Waterborne Exile Page 2

  She lowered her head. “Forgive me, sire.”

  Durstan walked away without a backward glance. The slight unevenness in his gait was more apparent than usual and he carried his weight awkwardly on his right leg. He carried his right shoulder infinitesimally higher than his left. She willed the broken creature to trip, to fall. To see him spreadeagled over the flagstones in ignominy… He stumbled, and her heart leapt with glee, but he recovered his balance and, muttering a curse, continued to the black-haired soldier’s bed.

  The soldier roused and sat up, clutching his injured soldier.

  “I have been told you witnessed a number of riders escape during the fire.”

  “Yes, sire, that is right. Three riders, two of them women. I did my best to stop them–”

  “Well, girl. Do as the prelate ordered you.” One of the hospital orderlies waited in the doorway, arms folded as he watched her. His expression was not unkind, but she knew him of old. He’d heard the prelate’s command and this would be the last time she could sneak unseen into the infirmary. She’d need to find someone else to keep an eye on things. There were times when it was useful to have a brother so much younger than herself.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Weaver woke to darkness. Something dug hard into his hip and his ribs. When he breathed in, pain seared his lungs. He drew a deeper breath and was lost in a paroxysm of coughing. There was no air… He pushed his shoulders up from the hard surface he lay upon, discovering worn stone slabs beneath his fingertips, polished smooth by the passage of countless feet over the years. Disoriented, he tried to work out how he had come to be in the dungeon at Highkell once more. But these stone slabs were clean. A different sort of decay filled the air here: that of dry emptiness, of doors never opened or closed, and of air unchanged. This was a space unused, not overfilled. And the stink of smoke overlaid it all.

  He sensed he was alone in the darkness here. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom and he could make out the outlines of barrels stacked nearby. This was no dungeon: this was a storeroom. Some cellar, perhaps, although it was not as dank as he might have expected of a room dug out beneath ground level. It took him a moment to realise the odd rasping sound was his own breathing. Now he began to think about it, the pain with each inward breath seemed to grow stronger. He slumped forward as another burst of coughs racked him. When he was finally able to straighten up he discovered the room was lighter than before. And a slight figure was standing over him, watching, something held carefully between his hands. The lad looked vaguely familiar – Weaver could recall seeing him about the summer palace over the past few days.

  With a hesitant smile the boy crouched down. “I brought you water. It’s fresh, I drew it just now.”

  Weaver tried to draw a breath but could summon no air and no words – either for thanks or for questions.

  “Drink. It will help.” The lad held out the cup with that same hesitant half-smile. Weaver raised one hand and pain tore through his lungs. It took longer before the coughing passed off that time. When he was done the boy still waited there, anxiously clutching the water. He offered it again, raising it to Weaver’s lips and he was able to drink at last. It tasted sweet, laced with something Weaver couldn’t identify, but the moisture was welcome and he had to fight the urge to gulp it all down. The boy lowered the cup for a moment. “Good?” he asked, hesitantly.

  Weaver could only nod. His head began to swim. The boy raised the cup to his lips and he swallowed more liquid down. After another pause the boy repeated the action, tilting the cup so Weaver could drain the last from it. The pain in his lungs was easing, but he felt a cold sweat break out across the top of his shoulders and his forehead. The room slid out of focus, wavering as if seen through a heat haze, then Weaver knew no more.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wine goblet in hand, Drelena took up a stance in a quiet corner of the room. The Outer Isles nobility certainly knew how to celebrate. A sweatier, rowdier bunch of revellers she had rarely encountered. She’d seen a few wedding gatherings in recent years, and it was true, all the good ones were taken – had been for quite some time. Her second cousin Edric sat at a nearby table, engrossed in conversation with his wife. It wasn’t entirely obvious until she shifted in her seat that her belly was swelling with their eagerly-anticipated first child. Drelena sipped her wine, watching Edric lean close and murmur something in his wife’s ear. She blushed, visibly, quite a feat in the already overheated room. Yes, the good ones had been taken for quite some time.

  Drelena ran her eyes over the gathering. Her parents had been dropping heavy hints of late. There was another cousin, Lassig, from The Sisters, one of their most recent suggestions. He’d had a deal too much to drink and subsided groggily onto one of the benches lining the edge of the great hall, resting his elbows on his thighs, his head lowered. Quite the catch for some lucky girl. Her father’s family was as extensive as her mother’s was not. Between them they must have achieved some kind of balance. It was not that she had any deeply ingrained dislike for matrimony – her parents’ marriage was a happy one, after all – it was rather that she had met no one with whom she could imagine emulating their success. Lassig gave up the unequal battle to contain his drink and vomited copiously on the floor. No, Lassig was not a promising candidate.

  It was time. Her veins buzzed with the certainty of what she was about to do. The matriarchs were busy fussing over – or castigating, it was hard to tell at this distance – Lassig. Drelena reached out to set her goblet down among several other discards, but fumbled as she did so, slopping red wine over her sleeve and the bodice of her gown. “Oh, no. How vexing.” She made an ineffectual attempt to wipe the wine off, succeeding in spreading it even further. She suppressed a giggle. One or two of the elders sitting nearby had noticed. She made a play of indecision, then mouthed to the nearest matriarch. “I had better go and change.” The woman nodded, returning her attention to the activity centred on the hapless Lassig.

  Cursing herself aloud for her clumsiness in case anyone happened to be within earshot, Drelena slipped from the room. Butterflies danced in the pit of her stomach as she made her way out past the garderobes.

  She was halfway across the old, smaller hall when the door opened at the far end and a man stepped through. The laughter died in her throat before she recognised Bleaklow, her father’s steward. How like him to avoid the feast. Probably working late again over her father’s ledgers. He had no use for lively occasions like tonight’s gathering.

  “Good evening, my lady.” He spoke with precision and bowed, correct as ever.

  “Good evening. Do you not care to join the others at the wedding feast?”

  He straightened up and studied her. The light from the torchères along the walls flickered, making shadows leap across his face, accentuating the height of his cheekbones. “My lady, if you are not there to adorn the gathering, what could induce me to join them now?” He spoke carefully again, almost too carefully.

  Goddess, was he drunk? Gallantry from Bleaklow. This was unexpected. For a moment the urgency of her mission was forgotten. This was intriguing.

  Bleaklow studied her. “You appear to have spilled wine down your gown.”

  He looked so sombre. She would love to shake him out of it, if only for a moment. “Why yes, I have. So clumsy of me.”

  “A great deal of wine.”

  She smiled. “Yes, it was a great deal of wine. Expensive wine, at that.”

  “You should change before you catch a chill.” He studied her a moment more then took a step away, as if to continue his interrupted journey. On an impulse she reached out to take hold of his arm.

  “Wait. If you’re going to the feast now… will you wait while I change? I’ll be quick.”

  His eye twitched visibly and did she imagine his mouth pressed tighter into a disapproving line?

  “My lady… I would not presume.”

  “It’s a wedding feast. We’re supposed to be happy, Bleaky. Do cheer up.”

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nbsp; He stared at her, eyes widening in… what? Panic? Or was that something else she read in his expression? Something he tried to keep hidden?

  She was intrigued now. “Really, do try. Wait here for me while I change. I’ll be only a couple of minutes. Then we’ll rejoin the feast and dance the night away. I would like that.”

  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.
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  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.

  CHAPTER SIX

  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.”