Panic. Definitely panic in his eyes now. The muscles of his forearm tensed beneath her fingers. “My lady, it would not be seemly – not for one of my station.”
“Oh, that’s nonsense. I never met anyone named so well as you: bleak by name and bleak by nature.”
“My lady, I’ve told you before, it’s pronounced ‘Blecklow’.”
Drelena smiled. She knew she had a winning smile, she’d been told so often enough. “Nonsense. You’ll always be Bleaky to me. Unless… Unless you care to prove me wrong?” She leaned closer, her plan forgotten, her discontent, decorum, everything forgotten. She closed her fingers about his forearm. For a moment he tensed more than she thought was possible, then with a muttered oath he wrapped his free arm about her and pulled her close, kissing her hungrily. And what a kiss. It ignited her body so she melted against him, pressing every inch of her body up against his. And suddenly nothing else mattered, none of it, but this delicious sensation as their breath and tongues mingled, the taste of brandy on his lips. Then a door clattered open at the far end of the hall and Bleaklow released her as laughing voices entered the room. They sprang apart guiltily, only to see the merrymakers vanish through a door at the far corner of the hall. Their lapse in decorum hadn’t been noticed at all.
She couldn’t stifle the bubble of laughter, but Bleaklow looked horrified.
“My apologies, my lady. I ought never have presumed.”
“Oh, but Bleaky, you almost had me convinced.”
“I am sorry, my lady. It was wrong of me. I swear it won’t happen again.”
This time her winning smile didn’t work. Bleaklow hurried away towards the great hall, as if he feared she’d chase after him. She even considered it for a moment. But that was a moment of madness, and she chided herself for such weakness. It was his loss, not hers. Damn him. She wouldn’t be rebuffed a second time. And she wouldn’t risk being turned from her purpose again.
She hurried to her chamber in the tower, casting off the soiled gown. As she’d anticipated, most of the servants were enjoying the festivities, as was only right and proper. This was the perfect opportunity. She stuffed the clothes she’d selected earlier into a bag she’d hidden in the depths of her cupboard – she hadn’t dared pack the bag beforehand in case one of the servants spotted it. They were a diligent bunch – excellent servants, of course, but too observant to risk it. She extracted two purses from beneath the mattress where she’d hidden them. The slimmer one she fastened about her waist. The fatter one she likewise fastened about her waist, but tucked it inside the waistband of the heavy skirt she’d chosen. The weight of the purse pressed against her thigh, beyond the ken of cutpurses. To complete the outfit she added a heavy jacket and hooded cloak, all garments she’d discreetly acquired on trips to the local market.
She was almost ready. One last thing remained. There she met a slight hitch – the shears she’d appropriated for the task were no longer in her work basket. After a quick search she gave up and took her eating knife from its sheath. It would have to do. She couldn’t hope to pass for a commoner if she wore her hair in the long tresses of a noblewoman. It took a few minutes to hack her hair to shoulder length, not so unevenly, she hoped. She tied it back with a leather lace and took a cool look at her reflection in the mirror above the side table in her chamber. It might be a long time before she had the luxury of studying her own reflection again. The difference without her long hair was already startling; the shapeless woollen garments, just a bit too big for her, completed the transformation. She already felt as if a stranger looked back at her from the mirror. A stranger who was about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.
Drelena pulled up the hood, took up her bag and opened the door, peering out to check her way was clear. The butterflies intensified. She didn’t have to do this. She could step back inside, change her clothes and return to the party in a fresh gown, ready to dance until dawn with the string of eligible nobles her parents had invited. And Bleaklow might be waiting for her after all. He might have had second thoughts.
Her stomach did a tiny flip-flop. To turn back now would be craven. She stepped over the threshold, pulled the door gently shut behind her and made her way out through deserted halls, the sounds of merriment fading behind her.
Even the guards at the gatehouse had been partaking of a little festive spirit to toast the happy couple on their way.
“Leaving so soon?” the guard asked jovially as he moved over to the gate.
Drelena nodded, hefting the bag slung over her shoulder and muttering a word that might have been “laundry”.
“Aye, there’ll be plenty more of that made before the night’s over, I’ll warrant. Can’t beat a fine wedding for making work for honest folks.”
She nodded again, mumbling an approximation of his rather more guttural “Aye.”
The guard eyed her, thoughtfully. “Not seen you before. You new?”
“Aye. In from Norport.”
“Norport, is it?” The guard drew out a pipe and tobacco pouch, leaning back against the gate. “I’ve a cousin from there. Jed, Jed Thatcher. You might know of him? Strapping big blond feller.”
“Not to talk to. Might have seen him in town.” She was warming to her deception. “There’s a few that could be in Norport.”
He fussed with the pipe, lighting it at last. “Aye, that’s right enough. But you don’t have the accent.”
“I was a lady’s maid. The missus liked us to talk proper.” This wasn’t going to plan. She was used to approaching the gates and have the guards spring forward and open them up so her horse didn’t even need to break stride. That was one of the benefits of moving about with an armed escort at all times. She ought to have anticipated this.
“Lady’s maid, is it? Job for life, that. What happened? You get to talking improper with the master?”
“I did no such thing! Why don’t you open the gate and let me get home?”
The guard drew on his pipe, inhaling a slow lungful of smoke before exhaling it in a cloud that hung heavy and aromatic on the night air. “Jus’ being friendly. No harm in that.” He grinned, studying her up and down. “Night like this there’s no harm at all in it.”
“No harm at all if you open that gate now. If you don’t I’ll be having words with your commander.” She straightened up, glaring down her nose at him.
“No harm in it and even less fun.” He cleared his throat and spat on the cobbles at his feet. “I won’t be holding you up any longer, hoity toity lady’s maid who has to take in laundry these days.” He hitched up the bar that held the gate shut, pulling open the small pedestrian gate.
“Thank you. Good evening.” She stepped over the wooden bar across the base of the opening, hitching her skirts up just far enough so they didn’t snag on her boots.
“Aye. It’s a very good evening indeed.” The guard slapped a hand on her rump, squeezing for good measure. “And a very fine arse you have on you.”
She hopped through the doorway with precious little dignity, failing to suppress her squawk of outrage. She spun round to remonstrate with him, but the door slammed shut. On the other side the guard bellowed with laughter. She heard the wooden bar drop into place, then retreating footsteps as he returned to his guardroom.
Curse his insolence. If she’d been of a mind to turn back now it was too late. She turned her back on the gatehouse. The cobbled street stretched down the hill before her, lit at intervals by large torchères brought in especially for the wedding celebrations. The street was quiet now. In a few hours it would be bustling with life again. The tide would turn in a couple of hours and she would be on the first eastbound ship to leave the harbour.
She stepped forward. She would leave the guard’s insolence behind her along with everything she’d ever known since she’d been old enough to remember anything.
Brett peered over the edge of the rocky promontory. The plain was hidden from view as the morning haze hadn’t quite burned off yet, but already the day was oppressively sticky. Nothing moved on the plain below. There’d be no travellers now before nightfall. Another day with his father away. Rina wasn’t so bad, but… well, his father had been gone too long this time. He was about to turn away when something stirred in the distance. Dust eddying in a stray breeze? But no, the air was too still for that. He studied the ground below until his eyes began to prickle. There it was again, another swirl of dust. And the hint of shapes moving through the haze, drawing closer to the entrance to the valley. He blinked and rubbed his eyes and this time he was sure, even though their outlines were indistinct: horses and riders. They moved across the plain with the certainty of those who knew where they were heading.
He should go and raise the alarm, but he studied them a moment longer, heart in his mouth. The horse in front was grey, he reckoned. Behind that followed a – chestnut? And then a bay appeared from the haze at the back. But even at this distance he was sure. It was not his father’s tall bay – this animal was too short.
Brett wriggled back from the edge before jumping to his feet and running. His boots slithered in the dust as he sprinted across the valley floor, then began the short climb to the dwellings. “Horses! There are horses coming!”
Rina appeared at the door of her cave as he hurried up the slope, a cloth in her hands. “Is it your father?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recognise the horses, but they’re heading straight for us. Three riders.”
Rina’s eyebrows snapped together as she frowned. “Three? Are you sure? Tell Rogen – he’ll need to go and look.”
Did she think he couldn’t count? Always the same – his word was never good enough.
“Quickly, now. Tell Rogen.”
When Brett burst in on Rogen still at his breakfast the old man’s reaction to the news was more gratifying. He took up his bow – he adhered to the tradition that freemerchants should not carry edged blades – and followed him outside, questioning him for more detail.
“Heading straight for Scarrow’s Deep from the south, you say? It could be your father. Or Nicholl. But you say you didn’t know the horses?”
“No. There was one bay, but it was a short, cobby animal.”
“Could be he met trouble on the road. He has a knack for finding it, your father.”
They hadn’t long to wait before the horses could be heard climbing the slope towards Scarrow’s Deep. From the cover of a pile of boulders, Rogen nocked an arrow and shouted out a challenge to the approaching riders.
“Halt and state your business.”
“My business? Putting food on freemerchant plates, as it ever has been.”
With a flush of relief Brett recognised his father’s voice. Rogen eased his bowstring and returned the arrow to his quiver, before pushing himself to his feet. Brett followed him out from behind the cover of the rocks. Close to he had no difficulty recognising his father’s taller figure, riding a grey horse without the benefit of saddle or bridle, only a meagre halter. Behind him, the other two riders were women, both mounted the same way as his father, without saddle or bridle. Both women slumped on their horses. They must have been riding half the night. Their heads were wrapped in scarves to protect them from the heat of the sun and the dust. They rode side by side, until the track they followed narrowed and the slighter-built one reined in her horse, dropping to the rear. She had tanned skin and freckles. Wisps of hair escaped from beneath her scarf; her forearms were wiry, strong.
Brett moved his attention to the woman who rode behind his father, eyeing her with curiosity. She had fair skin, ill-suited to the desert heat. There was something ethereal about her, something he couldn’t quite name, some sense of – what, he wasn’t sure. As if aware of his scrutiny she looked up and her eyes met his. Brett caught his breath. For a moment it was as if she could read his innermost thoughts. But that was silly. No one could do such a thing. There was a slight twist of her mouth that might have been a smile then she nodded and he found he could turn his eyes away at last, aware of a sudden sense of great grief. Such a sorrow as he’d never known before. He felt strangely guilty, as if he’d intruded somehow.
He fell in behind their horses as they picked their way up the valley. This was something important here, something momentous.
Tad had to balance on a block of wood to reach the sink properly to scrub the pans. The other kitchen apprentices were pleased to shove him off it for their own amusement. Since the fire, part of the summer palace had been abandoned and there were fewer cleaning tasks to keep Tad’s persecutors occupied. Mostly he kept his head down and tried not to attract their notice. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t. He picked himself up off the floor, nursing a grazed elbow as the two lads hurried away, suppressing their laughter as the cook in the next room growled a warning to them. Tad winced as he heaved the last of the heavy pots out of the stone sink and set it to dry on the sloping shelf beside it.
Other times this had happened he’d promised himself he’d run away, but it wasn’t that easy now. He had responsibilities. He hugged the secret to himself: he had a reason to stay.
Tad recognised the familiar rush of air through the muggy room: the cook had stepped outside to smoke. This was his chance. He stepped down from the block of wood with elaborate care and tiptoed to the kitchen door, peering through. The room was empty. Tad spun away on his heel and hurried over to the pantry. He tugged a rough-woven bag from the waistband of his leggings and stuffed it with food – taking some fruit from here, some vegetables from there. Reluctantly he left the grain as he had nowhere to cook it. He risked taking a single bread bun from the latest batch, rearranging the others on the tray so there was no obvious gap. He slipped out of the pantry, gently closing the door behind him then hurried down the corridor. He stowed the bag carefully out of sight beneath a stone sconce in one of the disused rooms before scurrying back to his perch on the wooden block. He was just in time to hear the outer door slam as the cook returned to the kitchen, bellowing for Tad to bring the stock pot through.