The Fire Star

  ‘You have not heard the last of this,’ Lord Mallor had shouted as Myra joined Reeve in hopping up on the wooden cart that drew up beside them. ‘I know all about you and your sorcery. The King will pay me handsomely for the information.’

  Myra had laughed as the cart began to trundle off down the road towards her cottage. ‘Pay for the ramblings of a madman?’ she’d said. ‘I think not!’

  As the cart had left them behind, however, her face had grown serious. ‘Did you tell?’ she’d whispered to Reeve, and her deep, melodic voice was harsh.

  ‘Me? NO!’ Reeve had spluttered. ‘Neale left the castle before I ever even knew about . . . things. It was not me.’

  Myra had been silent. ‘Someone has told. But who?’

  To that question, there was no answer, and nothing more to say.

  ‘Reeve?’ Sir Garrick nudged him now. ‘The ring?’

  ‘Oh, wait, what?’ Flustered, Reeve fumbled about in his belt before triumphantly producing the ring. Anice’s spiteful titter behind him brought a flush of heat to Reeve’s face.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered to Sir Garrick, who had turned back to his bride and probably hadn’t heard him. Maven clearly had, though, because she sent him a sympathetic glance before turning her head back to the cleric.

  Reeve saw the wince of pain that accompanied the movement.

  She seemed to have survived her ordeal with Lorimer with just some bruises and stiffness, but Reeve had never been so pleased in his life that, after fetching Sir Garrick and handing him over to the care of the Airl’s physick, Reeve had decided to try his luck in the kitchens.

  It had been many hours since his last meal in Cleeland, and his stomach had been telling him that a lifetime had passed. To his surprise, though, the kitchens had been deserted, and the only voices he’d heard had been coming from Lorimer’s parlour . . .

  After a few minutes eavesdropping outside the door, Reeve had the gist of the conversation, and he’d burst through it as soon as he’d heard the scuffle inside – almost, to his chagrin, too late.

  Maven had, however, been pleased he had waited long enough to witness Lorimer’s confession, and the Airl had certainly taken more notice of their story because there’d been two voices telling it. Lorimer had tried to deny the whole thing, accusing Maven and Reeve of attacking him, but Maven’s assistance in helping to remove Lord Mallor from the castle had stood them in good stead.

  Lorimer was currently cooling his heels in the dungeon below the castle while the Airl considered what to do with him. Sully’s body had been removed from the side of the road by Myra, and buried with care and reverence on the day that he’d been found. But Maven and Reeve had decided to consult with Myra before raising Sully’s murder with the Airl, so, at this stage, Lorimer was being held only for his attack on Maven.

  And while all of this was going on, the Airl had reminded Reeve that he had failed to fulfil his mission – to find the Fire Star.

  Looking down at his feet now, Reeve swayed a little at the enormity of the mess he was in. Despite everything that had happened, everything he’d done, his dream of being a knight remained in jeopardy.

  He and Maven had managed to uncover a spy (Neale), unmask a murderer (Lorimer, even if he was yet to be judged for that) and even bring two unhappy people together in a happy union (Sir Garrick and Lady Cassandra). But Reeve would still be going home at the end of the day, and Maven was now even further trapped in her role as companion, and all because of one dazzling red stone.

  ‘. . . pronounce you man and wife . . .’ the cleric announced with gusto. ‘You may now kiss the bride.’

  As Sir Garrick took his new bride in his arms, Reeve wondered if his own face looked as gloomy as Maven’s did.

  Around them, people cheered and clapped as Sir Garrick and Lady Cassandra embraced, their smiles tender. Reeve wondered at the difference a game of chess could make to one couple, but realised it was more about what the willingness and ability to play the game had shown each of them about the other that had seen them embrace the idea of their union.

  As he followed the couple from the chapel, Reeve, with Maven by his side, tried to summon up a charming smile for the happy, excited people showering Sir Garrick and Lady Cassandra with tiny white flowers – honeysuckle, Reeve realised, breathing in the familiar, drifting scent.

  Outside in the courtyard, it seemed that everyone in the surrounding country villages had come inside the castle walls for a glimpse of the bride. Reeve waved at Myra, who was standing slightly away from the crowd in the shadow of the chapel wall, and she grinned before bending down and hauling a man to his feet beside her.

  Reeve almost laughed out loud as Kit lifted his ever-present cider jug in a toast to the happy couple. Grabbing Maven’s hand, Reeve directed her gaze towards Kit and Myra, and Maven laughed.

  ‘I can’t believe he still has cider in that jug,’ Reeve said, turning his attention back to Sir Garrick and Lady Cassandra, who’d stopped ahead of them to talk to a woman holding a baby.

  To his surprise, Maven stopped short, holding up the line of people now trying to exit the chapel for the celebration feast in the Great Hall.

  ‘Reeve,’ Maven said, resisting his efforts to drag her along. ‘Is that the jug that Sully gave him?’

  Reeve frowned, looking across to where Kit was now tipping the jug up to his mouth, head thrown back, as though draining the very last drops.

  ‘Well, I think so,’ Reeve said. ‘I don’t think Myra would have a stash in her cottage.’

  ‘Reeve,’ Maven said, staring at him with huge eyes. ‘I know where the Fire Star is.’

  How could I have been so wrong? The jug lies smashed on the cobblestones, revealing nothing but a tiny dribble of cider inside. Stricken, I look to Reeve, trying to ignore the whispering of the people around us. When we had broken ranks from the wedding-party line to push our way through the crowd to Kit, they had muttered.

  When Reeve had grabbed Kit’s jug from him with a mumbled sorry and then dashed it on the ground, they had protested.

  And now, they just whispered.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ the Airl’s voice booms from the chapel steps. Reeve looks at me, but I am unable to speak. My neck hurts, my heart aches and that feeling of exhaustion is once again overwhelming me.

  I was so sure that the Fire Star would be hidden in the jug that Sully had left with Kit. My mother always said that I thought I was too smart for my own good. That people would always laugh at me and never like me for it. And, again, she is proven correct.

  ‘I . . . we . . .’ Reeve begins, and I watch as he draws himself together. ‘My lord, we thought –’

  But now the Airl is barging through the crowd towards us, and I can see Lady Cassandra staring at me with questions in her eyes.

  But Reeve has paused and is biting his lip.

  He turns to me. ‘There were two jugs,’ Reeve says, his voice low. ‘Maven, there were two!’ I can feel my hopes rising again as he turns to Kit.

  ‘Kit, the other jug – Sully left two with you?’

  Kit blinks. ‘Yes,’ he says, and I want to shake him to make him speak faster. The Airl is almost upon us, bristling with displeasure at the show we are creating at the special event.

  ‘I finished the other one before I went to visit Myra,’ Kit says, looking perplexed. ‘So I left it behind.’

  I can barely breathe. ‘Where?’ I ask. ‘Where did you leave it?’

  But I do not need to hear his answer and neither does Reeve, for he is already moving towards the stables and I am a hair’s breadth behind him.

  The light inside is dim, but Reeve moves with certainty to the darkest stall in the furthest corner from the door. I start with the stall nearest to me, taking a moment to say hello to the huge inhabitant, who flicks her ears at me and whinnies softly as I peer over the gate.

  I hear a scrabbling sound in the straw and then a triumphant ‘ha!’ before Reeve emerges from his stall, a jug held over his he
ad.

  ‘Is it the one?’ I am barely able to squeak the words out.

  He does not answer, merely shaking the jug gently from side to side.

  And I hear a comforting rattle.

  ‘You do it,’ Reeve says, handing the jug to me. ‘I think Sully would like that it’s you.’

  Testing the weight of the pottery crock in my hands, I give it one sharp, solid tap on the nearest beam, and a crack appears in the bottom of the vessel. One more sharp tap opens up a gaping hole, and I look to Reeve before tipping the jug, my hand under that hole.

  With a slithering sound, it drops neatly from its dark hiding place and into my waiting palm, where, smooth and cool, large as an egg, it flashes and winks at me as though lit from within.

  The Fire Star.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘And so your future as a squire is determined, young Reeve.’ Sir Garrick was sprawled comfortably in the armchair in his chambers, looking like a contented man. To all intents and purposes, he was bathing ahead of the second part of the wedding celebrations. The pomp and ceremony of the official luncheon feast was over, and all those deemed not intimate enough for the evening’s festivities had been despatched.

  It was the Airl who had decided who stayed and who went, removing anyone he suspected of being ears and eyes for the King, and Reeve knew that the real business of the wedding was about to begin.

  ‘So it would seem, sire,’ Reeve said, feeling shy. ‘I trust that this meets with your approval.’

  Sir Garrick laughed. ‘It seems to me that Lady Rhoswen has once again proven that she knows best,’ he said. ‘I will never again question her decisions.’

  Reeve blushed, busying himself with pulling Sir Garrick’s softest black boots from the chest. ‘These, sire?’ he asked.

  Sir Garrick looked them over. ‘Yes, I suspect these will be best – my Lady Cassandra will appreciate the softness of the leather as I trample all over her feet when we dance.’

  Reeve smiled, placing the boots on the floor and bending to help Sir Garrick ease the first one on. ‘You feel up to dancing, sire?’

  ‘It will be a slow dance,’ said Sir Garrick with a wink as he tapped his well-strapped side. ‘But I would not miss it.’

  Judging by the way he winced as Reeve pulled the tight boot up to his knee, Reeve thought it might be a very slow dance indeed.

  ‘Tell me, Reeve, how did you know where to find the stone?’

  ‘It was not me who worked it out,’ Reeve confessed, still cuffing himself inwardly for not putting two and two together earlier. ‘It was Maven who realised first.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ Sir Garrick mused. ‘And lucky for, er, Kit that you and the wyld woman were able to vouch that he was not the sweeping man, that you did not see him in the courtyard when the Fire Star disappeared, and that it could not have been he who had put the stone there in the first place . . .’

  Reeve concentrated on straightening Sir Garrick’s boot. ‘Yes, very lucky,’ he said.

  ‘And Myra reports that she buried a poor stranger, answering the description of the sweeping man, who had been set upon on the Rennart Road,’ Sir Garrick pondered, though Reeve did not miss the probing beneath his words. ‘And so we have the Fire Star, and our suspected thief has met an unfortunate end.’

  Reeve proffered the second boot, hoping to distract the knight. ‘Yes, and I think Airl Buckthorn is happy to leave it at that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sir Garrick, sliding his right foot into the boot. ‘As are a few other people, I suspect . . .’

  ‘Come, sire, it is your wedding day,’ Reeve prompted, desperate to change the subject. ‘Your bride awaits.’

  ‘Speaking of my bride,’ said Sir Garrick with a bright smile. ‘Maven is responsible for Cassandra’s prowess at chess?’

  ‘I, er, well . . .’ Reeve hesitated, not wanting to get Maven in trouble.

  ‘Have no fear of me, Reeve,’ Sir Garrick said as he straightened the second boot. ‘I have never had a more welcome surprise than discovering that my bride-to-be could discuss more than the weather and her latest sampler. The secrets of that household are safe with me.’

  All of them? Reeve thought of the Beech Circle, but he would not mention that. Not today, not ever.

  ‘It was she,’ he conceded.

  Sir Garrick paused. ‘Airl Buckthorn wishes me to undertake a tour of some of our neighbours, near and far,’ he said. ‘It seems to me that if we were to travel with my new wife and her quiet companion, our visits would be seen as less . . . threatening . . . when viewed by others. What think you, Reeve?’

  Reeve could not contain the beaming smile that crept over his face.

  ‘If it pleases you, sire, then I can think of no reason that the ladies would not be of great assistance to your, er, diplomatic mission.’

  Sir Garrick stood up, smoothing his new tunic – still black, but now with a border of fine metallic silverwork.

  ‘Neither can I, Reeve. Neither can I.’

  They look good together, both so strong and fine, her dark hair on his shoulder as they dance, turning in tiny circles to accommodate his injury. Now, he throws his head back and laughs at something she has said, and I can see the delight on my lady’s face that he appreciates her comment.

  It is not the freedom that I dreamed of, but I cannot find it in my heart to deny her the happiness she has now.

  Talleben will wait for me. The Beech Circle will see that I get there. One day.

  Sir Garrick spins her, and the Fire Star catches the light from the flickering candles on the table beside them. It is truly beautiful, flashing radiant prisms across the room.

  I can see why Lorimer wanted it. It is just a stone, but it represents so much more: choices, freedom, social standing. Now, he can only dream of those things, lying in the dark on a stone bench far below us.

  The idea that Lorimer will not pay the price for Sully’s murder remains a thorn in my side. It is true that he will not see the light of day for many years, if ever, for trying to kill me, but it is not enough. Not when a good man died at his hands.

  Reeve believes Lorimer will confess in good time. In Reeve’s words: ‘He won’t be able to help himself. Wait until he is brought before Airl Buckthorn next week to answer the charges against him and see if I’m not right.’

  Reeve then went into great detail about Lady Rhoswen and a footman who had been so desperate to prove how clever he was that he confessed to selling Harding Manor’s wine stores and covering his tracks by refilling empty bottles with beet water.

  I cannot see the parallels myself, but Reeve believes that a vain, haughty beast like Lorimer will bring about his own demise. And if such a man, particularly one with huge gambling debts and a proven ability to act with violence, were to accuse Lady Cassandra of trying to engineer the disappearance of the Fire Star herself, who would believe him?

  Perhaps, even the intent to steal the stone for himself is enough to arouse the ‘pitiless bad luck’ of the Fire Star myth for such a man.

  We shall see.

  Across the hall, sitting at the table just below the wedding party, Anice stares at Cassandra, and I know that it is the Fire Star that catches her eye. After tonight, it will become hers. It will be tucked away in a dark corner of the castle to keep it safe – her father’s in name, but her dowry in nature. Hers.

  I hate her a little for this. I can forgive her the meanness, the entitlement, the spite, but I cannot forgive that she will hold – even if in name only – the means to escape, and she will never use it.

  I can only hope that Lady Cassandra impresses upon Anice – and Airl Buckthorn – the importance of tradition, of holding it for her youngest daughter, of the horrors of unending ‘pitiless bad luck’. If black myths and rumours of sorcery are all we have as women to protect what is ours, then they must be preserved.

  With a sigh, I turn back to my tumbler of ale, wondering what the morrow will bring. Tonight, I will tuck my lady into her new chambers with Sir
Garrick, and wander back to my own sleeping mat in her former rooms. Tomorrow, I begin my new life, under the command of not just Lady Cassandra, but her husband.

  I look up once more to find Anice’s gaze upon me, and the malevolence in it makes me sit back in my chair. She does not like me. Few do, it is true, and that is something I wrestle with. I don’t want to care.

  But I do.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Reeve slides into the chair beside me, watching the Airl’s daughter. Three tables down, Airl Buckthorn is sitting close with three men, all of whom have loosened their belts. He is speaking low, hard and fast, plotting under the cover of the lilting music.

  ‘Fine,’ I say to Reeve.

  ‘She hates you for helping her,’ Reeve says, perceptive as ever, still focused on Anice. ‘Because you glimpsed her while weak?’

  I shake my head. ‘She hates me for not exploiting her weakness,’ I say. ‘She would have, had our roles been different. To her, it is I who is weak for not following up, for not demanding something of her.’

  Reeve sits back in his chair. ‘Why didn’t you?’ he asks. ‘You know how favours work as well as I do.’

  I laugh. ‘For just that reason. What I did in that garden was not a favour for her, but a considered move for myself and Lady Cassandra. I was not going to have that conceited girl and her scruffy admirer give the Airl an excuse to suspend the marriage that Cassandra needed at that point. And I have no desire, ever, to be beholden to Anice in any way.’

  I will not share with him the simple tenet of the Beech Circle, to help all girls and women always. He does not need to know.

  Instead, we both consider the fair maiden, now gossiping intently behind a fan that does not quite hide her malicious glee.

  ‘Good decision,’ Reeve says after a moment.

  ‘The only decision,’ I say. ‘But now I am fighting a headache, and I am hoping the two lovebirds choose to retire soon.’

  It is Reeve’s turn to snort as we watch Lady Cassandra and Sir Garrick on the dance floor. ‘You won’t have long to wait. And Sir Garrick has given us a free day on the morrow.’