Chapter 6

6

E llyn spent a horrid few hours resting on a lumpy bed of putrid straw. The shirt her captor had provided was coarse and itchy, large enough to fit two of her, worn under a tunic bulky enough to remove any hint of gentle shaping beneath. The leggings were too long and had to be rolled at the waist and belted with a length of twine. The leather boots were soft, but the toes had to be stuffed and the rawhide lacings wrapped many times around her calves to keep them from dragging on the ground. The final measure taken was to wind her hair into a tight knot on the top of her head and cram it under a battered pillow cap that persisted in slumping forward over one eye.

When it was time to leave, her four companions donned full suits of armor each helping the other with buckles and heavy tunics of chain mail. Over their mail they now wore white surcoats emblazoned with three stalking lions denoting knights in the service of Edward I, garments the turnip-farmer had kept hidden in a bin of apples. Wide leather belts cinched the bulky layers at the waist and were fitted with two scabbards, one to hold the long-sword, the other for a shorter poniard.

Ellyn watched, intrigued despite her sorry circumstances. Having already deduced there was nothing at all common about her captors, Ellyn knew good armor when she saw it, and none of the four wore anything that could be mistaken for cheap, practical mail purchased on a mercenary's wage.

She looked at Baldor, who crossed himself each time he saw her glance his way. As big a brute as his outlaw brother, she suspected the brawn was all in his body and not between his ears. But she had seen his type before and knew he would be fearsome on a battlefield or in the lists. A blow from one of his ham-like fists could drive a man's jaw clean through his skull.

Her attention slid to Terrowin. He had the bright blue eyes, freckled complexion, and curly red hair of a Scot, though she had detected no guttural accent. He laughed often, usually at jokes made at Baldor's expense, but she suspected his loyalty to his companions was absolute. He had bound the wound in his arm and gave no sign that it pained him, suggesting he had borne a great many such troublesome cuts before.

Her gaze shifted again, this time to Roger. He carried the least amount of bulk across his shoulders and chest, which was not to say he was a spindling, for all four were easily the equal of any fighting men Ellyn had seen in her eighteen years. Roger's missing foot was likely a greater impediment than the quiet brown eyes would let on, yet he walked with hardly a limp and garnered no sympathy from the others. He had a soft voice but spoke with calm authority. She could not begin to guess his age, for his face was smooth but his brown hair was shot through with silver streaks. He could be a young-looking older man, or an older-looking young man.

Her final inspection turned upon Rennwick de Beauvoir. She had been unable, in the shadows or by moonlight to determine the color of his eyes but that was likely because they were so dark as to be almost black. His skin was an intriguing olive hue, whether stained by sun or blood she could not discern. It was not uncommon for Crusaders or nobles to return from pilgrimages to the Holy Land with Saracen women in their company. The dark hair, the dark eyes, the smoothness of the beard stubble might lead one to suppose there could be some mixed blood flowing through his veins.

As if sensing he was being closely scrutinized, he turned and stared back.

Ellyn released a soft, slow breath and tried to keep an embarrassing warmth from seeping into her cheeks. She turned away but not before she saw him straighten and walk toward her. He was carrying something in his hand, something she had to lift the sagging edge of her hat off her eye to see.

"Oh, sweet God. No."

"Yes, I'm afraid."

She huffed out another breath and glared first at the cloth darkened with lampblack and mud, then up at his face.

"You need to pass as a common squire. None would have skin so white as yours."

At the first touch of the rough cloth on her cheek she set her lips in a grim line.

"We will be keeping to the forest paths and lesser travelled roads until I can be reasonably certain we were not followed. "

"Will you at least tell me if we are headed north or south?"

The motion of the cloth stopped. The effect of his stare this close was quite stunning and it all but took her breath away to feel an icy chill shiver all the way down from her hairline to her toes.

"You might as well tell me. I am accused of being a witch, remember. Perhaps even a sorceress," she said, hoping her voice was steadier than the sudden wild beating within her chest. "As such, I would know all about constellations and north stars, the better to cast my evil dark spells."

His dark eyes held hers a moment longer before the cloth moved again, the strokes harsher. "You would be wise to keep your speculations to yourself."

"Hugo is outside with his turnips and hogs. He cannot hear us."

"Nevertheless—"

"Nevertheless, if you wish me to be cooperative and act the part of a dutiful squire with eyes lowered and shoulders slumped, I would have you treat me with a measure of respect. I am no ignorant featherhead. I can read and write and do sums without having to remove my shoes and look at my toes. I do not have any divine or other-worldly senses, but knowing north from south requires no more shrewdness than a halfwit would possess."

A muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched. "If I acknowledge your cleverness insofar as to say you will soon know in which direction we are heading, will that stop your nose from poking into places that would be better left alone?"

"How long will it take us to reach our destination?"

"As long as it takes us to get there."

"Are you being paid well to do this wretched deed? "

He ignored the question and he studied his face again as he swabbed the dirt under her chin and down her throat. He might be a knight, and admittedly, he might even be a devilishly handsome lout, but he could irritate a flea enough to jump to its death.

"Despite your threats to manhandle me over your shoulder last night, I could have screamed a dozen times while we made our way through the walls."

"You could have. " He balled up the rag and tossed it aside then pulled on his gloves. "I assume you are about to tell me why you did not."

"Certainly not because of your charm or grace, sirrah, or a fomenting lust to bind my thighs to yours and travel with you to the edge of the earth. But no, it may or may not surprise you to learn I am not opposed to leaving this wretched shire. Indeed, you may yet have my heart-felt thanks for removing me from Nottingham's clutches. I was told the envoy from the king was to arrive any day, and I am glad not to be there to receive him."

His gaze flicked up and down again so fast she almost missed it.

"Ah. Then your timely appearance was not such a coincidence."

"In my experience, there are no coincidences."

He stepped aside and indicated with a sweep of his arm that she should lead the way out of the cottage.

"I do not suppose a fifth horse magically appeared during the night," she asked, stepping outside and ducking beneath the rim of thatching.

"Not unless you were able to conjure one yourself."

She half-turned to glare at him and her heart gave another curious thump inside her chest. It was early yet and the rays of weak sunlight were splintered into a thousand pale streamers where they cut through the tops of the trees. The air was so still she could hear the faint buzzing of a fly overhead. Everything was green. The trees, the mist, the fringe of ferns that ringed the farmer's small plot. Even her captor's eyes, for she could see now that they were not black at all, but a deep dark emerald green.

She was startled into looking away by the sound of hoofbeats and saw their three companions had already mounted and were leading Rennwick's horse toward them along with a sorry-looking pack animal burdened under saddlebags and supplies.

"Terrowin will be scouting the way ahead for most of the day while I take steps to ensure we have not been followed. You can make yourself a perch on the ass's back," Renn said. "Unless you prefer to ride with Baldor?"

Ellyn glanced at Baldor—who crossed himself with haste—and then to the donkey. "The ass looks less likely to share his vermin."

Terrowin overheard the remark and chuckled. "Aye, Baldor counts his tiny friends each night and feeds them from his beard."

Baldor hawked and spat, missing Terrowin's foot by the breadth of a nose hair.

Ellyn put her hands on her hips. "Are you certain the beast can hold me?" she asked.

"We will soon find out."

She felt the ground swept out from under her feet as she was lifted and swung onto the pack animal. As it happened, there was a thick padding of sheepskin in the sway of the donkey's back, half hidden by all the canvas bags. It was not ideal, but with a bit of wriggling and repositioning it was far more comfortable than riding on a horse's bare rump behind one of the knights .

Renn handed the reins to her, then, after studying her expression for a moment, looped a long rope through the donkey's bridle and handed the end to Roger.

"I will be within range of your horn, should any trouble arise." He looked directly at Ellyn. "Any trouble whatsoever."

Roger wound the end of the rope around the horn of his saddle and nudged his horse forward. The slack was taken up within a few paces and, at the first tug, the donkey fell dutifully in step behind them, following to where, Ellyn knew not.

Standing in the great hall of Nottingham Castle, Harold Falconard, was in a rage. Servants had searched every nook and niche in the towers, the halls, the roofs, the stables and baileys, even the storage areas in the castle undercroft but there was no sign of Enndolynn Ware.

"She is vanished, my lord." The captain of the castle guard reported. "We have searched the entire castle and she is nowhere to be found."

Falconard was standing before a massive fireplace, one hand leaning on the stone mantel, the other clenched into a fist by his side. "Do you know who the king has sent to fetch the chit and take her back to London?"

"My lord, I—"

"Luther de Vos, the Butcher of Northumberland." Harold turned away from the fire. His dark features suffered from eyes that were too close together and a nose that was too long and sharp. Because he was missing most of the teeth on the left side of his face, his cheek appeared sunken and when he spoke, there was often the shine of spittle on his lips .

"Luther de Vos," he said again, louder this time. "He may currently hold the title of Captain of the King's Guard, but in former years he was Edward's most trusted and able assassin. His skills were unparalleled in questioning prisoners brought before him. Do you know why?" He moved close enough to the captain to spray his face. "I will tell you why, dolt. Because he could peel every inch of skin off a man before the sand ran through the hour glass. A fair talent, would you not agree?"

The color drained from the captain's face.

"Think you he will be pleased to have come all this way to hear that you have lost the girl?"

Since it was not prudent to challenge the sheriff, the captain shook his head. "No, my lord."

"No. No, indeed." Harold stared a moment longer then turned away and strode across to a trestle table that held a flagon of wine and a pewter goblet. He filled the goblet to the brim and drank several mouthfuls before glancing back at his guardsmen. "You say she was last seen yesterday noon?"

"Aye, my lord. By the maid who took her a meal in the tower rooms."

"You searched those rooms most thoroughly?"

"Aye, my lord, even to the solar and roof, but we found nothing." The captain hesitated then added, "There was one vexing thing, my lord."

"We are speaking of a vanished girl and the impending arrival of a subjugator known to eat the flesh he peels off his victims… and you can think of only one vexing thing? Well? What is it?"

"The door to her chamber was locked from the inside."

Falconard finished the swallow of wine and glared at the guardsman. "From the inside ? "

"Aye, my lord. The bolt was thrown. We had to break the door down."

"Then how did the little bitch get out? And I vow if you say "witchcraft" I will have your tongue cut out and roasted on a spit."

"There was no other way out of the chamber save for the roof or the window and both would have led to a sheer drop and certain death. But no body has been found. No trace of blood or brains where she might have landed had she fallen or jumped. No rope hangs from the window or the battlements."

Falconard continued to glare. A full minute passed before he slammed his goblet on the table and strode across the room to a staircase that led up to the second storey then split before leading up to east and west towers. He arrived outside the door to the rooms where Enndolynn Ware had been kept under lock and key for nearly two months and stood a moment on the threshold noting the broken escutcheon plate and shattered wood.

Stepping over the debris, he saw the crumpled bedsheets, the gray ash of an unattended fire in the hearth. There was a chair turned on its side near the fireplace and a tangle of discarded ribbands on the floor beside it.

With his guardsmen crowding the doorway and watching him, Falconard walked slowly around the large chamber. When he stopped beside the chair and bent down to pick the ribbands up, he caught sight of some brown spots on the floorboards. The window shutters were wide open and the light was coming in at such an angle it revealed scuffmarks on the boards and a few more dried spots.

"Someone bled here," he said, more to himself than the guardsmen. "A fight, perchance, but with who? Who could have come and gone without a trace? And how , by God's left ballock! How did they get out of a room locked from the inside?"

He backed away from the chair, staring hard at the scuffs and scrapes… scrapes made by a boot, not a woman's slipper. He kept backing up, kept following the marks until he came up short against the wall. He turned and stared at the carved oak panel, then down again at the floor where the faint marks in the dust seemed to lead straight into the wall.

He reached up and traced his fingers over a fresh scar in the oak. The edges were clean, prompting him to draw his dagger out of his belt and slide the tip into the cut. As he did so, his eye strayed again to the pattern in the carved oak panels. One gap in particular was a hair wider than the others and as he leaned closer, seemed to give off the faintest whiff of cool air.

He jerked back and stared at the wood… then at the floor where… yes! There were slight scratchings on the boards as if from a door swinging open.

If there was a door, there had to be a way to open it, and he ran his hands over the carvings in the oak until he found a groove in the linen pattern deeper than those around it. He hooked it with his fingers and pulled, and a moment later he was standing in the mouth of a gaping black opening in the wall.

"Mother of Christ!" A mort of spittle flew with the expletive. " Candles ! Light candles and bring them here!"

With the four guards behind him, Falconard led the way down the narrow stone stairs, his shock growing with each step. At the bottom, with one hand waving off shreds of cobwebs, he was drawn to a niche in the stone wall and peered through. There, on the other side of an iron grate, was the great hall and the dais where the lord of the keep took his meals, entertained his important guests, engaging in conversations he might not want overheard by those seated lower in the main area.

At the moment there were servants milling about sweeping up old rushes, spreading new in anticipation of the arrival of the king's envoy. A few retainers sat at the long trestle tables; men were stoking the fire in the cooking pit while others were standing at the ready with spitted capons and suckling pigs.

His shock turned to rage again as he turned to the guards. "You. Go that way, you follow that way." He pointed left and right. "This is obviously how the bitch escaped. I want to know where these passages lead, where they exit, if there is an exit to the outer walls. In the meantime," he addressed the captain. "I want a score of our best men ready within the hour. Take the dogs and trackers. I want the witch back and I want her back before nightfall and if you return without her you will find yourself explaining the lack to Luther de Vos and his hot pincers."

"Aye, my lord!"

The guards hastened away leaving Falconard standing alone, a single fat candle in his hand dripping wax down over his fingers.