The Rose and the Thorn

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She had calmed down the moment she saw Reuben again. Just seeing his face made her feel safe. Rose had only known him a little more than a day, but he’d already done more for her than any man ever had. He wasn’t like other men—men were evil. She had come to this conclusion ever since her father had abandoned Rose and her mother. Over the years that followed, she had many more examples that proved the point. But Reuben was different, unexpected—shocking. Finding him was like discovering dogs could talk. He was more than special; he was a miracle. For Rose, Reuben was a bright light and she a moth. During all those hours, alone in the darkness of the cell, he was all she thought about. What did he like? What didn’t he like? Who was the girl he loved? Finding the answer to that last one was a needle in her heart. And yet, she loved him all the more because of it. He was faithful. She couldn’t say the same for any of the men who came to The Hideous Head or the House. And wasn’t there a moment—just a moment—when she sensed something?

  He was saving himself for her. He wanted the first time to be special. How amazing was that? Rose found it both touching and silly. She had no fond memories of her first time and did her best not to remember any of the times since. Her mind had a tendency to remember the good parts of life and forget the bad, though not nearly well enough. Still, it also meant that Reuben and his lady love hadn’t shared a first time. It didn’t sound as if he’d even kissed her. And there was a pain in his voice—his eyes too. She saw it, and wondered if that was how Gwen was able to see things when she read people’s palms. Maybe everyone had the power to look into the souls of others and see glimpses of truth. Gwen simply knew how to look, or maybe it was just that she took the time. Some people don’t want to know—most people don’t. But if a person truly cared about someone else, maybe they could search their eyes and know what troubled them—that it would be visible, if you really wanted to see. Looking into Reuben’s eyes, Rose thought she understood something about him and something about the girl he was saving himself for. He’d given his heart to her, but the gift hadn’t been accepted. Whoever the moronic girl was, Rose hated her. She was also grateful for her stupidity, because Rose was certain she had fallen in love with Reuben Hilfred.

  A chill ran through her as Reuben’s father hauled her through the city, but it came more from the wind than the thought. The thin dress offered little protection, but that had never been its purpose. It was difficult keeping the blanket from falling off her shoulders and the wind whipped it open. Winter was knocking, and its icy fingers were everywhere.

  She should thank him. He was the father of the man she loved, and this was her chance to make a good impression. Rose understood she was already off on several bad feet. She was a prostitute, wanted by the constable, and had met his son as an escaped party favor. Her only consolation was that it would make a great story to tell his grandchildren. She frowned. Maybe the story about how Mommy was a whore would best be forgotten. Still she imagined the conversation.

  Thank you for helping me, Richard. Your name is Richard, isn’t it? Or should I call you Father? Yes, I should—so much nicer, and I’ve always wanted a real father ever since mine ran off, leaving me and my mother to starve. So you won’t have any contender for that title. Can’t you imagine us all before the fireplace on Wintertide, Father? I’ll be cooking the goose that you and Reuben brought home while little… ah… little Gwendolyn and little Richard—yes, we’ll name him after you—play on the floor.

  “Thank you for helping me,” Rose said.

  “Shut up.” Richard Hilfred jerked her arm again, twisting her wrist slightly so that it hurt. He sounded angry.

  Maybe he was upset because her talking might give them away. Rose forgot she was a fugitive, and it made perfect sense that he would be fearful. All he needed was a chatty girl getting them both killed. Just one more bad foot she put forth. This one into her own mouth. Winning over her future husband’s father was going to take a lot of repairing, but if Gwen could make a pearl out of the ruins of that Wayward Inn, Rose could fix this. Reuben would help smooth things over and Richard would come around once she gave him grandsons. Grandfathers were suckers for grandsons. In the meantime, she’d be quiet.

  A smile invaded her face as she imagined what she would tell Gwen when she got home.

  Remember what you said about me falling in love?

  CHAPTER 16

  THE LORD HIGH CONSTABLE

  Rose was in the castle?” Hadrian asked. He had returned to the driver’s seat, and even Dunwoodie’s coat wasn’t enough to keep out the chill.

  “Didn’t expect that.” Royce’s voice came hollow out of the dark interior of the carriage beneath him.

  “We in trouble?”

  “Don’t think so. Sounds like we just lucked out. He said Exeter was still looking for her. The timing might be perfect.”

  “They’ll never make it to the Lower Quarter.” Hadrian watched the girl and the guard walk briskly past the line of carriages heading for the city. He remembered her from the year before. Rose was the one who had brought him soup all the time. She spilled some on him once and they had a good laugh. She used to love his stories and once, just before they left, he danced with her in front of the fire. “We should give them a ride.”

  “I’m here for Exeter and I need the carriage. You can go escort them if you want. I don’t need you for this.”

  Hadrian dropped down off the driver’s seat and stood next to the coach’s window. The curtain was drawn, but Hadrian could see Royce’s fingers holding part of it open.

  He watched the pair walk into the shadows and sighed. “I’ll stay.”

  “No. You should go.”

  “Royce, you’re hoping to ambush a high noble and you don’t think you might need help with that?”

  “This is familiar ground.”

  “How so?” Hadrian said.

  “There’s a reason the Black Diamond returned our horses. A reason why people still fear men in dark hoods in Colnora. I have a lot of practice in this. I don’t need your help, but that castle guard could use another sword—or three.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the whole good deed thing?”

  “Maybe Arcadius was right. Maybe you’re rubbing off.”

  Hadrian wished he could see Royce’s eyes. Not that they ever told him much, but he was certain the thief was hiding something. Normally, convincing Royce to think of someone other than himself was like trying to explain to water that it shouldn’t always flow downhill. He also didn’t like him bringing up that Arcadius might be right. The last time they had seen the old university professor was when he’d practically twisted their arms into teaming up. Twisting Royce’s arm was never a good idea, and to hear him applaud the old man only convinced Hadrian something wasn’t right.

  Hadrian took off the driver’s coat and hat and pulled his swords from where he’d hidden them on the driver’s seat. “I might still be back in time.”

  “No rush,” Royce said. “Either way this works out, I’ll be busy all night.”

  All night.

  The words lingered as Hadrian walked away and would return to his mind several times before it ended. He slipped his cloak back on as he walked in shadows, and once he was out of sight of the gate guards, he ran.

  He sprinted past the gentry shops, then slowed when he spotted the two. Hadrian kept a good distance. Following them wasn’t hard; he already knew where they were going. The guard glanced around a few times, but not nearly as much as Hadrian thought he should. The year Hadrian had spent with Royce taught him the value of awareness, and the last few hours of sitting on the coach’s bench had showed him just how active the streets were.

  The pair cut through the homes and then passed under the Tradesmen’s Arch into the Artisan Quarter. There the world was darker, the homes smaller. Without enough income to pay for streetlamps, illumination came from the rare candlelight leaking out of windows through thin curtains that veiled the private lives of craftsmen, their wives, and children. Ov
erhead, the moon had risen, turning the narrow streets into patterns of black and ghostly white. The tight buildings bounced sound, allowing Hadrian to hear their steps, loud and crisp.

  He wondered what had gone on in the castle that night, and what might still be going on. Normally he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation about the nobility any more than he wondered what it was like to be a hawk or a fish. Meeting Albert had changed that. The viscount was… surprisingly human. He used too many big words but breathed air like everyone else. Hadrian worried about him. If there was some treachery going on, he hoped Albert had the sense to stay out of it.

  The loud shuffle and clack of fast-moving heels on cobblestone filtered out of a side street. The folks of the Artisan Quarter were hardworking. Few wandered outside after dark, and none in such large groups. Hadrian ducked into the recess of a cobbler shop’s doorway, hitting his head on the boot-shaped signage, just as a patrol came into view. They marched quickly toward Rose and her escort.

  “Halt!”

  The pair stopped, and the men closed in. Like all the other patrols, this one had only one member in the black and white sheriff uniform. The rest were dressed in simple tunics and wool trousers, but each sported a white feather in his hat.

  “What are your names?” the one in the uniform demanded.

  “I’m Sergeant Richard Hilfred, of the royal guard.”

  “You’re a castle guard?” one of the deputies asked.

  The quarter sheriff shook his head and frowned. “The burgundy and gold falcon tunic and the chain mail didn’t give it away, huh?”

  The other man shrugged, and another suppressed a laugh.

  “And who is this?” the sheriff asked, nodding at Rose.

  “That’s none of your concern. I am on the king’s business—leave us be.”

  “Can’t do that. We’ve got orders to find a young girl—a whore.” He paused, looking at Rose carefully, shifting around her to get a full view. “For two nights a tiny army has crawled up every alley and looked in every rat hole. But no one’s seen anything close—until now.”

  “And yet, I’m telling you I’m on the king’s business.” The escort’s voice didn’t have a hint of fear. If anything, he sounded irritated. “You see the uniform, you know what it means. Now leave us be. I don’t have time for your provincial games tonight.”

  “Maybe you’re on king’s orders, maybe not. If you are, then there’ll be no trouble with you coming with us to the castle so we can ask Lord Exeter. If it checks out, we’ll apologize real proper-like and provide an escort to wherever it is you’re going so no other patrols interfere. How’s that sound?”

  “I told you I don’t have time for games, boy.”

  The sheriff didn’t like that. “I think you’re gonna have to make time, Sergeant Hilfred, because I’m not a boy. I’m a Medford quarter sheriff, this is my quarter, and the two of you are under arrest.”

  The moment the sheriff reached out for Rose, Richard wasted no time. He jerked Rose back hard, causing her to cry out and fall to the street behind him. At the same time, he drew his sword. Before anyone else moved, he shoved the blade in and out of the stomach of the largest deputy, who at the time wasn’t even looking his way. Rose started screaming as the big guy crumpled in a little spin to the stone as if he were a dying top.

  Richard swung at the uniformed sheriff, but by then all swords were out and the stroke met steel. The clang rang through the empty square as the men faced off. His focus on the sheriff gave the deputy an opening, and he slashed Richard across the back. The blow rocked him, but nothing more.

  “He’s wearing chain, you idiot!” the sheriff shouted. “Grab the girl. Take her to Exeter!” The sheriff advanced, swinging and driving Richard to the side with a series of chops aimed at his head.

  Still screaming, Rose crawled away until the deputy grabbed her by the arm and pulled the girl to her feet. She fought, kicking him in the shin, but the man held on. In frustration, he finally just dropped his sword, lifted Rose over his shoulder, and started carrying her toward the castle.

  Hadrian waited until he approached the cobbler shop. “Evening, Deputy,” he said, stepping out of the doorway. “That’s a heavy load you’re carrying. Could you use some help?”

  The man looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then said, “I dropped my sword back there. Could you get it?”

  “You don’t have a sword, huh?” Hadrian replied. “That’s the problem with only carrying one.” In a breath, Hadrian had the point of his own blade touching the throat of the deputy. “Put her down.”

  “I’m an appointed deputy. I’m working for Lord Exeter. Look at the hat!”

  “Funny—that strategy didn’t work for the sergeant either.”

  “You’ll be hanged for interfering.”

  Rose did something behind the man’s back that Hadrian couldn’t see, and the deputy cried out, dropping her.

  “Damn it! You bit me!” He reached out to grab her again and Hadrian pressed the point of his blade tighter against the man’s neck.

  Thirty feet away, Richard and the sheriff danced to the tune of ringing swords. The sergeant was the better of the two, and being the only one dressed in chain doubled his advantage. The sheriff kept his distance, lunging only when Richard was distracted.

  “Terence!” the sheriff shouted. “Just run and get help.”

  The deputy took a step back, turned, and ran toward the Gentry Quarter. Hadrian let him go and sheathed his blade.

  No longer distracted, the sergeant pressed the sheriff, who fell back but not fast enough. The sergeant cut him in the leg, and when he dropped, Richard thrust his blade through his side, twisting it before drawing it back out.

  Hadrian grimaced. That was uncalled for. He had him the moment he slashed the thigh.

  With blood dripping from his sword, Richard charged Hadrian, who raised his hands in surrender.

  “Easy, I’m on your side.”

  The sergeant hesitated a moment, glanced at Rose, then nodded and sheathed his sword. “Thanks. Who are you?”

  Hadrian looked at Rose. “I’m a friend of Gwen’s.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s the lady who runs Medford House,” Rose explained. “Hadrian was a guest.”

  “Medford House?” Richard looked confused.

  “Yeah, where I live. You know, where we’re going—where you’re taking me.”

  “Oh yeah, right.” The sergeant nodded several times. “And we need to get going. Thanks for the help, friend.” He grabbed Rose once more and the two began to run.

  They trotted through the central square past the fountain where the cobblestone formed a circle pattern. During the day, Hadrian had hardly noticed the fountain amidst the activity and the crowds, but in the silence of the chill night, it bubbled like a cauldron. Following behind them, Hadrian cringed. Rose’s white skirt stood out as brightly as a surrender flag, and Richard’s military boots slapped the street with enough noise to be a call to arms. Maybe it was the time he had spent with Royce, but the two appeared as deft as oxen. Ironically, after a year of being berated for his own noise and clumsiness, Hadrian could finally appreciate Royce’s frustration. Why don’t they just shout, “Over here! Come find us!”?

  Richard stopped when they reached the gate to the Lower Quarter and turned, looking irritated to see Hadrian still with them. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought you might need—” Shouts and the stamp of boots cut him off. Hadrian saw lanterns casting jittery shadows of running men.

  “Stay here,” Richard told him. “Slow them down. I’ve got to get her away.”

  Hadrian nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The sergeant smiled, and grabbing Rose’s wrist once more, they ran into the dark narrow streets of the Lower Quarter.

  Hadrian turned to face the approaching noise.

  “There! He’s one of them!” Terence, the once-unarmed deputy, had picked up his sword on the way back and now brandishe
d it at him. At his side were three more men wearing hats with white feathers. None of them wore a uniform but all drew their swords.

  Albert waited in the reception hall listening to the muffled sounds of gaiety seeping through the corridors. He could smell the scent of meat. Dinner was at long last being served, and he hoped he was about to be finished with his obligations for the night so he could enjoy himself. He looked forward to spending the rest of the evening indulging in the luxury afforded to his class, a lifestyle he had so sorely missed.

  He tapped his toes together. His shoes were too tight. New shoes always were. The leather, always stiff at first, needed time to mold to the wearer’s foot and walking style. Albert could hardly recall the last time he had new shoes. Four, maybe five years ago? These were nice. He stared at his toes and realized he couldn’t care less about shoes—he wanted a drink. Maybe after proving himself, Royce would lengthen his leash. In some ways he felt like he had sold his soul, given away his freedom, and yet perhaps freedom was overrated. He had never been more free than when he was living in that barn in Colnora. Any freer and he’d be dead. It was impossible to argue with Royce or Hadrian that he could drink responsibly. They knew so little about him. All they had ever seen was a filthy, penniless vagrant who would sell the shirt off his back for a cup of rum. What they couldn’t see was that drink had not brought him there—drink was how he dealt with it. How else could a man accept helplessness and the inevitability of starvation? How could a man born to a world of castles, carriages, and kings accept a pauper’s end, except by washing it away?

  The problem was that while he had his doubts about Hadrian, Albert was certain Royce was not above killing him if he messed up. There was something about that man that reeked of death. Albert spent many years in castle courts learning to assess people, knowing who could be pushed and who might draw a sword at a joke. These were skills courtiers either developed quickly or died in an early misty-morning duel. Albert hadn’t been lying. He was terrible at fencing, but he had developed other skills. The combat skills of the court were the ability to evaluate a man’s intents and purposes in an instant. This is what made Albert certain Royce was more than capable of murder; he sensed a degree of experience in him. There was also a total lack of hesitancy. Royce wouldn’t give Albert a chance to explain or excuse himself. For now there could be no drinking, but maybe one day, when he had proven himself an asset—