"It can be raised to give access to the catacombs from there."
Tamberlane had turned at the sound of their voices. At first he frowned, for he did not see Amie, but then his eyes widened as he recognized the face beneath the Phrygian cap. He took in every small detail: the bulky layers of shirt and tunic that concealed the shape of her breasts, the plain brown hose and the rounds of bandaging that thickened her calves.
“You make a fine squire,” he murmured, nodding with approval.
As compliments went, it was hardly the fodder for a romantic sonnet, but coming from such stern lips, it sent a flush of warmth all the way down to her toes.
“We were about to send men to the keep to look for you," he said to Marak. "The horses grow restless in such a confined space.”
“Then you had best be on your way.”
The seneschal turned to Amie and produced a small canvas sack from somewhere inside his voluminous robes. “I have taken the liberty of blending the proper herbs and nostrums together in small packets for you to steep into your favorite posset each morning and night. I have mixed a balm for you to put over your wound if it shows any sign of distress. As well, there is an aumosniere to be taken a few drops at time but only if the pain in your shoulder becomes too much to bear. Take only a few drops," he reiterated, pressing a small vial into her hand. "Any more and you will fall asleep in the saddle, fall off and crack your head open on a rock.”
“You are not coming with us?” The thought had not even occurred to her that he would not.
“Alas, even though your country lies mostly under cloudy skies, I do not travel well and under certain circumstances would become more of a liability than a help.”
She was at a loss for words, knowing their path would end here. “I do not even know what to say that could adequately thank you for all you have done.”
“Your smile, Little One, is thanks enough. That,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice, “and perhaps a kind word in the Mother Abbess’s ear when you reach the priory. I am told the convent of the Sisters of Mary Magdalene is known for the fine wine they brew in their cloisters, and it is the sweetest burgundy this side of the Channel.
“Between then and now, however,” he added, straightening. “I have every faith that you will be in very good hands. The two knights you see standing with Lord Tamberlane rode by his side in Jaffa and were among the first to seek him out here at Taniere and offer their swords in service. Anyone approaching you would have to do so over their slaughtered corpses and considering that neither Sir Boethius d'Esmond nor Sir Geoffrey de Ville have met defeat in the lists or in battle, I would think the possibility of that happening is slender."
The two burly knights, hearing their names, offered courteous bows.
"The bowmen you see," Marak continued, "are culled from the finest outlaws in all the king’s forests and each can shoot the eye out of one of Prince John’s tax collectors at two hundred paces.”
A soft clearing of the throat brought Marak’s head tipping around. “Ah yes, and not the least of the surly lot, of course, is Roland Longchamps, whom you already know. What you may not be familiar with is the fact that a squire must perform One Chivalric Deed before being considered a candidate for knighthood. Roland has thus been charged with delivering you safely into the hands of the Abbess. The task is sacred and binding, and to fail would mean he would never wear the spurs of a knight.”
The squire stepped forth and went down on one knee before her. “From this moment forth, my lady, your comfort and safety are my utmost concern. To that end," he added, as he rose, "might I inquire... do you ride?”
She thought the question a little doltish under the circumstances, until she followed Roland's glance to the four palfreys who stood trembling in the company of the three much larger coursers meant for the knights. Two were packhorses, burdened under supplies; the other two were saddled without thought to a woman’s comfort or style of riding. In keeping with her guise as a squire, she would be expected to sit astride and endure the aches and discomforts of a plain, unpadded wooden saddle. There would be no covered chairs if it rained, no frequent stops to ease a tired back. Moreover, she would be expected to sleep on the open ground and do her fair share of menial tasks should they attract the attention of other travellers along the way.
“Yes, I can ride,” she assured him. “I can also fire an arrow with a modicum of skill, hunt and skin a hare, then cook it over an open fire. But you must not address me as my lady, nor even Amaranth. You must call me simply Boy, or You There and I shall answer.”
Roland grinned. “I doubt I could address you by either sobriquet, my lady, but perhaps we will settle on an amiable compromise ere we travel too far.”
“So long as it is not Oaf,” she said with a slight smile. “Although I feel very much like one already.”
“Whereas I think you are brave and courageous and your plight touches upon the very meaning of chivalry. To that end, I pledge my sword to your protection unto my last drawn breath.”
They had kept their voices low throughout the exchange, but with the last declaration, it seemed to Amie as though Tamberlane’s head had turned slightly to catch the words. It turned back just as quickly when he detected her notice, and with no further delay, he ordered the men to each take up a torch and lead their animals into one of the gaping tunnels.
The knights went first, led by the Dragonslayer himself, followed by Roland leading his palfrey and holding his torch high. Amie was next with the two foresters bringing up the rear.
Her last glimpse of Marak, before the catacombs swallowed her into their depths, showed him standing with Inaya, one arm around her shoulder, the other raised in a farewell salute.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the time dawn broke gray and gold over the horizon, the small party of knights and foresters were miles away from Taniere Castle. The tunnel had taken them below the man-made moat and beneath the village, snaking into the deepest heart of the forest. The exit from the catacombs let them out below a waterfall, where the river spilled over a steep incline of rocks.
Amaranth was in complete awe. The long walk through the twisting, musty tunnels had been half-terrifying, half-thrilling. Exiting from behind a solid wall of flowing water seemed a magical and unworldly climax to the escape.
Once they were out in the open Tamberlane ordered the torches doused. The moon was full and bright, bathing the forest floor with streamers of bluish light that cut through the high treetops. It was bright enough to see their way through the stands of oak and ash. They rode when they could see and walked the beasts when the shadows were too thick to risk a turned ankle. The foresters took turns running on ahead to scout the way and it was a credit to their outlaw ways that none of the rest of the party saw or heard them return until they dropped out of a tree limb or stepped suddenly out onto their path.
Amaranth’s excitement kept her fueled through those first few hours leading up to daylight, but then the anxiety of the previous day and the harrowing walk through the catacombs began to creep up upon her and her shoulders started to sag, her legs to ache. The novelty of riding astride wore off long before the moonlight faded and although Roland inquired periodically after her welfare, and she always replied with a smile and a nod, her inner thighs ached like the devil and her shoulders—both of them—were throbbing.
More than once she glanced at the small canvas pouch she had tied to her saddle and wondered how she could discreetly add a drop of Marak’s tincture to her skin of drinking water. She could not, would not show signs of weakness, not when all of these men were putting their lives at risk to see her safely to the convent.
Tamberlane did not call a lengthy halt at the hour of Prime, nor even Terce. Happily, when the sun was directly overhead, and some distant church bell announced the hour of Sext, he allowed the little band to stop by a stream and rest a while.
Amie dismounted with care, not wanting to betray how stiff and sore she was. She even managed to s
mile warmly at Roland when he produced large portions of cheese, bread, and dried herring for their midday meal. The food, as well as the ale that was consumed along with it, helped restore Amie’s spirits somewhat, and she was able to hold her saddle until the late afternoon, when the knights declared they were far enough away from Taniere to allow for a second halt.
This time, she did put a single drop of the pretty blue tincture into her pannikin, which worked astonishingly well to ease the cramps in her back and legs.
The good weather they had begun the day with did not hold. Clouds moved in as the afternoon wore on and turned the sky overhead a sullen gray. The trees were thick enough that when it started to drizzle, the leaves buffered the raindrops, splitting them in half, then half again, so that when they reached the ground, they were more of a heavy mist than a rainfall. The light became eerie, turning the carpets of ferns into a sea of emerald green.
Still they slogged forward, following no path or road that Amie could see. When the sky grew even more ominous and no amount of leaves overhead could diffuse the pellets of rain, the foresters were dispatched ahead to find a safe place to shelter for the night.
Amie, hunched beneath her cloak, took another surreptitious drop of Marak’s potion, washing the bitterness down with a mouthful of water. Her shoulder was aching continuously now and she was cold enough to feel her bones rattling together with each jostling step the palfrey took. Her fingers were locked into claws around the reins and she suspected the dripping from her nose was not all due to the rain.
William Fletcher, one of the foresters, appeared before them through a break in the trees and declared that they had found a cave large enough to provide shelter for the night. It smelled of rot but it was dry, and within short order the men had built a fire and set two skinned hares onto spits to roast. Because horseflesh was valued almost higher than human flesh, the destriers and palfreys were crowded into one end of the cave, lending it the heady scent of wet hair, leather, and manure. Amie did not care. She ate her portion of rabbit, drank her posset and fell fast asleep wrapped in the cocoon of her cloak.
Morning brought a new form of misery, introducing her to cramping and stiffness in muscles she had not, if ever, used before. The simple act of straightening her legs took several minutes and while trying to stand, she was reminded of the foal she had watched being delivered in Taniere's stables. At the time, she had found the little creature's efforts to straighten his spindly legs almost comical. When they were her legs wobbling, she was not so amused.
A hand reached out to grab her arm and steady her an instant before she pitched face down into the firepit.
"Are you well enough to face another day?"
She drew herself upright and offered what she thought was her most confident smile. "Yes, of course. I am quite rested, thank you my lord. I just... caught my toe on the edge of my cloak."
Tamberlane released her elbow and bent down, wretchedly unaffected by either sore muscles or the bulk of the chain mail hauberk he wore. He picked up her cloak and shook it out, then draped it around her shoulders. "I estimate it should take six days to reach the convent. We are, of course, hampered by the need to keep to the forest and steer well away from the main roads. But if the journey becomes too difficult for you—?"
"I am fine," she said. "Please do not trouble yourself worrying over my comfort."
He studied her face for a long moment then gave her a slight nod. "You will tell me if the strain becomes too much... on your shoulder. Marak would not thank me for undoing all of his good work."
She nodded and smiled but one knew and the other suspected she would have to fall out of the saddle and land on her head before she would admit to any weakness.
~~
Six hours later, in a downpour heavy enough to make the horses snort in protest, Tamberlane led the small party down a gully and along a spongy tract of ground that ended, abruptly, on the upper slope of a shallow valley. Stretched out below them was a meadow dotted with small clusters of huddled, rain-soaked sheep. A river cut through the lowest part of the valley, bridged by a narrow wooden structure with a gatehouse on the opposite side. Beyond that was a monastery with two long wings housing the pilgrims hall and almonry, separated by an iron gate and cobbled yard. Behind that lay the cloisters and refectory and to the north, a small priory church.
There was a line of sodden pilgrims waiting at the gatehouse seeking refuge from the storm. The sky was black with boiling clouds and there was no sign the rain would ease any time soon.
Accommodations for the coming night could be had inside the monastery walls. Pilgrims and beggars could sleep for the price of a prayer in the main hall, but more comfortable and private sleeping quarters could be provided if a coin was shown to the gatekeeper. It was left to Tamberlane to weigh the risk of staying with the common rabble, or possibly drawing more attention to themselves by waving coins around. Despite being summoned to London, it was not unreasonable to assume that Odo de Langois would have eyes watching every possible place where his wife might seek refuge.
While Amie’s disguise might get her past the gatekeeper’s nose, the horses were another matter entirely. The Dragonslayer’s piebald was as mighty as his master’s reputation and no absence of silks or saw-toothed caparisons could disguise the beast’s calling as a warhorse. Similarly, the animals belonging to the two knights betrayed their lack of penury as did the richness in the coats of the palfreys. The rain might act in their favor. With hoods pulled low over their brows and their knightly trappings hidden beneath water-soaked cloaks, there was a fair chance they would be waved through without too close of an inspection.
Still, it was a risk, for there was no way of knowing who had already passed through the gates and might be taking refuge inside.
As if to aid in making the decision, the skies cracked open with a jagged fork of lightning. The rain increased to slanting sheets that forced everyone in the small group to turn their heads to the side. Ciaran caught sight of Amaranth’s face and was appalled to see that her lips were blue, her eyes glazed and unfocussed.
“We cannot stay in the open,” he decided. He raised a gloved hand to signal them forward, cautioning the men needlessly to pull their cloaks tight about them. It was common for monasteries to insist that weapons be left at the gatehouse but a knight without a sword was as naked as a forester without his bow and quiver, and so he ordered that daggers and swords be well concealed.
Amie barely paid heed. She was cold and wet. The rain had penetrated the tightest weavings on her cloak and was running down the back of her neck. Chills and aches swept through her in waves and twice over the course of the past hour she had reached beneath her tunic for the small vial that contained the aumosniere.
As Tamberlane led the group across the meadow, the rain beat down on their heads and shoulders and did not let up until they were across the wooden bridge and approaching the gatekeeper. The latter looked as sodden and as sullen as the pilgrims he was sheltering. He was as broad around as he was tall, with a fat, jowly face shielded under the brim of hat that collected water and spilled it over his nose each time he tipped his head to or fro.
“God’s greetings to you, my son, and in His name, I bid you welcome to St. Albans.”
“God’s greetings to you, good friar," said Tamberlane. "We come seeking shelter from the storm.”
“As do all His sheep, my son,” the monk replied wearily, without looking up. “How many, anon?”
“There are six of us. Hungry, weary, and wet enough to beg a humble roof over our heads for the night.”
“Humble, eh?” The friar noted the quality of the horses and the well-fed look of the two wolfhounds who sat and calmly returned his stare.
Tamberlane produced a small handful of copper coins. “Not so humble as to prefer the common hall over a bit of privacy,” he said quietly.
“Ah.” The monk looked up then, spilling water down his back. A pudgy hand reached out for the coins and contemplated the
weight. “No doubt God's creatures will want shelter and fodder as well?”
Tamberlane dropped another coin into the cupped palm. The motion disturbed his mantle enough to outline the shape of his sword beneath.
“You may leave your weapons here with me, my son," the monk said, eyeing the shape. "They will be well tended until you fetch them in the morning."
Tamberlane glanced pointedly at the small pile of swords and daggers left carelessly on the mud and dropped several more coins into the cupped hand. “We come in peace, Little Brother.”
“Peace? Is there such a thing in mother England these days? Nay, I think not.” He made the sign of the cross as a blessing and when he was done, the coins had vanished somewhere inside his robes. “Seek out Brother Ignatius inside the gate. God go with you.”
“And with you, good friar.”
A nod and a long trickle of water flowing off the brim of the hat sent them on their way through the iron gates of the monastery. Inside the cobbled courtyard, the men rode directly to the stables. Tamberlane dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stableboy. He looked around, clapping his hands on his arms to rouse some warmth and on each clap, a spray of water droplets exploded into the air. Amie was the last to dismount and only did so with help from Roland.
Looking at her, Ciaran's sense of alarm increased. Her eyes were huge, the centers as dark as two holes burned into her skull. She seemed unable to focus or keep her head steady for any length of time and when he approached, he saw the small vial of blue liquid she was clutching.
“How much of that have you taken?” he asked quietly.
“Only a drop or tthhoo,” she guessed, the words slurring softly together. Her eyes narrowed to concentrate on the motion of his hand as he reached out and gently uncurled her fingers to extricate the vial, but then she looked up and smiled wide. “But I feel quite fine, my lord. I trust you have not sought refuge at this foul smelling inn on my account for I could ride another half day at least without discomfort.”
Dragon Tree Page 20