“I’m here for you, sire. I’ll help take care of everything.”
The rain continued.
Royce slipped back inside The Hideous Head without a word and went to stand at the window, soaked and dripping. He’d been going in and out all night. Hadrian had no idea where. Maybe he visited the castle trying to find Gwen, maybe he checked up on Albert, or maybe he just wandered the streets in frustration.
Outside, the rain poured on Wayward Street. Hadrian didn’t know why they called it a street. Even in good weather the dirt lane was little more than a path between shacks, and at that moment it was on its way to being a lake.
Hadrian never left the Head. With four full kegs behind the bar, he typically would have spent the night drinking and the morning sleeping, but he hadn’t had another drop since Royce knocked over his cup. He never said anything, but he knew Royce’s plan wasn’t going to work. Not that it wasn’t worth a try, but what were the odds that Maribor would smile on the likes of them? In the past the gods had always demanded blood.
It was midmorning and Royce was back to pacing, leaving a stain of rainwater on the otherwise dull floor when Hadrian spotted Albert. The viscount was in a full-out run and he suspected it wasn’t because of his desire to get out of the rain.
This is it. Battles always start early.
Hadrian frowned and slipped the big sword over his shoulder as he called out, “He’s coming.”
Royce halted and spun, his face tense.
Albert opened the door, breathing hard and wearing a grin. “It worked!”
“Details!” Royce snapped.
“Heralds have gone out and edicts are posted. The castle announced that the women of Medford House have been cleared of all charges and are now under official protection of the crown. Chancellor Percy Braga signed the proclamation himself. I don’t know how, or what you did, but whatever it was it worked!”
“Where are they?”
Albert shrugged. “In the process of being let out I suspect. You said to run right back here the moment I heard anything.”
For the first time since Albert had left with Lord Exeter’s finger, Royce finally sat. He ran hands over his face, and Hadrian noticed they were shaking.
Going behind the bar, Hadrian pulled out a bottle of rum, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Adding a fresh pulled mug of ale for himself, he joined Royce and Albert at the table.
“Sorry, it’s not Montemorcey,” Hadrian said, pulling the wine bottle’s cork. He motioned to Albert and the rum.
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking to Royce.
“To Gwen.” Hadrian lifted his mug.
“Can’t argue with that,” Royce said, and nodded at Albert, then poured his wine.
“To Gwen,” Royce and Albert echoed together as they clinked their drinks.
Royce drank and set the glass back on the table. Smiling, he said, “Wow.”
“Grue had good wine? Really?”
“Huh?” Royce looked up, confused. “Oh … no. I’m amazed the plan worked. I never … I mean, it was just too easy, you know? Maybe we should try doing this sort of thing more often.”
“I’m always up for anything that requires less blood.”
Royce nodded and took another sip and grimaced. “Oh damn-yeah, this stuff is hideous.”
“Hence the name.”
Royce left the table as if needing to put distance between him and the wine and went to the window to look out at the street.
“Do you see them?” Hadrian asked.
“Not yet,” Royce replied.
“I wouldn’t worry. Streets are flooded, hard to walk in skirts,” Albert mentioned.
Hadrian stood up. “Who’s hungry?”
“Since the barn, I don’t think I’ll ever pass up the offer of a meal,” Albert said, pouring a second glass of rum.
“Let’s see what Grue has in his pantry.” Hadrian searched the shelves. Grue might not have sold food, but he certainly had plenty. Hadrian found some stale bread, several bags of flour, and a kettle of something. He spotted a hunk of smoked ham on a cutting board and half a waxed round of cheese and hauled them out.
Hadrian returned to the table and set the food down.
Royce stayed by the window, his eyes glued on the street. “Albert, if you still want to leave, I won’t stop you. Gwen is safe, and that’s all I wanted.”
“Well, I don’t know now. I was searching for news in every inn and public house in the Gentry and Merchant Quarters this morning, and apparently no one remembers me from the party-or no one cares. Almost depressing if I were to really think about it. I’m rather invisible. I guess I have that sort of face or personality. Explains a lot, really. No one ever noticed me. In a world of clout and influence that’s a problem, but as the liaison for a pair of thieves, can there be a better talent? Besides, I have to admit I’m impressed. No-forget that-I’m astounded. I thought I was in league with lunatics, but you did it. You took down a ranking noble, rescued all the girls from the dungeon, and no one even knows you did it.”
“That we did it,” Royce corrected.
“Right.” Albert smiled. “I think I’d like to stay and see where this goes. Besides, I already lined up that job. Would seem a shame to disappoint our client.”
He handed the purse of gold to Royce, who began to count the coins.
“Who’s the job for?” Hadrian asked.
Albert pulled his damp hair back into a ponytail and said, “A nice lady who’s being blackmailed by her servant and an evil baron to betray her husband.”
“I like it.”
“Twenty-five gold?” Royce looked up.
“Half now, half when you deliver.”
Hadrian was concerned, but Royce was the first to ask, “What does she want us to do for fifty tenents?”
“Steal an earring.”
“An earring?” Royce asked skeptically. “Is it guarded by demons or something?”
Albert shook his head. “I suspect it’s not guarded at all. Likely just sitting in Baron McMannis’s jewelry box.”
“Fifty gold to return an earring?” Royce muttered incredulously. “What are these earrings worth?”
“Oh, I suspect they’re actually not worth much at all. Old Hurbert isn’t known for his generosity, even to his own wife,” Albert explained. “The money is for saving the woman’s reputation, which is worth far more than any pair of earrings.”
Hadrian pushed out his lower lip and nodded. “This whole noble thing might actually work.” Then turning his attention to Royce, he added, “You owe me.”
Royce scowled. “I know. I know. We’ll deal with that later.”
“He owes you?” Albert asked.
“When you originally went to the castle the night of the party, Royce said you’d run. Disappear with your new clothes.” Hadrian tied up the purse. “Which once again proves that people are basically good.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Royce said with a gambler’s confidence. “Albert came back because he didn’t want what happened to Exeter to happen to him, right?”
Albert let his shoulders droop and nodded.
Hadrian raised a finger. “You also said he’d hold out on us if he made any money, and he handed it right over. You didn’t even need to ask him.”
Royce folded his arms across his chest. “Albert? The first time you offered me this purse, you said it held twenty gold. How do you think it magically increased to twenty-five?”
The viscount smiled awkwardly. “You remember that, do you?”
“Albert?” Hadrian frowned and sighed.
“It was just five, and I’ve given you all the money this time. Doesn’t that count for something?” He had a terrified look on his face. “I … I expected I would need them to, you know, get away.”
Royce smiled. “See, you can always count on people doing what is best for themselves.”
“Like I did?” Hadrian said.
The smile left Royce’s lips. “You’re a freak of nature or the w
orld’s greatest fool. I’m still trying to figure that out.”
Albert watched them. “I’m sorry I lied. It will never happen again. Please don’t kill me.” He said it just above a whisper, but Royce heard everything.
The thief almost laughed. “You were only going to steal your share of our first profit-all that means is that you’re officially one of us now.”
“And what is that exactly?”
Royce and Hadrian exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. “I suppose we should figure that out at some point.”
Albert happily turned to the food on the table. “I just discovered I’m starved. Are there any pickles?”
“Pickles?” Hadrian paused, surprised by the word and the memory it conjured.
“Yes-little things, sort of tart.”
“No … I don’t know. Go check for yourself.”
Albert looked puzzled.
Before anything else could be said, Royce ran past both of them, punching open the front door to the tavern.
Hadrian and Albert followed the thief out into the rain, which appeared to finally be letting up. Hadrian saw the troop of ladies coming down the road. They were all there, save Rose, all clustered around Gwen, helping her walk. Then like a flock of ducks they scattered as Royce raced in. His arms wrapped around Gwen, lifting her in a hug and a gentle twirl. Scooping her up, he carried Gwen back to Medford House as the sound of rain gave way to the sound of girlish laughter.
CHAPTER 23
HILFRED
Reuben woke to dazzling sunlight streaming through a window, and his first thought was that he was dead. Something about the brilliant light, how it splintered into visible shafts as it angled across the bed, held a mystical quality. Everything was bright, so that he had to squint to focus. From the ceiling above him hung all manner of plants. Dry and brittle. Most looked like flowers, common ones that grew in the fields and even around the walls of the castle courtyard. Reuben didn’t know half of them but recognized thyme, honeysuckle, and cowslip, which he found near the stables a lot, as well as ragwort and toadflax, which grew in the cracks of the castle walls. He could hear voices, lots of voices, and distant sounds like wheels and hooves. The second thing he thought was that he was not dead, because he didn’t believe there would be so much pain in death, and Reuben was in agony. His throat burned as if he had swallowed molten lead, and his chest felt congested and ached as if it had a block of granite resting on it.
He tried to take a breath and instantly doubled up in a series of hacking coughs. The jerking movement brushed his skin against the linen sheet. It looked as soft as rabbit’s fur, but it scratched like a million needles. His head ached, he felt nauseous, and all he could do was smell smoke. He lay back, realizing he was on a bed of some sort. He had never lain on a mattress before. He always thought they looked nice, only at that moment he could just as easily have been on a torture table, but then just breathing was torture. Even blinking hurt.
He was indeed alive; he just wasn’t certain if he wanted to be.
A woman approached and peered at him. “You’re awake. That’s good.” He’d never seen her before. With gray, almost white hair and spider lines around her eyes, she was old but friendly. “I imagine you’d prefer to keep sleeping. But I can tell you those who keep sleeping … well, they never wake up. But look at you! And I wasn’t so sure. Nope, not certain at all. When they brought you in pink as a roast pig, I thought the best could be done was size you for a box. They said ‘he’s young and strong,’ but I wasn’t so sure. I’ve seen a lot of the young and strong nailed in boxes, and a lot looked better than you. Still, you got your hair and that’s something.”
She ruffled the mop on his head, but when he cringed, she stopped. “I suppose everything is sensitive. That’s the way with burns, but sensitive is better than not. All that pain you feel is good. Means your flesh is still alive. If you didn’t feel nothing, why, you might never feel anything again. So I know you don’t think it now, but later you’ll be happy for the suffering.”
“Water?” he croaked, his voice broken, cracked, and thin.
She raised her eyebrows. “Water, eh? Think you’re up for that? Maybe you should just stick with a weak wine.”
“Water, please.”
She shrugged and stepped aside to a basin to pour him a little cup. Reuben felt he could drink a lake’s worth, but after two mouthfuls he began to vomit over the side of the bed.
“Now what’d I tell you?”
He was shaking. Maybe he always had been and just noticed it then. He had never felt so horrible. He wanted to scream but was scared to, afraid it would hurt. Death would have been better. The pain was overwhelming and a panic set in as if he were drowning, submerged in suffering. Needing to endure even an hour like this was a nightmare, but the horror he knew was that the anguish would last. Reuben recalled the time he burned himself on the kettle and how long it took to heal.
What had become of him? They had a sheet draped lightly over his body. He guessed he was naked. Perhaps his clothes burned away. What was left of his flesh? He feared to look, terrified what he might see. His hands and arms were red and lacked hair, but otherwise they looked fine-just a bad sunburn, a few blisters. He gritted his teeth. It did not seem fair that even crying hurt.
Then a thought outside of himself knocked on his shuttered mind. “The princess…” he said, the words coming out as a coarse whisper. “Is she okay?”
The nurse gave him a quizzical look and then a smile broadened her face. “The princess is fine, I’m told.”
He lay back down. Maybe it was his imagination, but the pain seemed to lessen somehow.
He was in a small room. The rustic wood and stone revealed he was not in the castle or any of the outbuildings. This was some place new. A small cottage perhaps, or a shop. Through the window came the sounds of traffic. He must be in the city.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but the rumor is that you ran into a burning castle yesterday.”
“I carried the princess out and then went back for the queen. I couldn’t reach her.”
“Was that all?”
He nodded almost imperceptibly. No added pain. He was surprised.
“Most people say you had a death wish, that you wanted to die because-” She turned back to the basin and took a towel from a rack.
“Because, why?”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “I don’t think it’s true. I can’t imagine it is, especially with you asking about the princess like that. Do you know what I think?” The nurse soaked the towel in a basin and then wrung it out and turned back to him. “I’m Dorothy, by the way. I’m a midwife. They brought you to me instead of a real doctor because I know burns. All those doctors do is leeching, and you don’t need that.” She paused, pursing her lips in thought, working something out. “Yes … I think you are a very brave man, Reuben Hilfred.” She folded the damp towel. “I think everyone is wrong. What you just said makes so much more sense, at least to me. I think … well, it is just noble of you that lying here as you are and you ask about the princess.”
“I’m not noble.”
“Maybe not in name, but certainly in your heart, and if you ask me, that’s where it matters most.”
“If you ask everyone else, they would tell you the opposite. People kill for titles.”
“Maybe, but how many would die for them? How many would throw themselves into a fire? I don’t think it takes much bravery to be greedy.” She laid the towel on his forehead. It stung for a moment, then felt cool, soothing. “You’ll be all right. I know you have your doubts, but I have seen this before. I know it hurts, but you were lucky.”
“What is everyone saying about me?”
She hesitated.
“Tell me-things certainly can’t get worse than they are.”
“I’m not so certain about that, Reuben. Everyone says you and your father set the fire.”
Reuben hadn’t realize
d he had fallen back asleep until he was awakened by a loud rapping on Dorothy’s door. He was instantly greeted by the pain again. The solid overwhelming wall of agony jolted him awake and made him hate whoever was banging on the door.
“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said as she made her way past his bed. “I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe they found some other poor soul who isn’t fit for a doctor.”
She slipped beyond his vision, around the brick of the chimney that came down through the center of the roof. The rough brick column vented a cooking hearth that was open on two sides and adorned with pots and blackened utensils. Pans, buckets, cups, and bowls dangled from low support beams, and above the archway dividing the rooms-where another person might display a sword or a coat of arms-Dorothy hung a well-worn broom. The home consisted of only three rooms: the kitchen, a small space behind a wooden door where he imagined she slept, and the room he lay in. Reuben noticed shelves of clay pots marked with more flower names along with other disturbing ones like rats feet, and rabbits ears.
Reuben heard the opening of the door. “Your Grace?” Dorothy sounded startled.
“Is he awake?”
“He was sleeping. The lad is sorely hurt. He needs to-”
“But has he regained consciousness since he was delivered?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Boots scuffled on the wood floor and then the door closed. The old man, the bishop who had been at the fire, appeared through the archway, his burgundy and black robes looking as brilliant against the dull walls as a mallard duck on a gray pond.
Why is the bishop visiting me? Does he think he needs to perform last rites? No, it would be a priest, not the bishop.
“How are you feeling, son?”
“Fine,” Reuben said cautiously. The pain was distracting, making it hard to think. The less he said the better.
The bishop looked puzzled. “Fine? You nearly burned to death, my boy. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
The bishop waited, expecting more, then frowned. “We need to talk … Reuben, is it?”
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