“Take me back...” said the sad little voice.
“Curses!” Scylla said again in exasperation. “Why did you not go with Orwen?”
“You promised! You promised! Eeeeee!”
Scylla exchanged glances with Sorrell across the room. “What am I going to do, Sorrell?”
“I cannot imagine!” came the response. “I wait with bated breath!”
Scylla came to a decision.
“I knew it!” said Sorrell instantly.
“Knew what?” Scylla countered automatically. She was thinking hard.
“You are about to transport the trellet to the wagons!”
“How can I manage it without attracting attention?”
“Your hair is already pinned up – wear a hat over it. And change into one of the plain older dresses from the trunks. Also, do not limp too much. Can you walk across the room?”
“Wait while I tie up this ankle binding a little tighter,” said Scylla. She did so and walked across the room to the trunks full of clothing.
“Well, your limp is not too bad,” Sorrell observed. She rolled over and got up from the bed with a groan. “I am sorry I cannot go with you, Princess. Take your swordstick with you. I will wrap it so it is less recognizable.”
“Ooohhh!” came the trellet’s voice, now with some hope.
“I know this is very foolish,” said Scylla. “But I told him I would take him back.”
Sorrell gave her a sharp glare. “Just take him to the wagons, Princess.”
“Of course!” She put on one of the dresses, a plain brown one with little to recommend it except that it was close to her size. She added a cloak from the same trunk. Sorrell handed her a straw hat with a wide brim. Scylla put it on her head, looking in the mirror to make sure her hair was not too noticeable.
“Shoes?”
“What about these?” It was a pair of soft, scuffed leather shoes. One barely fit over her ankle binding, the other was too large for her uninjured foot. Scylla sat down and bound a lace around it to keep it on.
“How does one get to the docks, exactly?” she asked. “I doubt I have been there since I was a child. I recall I rode around the village on that horrible white pony a time or two.”
Sorrell was beginning to look as though she wished she were not part of the impending adventure. “Ah... just go out the castle gates, walk down the streets between the village houses and go through the market. You will see the river mouth ahead and beyond that, the delta leading to the sea. I presume the wool wagons will be near the docks to the right. Orwen will still be there, I expect.”
Scylla found another basket and placed it on the floor by the chair. “Here, Keet. Get in the basket – I’ll take you to the wagons.”
“You promised!” came the tiny hiss from under the chair.
“Shhh! I know I did,” she whispered back. “Get in the basket.” Keet scurried from under the chair and hopped into the basket. She covered him with a towel. “And stay there, Keet!” she added sternly.
“Only take him to the wagons, Princess!” Sorrell, who had been wrapping the swordstick with lambskin, handed it to her. “Otherwise I wash my hands of this whole escapade.”
“Thank you, I will be back shortly!”
“I will tell the guards in the corridor that you, one of the queen’s new handmaidens, must find Orwen... he has forgotten something.”
“Excellent thinking, Sorrell! How do I look?”
“As shabby as a country-born maid,” said Sorrell. “As I looked when I first arrived. Please, Princess, be careful!”
Scylla picked up Keet’s basket and checked under the towel to see if he was still there. A pair of beady eyes glared back at her. “Let’s go, Keet.”
Sorrell had crossed to the door and opened it. She beckoned to the two guards outside. “The queen’s handmaid must go to catch up with Orwen Miller,” she told them. “He has forgotten something for his journey and Minda has gone to the kitchen.”
The soldiers stepped aside and Scylla walked out the door with her basket and the disguised swordstick. She tried not to limp as she crossed the arched hall and descended the grand but deserted stone staircase. From there she went out through the open doorway to the courtyard. It seemed a very long way across the courtyard to the gates, but no one paid much attention to her in the drab cloak and the hat. No one expected the queen to walk out the gates unaccompanied, therefore no one gasped and shouted after her, and no soldiers came marching in her wake. What an odd experience. She could not remember the last time she had gone outside anywhere by herself. Sorrell and a few soldiers had accompanied her the rare times she had left the castle and on a festive day or excursion, she would have been a minor figure in the royal entourage, accompanied by the full King’s Guard.
The street down to the sea was surfaced with cobblestones and difficult to walk on. She advanced carefully past the houses and shops, and through the market where vendors and buyers bustled about amid the babble of voices and multitude of smells. One stall was hung with roasted chickens, cured hams and strings of sausage, while another had reels of cheese stacked upon a counter. At a stall selling odds and ends, a small ragged girl-child with light-colored hair was reaching for a book.
As Scylla approached the docks some minutes later, she wrinkled her nose at the rank odor of fish. To her left, several fishing boats were tied to the dock, with men and boys working busily on and beside them. To her right, two boats laden with cargo were preparing to cast off. Three empty wagons stood waiting next to the docks, the horses tied to posts. As she neared the wagons, Orwen, who she had seen conversing with two men, left them and strode purposefully up a ramp to board one of the boats. The ramp was drawn in after him.
Scylla drew in a breath. Keet’s original basket stood in the back of one of the wagons. It seemed Orwen had not checked under the cloth. Scylla whispered to the basket on her arm, “Are you still there, Keet?”
“You promised! You promised!”
She sighed. “Yes, I did. However, if the driver does not let me on the wagon, there will be nothing I can do. You will have to go by yourself.”
“Eeee!” came the tiny scream in response.
“I will ask the driver, but do not expect too much,” she warned him firmly. At dockside, the boats were casting off. She avoided looking at the large figure of Orwen, who stood on the deck of the boat inspecting the load.
The drivers of the wagons were preparing to leave. They untied the horses and with firm commands of “Stand! Ho!” they climbed to the wagon seats and took the lines.
“Driver!” Scylla raised her voice, addressing the middle-aged man who was settling himself on the seat of the wagon before her. “I am Minda’s handmaid, I must travel back to the farm! She is sending this back.” She indicated the basket on her arm.
He looked a little surprised as he reached for the team’s reins. “Not going to be the most comfortable journey, miss! But climb on if you care to. Is that to be sent on to the smithy?”
“Oh yes,” she said. She walked around the wagon feeling as exposed as a mouse in front of stable cats. Sure enough, as the boats began to be pushed away from the docks, Orwen’s voice called out.
“Pardon me, ma’am!”
Scylla placed the basket on the wagon, and with some difficulty clambered aboard via a carriage step behind the front wheel. She sat down, somewhat flustered, on the seat beside the driver. Finally, she turned her head and glanced at Orwen, who was staring across at her with bright-eyed suspicion at about the same level.
She called to him, “I am Mistress Minda’s new handmaid. I am to return this basket to the farm... which you forgot!” She held up the basket and lifted the towel, giving him a quick glimpse beneath it.
Conflicting emotions crossed his face. Scylla kept her eyes on him in a firm gaze. Sure enough, he came to a conclusion, one that suited the situation. He was not going to expose her. He gave her an impish wink. “Yes, ma’am! Driver! Please take my lady’s handmaid to the farm and conduc
t her as she wishes... I hold you accountable!” His voice held a threat.
The driver gave Scylla a quick and wary glance. “Yes, Master Orwen – will do!”
“And do not forget my instructions about the forest smithy!”
Scylla gave Orwen a polite incline of her head as the boat drifted further from the dock. He now bore a wide grin, as if from one adventurer to another. “Ma’am, accept my wishes for a safe journey! May the legend continue!”
“Likewise, Master Miller!” she returned. She held Keet’s basket on her lap as the horses backed several steps, then leaned forward into their collars. Her wagon pulled in behind the other two as the horses’ heavy feet clopped up the cobblestone street and towards the road leading out of the castle village.
***
Back in the market, the small ragged child had opened the book and was staring at the pages.
“Hey! You going to buy that book?” demanded the vendor, a stout man with curly brown hair to his shoulders.
“I got money!” River snapped back in her high little voice. She had several coins with her from her stash, but she had no idea how much a book would cost.
“Not enough for that book,” he said, taking it away from her smartly.
“I wanna know what writin’ is!”
“Oh, do you!” He looked down at her and hesitated. Then he opened the book and held it up. “These are words written on the page.”
Her large gray eyes stared at the pages without comprehension.
“A person must learn to read,” he said.
“You read?”
“Yes, I can read. It takes some work to learn, but once you’ve got it, you’ve got it.”
“Is that book magic?”
“Magic! Good Goddess, no! That’s a book on planting. Here... see this? This is an illustration of the phases of the moon.” She had just enough time for a glimpse of it before he closed it and placed it at the back of his table.
“I wanna know what magic is.”
“Oh, you must be thinking about the priests and how they learned their magic – their sorcery – from books! ... The child’s been listening to all the gossip! I cannot think why else she would be asking about it,” he said in an aside to another customer, who was inspecting a small carved box. “I have no priests’ books here, child! Those books should be burned – they’re dangerous and are best destroyed. At any rate, I don’t think a person could do magic without having some sort of a talent for it. An unfortunate talent, that is! You just follow our Goddess and leave the rest be.”
The other customer, an elderly man with crippled hands, had turned to look down at River. “Magic? See here, good witches can do magic, too.” He fingered a small flat stone on a lace around his neck. “Good magic! I still have my grandmother’s amulet. Theoria was her name. She was a water witch... she found water with a forked stick and, yes, she was a rainmaker too – at least once or twice!”
“Found water?” River repeated, wondering why someone would need to find water with a stick when there was a whole river full of it running past the castle and the village.
”Underground water!” the old man said impatiently. “For digging a well. I saw my grandmother do it many times... she would take a forked willow branch and hold it like this...” he mimed with an invisible crotched stick. “Then walk slowly across the ground and watch for it to pull downwards.”
“Hey, hey,” said the stall vendor with a hint of nervousness. “Do not set the child to witching!”
“It’s a useful skill if she could witch for water. I never could!” the crotchety customer replied with a snap. “My grandmother’s long dead, but there’s always someone needing a water witch.”
“I don’t know. Child, you stick to proper worship of the Goddess and leave the witching alone!”
River turned her gaze back to the old man. He was blinking down at her with watery eyes and was again fingering the amulet. Then he suddenly pulled the lace over his head. “Here, child!” he ordered. “Take Theoria’s amulet! I don’t need it. Come back and tell me if you can water-witch!” He thrust his hand out, the lace and amulet dangling.
River’s dirty little hand went out automatically and then she pulled it back to her chest, retreating a step. Was he trying to grab her with his other hand? She stared at him suspiciously.
“Take it – go on!” he snapped. When she still didn’t move, he tossed the amulet at her. It fell on the stones at her feet. In an instant, she had snatched it up into the palm of her hand. Then she ran, because from the corner of her eye she had spotted a familiar form skulking behind the next stall. Trickit, muttering to himself! He would try to catch her, no doubt, thinking the amulet could be valuable.
Who knew? Maybe it was valuable! Maybe it was magic. She ran through the market, dodging people, goods, and a donkey loaded with reeds. Her pursuer soon fell behind because he wasn’t as quick in the turns. She scurried down an alley, along another street, and then pelted up the road leading out of the village.
“Look out, look out!” yelled an impatient voice over the sound of clopping hooves, and she glanced back to see a big horse behind her, pulling an empty wagon. She veered off and ended up a few minutes later diving into a thicket beside the road. Two more wagons creaked along the road, but River didn’t notice the maid in the cloak and hat sitting up stiffly on the seat beside the driver of the last one.
River looked carefully at the amulet in her hand. It was a small flat river stone with a natural hole in it, with the lace threaded through the hole. The stone was gray with a white line and as smooth as if fingers had rubbed it many times.
“Magic...” she breathed. She wondered if it was.
Back at the stall, the vendor looked perturbed. “That’s one of the feral children... a thief and an orphan and as likely to disappear as not. I could have sold your grandmother’s amulet for you – you just threw it away!”
“Aaah!” was the elderly man’s irritated response. “When my granny gave it to me, she told me to pass it on, not sell it!” He turned and began to hobble off. “Besides, she had big gray eyes, just like my old granny Theoria... Sweet little thing. What’s the child’s name?”
“That’s the one they call Gabby, I believe. I never hear her say much – except today.”
“... looked about five years old...” His voice drifted back to the vendor, who shrugged as he put the book back out front.
“Five or six or seven... can’t tell because she’s half-starved. You know, they’ve all got knives... even the ones that look like that. You threw that amulet away!”
“Aaah!” the old man scoffed again, making an irritated gesture as he tottered away. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t...”
***
The driver of the wagon, who seemed somewhat intimidated by having a passenger or perhaps was naturally a morose man, did not say much on the journey. It took close to two hours, even with the horses traveling at a good pace as the wagons were empty. It was bumpy and uncomfortable, despite the carriage springs creaking beneath the seat. Once or twice Scylla peered under the towel, but Keet appeared to be taking a nap and seemed unbothered by the jostling.
“How much further?” Scylla enquired at last. Trellet or no trellet, she was beginning to wish she had never left the castle. She had brought nothing to eat or drink, and her ankle throbbed despite its binding.
The driver replied, “Getting close, ma’am!” He looked over his shoulder, then looked back again. “Thought I heard something! ... Are those soldiers behind us?” he said, then raised his voice and shouted to the wagon ahead. “Soldier coming up behind!”
Scylla twisted around, hanging on to the seat with one hand, and Keet’s basket with the other. On the road behind them, four soldiers were catching up quickly. The wagons reined into a walk.
Some moments later the riders drew even with the wagon. Not wanting to attract attention, Scylla gave them a sidelong glance from under the brim of her hat. The horses were lathered and snorting.
“Good day!” came a laughing, familiar voice. “Are these Orwen Miller’s wagons?”
“They are!”
Scylla turned a demure face to the lead rider... Captain Coltic. Finding herself relieved at his arrival – and not completely surprised – she gave him a pleased nod. The other three soldiers drew in behind the wagon.
“Ma’am!” he said, returning the greeting. “We are on the queen’s business as I know Minda’s handmaid is as well... Good day to you, miss! We will ride along as we’re going in this direction anyway.”
The driver shrugged and nodded agreement. “Looks like your horses could use a break,” he said. “Stop at the farm... it’s not far now.”
“Not far” was plenty far enough for Scylla. As the wagons pulled into the yard, she heaved a tortured sigh.
“Are you enjoying the journey?” enquired Coltic, who reined in his horse and dismounted. He reached a hand up to assist her descent from the wagon.
“Of course I am!” she retorted. “Why would I not?”
“May I speak to you in private, miss?” She limped stiffly in his wake as he led his horse aside, and loosened its saddle girth. She leaned on the disguised swordstick and clasped the handle of Keet’s basket. She looked around. The drivers of the wagons were tending to their teams, while the soldiers had dismounted as well. All were out of earshot.
“I presume Sorrell told you where I went.”
“She had no choice. When you did not return from the docks, she sent for me, as Mako was gone out. He has traveled somewhere northwest to see the granny of our young sergeant, the one who witnessed the priests’ magic... ah... lightning, I should say.”
“Has he indeed!”
“And Orwen delayed his boats’ departure in order to send a message to Minda as well.”
Scylla shrugged. “I promised the trellet. He would not go without me.”
Coltic nodded briskly. “It is what it is. We will carry on.” He hesitated. “Is the trellet still in the basket? I am told he gave Orwen the slip.”
Scylla looked around. She lifted the corner of the towel. Keet gave a warning hiss.
“Greetings, trellet! I understand Orwen is sending the boy and the pony to the forest smithy, with some gifts of appreciation. Could you go on your own, and let me conduct the queen back to the castle?”
A Princess of Sorts Page 25
