Mouse struggled from sleep and sat up, drawing her blanket close against the morning chill. “Would the duke have aught to do with vagabonds like us?”
The puppeteer darted about the wagon, folding her blanket, taking out the pots for their morning meal. From their store of provisions gathered during their treks to the summer fairs, she took out a flask of honey and measured a handful of barley into the cooking pot. Beneath her shapeless garment Mouse saw the outline of the sword. Curiosity burned like a Midsummer’s bonfire inside Mouse, but in all the time that had passed since Simon had told his strange tale, she dared not reveal what she knew of the silver saber and its mysterious markings. All summer long her mentor had seemed jumpy and preoccupied. Often they had left town hurriedly, the wagon bumping along darkening roads with naught but the surefooted horse and the sputtering lantern to guide them.
Now the puppeteer said, “The duke was a friend of my father, though many a twelvemonth has passed since then.” She handed Mouse the water bucket. “Fill this, then make a goodly fire, for a cold wind blows this morn.”
Mouse dressed quickly and complied, and soon a fire crackled in the clearing in Marbury Wood, where they had passed a quiet night. When the boiling barley thickened, they ladled it into their bowls and sweetened it with honey.
“How far to Gimingham?” Mouse queried. A silvery fog was seeping through the trees, bringing with it an unease that made her shiver. “I should not like to be in this wood on All Hallows’ Eve. Fenn said that is the time evil walks about.”
“Two days’ journey along the easterly road will bring us to the manor,” the puppeteer replied. “If the stranger’s words prove true, we shall find ourselves in the midst of a celebration and away from harm till the day is safely past.”
“Will there be wassail for All Hallows’ Day?” Mouse wondered. “At Dunston I helped Cook make it, but never would he give me leave to taste it.”
“The duke will provide a goodly feast, and wassail there will be, full of roasted apples and spice.”
“With sweet cakes floating on top?” Mouse could nearly taste the savory treat.
“With sweet cakes floating on top.”
“We shall give our play, and mayhap the duke will bid us stay till Christmas,” Mouse said. “I should like to play some games and listen to the harps. Mayhap there will be roasted goose for supper and jesters and music makers all the way from London.”
The puppeteer smiled. “First we must go to Gimingham and see whether a welcome awaits. Finish your meal. The sun is nearly up, and we must be away.”
While they ate, they spoke of the new play they would give in the spring and of the puppets themselves, which seemed more than ever like living beings, so dearly did Mouse love them.
“Sir Alfred needs a new costume,” Mouse said, licking clean her spoon. “His old one is so full of holes, he is quite embarrassed. I shall make him a new one. Mayhap then Bridget will think him the finest knight in all the realm.”
“Perchance she will. Then again, one never knows what our princess will do. But mayhap her unpredictability is part of her charm.”
“I think she only pretends not to love Alfred.” Mouse broke off a bit of bread and mopped the last drop of honey from the bottom of her bowl. “Have you noticed our dragon needs a new head?”
“Quite so. He has grown so cracked and faded, he does not look fierce at all. I should not be surprised to find him weeping into his pillow for the shame of it, poor fellow.”
Then the two of them laughed merrily, their voices clear and pure as the notes of a lyre.
“I shall never forget the day you flung poor Alfred onto the dragon’s back,” the puppeteer said ruefully. “It is a wonder we were not flogged, so angry was that crowd.” Her one blue eye held steady on her young companion. “You have learned much since then, little one, and acquitted yourself far beyond the promise of your years.”
It was true, Mouse thought with a deep sense of pride. In the long months since stealing aboard the wagon, she had, through mistakes and hard work, proven worthy of her art and earned the right to call herself the puppeteer’s apprentice.
The puppeteer went on. “I have never seen a finer performance than the one you gave at the Derby fair on St. Swithin’s Day. Bridget fairly glided across the stage to meet St. George. It is an apt pupil you are, and I do regret having misjudged you.”
“I misjudged you,” Mouse said. “Before I knew you were not a man, I thought surely you were a dangerous outlaw, or else a rogue prince, traveling in disguise.”
“Ha!” The puppeteer shook her head. She warmed her hands before the fire. “Mayhap we shall choose a name for you today, for it is plain to me you never were a mouse.”
Full of emotion, Mouse said fervently, “I would share your name, if you would reveal it.”
In a voice suddenly frigid as the morn, the puppeteer said, “I have given you the knowledge you were bound to learn, but never will I give you my name.”
Stung, Mouse said, “Keep it, then! I would not have it now for all the gold in the world.”
“It is always easy to despise what you cannot have.” The puppeteer began gathering their bowls. “Douse the fire, Mouse, then hitch the—”
Her words were swallowed up in the thunderous sound of hoofbeats that suddenly filled the clearing. Two riders dressed in black raced through the wood, their swords and poleaxes gleaming dully in the watery autumn light. One was fat and red-faced. The other, racing pell-mell behind, seemed in his saddle to be tall as a giant. Before Mouse could move or make a sound, the men were upon them.
“Run, Mouse!” the puppeteer cried, taking up her sword.
But Mouse could only stand there, her mouth suddenly bone-dry, all her senses sharpened by fear. She was aware all at once of the smell of smoke and lathered horses and the fearsome gleam of the weapons against the muted colors of their wagon. The snap of the logs burning in the campfire seemed to roar in her ears.
With a bloodcurdling yell, the fat man drew his sword. The clearing rang with the screech of blade on blade as the puppeteer fought for her life. Mouse finally found her feet. She ran to the wagon and crouched beneath it just as the giant turned his horse and, with a vicious blow from his poleax, splintered the roof. Shards of green paint and bare wood rained down and collected in the folds of Mouse’s kirtle. She watched in horror as the man seized their horse and, with a single motion, drew his sword from throat to belly. The terror-stricken animal screamed and crumpled onto the frosted earth, his sides heaving, his dying breath clouding the air.
Another scream echoed in the clearing. Mouse peered from beneath the wagon. Somehow, the puppeteer had unseated the fat man from his mount. Now she attacked from behind with a mighty blow that felled him at last and sent his horse running down the road.
The giant wheeled his horse and charged toward the puppeteer, his thick curls flying like a black pennant in the wind. Mouse saw a quick flash of metal as his poleax went spinning through the air.
Mouse tried to yell a warning, but no sound came. Dizzy with fear, heaving with silent sobs, she could but watch as the weapon buried itself in the puppeteer’s shoulder, and the puppeteer fell. Then the giant dismounted and began ransacking the wagon, tossing aside the puppets and their wooden chest, rolls of cloth and the paint pots, then their blankets, bowls, and flasks.
The puppeteer tried to rise, but the effort was too much. She moaned, a pitiful, desperate sound. Mouse gulped air and tried to clear her mind. She must do something before it was too late. Her heart pounded wildly. On her hands and knees beneath the wagon, she edged closer to the murderous thief.
He was crouched in the dirt, muttering to himself as he raided their money box. The fog-shrouded clearing now was so quiet, Mouse could hear the faint tinkling of the coins spilling onto the ground.
Soundlessly, she edged closer still, till she could see his scuffed black boots and the frayed hem of his cloak. Gathering her courage, she rolled from beneath the wagon.
His horse shied and nickered softly, but the man continued his pilfering. Mouse leapt to her feet, seized a burning branch from the fire, and raised it above her head. At that moment the man turned, and Mouse stared, thunderstruck, into the eyes of the man she had first encountered at the ribbon seller’s stall in Marlingford. There was no mistaking the silver medallion hung about his neck. As surely as if she had been dealt a blow, Mouse realized it was his face she had glimpsed at the window of the theater in Reedham, his face that had so terrified her puppeteer. Now she knew his name.
“Ordin!” she cried.
“Put down that branch, girl. I have no quarrel with you.” He spoke quietly, as if to calm her. “It is your companion I have sought, for she is the one whose word sent me to prison for more years than I care to remember.”
“It was you who followed us all summer and frightened my puppeteer!”
He smiled. “Biding my time till I could catch you alone, without the protection of crowds at the fairs. Your puppeteer is a slippery sort. More than once I lost your trail, but I do not give up easily.”
“Mouse!” the puppeteer cried faintly. But Mouse dared not take her eyes off Ordin. She tightened her grasp on the burning branch. Suddenly Ordin reached for his dagger, which lay but an arm’s length away, but desperation fueled Mouse’s quickness. She jabbed the red-hot ember squarely into his eye, then landed a solid blow on his head.
With a roar, he flailed his arms and stumbled about the clearing, then toppled into the crackling fire. Flames licked at his cloak and his breeches. He rolled away and began crawling blindly toward the stream, but soon he collapsed and lay still. The stench of charred flesh hung heavily in the air.
Mouse stood there, tears streaming down her face. She dropped the burning branch and rushed to the puppeteer, who lay facedown, one arm outstretched, the other protecting the sword lying beneath her. The blade of Ordin’s poleax was deeply embedded in her shoulder. Despite the fire, Mouse had never in all her life felt so cold. The smells of blood and death made her stomach roil. “Think!” she ordered herself, and then it seemed the very air around her shimmered with the knowledge of what she must do.
“I will go to Gimingham.” The sound of her own voice steadied Mouse as she moved about the clearing. She gently lifted the puppeteer’s arm and freed her sword. The blade was nicked and slick with blood, but Mouse was beyond shock. With the hem of her kirtle, she calmly wiped it clean, then bent over the bodies of the dead thieves to see what useful things might be found. She took Ordin’s dagger, then bent over his companion, who also lay facedown, one leg crumpled beneath him. Reaching under his hulking form, Mouse extracted a leather pouch bulging with coins and a flask that smelled of strong spirits.
Carefully, she turned the puppeteer onto her side and lifted the puppeteer’s head. “Drink this.”
She dribbled the amber-colored liquid into the puppeteer’s mouth. “You must lie still. I will go to Gimingham and find someone to aid us.”
The puppeteer nodded. “Watch how you go. Ordin—”
“Dead,” Mouse reported. “And his companion, too. But I will leave Ordin’s dagger here, should you have need of it.”
She covered the puppeteer with their blankets, then gathered the puppets, stuffing them hastily into two empty flour sacks from the wagon. She retrieved Ordin’s wild-eyed horse from the thorny underbrush and coaxed him back into the clearing. Then, with the leather straps used for securing their trunks, she tied the puppeteer’s sword and her puppets onto the saddle and climbed up.
Beneath his unaccustomed rider the horse pranced nervously. Mouse did not think about her fright the time she had fallen from the peddler’s horse. Her only thought was to save her puppeteer. Leaning forward, she patted the curve of the horse’s neck. “There now,” she crooned, as much to steady her own racing heart as his. “I will not hurt you. Get along, horse, and be quick about it.”
Digging her heels into his sides, she urged him onto the road.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gimingham
At the far end of Marbury Wood, there is a crossroad leading east and west, and it was upon this road some time later that Mouse overtook a farmer with his oxcart.
“I pray you, sir,” she said, reining in the lathered horse, “how far to the manor house at Gimingham?”
“A hard ride will find you there by sundown,” he replied. “But beware how you go. There are strangers about. And look after that horse. He will not last the journey without water and rest.”
Mouse thanked the man and started off again, the awkward bundles bumping against the saddle. The fog had burned away, and a weak autumn sun shone as she rode on and on down the empty road. It seemed days had passed since the events of the morning; her arms and legs felt heavy, as if she had not slept for a twelve-month.
“Sir Alfred,” she asked aloud, “what will become of us?”
But he made no answer.
Near midday Mouse stopped to rest and water the horse at a stream running beside the road, and again as the afternoon light waned. It was nearly dark when the lights of a manor house appeared through the trees.
She dismounted and led the horse by the reins up the curving lane, past farmers still working in the fields, past the malt house, the smithy and stable, till she reached a tall iron gate. Before she could call out a greeting, the gatekeeper approached, his torch raised.
“Who goes there?”
“Please, sir. If this be Gimingham, I must see the duke. It is a matter of life and death.”
“What is this?” he asked, looking past her into the approaching darkness. “Some scheme to draw me out until your accomplices can slip inside?”
“It is no scheme. I am alone. I myself was set upon by thieves just this morn, and my companion lies wounded in Marbury Wood. I pray you, send help before it is too late.”
“A clever ruse, sending a child to beguile me with a pitiful tale.” The man held his torch closer to Mouse. “But that scar belies your story, girl. Go away.”
A round man in a neat brown beard hurried toward the gate. “What is it, Paston?”
“This child claims to be a victim of thieves in Mar-bury Wood and begs our aid for her companion, who has fallen there. A scheme, no doubt, dreamed up by those highwaymen who have been spreading their terror these past days. They mean to rob us, I trow.”
Mouse stepped into the circle of guttering torchlight. “If it please you, sir, I must find the duke at once.”
“You have found him,” the man said with a slight bow. “I am Thomas of Gimingham. So, set upon by thieves, you say?”
Mouse nodded. “Two of them. My companion, whose father was your friend long ago, is gravely wounded and begs your aid.”
The gatekeeper laughed. “A preposterous tale, meant for an All Hallows’ trick or worse. Send this urchin on her way, or else hold her here till the sheriff can be summoned.”
“Wait a moment.” The duke opened the gate.
“What are you doing?” the gatekeeper cried. “Her accomplices may lie in wait in the dark.”
Ignoring his gatekeeper, the duke said to Mouse, “Where did you get this horse?”
“It belonged to the thief,” Mouse said impatiently. “He killed our horse and sundered our wagon, and he would have destroyed our puppets, too, if only—”
“Puppets?” the duke interrupted.
“Yes, sir. If you please, go to Marbury Wood, in the clearing near the easterly road, and you will see I speak the truth.”
“I recognize the trappings on this horse,” the duke told his gatekeeper. “They are those of Ordin, who is wanted for a dozen crimes hereabouts. Go at once and mount a party to fetch this child’s companion, then alert the sheriff. Mayhap there is still time to catch the thieves before they do more harm.”
“You will not need the sheriff,” Mouse said. “Both the thieves are dead.”
With a smirk, the gatekeeper said, “Felled by your own brave hand, no doubt.”
“Onl
y one of them,” Mouse said matter-of-factly. “My companion killed the other.”
The gatekeeper burst into peals of laughter. “I must say, this tale grows more unbelievable by the moment. Surely, sir, you can see this is but a trick to lure us away and render our house unprotected.”
“It will not take an army, Paston, to retrieve one wounded soul. Enough men there be to guard us in your absence. Make haste and send for me as soon as you return.”
So saying, he swung wide the gate. And Mouse, tired, hungry, and afraid for the fate of her dear puppeteer, went inside.
• • •
Pale sunlight was streaming through a high window when Mouse awoke. Startled, she sat up in the strange bed. Her clothes were gone, replaced by a soft nightdress she did not recall having donned. From below came the drone of voices and the sound of horses on the road. Then she remembered everything.
Before she could rise, there was a knock at the door, and in came a thin young woman carrying a basin and pitcher. Folded neatly over one arm were Mouse’s tunic and kirtle. “You are awake at last,” she said.
“Have the men returned from the wood?”
“At dawn this morn, and bearing your companion, just as you said.”
“Does she—is she—?”
“Alive for the moment, though my lord says her wound is quite grave. All in this house are at prayer for her. We have tended her wounds and summoned the physician from the abbey. And the men have brought your wagon back. There is nothing more to be done.”
Mouse threw back the coverlet. “I must see her.”
“Wait awhile, till she wakes. I have brushed your clothes and brought water for washing up.” She smiled. “You were so tired last night, I merely stripped off your clothes and tucked you in without a wash, though Nurse Catchpole did not approve.”
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