The Fire Star

by A. L. Tait

  ‘Good morning,’ trilled the Lady Cassandra. ‘I see we are all awake early this morning. How fortuitous it is to have a chance to discuss the missing Fire Star.’

  The Airl’s expression darkened but, before he had a chance to respond, there was a disturbance at the door. Brantley marched in, flanked by the men that Reeve had seen in the courtyard the night before.

  ‘Ah!’ Brantley said, stumbling over a chair as he made a beeline for the Lady Anice. ‘There she is! My beloved! My betrothed!’

  Anice jumped to her feet, as pale as winter snow, her ladies flocking to her side, trying to create a polite wall between Anice and Brantley. But he was not to be deterred, pushing them out of the way before grasping Anice around the waist.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?!’ the Airl thundered, his fist pounding the table so hard that his plate rattled on the timber.

  Sir Garrick thrust back his chair to stand beside the Airl, his hand automatically reaching for his sword, which, as per Great Hall protocol, was not there.

  ‘Why, did she not tell you?’ Brantley asked with a wild laugh, one arm waving above his head, playing to his cronies, the other gripping Anice. ‘Your daughter and I are betrothed.’

  ‘You are no such thing, you upstart,’ growled the Airl. ‘My daughter would not be so stupid as to hitch herself and her good name to a blaggard such as you.’

  ‘And yet she met me in the knot garden last night while you were at table,’ said Brantley. ‘Tell them, sweet, tell them how we embraced under the stars with the scent of roses around us.’

  It was too much for Anice, who swooned into a dead faint in Brantley’s arms. Staggering under the sudden weight, he shoved Anice’s slight figure towards her friends, who had to rush forward to catch the girl lest she drop to the floor.

  ‘See,’ Brantley went on, swaggering over to the Airl’s table to steal a grape from the platter, a hectic flush of colour beneath the stubble on his face. ‘She is so overcome with love for me that she swoons. It seems we shall have a double wedding on the morrow.’

  He turned to his friends and popped the grape in his mouth and they gasped, half in horror, half in awe. Reeve was close enough to see the line of sweat along Brantley’s hairline and smell the stale scent of cider on his breath.

  ‘You are very certain of yourself,’ said Sir Garrick, not raising his voice. ‘So certain that I am sure that you have evidence of your wild . . . accusations.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Brantley, and Reeve wondered at his confidence. ‘There she is!’

  Brantley’s long finger pointed at Maven, who did not flinch.

  ‘Your maid, Cassandra?’ the Airl thundered, turning a disapproving face towards his niece.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lady Cassandra, appearing unperturbed, and Reeve wondered how much Maven had told her of the night before. ‘Bring her here. I am sure she will clear this up.’

  Maven left her place at the back of the room and came to stand before Lady Cassandra, the perfect picture of a demure maid. In her serviceable brown dress, with the bruise sweeping her face, her noble roots were not obvious, and Reeve thought that if he did not know her, he would consider Maven of no consequence.

  Which, he was beginning to understand, was just how she liked it.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ Maven whispered. The Airl looked down at her bowed head, and seemed unsure of where to begin.

  ‘Perhaps this man could advise us of exactly what it is he thinks my devoted and loyal servant knows about him,’ Lady Cassandra prompted.

  By now, Lady Anice was beginning to come around, muttering to herself, her head cradled by one of her ladies. Reeve saw Maven shoot a loaded glance up at Lady Cassandra.

  ‘Quickly now,’ Cassandra said to Brantley, clapping her hands with regal grace. ‘Tell your story and be done with it.’

  Brantley strutted over to Maven, standing over her as though to intimidate her with his size. When Maven ignored him, he turned to Lady Cassandra, feet spread wide, hands on hips.

  ‘She saw us,’ he said. ‘She came into the knot garden last night and witnessed our embrace. Now she must tell.’

  The Airl was silent for a moment, considering the scruffy squire’s bald statement as well as his swooning daughter on the floor.

  ‘Well, girl,’ the Airl said, sitting back in his tall, carved chair, his voice heavy. ‘Tell us what you saw.’

  Maven’s smile was sweet when she met his gaze. ‘Well, I did see the Lady Anice –’

  The Airl’s groan was audible.

  ‘But I saw only she,’ Maven went on, speaking to the Airl as though they were the only people in the room. ‘I went to the knot garden to get some white roses for my Lady Cassandra’s bath, and discovered Lady Anice there, enjoying a quiet moment in the night air.’

  The Airl sat forward as a flurry of whispers echoed around the hall. ‘Alone?’

  ‘I saw only she,’ Maven repeated. ‘I’m sure that, had there been anyone else of consequence in the garden, I would have seen them.’

  ‘You lie!’ roared an incensed Brantley, moving to stand in front of Maven. ‘I kicked your face! Tell them how you came by that bruise.’

  Even Sir Garrick looked taken aback at his explosion. ‘You kicked this girl in the face?’

  Brantley seemed to realise what this sounded like. ‘By accident,’ he said. ‘She was trying to stop me –’

  He broke off, his expression becoming sullen as he realised he was doing himself no favours. ‘Anyway,’ Brantley said. ‘It proves she was there.’

  Maven touched her face. ‘This?’ she said, as though embarrassed. ‘Reeve of Norwood did this.’

  Reeve’s face burned as attention – and disapproval – shifted to him, but he said nothing. Hearing this story unfold, Reeve was beginning to understand why the Lady Cassandra spoke of Maven’s ‘many talents’.

  ‘Oh, not like that,’ Maven said, with a girlish giggle that Reeve decided he would probably never hear again – unless it served a purpose. ‘I walked into the gate as I left the garden. Reeve opened it on me.’

  ‘Is this true, squire?’ the Airl asked, censure warring with hope in his tone.

  ‘Sad to say that it is true, your excellency,’ Reeve said, putting as much regret into his voice as he could manage while inwardly saluting Maven’s courage and strategic planning. ‘I was looking for Lady Anice, as Sir Garrick asked me to do, and I pushed open the gate just as Maven was leaving, catching her in the face.’

  ‘And the Lady Anice?’ the Airl probed. ‘Did you see her in the garden?’

  Reeve crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘I did not enter the garden,’ he said. After all, technically he had not been in the garden when he’d peered through the gate.

  Reeve paused, realising that he was in a position to assist Maven further. ‘You could ask them, though,’ Reeve said, pointing at the pack of youths huddled together, watching Brantley. ‘I saw them approach the garden, so maybe they saw the Lady Anice?’

  All six of Brantley’s friends looked as though they wished they could sink into the stone floor as the Airl’s dark gaze lowered on them.

  ‘We, er, well, that is to say,’ began a tall man with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  ‘Yes?’ said Sir Garrick, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘We didn’t see nothing,’ said another man, and Reeve recognised him as being Derric, the balding man who had nearly felt Brantley’s sword on the back of his neck during Reeve’s memorable first night at the castle. Now, Derric turned from Sir Garrick to give Brantley a malevolent stare. ‘Nothing.’

  Brantley had gone red with anger, all of it directed at Maven. ‘You lie!’ he hissed, while she kept her attention fixed on the Airl. ‘This is all your fault!’

  The Airl sat back in his chair. ‘I think I’ve heard enough,’ he said, lifting his chin towards Sir Garrick, who strode over and grasped Brantley firmly by the arm.

  ‘I will not listen for a moment longer to your tawdry and feeble attempts to besmirch my da
ughter’s good name,’ the Airl continued, as Brantley tried to wriggle from Sir Garrick’s grip. ‘You are not fit to lick the floor on which she walks and you will not use her to fulfil your sad little ambitions. I henceforth banish you from this castle, and from this kingdom. Sir Garrick, as Knight Protector of Rennart Castle, I hereby order you to accompany this man to the village of Cleeland and put him on the first ship you find that is departing for distant climes.’

  ‘No!’ gasped Brantley, as Sir Garrick moved to fasten his wrists behind him with a piece of leather thong that he’d pulled from his belt. ‘You sentence me to death, your excellency. You know you do.’

  Reeve bit his lip, knowing that Brantley’s words were true, knowing that he was, in fact, listening to his own worst nightmare come to life. Ships left Cleeland every day, but few returned. It was the port of choice for adventurers seeking riches, and they ran their ships hard, fast and lean.

  ‘I am giving you the opportunity to make something of yourself,’ the Airl said, his face tight with anger, and Reeve winced as he heard the echo of his own father’s voice in the Airl’s words.

  Airl Buckthorn stood. ‘Clearly, you have learned nothing here about chivalry or honour, and you will never be a knight in the kingdom of Cartreff as long as I draw breath, not after what you’ve attempted here today. Go now!’

  As his erstwhile friends watched on, ashen-faced, Brantley was dragged, struggling, from the room.

  ‘And Garrick,’ the Airl called, just before his Knight Protector disappeared through the door, ‘be as quick as you can, and keep your ears open in Cleeland.’

  Sir Garrick sketched a wave and disappeared.

  ‘What happened?’ said the Lady Anice, rousing from her stupor on the floor, one feeble hand held to her forehead.

  The Airl looked down at his dazed, confused daughter. ‘Fortunately for you, nothing,’ he said, and Anice winced at his sternness. ‘I’m not exactly sure what went on last night, but I suspect that you owe this young lady a great deal. Perhaps you have words for her?’

  The Airl gestured towards Maven, whose dark bruise stood out in stark relief on her composed face. Anice was silent for a moment, as though taking in her father’s words, before beginning to struggle to her feet.

  ‘My father, forgive me but my head is aching and my thoughts confused. I think I must retire to my rooms for a poultice and some honey water.’

  The Airl grimaced as everyone else present stared at their feet, embarrassed by Anice’s lack of courtesy. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you stayed there for the rest of the day. Just to ensure you are at your very best for the wedding tomorrow.’

  Anice fluttered one hand at him. ‘Perhaps I will,’ she said, strolling past Maven towards the door with her ladies trailing afterwards. ‘I wouldn’t want to appear tomorrow with a bruise on my face, after all. It’s so . . . unsightly.’

  Reeve heard a stifled gasp from the Lady Cassandra, but Maven’s expression did not alter. As he watched, she glanced around, as though to see who might hear her words, before speaking.

  ‘Better to be bruised than . . . betrothed,’ Reeve heard Maven mutter.

  Reeve suppressed a smile as Anice tensed, and he wondered if she would respond. But Anice tossed her hair and stalked through the door.

  ‘Well,’ said the Airl, looking around at those left in the Great Hall. ‘It seems that we have witnessed an amateurish display of mummerism over breakfast. We can be thankful for just one thing – that the audience for the performance was small. Let us ensure that it remains that way.’

  His cold stare at Brantley’s former friends had them shifting uncomfortably in their house boots.

  The Airl clapped. ‘And now, there is much to do to prepare for tomorrow’s festivities. I expect you all to play your part – unless, of course, there are others present who fancy a trip to Cleeland?’

  Again, he looked hard at the increasingly restless youths, who all shook their heads sullenly. ‘Then let us get on with it. You –’

  To Reeve’s horror, the Airl was pointing at him. ‘In Neale’s absence, you must go with Sir Garrick to Cleeland. You will find him in the stables, by now, I would think. It is your job to ensure he returns in good time for tomorrow’s wedding breakfast. And do not imagine that I have forgotten your other task. Time runs out for you, young squire, and the location of the Fire Star remains unknown.’

  Reeve managed a small bow, and hurried from the room, feeling Maven’s stare upon him. How exactly he was supposed to find the Fire Star at Rennart Castle while he was on the road to Cleeland was a question that the Airl would not welcome at this point.

  Feeling helpless, his mind churning, Reeve crossed the courtyard towards the stables, so distracted by his thoughts that he was startled when the castle gates creaked open to admit six riders, all astride huge, snorting black destriers, and all but one dressed in the same green livery.

  The lead rider, clad head to toe in black with a deep red travelling cloak that marked him as a member of the nobility, pulled his mount to a sudden halt in the centre of the courtyard, slid off his horse and stormed towards the castle, all in one motion, with the other five following suit. A hush descended across the courtyard as everyone stopped to watch what happened next.

  To Reeve’s surprise, the Airl of Buckthorn himself emerged from the main doors to greet the party, accompanying the man in the red cloak inside while the other five took up formation behind them.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Reeve asked, turning to the man in the blacksmith’s apron next to him.

  ‘Why, that’s Lord Mallor,’ said the blacksmith, pulling thoughtfully at his greying beard. ‘I expect he’ll be here for the wedding. Pity his son is not here to greet him.’

  ‘Son?’ said Reeve, distracted by the army of stableboys who’d arrived to tend Lord Mallor’s horses.

  The blacksmith spat on the cobblestones. ‘Neale of Broadfield,’ he said. ‘Lord Mallor is also known as Airl Broadfield. It gets right confusing, all of those different titles and names, but there you have it.’

  But Reeve was staring at the pale-green globule glistening at the man’s feet. ‘You don’t like Neale?’ he asked.

  The blacksmith guffawed. ‘I don’t like anyone who asks too many questions,’ he said, turning to walk away. ‘And you, my friend, are going to be on that list any minute.’

  Reeve hesitated before tapping the blacksmith’s shoulder. ‘Neale asked a lot of questions?’ he said, remembering what Kit had said about Neale poking around the stables. ‘What kinds of questions?’

  ‘See now,’ said the blacksmith, turning back to face Reeve, muscled arms folded across his barrel chest. ‘Right there is exactly what I mean. Not just one but two questions.’

  Reeve smiled in what he hoped was a winning way. ‘Last ones, I promise,’ he said, holding up his hands as though in surrender.

  The blacksmith wiped his own hands on his heavy apron, adding new streaks of grime to the worn leather. ‘Questions about how I felt about the King,’ he said after a moment. ‘About the Airl’s movements. About how many new swords I’ve been making. About the way I smith Sir Garrick’s armour. And that, my friend, is as much as I can tell you.’

  More questions crowded Reeve’s mind as the blacksmith lumbered away towards his forge, but the questions would, Reeve realised, need to wait. It was not only that the blacksmith would not answer them, but that, even as Reeve stood here thinking, Sir Garrick was riding from the stable yard. Behind him, attached by a lead rope, hunched Brantley on a small bay mare, boxed in by Sir Garrick’s soldiers on every side.

  ‘Come, Reeve!’ Sir Garrick shouted. ‘Time is awasting. Your horse is saddled. Follow now!’

  With that, Sir Garrick spurred his charger forward, straight for the still-open gates, with the others clattering behind him. Brantley looked horribly uncomfortable, gagged and, Reeve noticed, with his wrists still tied together, albeit in front to give him some charge of the animal beneath him.

  As they hurtl
ed through the gate, Reeve began to run to the stables.

  It wouldn’t do to get too far behind, and there was much he needed to discuss with Sir Garrick.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘You did well in there, Maven,’ says Cassandra, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, voice measured. ‘Subtle and clever . . . which is more than I can say for the way you are wielding that comb.’

  I loosen my grip on the offending comb, realising that I am attacking her knots with the same fervour that I would like to attack Anice for her attitude towards me. Or, indeed, the Airl for confining Cassandra and me to our rooms for ‘rest’ while Reeve gets to gallop off to Cleeland to mete out justice to that villain Brantley, and while the Fire Star is missing.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I say now, placing the comb carefully on the dresser and massaging her scalp where I have tugged at her hair. ‘It’s just –’

  Her hand reaches up to still one of mine. ‘I know exactly what it is,’ Cassandra says. ‘But subtle and clever is how we have all agreed that it must be played. Until we get what we want.’

  She pauses. ‘You did the right thing by the Lady Anice, and she recognises this, even if her pride will never let her admit it. She is my cousin but . . . she cannot help but think only of herself. You’ll note she has not bothered to so much as wish me well since our arrival. Lady Rhoswen would be mortified.’

  Cassandra sighs as I massage her scalp. ‘She was wretched to you, but you know the Beech philosophy –’

  ‘Help other women and girls, no matter what,’ I finish, smoothing her hair. ‘I know.’

  I choose three locks of Cassandra’s hair and begin to braid their length. We are ostensibly trying hairstyles for her wedding day, but I take no pleasure in the complicated weaving of her dark curls. I wear my own brown hair as simply as possible, and would cut it short like a pageboy if I did not know that it would make me stand out in every room in Rennart Castle. Much better to keep my hair and blend in.

  ‘You will look beautiful tomorrow,’ I say, changing the subject and watching for her reaction in the mirror. Last night, after we had finally been able to leave the Great Hall and return to our rooms, Cassandra had talked and talked and talked about Sir Garrick, a veritable waterfall of words that gushed and ran over me as I had lain beside her on the bed, trying to soothe her to sleep. My role as companion is to make her life and mind easier and more comfortable, which means that if she is awake, then I am awake. No matter how much I wish to sleep.