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  “Count yourself lucky I recognised you before I threw this.” He slid the dagger back into its sheath and retrieved the chicken from where he’d dropped it, tying it to his saddle.

  She stared at the sorry bundle of feathers. “That’s not ours to take, surely?”

  “The people here have no need of it. We need to make up lost time.”

  Alwenna slid down from his saddle, still studying the scene.

  She pointed to the woman. “I take it she’s dead?”

  “She is.” He led his horse between her and the steading. “We need to go, my lady. There’s nothing we can do here.”

  “We can’t just leave her lying there. It’s not decent.”

  “Believe me, her troubles are over.”

  “My lady, Weaver’s right.” Wynne spoke up firmly. “We can’t risk staying here any longer. You can offer up a prayer to the Goddess at sunrise tomorrow. That would be fitting.”

  A crow waiting in a nearby tree flapped its wings.

  Alwenna took a step back towards the horse they shared. “Shouldn’t we at least cover her?”

  “And announce to the world we passed this way?” Weaver set one hand on her elbow.

  She frowned. “Tresilian wouldn’t leave her like that.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He’d have enough soldiers with him to bury her in a few minutes. I haven’t. His orders were to take you to safety.”

  “But… it’s inhumane.”

  “It’s war, my lady. Or had you forgotten?”

  Alwenna shook off Weaver’s grip, but made ready to mount the horse. He legged her up behind Wynne. She didn’t thank him, her mouth set in a sullen line as she organised her skirts.

  Weaver vaulted up into his own saddle. “Someone’s stirred up trouble in these parts. The sooner we’re out of this country, the better I’ll like it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  There were still several hours of daylight when they stopped that evening. Weaver kindled a fire and handed the chicken over to the women to pluck. Alwenna watched Wynne at work for a few minutes. It looked straightforward enough.

  She knelt down on the ground next to the servant. “Can I help?”

  “There’s no need, my lady. You rest while you can. You’ll need all your strength.”

  “I don’t need to rest, Wynne. I need to be useful, instead of just being a burden to everyone.”

  “We all have our part to play. But if you want to try, I see no reason not to.”

  “I want to try.”

  Wynne smiled and handed over the chicken. “I shouldn’t say it, but your uncle was often over-particular about his family’s dignity.”

  “Then it’s no wonder I was a sore trial to him. He was forever telling me I ought to be more grateful for my good fortune.”

  “He was a good man, and fond of you all, even if he wasn’t prone to showing it.”

  Alwenna pondered Wynne’s comment in silence. There was a knack to chicken-plucking, a knack she hadn’t acquired yet. Several minutes’ effort left her fingertips raw while the chicken remained stubbornly feathered.

  “I suspect my uncle was always fonder of the lands I would bring to Tresilian when we married.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s been a good match for both of you.” There was a solid certainty about Wynne’s statement.

  “Of course. I’m not ungrateful. It’s just…” There was no way to say what was on her mind without sounding ungrateful. Had Wynne been granted a choice, she would surely have preferred to remain at Highkell than come on this unpleasant journey with her mistress.

  Alwenna returned her attention to the hapless chicken. Feathers clung to her clothes, adhered to the blanket she sat upon and drifted over the ground. The dead creature’s head dangled over her leg, flopping back and forth each time she tugged more feathers free. She yanked at a stubborn feather, gripping it awkwardly to spare her sore fingertips, and the bird’s flesh tore as it came away. The thing was repulsive. And how long had Weaver been standing watching her efforts?

  His expression was deadpan. “I’ll finish it off. The feathers come out easier while the bird’s still warm.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Weaver glanced her way with something that might have been a smile as he removed the last of the feathers. Alwenna was left in no doubt he’d have completed the task in a fraction of the time it had taken her.

  “Have you ever been shown how to clean a chicken ready to cook?”

  “No. I’ve never needed to do any cooking.”

  “You might find it useful one day, if only to make sure your servants aren’t about to poison you with bad food.” He set about removing the neck and innards. “Take care not to burst the guts, or it’ll spoil the meat. Cut here and you remove the whole thing. Then wash out the inside and it’s ready to cook.” He glanced up at her, quizzical. “What’s the matter?”

  “I never saw anything so disgusting in my life.”

  “Have you not, my lady? Then you have been blessed indeed.” He set about cutting the meat into small pieces and tossed them into the small pan he had set to heat over the fire. “There are many worse sights in this world, may the Goddess grant you never witness any.”

  How dare he? Face burning with embarrassment, she jumped to her feet and made her way down to the stream to clean her hands. To be rebuked by the churlish Weaver! She’d done everything he’d asked: waded through water, dangled on ropes, ridden through the night, slept on blankets that reeked of horse, even helped pluck the damned chicken he’d stolen from the dead woman’s farm. When she next saw Tresilian she’d have some choice words for him, and they wouldn’t involve gratitude.

  The cool water had eased the raw discomfort of Alwenna’s fingertips. Now she spread her fingers wide and lowered them to the bottom of the shallow pool. The pebbles on the stream bed were of many different colours: browns, greys and ochres, all intermingled, smooth to the touch. The rippling of the water made them appear alive as they shimmered beneath her fingers, shifting and dancing. The rushing of the stream grew louder and her vision blurred then cleared to reveal the citadel of Highkell in fading light. Behind her she could hear the jingle of harness, and the steady progress of horses’ hooves on the road up to the citadel. She blinked, disorientated, and she was gazing at the pebble-strewn stream bed once more, her hands cold, still sunk to her wrists in the water. The sound of horses’ hooves had gone, but she twisted round to check, nevertheless. She knelt by a stream in a forest clearing, with only Wynne and Weaver for company.

  She turned back to the stream, studying the pebbles which lay innocuously beneath the surface of the water. She plunged her hands in again, spreading her fingers over the stones as before. The water was cold and wet and that was all.

  Alwenna straightened up, shaking off the water, and dabbed her hands dry on her skirts. She slept so badly these days, it was no great wonder if she felt a bit lightheaded.

  Weaver watched her from where he tended the fire. “Are you well, my lady?”

  “Yes. My hands were sore, that’s all.” She returned to the fireside where the chicken now sizzled, along with some roots Weaver had added. The chicken no longer resembled the fleshy thing she’d plucked with so much difficulty. “That smells good.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “It looked nothing like food earlier.”

  Wrapped in one of the oatcakes, the chicken tasted good. Delicious, in fact. But at the third mouthful Alwenna’s stomach rebelled. She hurried away among the trees where she retched violently until her stomach was empty. She straightened up, shaking, relieved to find the nausea had passed. When she returned Weaver was busy damping down the cooking fire. He made no comment about her abrupt disappearance.

  Wynne was waiting for her with fresh water. “Drink this, my lady. It will help.”

  “Thank you.” Alwenna sipped at the water before taking up her food again, this time without ill effect. It was her own stupid fault for bolting it down, of course. “You warne
d me how it would be. I’d almost forgotten about it.” Wynne had told her how to manage the sickness. In the habit of picking at the dry oatcakes as they rode she’d begun to think the phase had passed.

  Wynne glanced over towards Weaver, who was saddling up the horses, before speaking in a low voice. “It’s a good sign. It means a healthy baby.”

  Alwenna followed the direction of Wynne’s eyes. “Tresilian said I was to tell no one. Not even Weaver.” The surly soldier was the last person she could imagine herself confiding in. “Why would he say that if he trusts him so completely?”

  “Like as not Tresilian thought to spare him the worry. The King’s Man carries burdens of his own, my lady, though he makes light of them.”

  This was news to Alwenna. “Burdens? What do you–” She fell silent as Weaver rejoined them.

  “We’ll ride on as soon as you’ve finished eating, my lady, in case someone saw the fire.”

  Alwenna gathered her feet under her and stood up. “I’m ready.” She couldn’t imagine Weaver making light of anything. She had to ask Wynne what she meant later.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Weaver settled with his back against the tree trunk. There should have been another with him so they could take turns at keeping watch. Tresilian had vetoed the suggestion, as he had no idea how far Stanton’s contagion had spread at Highkell. In theory the risk was minimal here in the west, now they were out of Stanton’s land. But it meant a succession of near-sleepless nights for him, keeping alert for anything out of place.

  And the Lady Alwenna was a restless sleeper. She didn’t speak of it during the day. Mostly she didn’t speak much at all. But at night, after the first hour’s rest she was always uneasy, mumbling, and twisting about until she was wound up in her blanket. It was to be expected, he supposed, having been snatched so abruptly from everything familiar. If he’d been Tresilian he’d have kept her close. But the king had been determined, despite being so devoted to his young wife. There had to be something Tresilian hadn’t told him.

  Nearby, Wynne stirred and sat up, as if she too had been disturbed by Alwenna’s restlessness. She set a gentle hand on Alwenna’s head as the girl mumbled unintelligible words, stroking her hair until she settled again. Wynne looked over to Weaver then and smiled. She pushed herself to her feet and hobbled over to join him beneath the tree, sitting down on a fallen branch.

  “This journey will be the ruin of my old body. I’m wide awake now – would you have me sit watch for a while?”

  “I’ve had some rest. I’m used to this.”

  “I’m not so old I can’t stay awake for an hour or two.”

  “And I’m still young enough I needn’t ask it of you. It’s a kind thought, though, for which I thank you.”

  Alwenna mumbled, flung out one arm then turned over before falling quiet again.

  “Those night fears, she’s always had them. Ever since she was a child.”

  Weaver glanced to where the young woman slept on. “You had the raising of her after her parents died?”

  “That’s right. She’s the image of her mother now. Takes after her in so many ways.”

  “I heard she was a rare beauty.” Goddess, what possessed him to say that to the old gossip?

  “As if you take notice of such things, Ranald Weaver.”

  “I doubt there’s a man in the Peninsular Kingdoms who could fail to notice.”

  “It’s true enough.” Wynne smiled at her charge fondly.

  “There were other rumours…” Weaver hesitated.

  “Other rumours?”

  “About her mother. And… witchery.” He felt foolish saying it, but Wynne’s eyes were surely not sharp enough to read his expression in the shadow of the trees.

  “They’re of Alidreth’s line, mother and daughter. The seers would have taken Alwenna as a child, you know, but her uncle wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Then it was true. And if that was true, what about the whispers that the ill-starred queen would bring about the fall of Highkell? Old wives’ tales, all of them. Tresilian had paid them no heed. Alwenna was just a young woman. A pretty young woman. Weaver was glad of the darkness to hide his thoughts.

  “It’s not been easy for her, you know.” Wynne’s eyes were focused on Alwenna, as if for a moment she’d forgotten Weaver was there. “She’s never gone hungry or cold, nothing like that. But she was such a lively child. To earn her place at Highkell… it’s cost her dearly. People don’t realise.”

  “Are you saying I’ve been too hard on her?”

  “Now why would you think that? As if I’d ever suggest such a thing.”

  “You’ve told me often enough I’m too hard on myself.”

  “And so you are, Ranald Weaver. So you are. But I doubt you’ll pay me any more heed now than the last time I said it.” Wynne pushed herself to her feet. “What I wouldn’t give to find a proper garderobe among these trees.” She shuffled away, leaving Weaver to his thoughts.

  Alwenna mumbled a few words. Had that phrase been “Too dark”? She twisted, as if fending off invisible demons. No, Weaver thought, his own demons were the invisible ones, reaching from his past to taunt him. Who was he to say the girl’s demons weren’t real in the here and now? And from the way she looked at him since he had refused to bury that dead woman, he might well be one of them.

  That was all it took to stop him going over to wake her. It was not his place to bring her back from a sleeping nightmare to a waking one.

  Alwenna dashed across the throne room, unheeding when one of her plaits came loose, determined to win the game. She knew the perfect hiding place if she could just reach it in time. She pushed the heavy garderobe door open, then hesitated. There was a large chest set against the far wall, restricting the space where she planned to hide. The sound of footsteps running across the room behind her propelled her forward and she pushed in between the garments hanging in the alcove behind the door.

  Not a moment too soon. The door creaked on its hinges and her pursuer drew near, his breathing rapid, excited. She pressed back against the wall, the folds of a heavy surcoat falling across her face, shutting out the light. She breathed in the mildewed odour and believed herself back in the fusty carriage, coming to rest at the bottom of that slope with a great weight crushing down on her, her father’s woollen cloak smothering her mouth and nose, trapping her in darkness. Panic gripped her. She gasped, forgetting this was only a game, forgetting she was meant to be hiding, clawing and flailing at the heavy fabric until she fought her way clear, gulping for air as she burst into the half-light of the garderobe, startling her pursuer.

  Vasic’s expression transformed to a gleeful grin. “I found you! You lose, Alwenna.”

  Still gasping for breath, she tried to push through the doorway past him, but he blocked her path, grin broadening.

  “Let me out!” She gulped at the air, which somehow seemed too thin to fill her lungs, and grabbed hold of the edge of the door.

  “Not so fast. You have to pay a forfeit.” With a glance over his shoulder he stepped further into the small room and started to push the door shut behind him.

  She clung to the door, tugging. “No.”

  “I won, fair and square. And now–”

  She heaved the door open. She had to get out, out of that constricted space, out where she could breathe the air, away from the musty wool, away from the crushing weight of darkness. She was dimly aware of lashing out at Vasic, shrieking, shoving him and clawing at his face until he fell back and she pelted off down the short passage back to the solar.

  It was no good. After Alwenna cried out – still apparently asleep – Weaver had to step in. Even in this out-of-the-way place they couldn’t afford to attract anyone’s attention. Why in the name of the Goddess had he agreed to this madness?

  He set a hand cautiously on her shoulder but she struck out wildly at him, landing a resounding slap against his face. He ducked back, cursing, but the contact had broken her free of the nightmare and she sat up abr
uptly, chest heaving as if she had been running hard.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide in horror. “Did I just hit you? I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry…”

  “I’ll live.” There was no need for her to look so stricken.

  “I didn’t mean– It was–”

  “Another of your nightmares.”

  She rubbed her eyes with both hands and pushed her hair back from her face in a frustrated gesture. “Yes. No. It’s not– I’m not normally like this.”

  Goddess, no. She wasn’t about to discuss her sleeping habits with him. What was he supposed to say: how she must miss her husband? Maybe she guessed what he was thinking, because she seemed to gather her composure.

  “I’ve been dreaming about things that happened years ago. Things I’ve not thought about in an age.”

  And none of them happy things, to judge by her expression. In another place, another time, Weaver might have offered sympathy, or even a shoulder to cry on. But this was his king’s wife.

  Weaver sat back on his heels, trying to summon words of reassurance, but he was never obliged to utter them as he heard footsteps hurrying through the forest towards their camp. He spun around, drawing his dagger.

  Wynne appeared through the trees, gasping for breath. “Goddess spare us, there’s half a dozen men camped just down the hill. I saw their fire through the trees. I think they could be following us.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Seven men, seven horses. Weaver could see them all from his hiding place among the scrubby trees. And Wynne had been right. One of the horses was the same distinctive grey Weaver had seen the night the raiders passed by. Was this coincidence? Or had the raiders returned to the farm and picked up their trail? More to the point, how was he meant to deal with this? Given a handful of men under his command, he could have ambushed this party. Single-handed, his options were limited.

  He might make his way down to where the horses were tethered and release them. But the waning moon that gave him enough light to study the camp would be enough to reveal him. And where would that leave the Lady Alwenna? He might manage to remove the sentry, unseen by the others who were slouched about the fire, passing around a jug. But the sentry was in full view. If any one of them should glance up at the wrong moment…