by Diane Magras
If they would listen to him.
Drest slipped up to the mill’s back door, the one she had entered when she had first come to Phearsham Ridge, but hesitated. There was shouting inside, a booming noise, and not just from a handful of men.
I thought you said they were your friends, sneered Uwen’s voice.
Drest crept in and put her hand on the door leading into the big room. Careful not to make a sound, she pushed open the door a crack—and stopped.
A mob of villagers and a roar of voices filled the room. Men, women, young and old, crowded within.
Drest caught her breath. It was like the mob in Soggyweald that had come to watch the witch Merewen burn.
“Quiet!” Arnulf’s word cut through the noise.
The voices subsided into rumbling.
“I don’t like having the lord here either,” Arnulf said. “And no, we’re not fit to guard him. But if we refuse, we’ll have Grimbol’s wrath to bear.”
“Why not send his lord to another village?” The young bearded farmer whom Grimbol had placed in the spot by the rowan bushes raised his hand. “Send him to Soggyweald and make him their problem.”
The woman beside him—small, with a long dark braid and a dark-haired child in her arms—elbowed his ribs. “That’s a fool’s notion, Hodge. Refuse the Mad Wolf of the North? You might as well battle fire with your hands.”
A chorus of women’s voices agreed.
“Or give him back to the castle!” called another voice. “We’d be rewarded for that, surely.”
“We’d be slaughtered for that!”
“I think it’s all a lie,” Hodge called. “Who says that the castle wants to kill its own lord? Grimbol, that’s who. Because he wants us to risk our lives holding that sniveling, sorry lord hostage for him!”
More voices—men and women together—were chorusing their agreement. The noise was rising into a mindless pitch.
“You don’t know the truth of it!”
The new voice cut through the rest: Torold. Drest saw him through the crack. A wan boy swathed in bandages leaned against him: his brother Colum.
“I spoke to Lord Faintree,” the blacksmith roared, “and this is what he said: Every one of Grimbol’s words is true. His uncle wants the lord dead so he can have the castle for himself, and if we want—”
“So let his uncle have him!” an old woman interrupted.
“Is Grimbol going to order us to gain back the lord’s castle for him?” shouted a man.
“He’d better not!” cried Hodge. “You may die for your lord if that’s your wish, Torold, but I’m not fighting for him, nor for the Mad Wolf!”
“And why do you obey Grimbol’s whim, Torold, when his wee beast of a lass did that to your brother?” called someone else.
Drest backed away from the door. Her hand closed over the square pommel of her new sword.
“I obey Lord Faintree, not the Mad Wolf!” bellowed Torold. “I know and honor the man who rules us! My lord says that Grimbol’s lass is his guard—”
“And our curse!”
Someone laughed.
“You wouldn’t laugh if you’d ever seen her fight!” shouted a thin, sharp voice: Tig’s. “Do you have any idea how many times she’s saved everyone’s life—including all of yours?”
“I say we grab the Wolf’s lass and her rotten lord and bury them in the midden! Who’s with me?” Hodge’s voice rang out.
Another loud roar, the voices joining.
Drest retreated into the night.
The villagers were like wasps in a nest that had been struck: angry, unthinking, and dangerous.
What could she do? She would have to take Emerick into the woods and hide, constantly moving, as if she were her father.
But Emerick was not well enough to flee.
Drest shook her head. She would have to face the villagers. She had done so at Soggyweald, alone, only now Tig was on her side, and Torold too, somehow. And Arnulf, she was sure, would object to anyone who sought to harm her, and Wyneck and Idony would do the same. She’d have to find a way to win over the rest.
Or you could slay them, as Da would, said Gobin’s casual voice.
Drest crept back inside the small room. The roar of the crowd was down to a murmur.
She put her eye to the crack—
—and saw the door on the other end of the room open. A tall figure in a dark brown cloak and hood slipped in.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man in a pleasant, gentle voice. “Have I interrupted something?”
Drest’s brow furrowed. The voice was familiar. She tried to think back to the people she’d met in her journey before but could not place him.
“I’ve stopped by, if I may, for a bite to eat. And to ask how safe is the road ahead. There are rumors everywhere about the Mad Wolf.”
Drest knew that voice now.
It was the knight who had chased her, the one who’d spoken about the price on her head.
9
A TRAITOR
“You sound like a castle man.” Arnulf’s voice was cold and echoed in the mill’s large room. “Who are you?”
“I’m Swithun the tanner of Brill’s Gate. I was a castle man for many years. I was taken from my village to work at Faintree Castle at my trade. But I’m going home now; my term with them is up.”
Liar, Drest thought. I saw you wearing chain mail.
A wee bairn began to cry.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a castle man in this village,” Arnulf said slowly. “A very long time.”
“Yes, I’ve heard it’s not safe for castle men here. But I hoped that I might be welcome, just for a meal, being but a tanner.” He paused. “Do you wish me to go?”
“Before you do,” called another voice—Hodge’s, Drest recognized—“I’d like to hear news. We’ve heard some rumors, see, about the Mad Wolf, and your Lord Faintree. Where’s your lord gone? Do you know?”
Now the whole room was silent, but for the bairn’s stuttering sobs.
Drest held her breath.
“He’s not here, then?” said the man.
“No,” said Hodge, “I wouldn’t be asking you that if he were.”
The man cleared his throat. “Where our young lord is: That’s the question. One rumor says that when the Mad Wolf escaped from the castle prison, he caught the lord in his chamber, broke his neck, and threw him to the sea. But Sir Oswyn—he’s our lord now—said he saw Grimbol’s youngest—the bloodthirsty lass—in the young lord’s chamber. He says she took him away and murdered him in a place sacred to her family. But not here, you say. So he must be somewhere else.”
A low murmur crossed the room as the bairn’s sobs became wails.
“I should mention,” the man went on, “there’s a price on her head. Three silver pounds. If any one of you should find her, tell me, and I’ll be sure you get that.”
Drest stumbled out onto the grass. Now all the villagers knew. Three silver pounds would be a fortune to anyone in Phearsham Ridge. And once he had her, the knight would be able to get the rest.
The door behind her flung open, and a small figure came through, carrying the wailing baby. It was the woman with the long black braid. At the sight of Drest, she gasped.
It would take only a moment for the woman to call back to the mill, only a moment to earn her three silver pounds.
Drest’s hand slipped down to her sword. For the first time, her fingers shook as they closed around the grip.
“Hurry and come,” said the woman, glancing back at the door. “My name is Elys, and you can trust me. Quick, before anyone else sees you.”
And before Drest knew what was happening, Elys seized her wrist and broke into a run along the path.
Drest sprinted alongside her, down to the cluster of wattle-and-daub huts. They
ducked inside the third in a row, into darkness and the reeking scent of earth.
Elys let her daughter onto the packed dirt floor and dragged the wooden door shut. “I can only imagine what your life has been. But when Tig says a person is a friend, I believe him.”
A tiny bloom of relief washed over Drest. “That man. He’s not a tanner. He’s the knight I saw early this morn.”
Elys’s dark eyes grew wide. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, he spoke to me. He—he said there’s a mighty price on my head, but I’m also a wolf’s head, and he—” Drest put her hand over her mouth.
“My God,” murmured the woman.
She was at Drest’s side, her arms around the girl, holding her tight.
“I’ll not let him touch you. This is not a life a lass should lead—nay, not any child! I’ll not let that filthy, lying rogue near you!”
Drest leaned into her embrace, forgetting for a moment everything but the feel of those strong arms around her, the powerful hand rubbing her back.
What about your lord, Drest? Wulfric’s voice urged. He’s all alone, unprotected, in that hut.
She pulled away. “That knight—I’m not safe while he’s here, and I can’t leave Emerick and—we can’t stay in this village.”
“We’d best get you both out before he finds you. Your lord—he needs clothes, does he not?” Elys grabbed a tunic and a pair of boots that were hanging from a rope on the wall. “Take Barbary. Pick her up under her arms.”
Drest looked down. The bairn was sticking a fistful of rushes in her mouth.
“Quick! Before my Hodge comes back and sees you. Ah, that fool man with his mouth that never stops!”
Drest dropped to her knees and drew the bairn into her lap, then up into her arms.
“I won’t hurt you,” Drest promised, trying to be gentle as she lifted the wriggling, grumbling child.
Elys opened the door a crack, then sprang out. Drest caught up in seconds, and they ran together down the path, keeping to the shadows. Elys took a shortcut between the trees to the healer’s hut. Mordag let out a welcoming caa from the roof.
Drest barreled inside after Elys.
“There you are!” cried Tig. “Thank goodness! There was a man at the mill, talking of the price—”
“I was there. Tig, that man was the knight who’d chased me!”
Wimarca shut the door behind them and took Barbary from Drest’s arms.
Elys dropped her pile of clothing on the bed. “I’ll help you dress, lord.”
Mordag’s harsh creea from outside seemed to shatter the air around them.
Tig rushed to Drest. “He’s come! Quickly, hide!”
Barbary let out a ringing cry.
Drest looked around. The hut was small, with no room under the bed. The walls were bare and there was nothing that could conceal her.
Her hand closed over Tancored’s grip, then slid up into her tunic to her dagger. She would have to attack the knight as he entered, and do it perfectly the first time.
“Can you climb the post?” Tig pointed to a support on the side of the hut. “There’s not much room in the thatch, but—”
Another barking call from Mordag, more urgent than the last.
Elys threw the blankets over Emerick and spun around to block sight of him, her hands on her hips.
Drest sprang onto the post and clambered up, up, to the beam embedded in the thatch. As long as no one looked there, she’d be safe. She pulled up her scabbard as the door creaked open.
“Ah! I beg your pardon.” The knight slipped into the room and looked around with a greasy smile. “I saw this lad running, and I thought—oh, my, what a noddy I seem to be—but I thought he had something to tell me, and was trying to get me away from the rest.”
Barbary let out a full-throated scream.
The knight flinched, and, still smiling, looked quickly around the hut again.
Drest held her breath. She would never forget that long forehead with its wreath of faint brown hair, that thin nose, those long flat cheeks, and those piercing dark eyes.
Nor the feel of his hand on her ankle, the sparkle of his blade in the night, and those horrible words in his cracked voice: wolf’s head.
Tig advanced to the middle of the room. “If I’d something to tell you, I’d have stood outside and waited. You’re not wanted here.”
The knight stiffened. “Are those the words to speak to a guest of your village? I think not.”
“I don’t care what you think. Will you leave?”
The knight crossed his arms. “I may not care what you think, either, but I do care what you know. And I shall not leave until you tell me where she is. Now, will you do it here, or shall I take you outside?”
Tig didn’t move.
Drest reached up into her tunic for her dagger.
Trust your friend. Nutkin’s voice, a whisper. He knows what to do.
“Information,” said Tig softly, “or a beating?”
“I think you’ll find it best to do as I say.”
“I don’t like beatings, but perhaps it will be a beating that will go beyond bruises and cuts,” Tig mused, as if he hadn’t heard the knight. “I can’t control it, though. The men will decide.”
“What are you talking about?” snapped the knight. “What men?”
Tig’s eyes met Wimarca’s with a gaze suddenly keen and questioning.
The old healer rocked Barbary, and the bairn became quiet. “Do you know in what village you stand?” she said in a gentle voice, her gaze on the baby. “Its history of hatred against the men who come from Faintree Castle is long and bleak.”
“I am no castle man, and you, old woman, had better—”
“They’ll know you. They sniff it out, our villagers. And it won’t be just men. No, every villager with a strong arm will have already gathered up their sticks, their hoes, their sickles, and will be coming to this hut. Yes, my dear.” She smiled down at the baby. “They saw you leave. They saw where you hurried. And woe to you if they see you standing here.”
Silence. The knight looked around the room, his eyes flicking over Elys and the table and the fire, returning to Wimarca, and then to Tig, who had raised his chin and was looking expectantly outside.
“You will answer me,” snarled the knight, but he retreated, and soon was out the door.
Wimarca strode to the threshold and with her foot shoved the door closed. Mordag let out a long, harsh creea.
“He’s waiting,” Tig whispered. “He’s just outside.”
Barbary let out another wail, and this time, her mother went to her.
Mordag’s call rang out again—but it wasn’t from the roof now. It was farther away. Then it came again, still farther.
“He’s run off, but not far.” Tig rushed to the bed, where Emerick had thrown back the blanket and was starting to rise. “Hurry! I’ll help you.”
Drest scampered down the post.
“Here, child.” Wimarca thrust a cloak and hood into Drest’s arms. “Put these on.”
Tig was pulling Hodge’s tunic over Emerick’s torso as the young lord slipped his arms through the sleeves. Elys unbuckled her own belt and handed it wordlessly to Tig, who buckled it around Emerick’s waist.
“I wonder if he noticed that you’re wearing the castle’s colors,” Emerick said.
“Oh, I’m sure he did; he wouldn’t have challenged me quite that much if he hadn’t.” Tig marched to the fire and lifted the pot. “One more drink, Emerick.”
“There isn’t time.” Wimarca grabbed a bunch of herbs from her table and thrust them into Emerick’s hand. “Chew these when you’re in pain, but sparingly. Now all of you: Go. Before that man sees that no one’s on the path and returns.”
Drest darted to Emerick’s side and slipped under his arm. Tig opened the door.
“It’s safe,” he whispered. “I think.”
“Be careful, Tig—and you too, my lass,” called Elys softly.
As Drest passed her, the woman reached out and touched her cheek, a gentle stroke that Drest would remember later.
But at that moment, she hardly noticed. She was outside in the darkness, the shadows dense beneath the trees, and then she and Tig were running, Emerick heavy on her shoulder, into the woods.
part two: flight
10
THE ESCAPE
“I doubt he’s ever been to Brill’s Gate; he must have seen it once on a map.” Emerick shook his head. “No, he’s not a tanner; his name is Sir Fergal. He’s been at the castle for as long as I can remember. He was terrible on a horse and could not hit a target accurately with a sword or an arrow for his life. The master of the knights—Sir Reynard—gave him extra practice every day. Sir Fergal was always out in the bailey at midnight trying to get better at something or other.”
They’d walked for hours, it seemed, until the partial moon was high, and had stopped to rest beside a mossy fallen trunk. The ground was damp.
“Sir Fergal,” Drest said. The name was heavy in her mouth.
“I remember being in battle with him,” Emerick went on. “I was kept in the back where there wasn’t risk, and he was kept there too, as one of the knights we couldn’t count on. I was fourteen years old, and he didn’t speak to me once. I expect he was terrified as well.”
“I’m sorry,” said Drest. “I should have slain him when I had the chance.”
“Then Wimarca and I wouldn’t have had our bit of fun,” said Tig with a hollow laugh. “Emerick, he didn’t notice you, did he?”
Emerick reached into his tunic, where he had stuck the bundle of herbs, and withdrew a leaf. He’d been eating them slowly as he and his friends had fled, and the bundle was half gone. “I don’t think so. With Elys’s harsh look, I don’t think he wanted to give our corner of the room much of a glance. And he didn’t notice Drest. That’s thanks to you, Tig. You made him hideously uncomfortable. Well done.”