by Susan Murray
She returned to her corner and sat down again, resting her back against the wall and closing her eyes. The tiny life inside her stirred. Whatever she did next, it was not just her wellbeing depending on her choice: she had to make the right decision for Tresilian’s child.
For a moment she’d forgotten: it was no longer just her needs to consider.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The first thing Weaver noticed as they entered the outskirts of Halesworth was the smell of scorched timbers. Looking about, he located the source. Beyond the houses ahead of them a plume of smoke curled upwards – not the smoke of a raging fire, but the sulky smoulder of doused flames making a last attempt to break from cooling ashes. The streets were quiet and the few people around hurried about their business. Some averted their eyes when they caught sight of the strangers, others stared with outright suspicion.
Curtis pushed his horse alongside Weaver’s. “Friendly lot, ain’t they?”
“Aye. Do we push on through?”
“We need to stop for provisions. We’ll have to be careful.” Curtis had never been one to go hungry if it could be avoided. “And Blaine was going to leave word if they found anyone hiring.”
An old woman shuffling along in front of the houses stopped and glared at them. “We don’t want your kind here – bugger off, before we set the dogs on you. You hear me, you filth?” She gestured wildly with her fist. “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me, you misbegotten sons of whores. You’re nowt but filth and wasters.”
Weaver kicked his horse forward into a slow trot. Once they’d rounded the corner, the woman’s cursing faded. Alongside him Drew clenched his reins with white knuckles.
“Times are bad. Pay her no heed, lad.”
“She hated us. Really hated us.”
“She’s mad as a coot. That’s how some old folk get when they’ve seen too much life.”
“Gwydion didn’t, and he saw countless other lives as well as his own.”
“Maybe. But he never went hungry unless he chose to fast, and he never lost children or grandchildren to war. Grief like that can tear a person apart without leaving so much as a mark on the outside.”
“It’s left a mark on her for sure.” Drew looked over at Weaver. “And– No, never mind.” He studied the street ahead of them.
“If there’s something on your mind lad, spit it out.”
“It was nothing.”
Weaver suppressed a flash of annoyance. The boy was too damned deep sometimes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Alwenna’s guards came and went in silence for the most part. They were bearable enough, but Hames was a different matter. He would let himself into her cell daily – she kept track of the time passing by his visits. And he would talk to her. Or, rather, talk at her. Most of the time he didn’t seek a response.
“He says he’ll have you thrown from the curtain tower, his highness does.” Hames grew bolder each day, yet despite his constant air of menace he hadn’t so far attempted to touch her. She suspected he never would, for all his boasts. She was, in effect, his perfect woman: a captive audience.
“Does he, indeed?” The man was more annoying than a mosquito, but also, sadly, more problematic to crush.
“Onto the rocks at the edge of the gorge. A shame to smash open such a pretty skull. He plans to leave you there as a reminder to his subjects of what happens to those who disobey him.”
“That sounds a pleasingly swift end, all considered. Why ever does he delay?” Hames was going to be no use to her. Any notion she’d had that he might help her cause had long since fled.
“It can only be a nostalgic fondness for your childhood together, do you not think, my lady?”
“I cannot imagine. Obviously you, enjoying his confidence as you do, must be privy to his innermost thoughts.”
He actually smiled, the preening fool. He was oblivious to her sarcasm. He got all his satisfaction from taunting a prisoner who had no redress against him. Enough. How many days had it been now? Five, or six? She couldn’t ignore his annoying buzzing any longer – she wanted done with him.
“There was a time I thought you ready to take his place – you admitted as much yourself. Has your appetite for danger weakened since then?”
“I never said any such thing. Do you hope to turn his highness against me with such lies?”
“How could I do that, imprisoned here? You have Vasic’s ear, not I. I find myself at your mercy…” Would he rise to the bait? “If you were to think kindly enough of me to plead clemency from his highness, I would count myself fortunate. I have had much time to think of late.”
Hames ran his eyes over her where she sat in her corner. She had his attention now.
“You would find me… not ungrateful.” A tiny voice told her this was unwise, but she ignored it. She’d spent too long sitting in the dark with only that voice for company.
“I am a busy man – I have not time to exchange riddles with you. Speak plainly.”
The smug bastard knew what she hinted at, but he wanted to hear her debase herself before him. Their reckoning inched closer. As did he.
“Would you not care for a token of my gratitude?” She folded her hands in her lap in a submissive gesture. Mesmerised, Hames leaned forward. She smiled and he closed the distance between them, as if he could not help himself. She willed him to lean closer still, to reach out. He stooped down, extending his left hand to touch her.
It was the work of a moment to slip Drew’s blade from her sleeve and plunge it into his neck. Hames’ eyes widened with shock as she dragged the blade across his throat with all her strength. Warm blood gushed over her hands and with a terrible rattling breath he collapsed on top of her, limbs flailing. She shoved him away and his head hit the flagstone floor with a hollow thud of finality and his desperate movements stilled, leaving empty eyes staring upwards. A dark stain spread over the crotch of his woollen hose as his bladder voided.
“As if any woman in her right mind would have looked at you.” Alwenna climbed to her knees and cleaned the blade on Hames’ shirt, methodically transferring every smudge of his blood to the fabric.
She’d killed a man. Deliberately goaded him and, in cold blood, she’d sent a soul from this world. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, quelling a sudden urge to laugh aloud. She ought to be revolted by what she had just done; instead she found herself exulting in it. What was it Weaver had said – something about death being the ultimate truth? She shivered. Goddess, now she understood him. She’d gone against every tenet by which she’d been raised, breaking the law of the land by taking a life without trial. And her only regret was it had been over too quickly.
She stood, and spat on the corpse. “You useless pile of meat.”
The fool hadn’t even locked the cell door behind himself. She stooped and loosened his belt, tugging the bunch of keys from it. She might not have much time. The guards would be used to him spending several minutes in her cell as his daily routine, but how long before one of them felt obliged to check? Perhaps, of course, they’d been warned not to interfere. In any event the anteroom was empty. She heaved Hames’ carcass into the corner behind the door then stepped out of the cell and locked it. Peering back through the grille she could see only his boot protruding from the corner. She tossed the key down the garderobe off the antechamber. It amused her to think of them running around trying to find another key before they could release the dead man. A tiny voice told her she shouldn’t find it as amusing as she did at that moment, but she shrugged it off as she stowed the short blade safely inside her sleeve. Now to find Vasic.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
An odour reminiscent of boiled cabbage permeated the air in the taproom of the Ferret. The inn had gone sadly downhill since Weaver had last passed through Halesworth. Back then, anyone who was worth knowing drank at the Ferret. A man could find out who was hiring, who was a bad payer, who would honour a contract – that was how Weaver had stumbled into Tresilian’s service in
the first place. The shabby furniture didn’t appear to have changed since those days, but the faces were unfamiliar. And most of those appeared world-weary and suspicious. At least the ale was cheap. That probably accounted for the number of people still frequenting the place.
As Drew and Curtis settled at a table near the door a tall figure detached from a knot of drinkers at the back of the room. Weaver’s hand moved to his sword hilt before he recognised Blaine. The tall man ambled over to join them, grinning.
“We’d almost given you up. Finally outstayed your welcome at Highkell?” He slapped Weaver’s shoulder in greeting as he sat down with them.
“Welcome got a bit too warm.” Weaver sat on the bench opposite Blaine so he could see what was happening in the taproom. He straightened up to ease the biting pain over his ribs.
Blaine grimaced. “Like that, was it? The usurper’ll have to find himself a new plaything.”
“He has plenty of others to go at.” They’d left him one in the cell off the guardroom. They could have tried harder to free her. Weaver picked up his tankard. The beer was lifeless, the sudsy head dissipating as fast as it had formed.
Curtis swore and pulled a face. “This beer tastes like piss.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Blaine replied. “It does the job.”
Curtis glared at Blaine. “You’d know if you’d sat through an eight-month siege. Call yourself a soldier?”
Blaine grinned. “Just now the only thing I call myself is out of work.”
Weaver took a mouthful of his ale. Curtis was right, it tasted like nothing he wanted to drink. But it was cheap and wet, and now he’d paid for it he’d damned well drink it.
Curtis was glaring at Blaine, who was unbothered. Drew sat looking from one to the other, apparently uncertain what to make of Curtis’ sudden flare of temper.
A draught swilled across their table as the taproom door opened.
Blaine glanced at the newcomer and his grin widened. “Lyall. Look who just got in.”
Lyall frowned, until he caught sight of Weaver. He joined them at the table. "You managed it, Curtis? I'd buy you a drink if I had any money."
“Needn’t bother here,” Curtis grumbled. “Tastes bad enough to make a man give up.”
“No luck finding work, then?” Weaver slid the ale jug over to Lyall, who shook his head.
“No one’s hiring. Tresilian’s army was billeted here until Highkell fell, and they moved on without settling their debts. Or so they say. Everyone here’s out of food and out of charity.”
“But they were sent to Brigholm.” Weaver took an absent-minded mouthful of ale. “Did they never get that far?”
Lyall spread his hands wide. “That’s what they’re saying. This was always an army town, but they don’t want us around now.”
Blaine leaned over, speaking in a low voice. “I’ve heard there’s some lordling hiring further east – they could have gone there.”
Lyall made a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter where they’ve gone if they’re not paying. Did nowt to help the rest of us who got stuck at Highkell.”
Curtis interrupted. “The way I heard it they were never called back. Not by Tresilian.”
“That’s mad.” Lyall drummed his fingers on the table. “He had two clear days before Vasic’s army reached the gates – plenty of time to send word. You told me yourself, Weaver.”
“True. But they’d have arrived too late to stop Vasic. Could still have caused some damage.” Weaver shrugged. “Messages go astray. The usurper had scouting parties doing his dirty work in the west, he might have had more in the east.”
Lyall scowled. “They left us high and dry. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re not paying their dues. I’m not trailing east after them on the off-chance they’ll honour what’s already owed us.”
Weaver recognised the weariness in Lyall’s face. “Sounds like you mean it.”
“Aye. Reckon I do.” Lyall drummed his fingers on the table again. “I’m getting too old for soldiering. And I’ve been too long from home.”
Home? What was that? Weaver swallowed another mouthful of the dire ale. It didn’t taste any better than the first had.
“See what I’ve had to put up with?” Blaine still grinned. “Tried to tell him it’s deserting, but he won’t have it.”
“If Tresilian still held the throne it would be.” Curtis set his empty tankard down on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“But he doesn’t, does he?” Lyall shook his head. “His widow would have done right by us, but she’s no better off than we are. She’s bought us our freedom, and I’m not wasting it. I’m going home.”
“We’re not all as old as you.” Curtis stood up, picked up the empty jug and headed for the bar to get a refill.
There was a dull ache behind Weaver’s eyes. Home represented too many things he didn’t want to think about. He downed the remaining contents of his tankard in one. It tasted bad, but it might still take the edge off if he swallowed enough of it.
“What about you, Weaver? You’re a northerner, bred and born.” Lyall watched him. “You still have a fancy to go back to farming? I have that patch of land to work.”
“Not thought about it for a long time.”
“Think about it now. The packhorse route through the mountains will be clear. No need to go near Highkell.”
Weaver had never had any interest in working the family farm alongside his father. They’d both been a disappointment to one another as Weaver grew up. Their last contact had been several years ago when, in the first flush of delight, Weaver had sent news of his wedding. His father’s reply had been a litany of self-pity: since his son hadn’t chosen a northern girl he’d likely never see his own grandchildren – assuming Weaver survived his soldiering career long enough to make any. Weaver hadn’t even bothered to tell him of his wife’s death. He had no idea now if the man was still alive, or had joined his mother at last in the village graveyard.
Weaver set his tankard down, twisting it about. “I always swore I wouldn’t go back without a scrip full of coin.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’ve unfinished business here.”
“What, with a barrel of bad eastern ale?” Lyall shook his head. “I’ve had my fill. I’m setting off in the morning.”
“I’m a better soldier than a farmer. If there’s a lord rallying opposition to the usurper I’ll serve him.”
Lyall shook his head again. “I’m telling you, it’s a lost cause.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Weaver shrugged. He wasn’t concerned about weighing the odds, not this time. This time it was personal.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Alwenna threw open the guardroom door. A startled guard spun round, a guilty expression on his face. The fingers of his left hand were still closed about a serving maid’s arm. He relaxed for an instant as he saw it wasn’t Hames about to tear a strip off him, then his eyes widened as he realised he was gaping at his erstwhile prisoner. His confusion was delicious.
“Close your mouth lad, or you’ll catch flies.” Alwenna smiled. “The pair of you should show deference to your betters.”
The maidservant curtseyed to the ground, bowing her head. The guard gaped at Alwenna a moment longer before reaching for his sword. His hand moved slower and slower until it halted halfway to the scabbard. His eyes widened as he folded at the waist and bowed in a passable imitation of a courtier.
“You show commendable sense.” The air was rank with his fear and she drew it into her nostrils as if it were the sweetest of rose scents. It was delicious, intoxicating. But they were a distraction. She had no business toying with some poor guard and his girl, not while her cousin went unchecked. She left them behind as she climbed the stairs leading up to the great hall.
The two soldiers at the entrance stepped forward, blocking her path to the door. She willed it otherwise and they seemed to melt back as she drew nearer, lowering their heads. One man reached forward and pushed open t
he door, bowing as she swept past him. This was her due, was it not?
Vasic was in the great hall, seated at the top table on the raised dais at the eastern end, presiding over a meal with some dignitaries or other. Vasic appeared to be unwell: his face had an unhealthy pallor while his eyes had a strangely sunken look to them. And his cheeks were gaunter than the day he’d cornered her in her bedchamber. Had he taken some infection from his injury? No, she could see the scar protruding from his hairline, red still but healing. More was the pity.
Vasic raised his head as he became aware of her approach. People ranged along the tables at either side twisted round to follow her progress, but none tried to interfere. She felt lightheaded, wanted to laugh out loud, to mock Vasic for a fool. Was that a shout behind her? No matter. Her business was with Vasic.
Her cousin’s eyes widened, then he half rose from his seat, resting his hands on the table before him as if he needed the support. Alwenna saw his mouth moving, but his words failed to reach her. A pain rose up in her forehead, building and building until it resonated through her skull and blocked out everything around her. A haze danced before her eyes, obscuring everything around her until she had no idea where her foot would land when she placed it in front of her. She raised her hands in front of her eyes but couldn’t see them, couldn’t even feel them until she dug her nails into the flesh of her own face. Darkness enclosed her, blotting out every sound. She dropped into oblivion.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The city of Brigholm sprawled across the floodplain. It had long since spread beyond the confines of the ancient walls, but the walls there had never been built for defence. They’d been built to ensure tolls were collected from travellers crossing the twin bridges to buy or sell at the market on the island in the middle of the river. Weaver had never planned to return to the place. Any fond memories he held of his years there had been wiped out by his wife’s death. And now, the further east they travelled, the more he was haunted by thoughts of her. Sure, he’d avenged her and their unborn child’s death, and the shame Stian had brought upon her. But his feelings for one of Stian’s kinfolk had to be disloyal to her memory, however distant that kinship.