by A. L. Tait
Reeve took note of ‘will unearth’ and breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that if Neale had found any true evidence he would have thrown it in Sir Garrick’s face. The knight also seemed to relax.
‘Whispers,’ Sir Garrick said. ‘You skulk about out here in the rain on the strength of whispers? Neale, have I taught you nothing?’
The faint amusement in Sir Garrick’s voice seemed to incite Neale to madness, and Reeve remembered, too late, the Cook’s words about his terrible temper. ‘They meet in your very own forest, and you know nothing about it,’ Neale shouted. ‘I have but one more stop to prove it and then I will join my father at Rennart Castle in the King’s name. We will destroy your Airl, those women – and you. You will not stop us now!’
At the last word, Neale thrust the bright lantern towards Sir Garrick’s face, blinding him, before tossing it into the brambles on the roadside, plunging them all into darkness. Even as Reeve ran towards Sir Garrick, he heard a scuffle and then a cry, followed by a thud and running footsteps.
‘A knife,’ Sir Garrick croaked. ‘He’s got a knife . . .’
Reaching his master, Reeve dropped to his knees, peering into the darkness. ‘I am cut,’ Sir Garrick said, reaching for Reeve’s hand and pressing it into his own side. ‘The darkness was his cover, and I am wounded.’
Reeve swallowed hard in a suddenly dry mouth as he felt the warm, thick, viscous blood seeping through Sir Garrick’s tunic. Reeve felt his head begin to swim, and blinked hard to clear his vision.
I cannot see the blood, Reeve reminded himself. How he wished he’d remembered to get that tincture from Myra, but he’d been so distracted by the death of Sully and by Maven and her tales of secret societies that he’d clean forgotten about it.
‘Wait here,’ Reeve said out loud to Sir Garrick. ‘I’ll grab my saddlecloth to bind it.’ He rushed away, more than happy to take a moment to steady his queasiness.
It took only a few moments to unbuckle his saddle, remove the blue cloth beneath it and tighten the girth again.
Reeve had just stepped back from the horse when lightning cleaved the night sky with a crackle, and the horse danced sideways.
‘Whoa there,’ Reeve said, reaching for her reins, but he was too late. As thunder boomed, the horse took flight, mane standing on end, ears pressed forward, head down as she galloped off into the night. With a shrill neigh, the knight’s charger took off at the mare’s heels, the drumming of hooves providing a rhythmic counterpoint to the fading roll of the thunder.
Watching them go, Reeve wiped his mud-spattered face as his heart sank. The rain had become a soft drizzle, but that was the only high point he could see as he dropped to Sir Garrick’s side and pressed the sodden saddlecloth against his side.
‘It seems we are in trouble, young squire,’ said Sir Garrick, and Reeve caught the brief flash of his grin in the darkness. ‘We must get to the castle – if Lord Mallor remains inside the walls, our Airl is in danger.’
‘Can you stand, sire?’ Reeve asked, his thoughts buzzing.
‘I’m game if you are,’ the knight answered, and Reeve could almost hear him gritting his teeth.
‘If you hold the blanket, I’ll help you,’ Reeve said, moving behind Sir Garrick so that he could support his back as the man sat up.
‘Oooh,’ Sir Garrick murmured, drawing a long, deep breath.
Reeve waited a moment. ‘We need to get you to the castle, sire,’ he said evenly, pushing down the fear rising in his throat. ‘But first we must get you to your feet.’
‘Each goal seems as far as the other right now,’ Sir Garrick muttered.
‘One step at a time, sire,’ said Reeve, forcing heartiness into his voice. Reeve was well aware that he was the only thing standing between a long, slow, liquid death on the side of this road for Sir Garrick and the safety of the castle.
As long as Reeve didn’t think too much about that liquid, seeping in waves from Sir Garrick’s side, he would be fine. He hoped.
Hauling his master to his feet with as much delicacy as he could manage, Reeve ignored the oaths Sir Garrick whispered and concentrated instead on mustering up every encouraging word he’d ever learned and delivering them in that same bright, breezy tone.
‘It’s no use,’ Sir Garrick said a few minutes later, sagging to his knees. ‘I have the strength of a kitten. I cannot go on. You go, Reeve – go and fetch help. Tell the Airl everything. We must get word to him that the castle is under siege from within – and we must get there before Neale finishes his mysterious “one more stop”.’
Reeve looked down at Sir Garrick, feeling helpless. ‘I can’t leave you here in the dark and the rain. You might die before I return. And that’s not even considering if Neale comes back.’
‘I will most certainly die if you don’t go now,’ Sir Garrick said with a harsh laugh. He lay down on the side of the road. ‘And the Airl may very well be lost to us, as well. Go now!’
Reeve frantically tried to calculate the distance to the castle. He could now see the lights shining, like beacons through the light rain, at the top of the hill, but Reeve figured that he was still a good mile or two from the gates.
He might, Reeve thought, be somewhere near the incredible underground lair of the Beech Circle, but Reeve knew he’d never find it through the trees in the dark. Then there was the fact that, while Sir Garrick might survive if Reeve was to take him there, Reeve himself would surely die a torturous death overseen by Maven herself for exposing the Circle’s secret meeting place.
What to do? He remembered that he’d been on his way to see Myra when he’d come across Sully, and that he’d been sent in this direction to find her – so did that mean her hut was nearby?
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘cover your ears.’
‘My what?’ Sir Garrick snorted, weakly. ‘If my ears have survived this ridiculous thunder, they will survive whatever you do next. Besides, if I cover my ears, I’ll likely bleed to death, Reeve, given one of my hands is busy being soaked with blood through this cloth I’m holding. Just get on with it.’
With that, he was silent, and Reeve cupped his hands around his mouth, took a huge breath and shouted: ‘MYRA!’
He stopped, waiting, but all he could hear was the soft drip of rain on the brambles that lined the road.
Reeve took another deep breath and tried again: ‘Myra!’
Again, he paused, listening hard, but heard no answering shout. Reeve bit his lip. Could it be that he was wrong and his sense of direction was more befuddled by the dark and the rain than he’d thought? Was he as crazy as Neale seemed to be to imagine that he could just conjure up help with a shout?
‘Myra!’ he screamed.
‘Who is it that you call for?’ Sir Garrick asked hoarsely.
‘The wyld woman,’ Reeve said.
Sir Garrick groaned. ‘She will not answer you. Her kind does not seek the company of knights and squires.’
Reeve bit his lip as Sir Garrick moaned. Still, there was no movement in the trees, no light, no answering call. It seemed that either the knight was right and Myra would not answer, or Reeve was wrong in thinking her hut was nearby. Either way, Reeve was alone with this problem, and he needed to work out what he was going to do.
‘Sir Garrick is right,’ he said out loud to bolster his own spirits, hoping that Sir Garrick was now too far steeped in pain to listen to him. ‘Myra does not have to run to the aid of any squire who calls her name.’
‘It is true,’ came a laughing voice from behind Reeve, ‘that I would not choose to ask you and Sir Garrick for dinner, but given the volume of your desperate shouting, I suspect it’s not dinner that you are after.’
Reeve whirled around, relief flooding through his entire body, to face Myra – and Maven.
‘What are you doing here?’ he sputtered, surprise making him rude.
‘Lady Cassandra sent me to see Myra,’ Maven responded, with a quick glance towards Sir Garrick. ‘And it is lucky for you that she did. Myra was walk
ing me back to the castle after the rain when we heard your shout. Otherwise, you would still be shouting!’
‘How now, young Reeve,’ Myra said as Maven lifted the lantern she held to light the scene. Unlike Neale, she was careful to hold it so that it illuminated the road without blinding Reeve. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘I am bleeding,’ Sir Garrick moaned.
Reeve did not miss the sharp glance that Myra shot his way, and knew she was wondering how Reeve was coping with the blood. He managed a weak smile, making another mental note to ask her for that tincture, and she said nothing, moving around Reeve to kneel beside Sir Garrick.
‘You have done well to stem the bleeding with this cloth,’ Myra said.
Reeve basked a little in her praise, even as her words conjured up that image of the blood seeping from Sir Garrick’s wound. Feeling light-headed, all he could do was nod in response.
Myra stood and turned to Maven. ‘We will need to get him to my hut immediately. I have herbs that will help to stem the flow of blood, and we can clean the wound and stitch it back together.’
Reeve grimaced, hoping he wouldn’t be required to participate in any stitching, but Maven simply nodded as though what was happening was an everyday occurrence. She really was the most annoyingly unflappable girl he’d ever met.
‘Who did this thing?’ Myra asked Sir Garrick as Maven moved to the knight’s other side and helped the wyld woman to lift him to his feet.
‘It was Neale,’ Reeve responded, unable to keep the surprise he continued to feel from his voice, as Sir Garrick let out a long moan.
‘Neale,’ breathed Maven, as though the answer was confirmation to a question he had not asked. Reeve waited, but Maven said no more, and he could almost hear her mind ticking over in the dark.
Myra glanced at her but directed her question to Reeve. ‘I thought Neale had disappeared,’ she said.
‘He had,’ Reeve said. ‘But it seems he only went home to bring his father into Rennart Castle to accuse the Airl of treason.’
Sir Garrick coughed. ‘And of harbouring witches,’ he muttered.
Once again, Reeve caught the glance between Myra and Maven. ‘Witches?’ Myra laughed. ‘Well now, Sir Garrick, you know that the only wyld woman around here is me, and if I were able to summon spells I’d have taken myself off to better circumstances years ago.’
‘That’s what I told him,’ Sir Garrick said. ‘But he was quite certain there’s a network of witches – spies in skirts, he called them – working against the King here in Rennart Forest. Need to warn the Airl about that – the slightest hint of it will have his friends and allies turning on him.’
‘We need to warn the Airl about a few things, I think,’ said Maven quickly. ‘I’ll go to see him now. Here, Reeve, take my place.’
Before he’d had a chance to think, Reeve found himself tucked under Sir Garrick’s arm, staggering under his weight while Maven disappeared back through the trees the way she and Myra had come.
‘Treason and witches and spies, was it?’ asked Myra, drawing Sir Garrick’s attention away from Maven. ‘Quite the list. Next thing, he’ll be accusing the Airl of taking the Fire Star as well.’
‘Only thing Neale didn’t mention,’ Sir Garrick said with a laugh that ended in a wretched cough. ‘Can’t help but think he probably stole it himself.’
Suddenly, a dark shape snaked through the trees, erupting into a volley of snarls and barks at Reeve’s feet.
‘Blast!’ said Sir Garrick, echoing Reeve’s thoughts.
‘Down, Baron,’ snapped Myra, and the dog subsided immediately, moving to Myra’s side with a whimper of greeting.
‘Good boy,’ she murmured. ‘These are friends.’
With his heart beating fast from the scare, Reeve saw with relief the shadowy outline of a cottage before them, camouflaged by tree trunks, no hint of light to be seen. He heard the soft clucking of chickens, but could see no pen.
‘You’re lucky I’ve put the geese to bed,’ Myra said, as she and Reeve lowered Sir Garrick to a sitting position on the edge of the porch. ‘If Baron gives you a fright in the dark, you don’t want to come across a pack of hissing, snapping geese.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Sir Garrick, lying down on the timber boards as Myra moved to open the front door. Soon, a warm glow of light issued from inside the hut, and Reeve could see that, though built from rough-hewn wood, it was snug and watertight.
‘Boots and cloak off,’ Myra ordered.
Reeve placed the sword on the porch as he bent to help Sir Garrick ease his boots from his feet and unfasten the wet cloak that covered him. With this done, Myra helped Reeve to once again get Sir Garrick to his feet and, after Reeve had removed his own cloak and toed off his boots, over the threshold and onto the narrow bed tucked against the far wall of the hut’s living space.
In the light, Reeve could see that the saddle blanket was now bright red with blood, and he backed away as swiftly as he could, blinking furiously at a room that was suddenly swimming.
‘Right,’ said Myra, drawing his attention, ‘Reeve, you go outside to the well and fetch me a fresh bucket of water. The bucket’s just outside the door, well’s out the back.’ Without waiting for a response, she turned back to the bed and began lifting the knight’s tunic.
Grateful for the respite, Reeve turned and fled the room, pulling the door behind him as he took deep breaths of the still-moist night air. The rain had finally stopped, so he left his cloak hanging by the door, pulling on his boots and picking up the wooden pail. As Reeve stepped down from the porch and made his way around the building, he could hear the steady dripping of water as it worked its way down through the dense branches of the trees around him.
A fat drop of rain hit the back of his neck, and he shivered.
It was so quiet, Reeve could hear the soft squelch of his water-logged boots and the suck of mud underfoot with each step. By the time he reached the back of the cottage, the moon was peeking out from behind the dark clouds overhead, but the light came and went as the clouds scudded past, blown by some wind on high.
Reeve was able to pick out a snug little henhouse, surrounded by a fence of woven twigs. Set high on poles to the right of the enclosure, a ramp led up to the henhouse’s firmly closed door. Reeve could not help but creep up to peek over the fence, hoping for a glimpse of the aforementioned geese, but could not see so much as a feather.
Another fence of woven twigs wrapped around the poles under the henhouse, and he could only imagine that Myra had shut the geese in there.
A scuttling noise in the forest beyond had Reeve stepping back, shifting the pail to his left hand. ‘Who’s there?’ he called, hating the thin, high voice that emerged as his nerves took over.
The only response was a wave of outraged clucking from the henhouse, which was all but drowned out by the aggressive honking from the enclosed area beneath it.
‘Okay, okay,’ Reeve said, backing away from the outside fence. ‘I’m going.’
The clouds parted overhead, and moonlight poured through the gap, allowing Reeve to see the well on the opposite side of the clearing. Reeve crossed to it and lowered the bucket down on its sturdy rope until it hit the water below with a splash. He grasped the rope and began to haul the bucket back up, hand over hand, trying to keep it from hitting the side of the well and spilling its precious cargo.
Reeve had just caught a glimpse of the top of the bucket, the water reflecting in the moonlight, when the chickens and geese erupted again, giving him such a fright that he almost dropped the rope. Twisting to see behind him without letting go of the bucket, Reeve scanned the area but could see nothing.
‘What is it?’ he called to the restless birds, receiving no answer. He was about to turn back to his task, discounting the disturbance as a fox that had wandered too close, when a black shadow hurtled from the tree line, barking and snapping.
This time, Reeve did drop the bucket, ready to run for the safety of
the cottage lest Baron turn on him, but it took Reeve only a moment to realise that the dog’s attention was not on him. Reeve froze as the frenzy of howls and growls rose from the other side of the cottage, a panicked shout rising above the noise.
Then Reeve heard the terrible shriek of a dog in pain, and he forgot to be frightened as he realised that Myra’s pet had been hurt. Running towards the sound, he rounded the corner of the cottage and almost fell over Baron, whimpering in the mud. There was no sign of whoever had been shouting.
‘It’s okay, boy,’ Reeve said, crouching down beside the dog and reaching out a tentative hand to stroke one ear. ‘You’ll be okay.’
He ran his hand over the animal, who seemed too hurt or shocked to react, and gasped when he felt a sticky patch on Baron’s belly, grateful that the force of his anger seemed to offset the lurch of his stomach.
‘Who did this to you?’ he asked out loud, reaching under Baron with both hands and staggering to his feet with the whining dog in his arms.
‘I did!’ came a loud voice behind him, and Reeve turned to face Neale of Broadfield, still brandishing his long knife. ‘That’s her familiar, you know, the wyld woman’s. She uses that beast in black magic.’
Reeve snuggled Baron closer to his chest. ‘He’s a dog,’ he said evenly, trying to ignore the feeling of spreading moisture across his already wet tunic. He couldn’t afford to think about the fact that the dog was bleeding all over him. Not now.
‘He’s a dog,’ Reeve repeated, playing for time. ‘And Myra is no witch.’ Reeve didn’t know much about witches, but if there was any magic at all in her, surely she wouldn’t be living in a tiny cottage in the woods? If Reeve could conjure up anything he wanted, it wouldn’t be this . . .
‘You know nothing,’ Neale sneered. ‘Look at you. You weren’t good enough to squire for Sir Garrick two years ago and you’re still not. But no matter. Once the King hears of the Airl’s treason – and he soon will hear – the Airl and all at Rennart Castle will hang. Those who last that long!’