellowjacket’s sword. Lady Cindertallow, pale and bleeding, rode beside her and wielded the dead bear-priest’s scimitar in her left hand. The surviving Yellowjacket rode in the lead. All around them were distant cries, the crackle of flames, and the soft clamor of hoofbeats. From Chandlefort itself she heard the trumpets of the Yellowjackets riding out from the walls, but nearer were the hoarse cries of bear-priests and the screams of farmers. Beyond the peaceful olive trees and thick hedges that lined the road, smoke rose from a dozen places. I should have told her about him, thought Clovermead numbly. Milady, I’m so sorry.
The woods ended five hundred yards from the town gates: The remainder of the way lay through open ground. Yellowjackets on the
walls watched for an attack, while more Yellowjackets rode from the gates toward the blossoming fires in the fields. Cadets rode out with them, pale with anticipation and fear at the thought of their first battle. A trickle of wounded Yellowjackets had already begun to return to Chandlefort. They brought with them riderless horses, and horses with dead bodies lashed to their backs.
“My poor Chandlefort,” said Lady Cindertallow. “I thought you would have a year of peace.” She wiped away a tear, then spurred her horse. “Quickly, now.” They burst into the open ground and galloped toward the gates.
A roar erupted to their right. Two hundred yards away three bears charged out from the woods to intercept them. Clovermead spurred her pony to go even faster, but he was panting and tired from the distance he had already run. Some far-off Yellowjackets checked their horses and turned to gallop toward them, but the bears would reach them long before the Yellowjackets could arrive.
“They won’t get to you, Milady,” Clovermead said with grim determination. “I won’t fail you again.” She turned to Waxmelt and asked him, “Can you keep control of my pony?” He nodded, and Clovermead handed him the reins. She gave her father a fleeting kiss on the cheek, jumped up from her stirrups to crouch lightly on her pony’s back, and leaped into midair.
Her clothes melted into her fur—she didn’t quite know how that happened, but during the winter she had learned to think this way instead of that way when she changed into a bear, and then her clothes had started transforming with her and reappearing when she became human again. She landed on the ground on all four paws and pounded forward. She was a golden bear seven feet long and three feet thick, her arms and legs were a foot across, and her claws were huge as they scrabbled against the dirt. She was still missing a tooth, and her scar stretched from her neck all the way down her left foreleg to her paw. No fur grew on the scar tissue, but the luxuriant tufts to either side obscured the welt. Her sight was dim, but her hearing was keen and her smell keener. She growled with satisfaction as she barreled nearer to the oncoming bears.
In the Shadow of the Bear Page 28