by Susan Murray
“At the very least I must have a senior servant to accompany me and ensure propriety. And that servant will be Wynne, or I will not fall in with this mad scheme of yours.”
Tresilian stooped and picked up the scroll she had knocked to the floor. “Weaver, can it be done?”
Weaver straightened up hastily. His colour was high, perhaps from standing over the fire so long. “Taking more than two horses outside the city walls would attract attention. Someone would need to ride pillion, and that would slow us down.”
“Can it be done?” This time it was not a question.
Weaver bowed his head. “Yes, sire, it can be done.”
“Then see to it.”
CHAPTER THREE
Alwenna followed Tresilian down the winding stairs to the foot of the tower, the hood of her woollen cloak scratching against her face. Behind her she could hear the pad of Wynne’s boots on the stairs. Weaver awaited them in the guardroom. Somehow he’d found time to change into dry clothing and shave off his beard. The two men exchanged words in low voices; it seemed the womenfolk were not to be privy to their business. No matter. Alwenna stored up her resentment rather than give voice to it. She’d learned long ago that anger was a stronger ally than fear.
Tresilian turned to her as if he had overheard her thoughts. “This parting won’t be for long.”
“You ought not tempt fate, husband.”
“I’ll take my chance with fate, as long as you are safe. Just think, you always wanted to cross the sea. Now you shall.” Tresilian reached out and pushed back her hood a fraction. Alwenna held herself aloof when he leaned in to press a hasty kiss to her lips.
“Take good care of her, Ranald. Goddess speed you all.”
Weaver led the way in silence across the slick cobbles of the inner ward to the gatehouse. Smoke from the torches in the keep hung in the still air, acrid, catching the back of Alwenna’s throat.
The guard at the citadel gate let Weaver pass with a respectful salute but he eyed Alwenna with undisguised curiosity as she and Wynne followed behind him. The rain had cleared and the moonlight was strong enough to cast their shadows before them; every step meant placing her foot in an uncertain pool of darkness. Each time they passed beneath a flambeau shadows sprang up alongside them, then sank away into the night. Wynne was a reassuring presence at her side.
They walked in silence through the narrow streets, boots scuffing on the cobbles. All decent folk were asleep at this hour. Somewhere in the distance cats yowled. A pebble clattered across the street behind them. Alwenna glanced over her shoulder, unable to shake off the unpleasant sensation of being watched. She turned back to catch Weaver’s attention, but he was already at her side.
Weaver took hold of her arm and steered her down a side alley. Her feet slithered in mud and she bumped against Wynne as Weaver pushed them into the shadow of a low building. A stable, if Alwenna’s nose were to be trusted.
“Our spy’s about to show his hand. Wait here.” Weaver strode back towards the street, shrugging his cloak back as three men spread out across the entrance.
“Ho, Weaver! What brings you out at this time of night? Last I heard you were south of the pass.”
With relief Alwenna recognised Stanton’s voice. He was another of the King’s Men: a favourite with the ladies at court, always ready with a smile and easy conversation. He couldn’t be the spy. Weaver, on the other hand: dour to the point of morose, withdrawn in company, did he deserve Tresilian’s trust?
“My business is no concern of yours, Stanton.”
The courtier took a step forward, still smiling. “Is your business so urgent you have no time for civility? Come now, I have a proposition for you. Let’s discuss it over a jug of ale.” He gestured towards the corner where Alwenna waited. “Bring your shy companions along. I might almost think you were trying to hide them from me.”
“Well I might; your looks have broken too many ladies’ hearts already.” Weaver set his hand on the pommel of his sword. “My gift is for breaking skulls.”
“Ever the commoner.” Stanton sighed. “We have you outnumbered three to one.”
“I’m able to count. And I’ll thank all three of you not to importune the ladies.”
“But what manner of lady would keep company with the likes of you? Step clear. It’s not too late for you to choose the victor’s side.”
Weaver remained motionless.
Was he considering the offer?
Stanton seemed to think so. “I can make it worth your while.”
Alwenna caught her breath. Impossible – Tresilian trusted Weaver. But he’d trusted Stanton, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
Weaver registered the gasp from behind him; maybe now someone else would be convinced of Stanton’s treachery.
“Enough talk. If you want them, come and get them.” He drew his sword, studying the opposition as they followed suit. Space was tight in the alley: they’d have to attack one at a time.
Stanton muttered a command and the youth on his right charged forward, sword raised for an overhead blow. Too reckless. It was easy for Weaver to deflect the blade point down and use the momentum of the blow to bring his sword around and open the lad’s throat beneath the ear. He stepped away to protect his eyes from the blood which spattered over his side as the youth toppled to the ground.
Weaver drew back, raising his sword to window guard: left elbow high, point forward at eye level, right side exposed, offering the next attacker an open target he couldn’t resist. The man approached more cautiously, but as he thrust for the ribs Weaver gathered the soldier’s sword, pushing it out to the side as he stepped forward and plunged his own blade into the man’s eye socket. Weaver drew back as his attacker fell, eyes already on Stanton. The courtier’s secret was out now. If he turned and ran he wouldn’t get another chance at the girl.
Stanton’s gaze flicked towards Alwenna. He raised his sword and stepped forward over the bodies of his fallen men, his approach measured. He was subtler than the other two, trained by the best swordsmen the Peninsula could offer, but he’d taken the bait. The bodies behind him would hamper his movement. Stanton hesitated.
Weaver assumed a high guard. “Come on, you pretty bastard. I’ve a bastard sword waiting for you.”
Stanton moved in to the bind, attempting to wind his blade over the top. Weaver countered by going strong, pushing the point of his sword past Stanton’s face. The courtier ducked back, horror dawning in his eyes a split second before, using his opponent’s sword as a fulcrum, Weaver doubled his own blade back to slash open Stanton’s face. Stanton crumpled to the ground and Weaver followed up, pushing him onto his back with his foot before he plunged his blade through the man’s throat.
Weaver straightened up and turned towards the women, sword still in his hand. “Open the door.”
Alwenna took a hasty step back and her hood slipped down. She gaped at him, wild-eyed. “What?”
“The barn door. Beside you.” She didn’t have what it took for this journey. How was he to get her all the way to Vorrahan? “Open it.” He stooped to clean his sword on Stanton’s cloak, then sheathed it before searching the courtier’s pockets.
Wynne hurried to the door and started tugging at the rusty bolt. “My lady, help me with this.”
Alwenna moved to Wynne’s side. “He just robbed Stanton.”
Weaver took hold of Stanton’s corpse by the legs and dragged it towards the stable. “He has no need of it now. Open the door. We must hide these bodies.”
The bolt jerked free and Alwenna pulled the door aside. Weaver hauled Stanton’s body feet-first into the shadows, the courtier’s head clunking over the uneven cobbles. He dropped him next to a pile of straw.
Alwenna backed out of the way as Weaver returned for the next corpse. “I can scarce believe it. He was always so well dressed, so courteous…”
“Vermin often have the finest pelts, my lady.” Weaver dragged the second body into the barn.
Outside in
the alley she stared at the dead youth. “That’s Lord Ellard’s squire. His mother was so proud when he came to court.”
Weaver gave a noncommittal grunt as he unbuckled the youth’s knife belt and stowed it away inside his cloak.
Alwenna rounded on him. “He was only eighteen. Have you no compassion?”
“His mother should have taught him to choose his friends more wisely.” Weaver dumped the body inside with the other two, throwing straw over them before securing the door. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”
Alwenna failed to respond so he took her by the elbow. She snatched her arm from his grip. “We should tell Tresilian about Stanton.”
He could take her back up to the keep now, let her take her chance with the rest of them in the siege. And he could get on with the work he was fitted for. But he’d given his word. “He’ll find out soon enough. We have to push on – there may be others on the prowl.”
“Others?”
“A man as influential as Stanton won’t have been working alone.” Still she hesitated. “My lady, we must hurry.”
“You just butchered three men. Were their lives of no consequence?” She gripped her fallen hood with one hand, as if she’d forgotten what she meant to do with it.
“They were your enemies. Now pull up that hood. We must go.”
Wynne stepped forward, setting an arm about Alwenna’s shoulders. “Come, my lady. Weaver knows what he’s about. Right now we must put your safety first.” She whispered something in a low voice that Weaver couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect.
The younger woman drew up her hood. “Of course, you are both right. We must go.” Her voice might have lacked conviction, but she stepped alongside Weaver, and when he took hold of her arm to guide her she didn’t shake off his grip.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alwenna soon lost her sense of direction as Weaver led them through side streets and alleyways. She wanted to break away from him, run in the opposite direction and keep running until she reached the safety of the keep. What if another faction had already offered him more than Stanton? “Why are we going uphill? You’re taking us further and further from the main gate.”
“We’re using a gate no one will be watching, my lady.”
They emerged from another narrow alley into an open space where she could hear running water. The moonlight revealed the washing green at the foot of the citadel walls, fed by the spring for which Highkell was named. They kept to the shadows of the buildings alongside the green, stopping at the base of the city wall. There Weaver unfastened his cloak and lifted a bundle from his shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“This is the key to our gate.” The bundle was a coil of rope which he looped over one arm before refastening his cloak. He began to unwind one end of the rope.
“I don’t see how this will help.”
Weaver leaned forward to pass the rope about her waist, and the copper tang of blood mingled with sweat and wet wool enveloped her. He knotted the rope, adjusting it so it was a snug fit. “I’ll lower you down first.” Weaver secured the rope about his own waist, leaving several yards between them which he carried in a loose coil. “Then Wynne. I’ll follow behind.”
The citadel tower rose sheer above one side of the green while the curving city wall closed off the other. Buildings enclosed the space between them. “Down where? We’re hemmed in here.”
“This way.” He led them across the washing green, alongside the curtain wall, and stepped down into the stream, pushing aside a clump of willow stems. There was an opening at the base of the wall, no more than shoulder height, through which the stream flowed. The opening was impossibly small, impossibly dark.
Alwenna froze. “You expect me to go in there?”
“The water’s not deep.” Weaver held out his hand to assist her.
She remained where she was. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” He reached up and caught hold of her hand. “I’ve got you. Nothing can go wrong.”
“No.” She snatched her hand away but the bank crumbled beneath her foot and she slithered down, landing with a jolt against Weaver in the knee-deep water. The current tugged at her skirts. Weaver held the willow stems back so she could squeeze past.
“I can’t. I mean it.” She planted her feet, bracing one arm against the wall. “It’s too narrow.” Even the thought of stepping inside that constricted space was enough to make the breath fail in her lungs. The pounding of her blood filled her ears. She couldn’t do it. She was dimly aware of Wynne’s voice.
“Is there no other way? My lady can’t bear small spaces.”
“What? No.” Weaver sounded exasperated. “It’s only a short distance.”
Alwenna drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself, to ease the trembling that had overcome her limbs. She could master her fear. She had to. She set her hand on the inner wall of the culvert. The stone was clammy, covered in slimy growth from the lack of light. She snatched her hand back. Nearby, a man’s voice shouted.
Weaver grabbed Alwenna bodily and shoved her inside the culvert, branches scraping across her face as he pressed her head down clear of the low ceiling. He clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling any protest. Instinct took over and she closed her teeth on the gloved hand, biting hard. The leather tasted rank, but she hung on until, with a muffled curse, Weaver twisted his hand free.
“Stay quiet,” he hissed.
Splashing sounds announced Wynne had joined them in the culvert a split second before she bumped into them. The sound of the running water echoed off the curved ceiling and rebounded, filling Alwenna’s head with noise, drowning out all but the faintest hint of voices from the green. Her limbs continued to shake, out of control.
Weaver began to edge his way through the culvert away from their pursuers, and Alwenna had no option but to go with him. One step, then another, the current tugging at her skirts, threatening to drag her feet out from under her, her senses bludgeoned by the noise of rushing water, the darkness, her fear. Then the echoing ceased and clear air caressed her face as she was able to stand up straight. She could have sobbed with relief – except Weaver still pinned her arms against her sides in a death grip. From close behind, Wynne exclaimed in horror and when Alwenna opened her eyes – she couldn’t recall having shut them – she saw why.
CHAPTER SIX
They were poised on a ledge above the gorge. Moon shadows hid the depths, but many feet below them were the tops of tall trees. The stream cascaded out over a man-made ledge, falling in an arc clear of the sheer wall beneath them. The clouds shifted and the shadows below deepened, but Alwenna had seen enough. The remains of a watergate tilted out over the precipice, pushed by the flow of water fed by several days’ rainfall. Weaver tied off the rope to one of the metal supports for the watergate before he eased his grip about Alwenna’s waist and released her, watching her warily.
The air seemed able to fill her lungs once more and the shaking of her limbs was beginning to subside when Weaver gestured for silence. He twisted around to watch the mouth of the culvert, one hand resting on his sword hilt. They remained frozen there straining to hear any sound of pursuit over the rush of the water. Finally Weaver’s shoulders eased and he turned to face the gorge once more. “We go on. You first, my lady.”
Alwenna peered into the shadows at the foot of the cliff. “Are you sure that rope will reach the ground?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Anything would be better than going back through that accursed tunnel. “How do I know you won’t leave me dangling halfway down?”
“I gave the king my word I’d see you safe to Vorrahan.” Weaver anchored himself to the metal loop, then checked the knot was still secure about Alwenna’s waist. “Turn round to face the rock and try to keep your feet against it, as if you’re walking down. Don’t move suddenly or you’ll twist around.”
“And if I do?”
“Hope you twist back again. And keep qu
iet.” He fed the rope through so he was holding the end closest to her, then wrapped it over his shoulder and took a twist about his arm.
“Lean out over the drop. You won’t fall. Try to keep your weight on your feet. And untie the rope once you’re on the ground.”
The tug of the rope about her waist was reassuringly firm. Alwenna leaned out over the drop, unsure what to expect. Her sodden skirts dragged down, obscuring her view of the rock face where she needed to plant her feet. A few hours ago she’d been dozing before a warm fire as the rain sheeted down the window. Now… It was better not to think too hard about it. Obey Weaver’s instructions.
“I’m going to start lowering you. Just walk your feet down, keep them wide apart.” He let the rope out a little and she lurched downwards, her feet suddenly uncomfortably high. She shuffled them down until she reached a balanced position, then he let more rope out. This time she kept pace with the motion. She proceeded for several feet in relative comfort, until the rock wall steepened and her foot met empty space beneath a small overhang. Her body weight swung sideways, the rope loop digging into her ribs. Her foot contacted rock again, but she’d swung too far off balance and didn’t stop until her elbow crashed against the cliff. Cursing her clumsiness, she pushed herself away and managed to scramble her feet beneath her but before she could regain her balance, Weaver paid out more rope and she lost her footing entirely, spinning out of control.
Her stupid oversized hood slipped back and a squall of rain hit her full in the face. No, not rain, she’d swung towards the falling stream water. Unable to check the motion, she pitched into the waterfall. It bombarded the top of her head and ran down her neck, drenching her from head to foot. Too late she ducked, spitting out a mouthful of water as she hunched her shoulders against it. Her sodden garments grew rapidly heavier and dragged downwards, digging into her shoulders, while the rope about her waist dug ever tighter into her ribs, making it hard to draw breath. Her skirts tangled about her legs and she scrabbled for a foothold, swinging out of the downspout for a moment of blessed relief.