The Fire Star

  The moon spilled through a gap in the clouds and Reeve could see Neale’s face, twisted with anger and hatred as he waved his bloody knife above his head. Any thoughts Reeve had of trying to talk to Neale, to make him see reason, disappeared and, without another word, Reeve turned and fled towards the henhouse, stumbling a little under Baron’s weight. His only thought was to get inside the hen enclosure and put a fence between himself and Neale.

  Panting, Reeve slithered and slipped through the mud, Neale right behind him. Reeve reached the gate, fumbling for the catch, Baron whining in pain as his hind legs slipped from Reeve’s grasp. Gathering up the dog, Reeve slid through the gate with barely enough time to shove it closed with his hip and lean against it, grateful for Baron’s extra weight to help him hold back the assault from the enraged Neale on the other side.

  With the gate shifting and bucking behind him, the geese honking and hissing, the hens squawking and clucking, and Baron whimpering in his arms, Reeve tried to calm his breathing. He knew that the calmest mind always won a battle, but his training had not prepared him for the rattling of his heart, the rolling of his stomach and the twitching of his limbs when under true threat.

  There was no escape from the noisy enclosure, and he wasn’t going to be able to keep Neale out much longer. He wanted to shout, but Sir Garrick was no use to him and he didn’t want Myra facing this crazed version of Neale.

  ‘Let the geese out.’

  Reeve started at the slurred voice from the other side of the dark enclosure, barely heard above the cacophony. Squinting, he could just make out a figure, slumped on the ground against the fence, a cider bottle within reach.

  ‘Kit?’ Reeve whispered in amazement. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Actually,’ Kit went on as though Reeve hadn’t spoken, perhaps because he hadn’t heard him, ‘probably best if you stay there for a minute. I’ll do it.’

  Reeve could only watch, his full body weight leaning against the gate that banged and clattered behind him, as Kit dragged himself slowly to his feet and ambled across the enclosure towards the geese pen beneath the henhouse.

  ‘Right-ho,’ Kit shouted a moment later. ‘When I say go, get out of the way.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Go!’ Kit said, and opened the pen, unleashing an angry mass of spitting, hissing, clattering white birds. For a moment, Reeve froze, then realised they were heading straight for him – and they were enormous!

  Jumping away from the gate, Baron heavy in his arms, Reeve took one big step to the side. The gate flew open and Neale tumbled through, landing in a heap in the mud as he lashed right and left with his knife. Within seconds, the geese were upon him, running over the top of him in their single-minded drive to get out through the gate.

  Reeve watched open-mouthed as Neale tried to fight the geese off, merely inciting them to further rage. As Neale tried to stagger to his feet, the geese attacked, flying at him until he threw himself to the ground once more, trying to protect his head from the furious beaks.

  ‘C’mon!’ Kit was standing beside Reeve, the ever-present jug of cider now in one hand. ‘They’ll turn on us next.’

  ‘We can’t just leave him here!’ Reeve shouted. ‘They’ll kill him!’

  Kit bent down and picked up the knife that Neale had lost in the geese’s initial attack. ‘No more than he deserves?’ He dangled the blade between his fingers so that it glinted in the moonlight.

  Reeve took in the figure struggling on the ground, feathers flying around him. Then Baron whimpered in his arms, and he remembered Neale’s cruelty.

  ‘Let’s get Myra,’ Reeve said. ‘She’ll be able to corral the geese again.’

  ‘Sure,’ Kit said. ‘Let’s do that. But maybe we’ll walk very slowly . . .’

  With that, he led the way to the gate and Reeve followed, ignoring Neale’s shouts behind him. He’d never actually heard of anyone being pecked to death by geese, so he thought Neale was probably safe enough really. But the birds would keep Neale in one place until Reeve and Sir Garrick worked out what to do with him and that, thought Reeve, wasn’t a bad thing.

  As they left the enclosure, Kit pulled the gate shut behind Reeve, dropping the latch back into place.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Kit said with a wink.

  Reeve couldn’t help but agree.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I am breaking every rule in the servant handbook by entering the castle keep by the main steps, but it is, strangely, the only way for me to enter unseen. If I were to go via the kitchen, I would be recognised in an instant and word of my presence would travel the halls ahead of me. But this way . . .

  At least it has stopped raining. I take a moment to stop by the water barrel in the main square, using the light from a smoking, recently re-lit torch nearby to check my appearance. There is not much I can do about my sodden cloak, so I remove it and shove it behind the barrel before quickly rebraiding my damp hair, smoothing it behind my ears, and do my best to pull the worst wrinkles from my serviceable gown.

  As I approach the sentry and reach the bottom of the steep stone steps that lead to the imposing, arched doorway, I channel my mother, standing straight and imperious, my face a haughty mask. My gown may be plain brown, but a trained servant will still note the fineness of the cloth, the quality of the trim. Assuming, that is, that the sentry can see anything beyond my face in the torchlight.

  Fortunately, the gown is long enough to hide the mud-stained boots beneath.

  Without acknowledging the sentry, I sweep past him, focusing on the door, subtly kicking each step with the toe of my boot so that I may glide towards the top without ever looking down. I have never been so glad of my mother’s insistence on deportment lessons. Hours and hours spent walking around with a book on my head for this one moment.

  ‘Oi!’ For the barest moment, I freeze at the sentry’s voice but force myself forward. No lady would allow herself to be spoken to thus, and a lady I must be right now.

  ‘Oi!’ the oaf repeats, and this time I allow myself to turn on my heel. He is staring up at me from the bottom step, squinting in the dim light.

  ‘Surely you do not address me?’ I say, mimicking Mama’s iciest tone. ‘One such as you would not say “oi” to Lady Maven of Aramoor, here for the wedding on the morrow?’

  ‘I’m –’ He pauses a moment, and I hold my breath as he seems to deliberate, his gaze taking in my appearance from my shoes to my set, stony face.

  ‘Sorry, my lady,’ he says after a long pause. ‘I was addressing a rogue on the steps behind you.’

  I wait a beat to let him know that I do not believe a word and then incline my head majestically, letting him off the hook. As he turns back to his position with relief, I continue towards the doors, fighting the urge to run as fast as I can to my lady and thence to warn the Airl of the danger beneath his roof.

  I do not know what Neale knows, or thinks he knows, of Airl Buckthorn’s feelings towards the King, but I do know that Lord Mallor must be removed from the castle immediately, lest we all be in terrible danger. Given the two men are equals in social standing, it must be handled with great care, lest we spark a civil war. I have no idea of Airl Buckthorn’s plans, but my father’s teachings on war strategy have shown me that war is never a good idea – and a war on your doorstep when you are unprepared for it is the very worst idea of all.

  As I reach the top step, unseen hands draw the doors inward, and I continue to glide past the footmen, keeping my head down. It is only when I reach the end of the grand hallway, with its flagstone floor and soaring wood-panelled walls, that I lift my skirts and begin to run.

  I can only pray Cassandra is still in her rooms.

  Ribald male laughter slides out from under the door to the Airl’s solar, filling the air around us with its harsh, knowing sound, and I feel Cassandra quail. From the moment that I burst into her bedchamber, quickly filling her in on all that had passed as I laced her into her emerald green gown, she has been with me. But n
ow, at the last hurdle, she falters.

  ‘You must, my lady,’ I say. ‘I cannot do this. It must be you.’

  Still she hesitates.

  ‘Sir Garrick is hurt,’ I repeat. ‘The Airl will want to know that – and he must know the rest.’

  Cassandra reaches out a shaking hand to the door handle. I understand her fear – the world of men is foreign to her, and barging into this room will bring all male eyes upon her, with no support bar an uncle who is not best pleased with her as it is. This holds not the fun and pageantry of her first night in the Great Hall, when hundreds of eyes – men, women and children – played witness; this is menacing and serious.

  ‘Sir Garrick needs you,’ I say. ‘The Airl needs you. The Circle needs you. Please, Cassandra. Just tell him you must speak to him out here, and I’ll do the rest.’

  Perhaps it is because I, always so very careful to maintain my servant’s position, refer to her as an equal, that she lifts her chin, and turns the handle. As she steps through the door, all sound from within ceases, as though a thick quilt has been thrown over the room.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ I hear the Airl roar as the door closes, and the tone is enough to make me tremble, even through the thick wood.

  I wait, pacing upon the stones for endless moments as the clock in the hall ticks. I’d told Lady Cassandra that she cannot mention Sir Garrick or Neale in front of Lord Mallor but must somehow bring her uncle through the door nonetheless. All the way here, she’d been trying to think of the best way to do so.

  Suddenly, the door bangs against the wall as it opens, and the Airl strides into the hallway, fury making his very steps bristle. ‘Well?’ he roars again. ‘Where is she?’

  I stare at Cassandra, who closes the door gently before turning to face her uncle.

  ‘Anice is not here,’ she says as I silently approve the tack she has taken. ‘As far as I know, she’s safely in her rooms and not, in fact, covered in straw from her roll in the hay with a stablehand.’

  Even under the circumstances, I can feel my mouth twitch as I try not to laugh.

  ‘You lied to me?’ the Airl says, his frown deepening. ‘And such a lie?’

  ‘The worst of it is that you had no trouble believing me,’ Cassandra throws at him, hands on her hips and, to his credit, a shadow of shame crosses his features. ‘But we have no time to debate this now. You must eject Lord Mallor from the castle with haste.’

  The Airl laughs. ‘And why would I do such a thing?’

  Cassandra turns to me. ‘Maven will tell you.’

  As the Airl turns his disbelieving stare upon me, it is my turn to quail, but I force myself not to flinch. This man holds my future in his hands, and one gesture from him will see me in a nunnery – or worse – forevermore. But, I remind myself, he needs what I know. I am safe for the moment.

  And so I begin, relaying all I know of Neale and what he has told his father, about the whispers of treason that Lord Mallor is determined to blow into a raging shout that will reach all the way to the King’s ears. And if I leave out Neale’s comments about ‘spies in skirts’, well, who is to question me right here and now. Not Cassandra, standing silently wringing her hands, that’s for sure.

  ‘Sir Garrick is cared for?’ says the Airl as soon as I draw breath, and my estimation of him goes up when his first concern is for his knight.

  ‘In the best hands,’ I say.

  ‘And you are certain that Neale has told his father his . . . thoughts,’ the Airl says.

  I nod. ‘He said as much to Sir Garrick and his squire Reeve.’

  The Airl considers my words. ‘And Neale is . . . where now?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I admit. ‘With Sir Garrick stabbed in the darkness, Reeve was unable to say, only that Neale had run from them.’

  The Airl stares over my head down the hallway, deep in thought. ‘But he was on his way here? To his father?’

  ‘So I believe. It was with much relief that I found I had arrived before him.’

  The Airl pauses a moment and then looks at me. ‘Are you capable of some mummery, girl?’

  I frown. ‘Play acting?’ I pretend to consider, though the truth is that I have been acting a role my entire life and am acting one right now. ‘I’m sure I could manage something. What is it you wish me to do?’

  The Airl’s smile is cold. ‘I will return to my solar. You will hear laughter as I make light of Cassandra’s intrusion, and then I want you to run in, as though just from outdoors, and tell everything you know of Neale’s whereabouts.’

  I see his plan immediately. Lord Mallor is a danger inside the castle, but he would be more dangerous if the Airl attempts to remove him by force. Better to send him out into the darkness with his entourage on the word of a sighting of his ‘disappeared’ son, and then bar the gates against his return.

  ‘Not everything,’ I say.

  The Airl gives me an approving nod. ‘You catch on quickly, girl,’ he says. ‘Enough that Airl Broadfield cannot avoid leaving Rennart Castle lest he appear uncaring. Not enough for him to know that we wish to remove him.’

  He places one hand on the doorknob. ‘Oh, and don’t mention Sir Garrick,’ he says, his face set in hard lines. ‘We shall keep that information for the right moment.’

  The door closes, and Cassandra takes my hand. ‘You play a dangerous game now,’ she says.

  I laugh. ‘It has always been dangerous. But better, don’t you think, than embroidery or pianoforte practice?’

  Cassandra grins – her hatred of both these things is a longstanding joke between us. ‘Indeed. I will wait in my rooms to hear from you.’

  Before she leaves, she removes the locket from her neck, clasping it around mine. I do not need to open it to see the tiny painting – the Beech Circle is with me.

  ‘Go well,’ she says before hurrying away, head down.

  I wait in silence until I hear a roar of hearty guffaws from within. Hitching my skirts so that now my mud-stained boots can be seen, I quickly muss my hair before banging on the door.

  ‘Enter!’ comes the Airl’s command.

  Taking a deep breath, I push the door open, well aware that it is down to me to deliver just the right amount of detail to remove the enemy within like a canker.

  ‘My lord!’ I say, keeping my eyes on him and allowing my voice to tremble.

  And I begin.

  The shouting and clattering from the courtyard still seems to ring through the castle. Having delivered my message to the Airl and been summarily dismissed, I take my time wending my way back through the hallways towards Cassandra’s rooms. There is no more I can do for now, and so I must wait.

  She is not here and her outdoor boots are missing, so I assume that she has gone to watch the spectacle of Lord Mallor’s departure with the Airl. It is not until I stretch across the bottom of the feather mattress that I realise how tired I am, and yet my mind whirls with all that has happened this night.

  Lord Mallor’s response to my story of Neale wandering alone and helpless in the forest, badly affected by a mania surely brought on by an animal bite, had been fascinating to watch. On one hand, he’d known that Neale had been fine mere hours before – known it because he had himself been with Neale. On the other, however, he could not ignore the news – not only because to do so would make him look uncaring in front of his peers, but because he couldn’t discount the possibility that my story was true, and that something had happened to Neale after Lord Mallor had left him.

  It was all Airl Buckthorn could do to suppress his glee as, after a brief pause, Neale’s father had announced he would ride for the forest immediately, taking one of his men to help search.

  Airl Buckthorn had responded swiftly, insisting on accompanying Lord Mallor and suggesting that, given the size of Rennart Forest, he would need all five of his men to help with the search.

  ‘In fact,’ Airl Buckthorn had finished, ‘I’ll bring six of my own knights along . . . just to ensure everything goes well.
’

  And so, Lord Mallor and his men had been ejected from within the castle walls, his wedding invitation revoked, with nary a drop of blood spilled nor an accusation of treason voiced. The Airl would diplomatically ensure he did not return, and he could take his unhappiness and his unfounded accusations to the King – at least two days’ ride away – if he had a problem with that.

  I would be congratulating myself on an excellent night’s work were it not for the fact that Sir Garrick is injured, Neale still unaccounted for, Sully’s murderer still on the loose and the Fire Star still missing.

  It is this thought that has me back on my feet, pacing.

  I confess that, for a brief moment, in the very first instance, I had wondered if the thief had been Neale, who, as Sir Garrick’s squire, had always enjoyed free run of the castle and would understand the best places to stash the stone. The fact that he’d disappeared had also counted against him.

  But I had discounted him quickly. And, from what Reeve said, I was right to do so. The timing was all wrong for starters, and Reeve reported that his ravings were centred on the King and the Beech Circle, in spirit if not in name. No mention of the Fire Star.

  Which means, as I suspected, that Sully’s murderer, and the potential possessor of the stone, is closer to home.

  I pause. There is still no sign of Cassandra, and I know that she will not stop me in my search for the Fire Star. Why should I wait for her now?

  Before the thought is even complete, I am back in the halls of the castle, following the torches as I make my way back towards the ground floor, deep in thought as I consider and discard first one suspect and then another. Until I am circling back to one thought over and over. Someone saw.

  ‘Where go you, Maven?’

  The frosty voice of Lorimer drags me from my thoughts, and I bristle at the interrogative tone.

  ‘I go to my lady,’ I say, before allowing myself, just this once, to snap back. ‘Not that it is any of your business.’

  Lorimer takes a step closer, and his sneer is clear in the lamplight. ‘Everything in this castle is my business,’ he says. ‘It would do you well to remember that. You are not who you once were, girl, and you answer to me now.’