A Midsummer's Day

by Montford, Heather

  “Know thou this, Anne,” he growled lowly. “Ne’er have we shared a bed. Ne’er would I disgrace myself so as to bed a well-born Lady out of doors. Speak thee no more. Every time thou dost part thy lips am I made more sure thou be a witch deserving of death.” He turned. He could no longer stomach the sight of her.

  The death sentence for her and her beggar would not come soon enough for his taste.

  “Jameson, please…” Anne begged. Heavy tears poisoned her once sweet voice.

  He turned back around. She sobbed, struggling to move against her bindings. She was ever a consummate actress. She had no true feeling. She was not trying to mend their relationship. Instead the wench was trying merely to free herself. Or to soften Jameson enough where her lover would suffer no ill punishment.

  He hit her so fast his hands blurred before his eyes. Her hit her in the face. On the arms. He beat her chest and her scandalously bared stomach. He beat her as he remembered her flirtations. Her affairs. Finding her in the arms of a beggar.

  He beat her as he remembered the lack of respect she showed him by constantly refusing to call him by his proper name, and his proper title. He beat her for knowing this Johnny, for knowing Puck, in a way that they did not yet know each other.

  Jameson beat Anne until he could no longer lift his arms. He backed away from the disgraced woman. She slid down the wall as far as the shackles would let her.

  “Make thy peace with God, my Lady,” he said breathlessly. “Thou dost have but an hour left to live.”

  <>

  Her eyes were strangely dry.

  Jameson Kent had beaten all the emotion from her. He’d beaten what little love she had for him from existence. Jameson had told her twice that he was done with her. Well, the feeling could go both ways. Sammie was done with Jameson, no matter what name he went by. She was done with Jameson. She was done with Johnny.

  She didn’t flinch when Jameson slammed the heavy wooden door behind him. Wasn’t that strange? He must have beaten all the fear from her, as well.

  She struggled to her feet. Lightning spread through her shoulders. Dull aches spread through her back as she leaned as best as she could against the bumpy stone wall. Her face and stomach screamed as thousands of needles pricked her at once, giving her invisible tattoos that would assuredly turn purple all too soon.

  She was tired. So tired of the stress and worry and uncertainty. She was tired of fear. She was tired of everyone telling her she was a witch or a traitor or both. She was tired of the hate. The hate of her fiancé against her. The hate of the Queen who had once been her friend.

  She was tired.

  Why hadn’t the Lord High Sheriff finish what he’d begun? Why hadn’t he just killed her? Was there a point of waiting for a public execution? Jameson was a convincing enough Sheriff. If he told the Queen that Sammie had died from one thing or another, the Queen probably would have believed him.

  So why hadn’t he killed her? Why wait for a public spectacle?

  There was one answer… Jameson would remove all the shame she’d supposedly placed on his head, and do it publically so no one else would think of doing anything similar.

  That didn’t make the thought hurt any less…

  Something fluttered in the corner of her eye. Sammie turned her neck slowly. Tears flooded her vision with each movement, but she could still see two ill aligned boards that was part of the far wall. A moth fluttered in the sunlight of the gap. It flew towards her.

  She gasped. Sharp pain cut through her lungs.

  The moth was pure white, with feather-like antennae and a silver lightning bolt cutting through one wing.

  It was the same moth. The same moth she’d seen before yesterday’s trial and dunke, when everybody was actors and she was being dunked for flirting. This was the moth mentioned in T’s newest note, Sammie just knew it. T was telling her something.

  Had T been trying to tell her something before the dunke yesterday? Had they been helping Sammie before the time change even happened?

  The moth hovered in front of Sammie’s face. Some magic made it look her in the eye. It inched its way towards her face.

  And then it brushed her forehead. Right between the eyes.

  A tear fell down her cheek. The moth had kissed her. It kissed her and she knew, she knew in her heart, that things were going to be okay. She knew that there was still hope.

  All doubt about T’s motives vanished. They hadn’t forgotten Sammie. They didn’t want to see Sammie die.

  Neither did Vaughn. He was still out there. He still searched for her. He would find her, and escape.

  They wouldn’t die.

  Vaughn would come for her.

  Sammie just hoped that he didn’t wait too long.

  Chapter 21

  He was learning every inch of the festival grounds.

  He was learning every path. Every shortcut in between shops and up or down the hills the festival was built around. He knew the best places to lose the constables for a second, and the most likely places where the constables would cut him off. And he knew how to escape from them without backtracking down the path he’d just come up.

  There were always other paths.

  Would the constables never get tired of chasing him? This was the third time he’d had to run. The third time he’d seen more of the grounds than he’d ever seen, even when he was the older Sheriff’s son and got to travel through the faire willingly.

  But the constables were getting to know every path, every shortcut and hiding space, too. They called after him, taking away what little anonymity Vaughn had left. They called him a villain and a criminal. His noble-slash-pirate costume no longer made him invisible. The whole festival knew who he was now.

  Women and children backed away from him. They whispered and pointed. Older men yelled at him to stop. Younger men tried to block his path. But he always managed to duck around them.

  This couldn’t go on much longer. He felt like he’d been running for an hour. He’d be flat on his face before long if he kept running. He’d be caught. And when he was…

  There was only one thing that mattered. He had to get back to Sammie. Every step he ran away from the dungeon in the Dregs tore his heart apart. Every step he went in the opposite direction made it more and more likely that he’d never get back to her. That he’d never see her alive again…

  He circled back towards the Dregs. He would get back to her, before her asthma or Jameson Kent got the better of her. He’d find her, and hold her, and tell her the things he should have told her years ago. He’d kiss her again, and never let her go.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped paying attention to where he was going, and he ended up between two games nestled into a hill that might have been a mountain. There was no climbing it. He turned.

  The constables were on the path next to the dungeon. They saw him, and took off after him. Vaughn had no choice but to run in the other direction. Away from the Dregs. Away from Sammie.

  Were these brutes going to chase him until he died? Maybe that was the plan. Maybe that was the order of their Lord High Bastard Jameson. Chase down Puck until he died. Don’t give up until you drop dead yourself. Save us the effort of a formal execution.

  It wouldn’t have been surprising at all if that was the truth.

  He lost the constables on the Dead Road. The pond was deserted. Vaughn dashed past the stage and into the trees behind it. From where he was, he couldn’t see the path. He couldn’t see most of the pond.

  Which meant that the constables wouldn’t be able to see him, either. Not unless they came around the back of the stage and stared intently into the trees. If they were smart enough to think of such things.

  This couldn’t go on. If they kept chasing him, he’d never get back to her.

  Would it… Would it be so bad to let himself get caught? To let himself get arrested? They might take him to the same dungeon Sammie was in. It was possible. He’d have an easier time rescuing her then.

>   At the very least, he’d be able to see her again.

  No… That wasn’t the way. T would have let him know if it was. They would have made both him and Sammie confront Jameson at the same time… And there was no guarantee he’d be taken to the same dungeon.

  There was no guarantee that he’d live to see the inside of a dungeon.

  He had to keep running. But there was nowhere that he’d be safe. He had no friends here. Not without Sammie.

  No… that wasn’t true. There was one…

  It would take all his energy to get there. All his adrenaline. He had to get enough energy for one last push. He knew, once he got where he was going, that things would be okay.

  He closed his eyes and took a few shaking breaths. Poor Sammie… She felt this way on bad days after a simple walk.

  He eased out of the trees and peaked around the stage. The constables were searching trees. On the other side of the pond. It was now or never.

  He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He begged his legs for more speed. He begged them not to give out on him. Not yet.

  Behind him, the constables discovered him. They yelled at him. The sounds of their voices, and their boots, grew louder.

  But there were a few helpful spirits living in this time period, and they were waking up. The washer wenches threw themselves at the constables as they passed their wash pit. That bought Vaughn a few precious seconds. It bought him a few precious feet.

  But only a few.

  Every pirate in Nottinghamshire stood in Brigand’s Den, admiring a new collection of gems and gold. They saw Vaughn. And then the constables.

  Apparently figureheads of the law weren’t tolerated anywhere near Brigand’s Den. The pirates informed the constables of the fact.

  An entire band of pirates were not as easy to dodge as three tiny washer women.

  Vaughn sprinted between the tents in Gypsy Way. He came to rest behind the faded one. He peaked around the tent.

  The constables had bypassed the pirates, looking all the worse for wear with their hair mussed and their shirts pulled free of their breeches. They scanned the area…

  On the wrong side of the path. They barged their way into shops and food stands. They searched the back of the shops and even the roofs, as if Vaughn was stupid enough to make himself more visible. Nobody turned to look towards the tents. Nobody even suggested looking that way.

  “Over there!”

  The blond burly constable pointed towards the Court Pavilion. The constables left the Grotto.

  Vaughn leaned back on his heels and took a deep breath. “That took too bloody long.”

  He didn’t know what the men had seen, and he didn’t care. Things were working for him. The washer wenches. The pirates. Now the unknown specter resembling himself.

  It must have been T. Somehow, T had set these people to help him, just like she’d had the apothecary help him earlier.

  “Thou must run to her.”

  The familiar voice came from the tent.

  “You’re T? You’re the gypsy who gave Sammie her reading.”

  “There be no time. Thou must run to her. Now.”

  Vaughn hesitated.

  “Go! Now!”

  He sprang to his feet and ran out to the path. If she really was T… She was telling him to get to Sammie. Now.

  And he was going to listen.

  He sprinted through the Grotto, cutting through the shops and the lawns. He wasn’t noticed until he ran between the Lover’s Bridge and the Brigand’s Den. The woman’s shrieks were painfully shrill. They would be heard all the way to the Court Pavilion, where the constables were.

  But Vaughn had the advantage of distance. He was at the drynke stand before the constables made it to the bridge. He found the first door he saw and broke his way in.

  <>

  She gritted her teeth.

  She had to free one hand. Just one.

  The metal cut through her skin. But she didn’t stop. She fought against her restraints.

  Panic set in with the disappearance of the moth. The darkly dank dungeon closed in on her from all sides. The stone wall behind her pressed deep grooves into her back. If she couldn’t free a hand… If she couldn’t make herself more comfortable…

  Her vision went white. Thick, hot blood flowed down her left arm. She screamed and dropped as far as her shackles would let her. Pain spread through her shoulders, but she didn’t care. The pain in her wrist was unbearable.

  Footsteps… They were close. She stood and pressed herself into the wall as much as she could. Another torrent of blood flowed down her wrist. Was Jameson coming back to finish what he’d started? Had he changed his mind about leaving her alive until she was scheduled to die? Was the Lord High Sheriff, or one of his lackeys, coming to lead her to her death?

  God. Oh God. She didn’t want to die. Not now. Not without seeing Vaughn one more time.

  She couldn’t die without Vaughn.

  The room exploded in a shower of dust and slivers of wood. He burst through the door. He was dressed all in black. But there wasn’t a stitch of gold to be seen.

  Tears of relief fell down her face.

  Thank God. He had found her.

  <>

  He slammed the door shut and threw the first thing he could find in front of it.

  What on earth was a heavy iron board used for in a dungeon like this? Vaughn didn’t want to think about it, especially with Sammie…

  Sammie… He turned. Was she still breathing?

  Was she still living?

  She stood as well as she could with her hands shackled high above her head. Blood dried down the entire length of her left arm. But at least she was standing. She was crying.

  But from relief at seeing him, or the horrible beating she’d endured, Vaughn couldn’t be sure.

  “Oh, Sam,” he whispered. He brushed the hair from her face.

  That bastard Jameson had done a thorough job. The left side of Sam’s face turned a horrible mix of yellow and blue. The color matched the parts of her arms not drenched in blood. The color matched her chest, heaving heavily as she attempted to get air. The color matched her stomach.

  At least her eyes weren’t swollen shut. Jameson had afforded her that one small kindness. Her eyes weren’t swollen. Her lips weren’t swollen. He hadn’t even sent her into an asthma attack. That was the most generous thing Jameson had done… ever.

  If he knew how kind he’d been… Would he have been more vicious?

  “I’m going to kill that bastard,” Vaughn said, touching her face gently, praying he might be able to take away her pain. He would. If he got the chance, he’d kill Jameson and Johnny both. The bastard didn’t deserve any less than to be murdered twice over.

  “Get me out of here first,” Sam said with a wry laugh.

  He reached for her wrists. How in the hell was he going to get her free without a key? “If I knew this was going to happen, Sam…” Guilt coursed through his veins. This was his fault. She didn’t want to follow T’s last note. She hadn’t wanted to find Jameson. She knew that something bad was going to happen to her.

  But he’d convinced her… He convinced her that nothing would happen. That he would keep her safe. And he failed so thoroughly.

  “This isn’t your fault.” Her breathing was returning to normal. “T wanted me to see something, and I did.”

  “What was that?” He studied her wrists. There was no chance of pulling her hands out of the shackles. They were too damned tight around her wrists. From the look of her arm, she’d already tried to do just that. A thin trickle of fresh blood ran down her skin.

  He had to get her free before she bled out in front of him.

  “I saw the moth, Vaughn. It was the moth from the note, I know it. I saw the same moth before the dunke, too.” Her voice broke with tears, though she smiled. “It kissed me, Vaughn. It kissed me right between the eyes.”

  “The moth is a symbol of hope, right?”

  Sammie nodded. She s
tarted pulling away from the wall in pain.

  Vaughn cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her on the forehead. Right between her eyes. “Then let’s get you free and find what hope there is to find.”

  But how in the hell was he going to do that? She couldn’t move her wrists anymore. Maybe there was something in here he could use. Some implement of torture… A sword or an axe he could use to cut at the chains.

  But there was nothing.

  The tiniest thump sounded from behind him.

  Sam’s silver pomander rolled towards his feet.

  <>

  The pomander came to rest against Vaughn’s foot.

  How in the hell had it fallen from her waist? She was positive that she tied it to her garter with so many knots that it would take something sharp to get it free again.

  The ribbon lay perfectly flat on the floor, pointing towards her. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t shredded. It wasn’t knotted. It didn’t even have any wrinkles in it where she tied her knots.

  Something whirred inside the silver ball. Vaughn picked it up.

  It was something straight out of a steampunk novel. The whirring grew louder. And then…

  Something silver popped out of the scrollwork nearest the ribbon.

  Sammie stretched as far the shackles and the pain would let her. “What is it?” she asked.

  Vaughn pulled on the thing. It left the pomander with ease. He smiled. “She really does know what she’s doing.” He held the thing out.

  It was a key.

  “She really does,” Sammie whispered. Everything… Every small, minute detail had been thought about… Had been planned for. T knew Sammie would need a key before they’d gotten the pomander. Everything that happened was according to a plan.

  If only the plan didn’t include Sam getting the shit kicked out of her…

  “Let’s get you out of here.” Vaughn unlocked her left hand.

  She’d forgotten about the pain in her arm. Almost. White hot pain swept from her wrist up to her shoulder. She cradled her arm to her and bit her lip against the screams threatening to spill from her lips.