“Shall I tell Graff?”
“No.” He squeezed her hand.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Tell me about your love Tristan. I'd like to hear it.”
She licked her lips. Graff, Ancel, and Powel, were busy talking among themselves, paying her and Haze no mind. “Have you ever loved, Haze?”
Haze laughed. “No. Nothing like that has ever happened to me, or ever would.” She thought that was a peculiar thing to say. “Now tell me about you and him. If I die, I want a warm feeling in my heart when I go.”
“I'm afraid the love affair didn't last long. Your heart may be chilled by the end of my tale. Mine was broken in two.”
“Tell me anyway.”
She looked up to the sky. White hazed the blue, like waves crashing on the open sea.
As she thought of Tristan, fresh sorrow eclipsed her heart.
“Our love affair lasted just four months. He continued to deliver meat to the castle, each time concealing a rose for me within his basket. Some days we were not alone and had to pretend we didn't know each other. The agony I felt at not being able to touch or hold him was wrenching. On other days, though, there was no one in the castle but us.”
She remembered how they'd made love, so many times, in her bed. She knew every pimple on his skin, every raised bone on his spine, and when she looked into his eyes, she knew every fleck there. When he made her come, it was not only the bud between her legs that screamed with pleasure, but her heart too. This was love, she knew. Pure, maddening, love.
“That was during the height of summer.” The days were hot, she remembered, but beneath the sheets, thinking of him, I was even hotter. My fingers did the work when he was not there, but the heart cannot be as easily satisfied. “I ached for him, as he did for me. Sometimes I'd stand at the castle window and wait for him to go by, as he often did. He knew I'd be there. He would look up, sweeping his floppy, dark hair away from his face, and then wave. I've heard people talk of their heart skipping a beat. Most of the time it's a figure of speech – an overused cliché. But for me, my heart really did skip a beat every time. And sometimes, when he was not around, my heart would fall out of rhythm. It was pining for him.”
Graff was talking loudly to Ancel and Powel about some man he'd once met in a tavern in The Warrens. Ancel and Powel laughed with their hands on their stomachs as Graff told of how he later slit the man's throat in an alleyway before stealing the coins from his pocket. Love doesn't touch everyone, she thought.
“Are you still listening?” Cassandra said to Haze.
He nodded. “Tell me more.”
“Sometimes Tristan and I would talk for hours,” she said. She felt a tear roll down her cheek at the memory. She wiped it away with her shoulder before it could freeze there. “I'd lie with my head on his bare chest and we'd make plans. Plans that could never be, of course. We said we'd get married under the summer sky and that the whole town would party and celebrate our love. I wanted little girls as bridesmaids, holding flowers picked from Kettlethorpe Woods. We said we would live in the castle together and make our babies.
“Ten weeks after we first made love, I flowered. It was a horrible moment. I tried to conceal it from my maids by hiding my bloodied bedsheet. It was hopeless, though, as every two days I would suffer an invasive inspection from the nurse. I hoped, however, that my blood would stop as abruptly as it had begun. But it didn't. The nurse ran out of my bedchamber shouting with glee as my blood ran down her fingers. I knew then that the king would arrange my marriage, forthwith. They'd find me a suitable lord's son. I'd have little say in the matter.”
Haze squeezed her hand. “Did you ever think of making a baby with Tristan, despite what the realm had planned for you?”
“Yes, I did. And I often wonder why it never happened. The nurse said I could've conceived during the month prior to my flow. But I didn't. Tristan and I never had another chance after that. Tristan was called to war. Young men were being called to arms all over the city. Those with a trade were normally spared, though, but not Tristan. He said the head of the king's guard had told him he was a strapping young lad. They needed men like him, he was told. Tristan was excited, I could tell. He would be gone just a month. He declared his intention to make love to me on his return, whether I was married or not.”
“But he never did.” This was a statement, not a question, she knew.
“No. A month later they returned with only half the men they had left with. The knight, Sir John Bretel, head of the king's guard, had led them into battle. I asked after Tristan, of course. I told Sir John that Tristan often delivered meat to the castle kitchens so I was intrigued as to what happened to him. He told me that Tristan died bravely on the field. They drove Volk's men back several leagues and saved countless villages from rape and pillage. The young butcher boy did the realm proud, I was told.
“I wept for days, in private, of course. I was mourning for him, but I couldn't show my feelings to anyone. I was then betrothed to Cuthbert Thornton-King, a lord's son. We were due to be married today . . .”
She thought of Cuthbert. He was a tall, thin man of twenty years. His hair was blonde and his complexion so white it looked like it had never seen the sun. His nose was too big for his face and his eyes were grey and empty. He was a nice man, polite and courteous, but she felt no love for him, nor any physical attraction.
Haze squeezed her hand again. Cassandra turned to look at him. He looked unwell. Deep, purple bruises had developed under his eyes, in complete contrast to his pallid face.
“Cassandra,” he said, “you'll arrive in Wyke in two days. Volk will breed with you. After your babes are born, he'll likely keep you as a sex slave for a while, but sooner or later he'll kill you. That’s why you must try to escape before you reach Wyke. One more thing . . . if rescue comes, which I'm hopeful it still might, don't trust—”
“Wild dogs!” shouted Ancel.
Cassandra pushed herself up onto one elbow and looked out the back of the sleigh. Five wild dogs were following, hunting together as a pack. Their growls were audible even above the sound of the sleigh cutting through the snow.
“They're gaining on us,” Powel said. He was standing, blade in hand.
“They'll surround us,” Ancel said. “Like last time.”
“How's your leg, Haze?” Graff said. He was standing over the former knight, his shoulder-length hair blowing gently in the wind, a drip of moisture hanging from the end of his hook nose.
“I can't feel it,” Haze said. “But I'll fight, the best I can.”
“I think mayhap you can do better than that. Powel, Ancel, give me a hand.”
Powel and Ancel sheathed their swords and then helped Graff pull Haze to his feet.
“He can't fight,” Cassandra said, concerned. “He can't even stand.”
Graff smiled at her, showing his blackened teeth and the hole where one tooth was missing. He then threw Haze over the back of the sleigh. When the former knight landed in the snow, the wild dogs seized him immediately, tearing at his clothes. A pain-induced scream rose causing birds in a nearby tree to take flight.
“No!” Cassandra shouted. She tried to stand, but Graff kicked her in the chest.
“Dead meat,” Graff said. “That's all he was. You and he were getting a little too close for my liking, anyhow.”
As the sleigh moved on, the wild dogs, and the figure they surrounded, became just a subtle movement on the horizon. But even at this distance, she could see them ripping flesh from Haze's body. Or is that just my imagination? She lay back, sickened and shocked. She thought about what Haze had said to her just before he was helped to his feet. You must try to escape before you reach Wyke. And who was he about to tell her not to trust? If rescue comes, which I'm hopeful it still might, don't trust–. He was warning her, she knew. But about who?
CHAPTER 23
Eaglen spied the inn hidden deep
in the belly of the valley. It was one of a handful of buildings in the abandoned village of Brantingham. But the plume of smoke rising from its chimney, and the inviting glow from its downstairs window, told a different story.
Eaglen was cold and wet and in need of shelter. I can still make it to the Great Road by nightfall, he thought. A short, half hour stop for food and a little warmth will be most welcome.
He descended the valley, slipping on compacted snow as he went. As the sun disappeared behind a hill, the air seemed to freeze making each intake of breath painful. No wonder this place is abandoned. By the time he reached the inn's door his fur-lined robe was crusted with snow and twice as heavy as it was before.
He pushed on the door and was hit by a wave of warm air. The room inside was small. There was a hearth set in the wall to the right, a fire raging within it. There were two tables and a few wooden chairs set around the room. Most of the chairs looked rotten and unsuitable for sitting on. Along the far wall was a counter. Three men sat on tall stools in front of it.
“Close the door, young man,” one of the men said. He had a dark bushy beard and wore a thick fur coat. “You're letting the warmth out. And there's not enough of it to warm the outside as well.”
Eaglen kicked the door shut. “If it's food you're after, we have none,” said another man. His face was covered in blonde whiskers, but it wasn't quite a beard.
“More's the pity,” said the third man. He was thin and gaunt and held his right arm to his chest. The fur on his sleeve was dark and matted. “We've only got this ale.” He lifted his tankard. “And it tastes like piss.”
“That's a shame,” Eaglen said, stepping forward. “I could do with something to eat.”
“You'll find nothing alive in this valley,” the bearded man said. “Except for us, that is. The name's Ralph Redwin.” Ralph held out his hand. Eaglen took it and gave it a good shake.
The man with the sparse blonde whiskers introduced himself as Willmot Jenkins. “Pleased to meet you,” Willmot said.
The gaunt man holding his arm was called Carle Willoughby.
“Carle's wound is beginning to smell,” Ralph said.
Carle looked ashamed. “It's my sword arm. How can I fight without my sword arm?”
That's the least of your worries, Eaglen thought. Carle looked sickly and as white as a ghost.
“We're soldiers,” Ralph said. “We were fighting down at Rowley, holding Volk's men at bay. Little Wauldby has yielded to Volk's cause, doubling Volk's numbers. Three weeks we held Rowley, though, until Lord Ribald yielded too.” That didn't surprise Eaglen. If Lord Ribald saw defeat coming, he would yield and hope for mercy. He was a weak man, Eaglen knew, both in mind and body, who hid in his castle all day drinking casks of red wine. “But a small bunch of us fought on, until our own men turned on us.”
Eaglen pushed down his hood.
Ralph squinted his eyes. “Hey, are you Eaglen the wizard?”
“Nah, he can't be Eaglen,” Willmot said. “That wizard is fighting the war on the frontline.”
Eaglen's staff had been hidden inside his fur-lined robe; he pushed back his furs and showed it to them.
“It is him,” Carle said. “Mayhap you can make my arm better. Do some of your magic or something.”
“Whatever you think you know about wizards,” Eaglen said, “you've likely learned from children's books. If you want me to fry you like a sausage in a pan, that I can do.”
Carle shifted uneasily on his stool and then winced at the pain from his arm.
“What can we do you for, Eaglen?” Ralph said. “I once fought the Savages in the north behind your uncle Fabian, although I only saw him from a distance. I was just a foot soldier, you see. He was the man up front, leading the charge on horseback. Brave man, that uncle of yours. They say he slew a quarter of their army single-handedly, although I'm not sure that's completely true.”
Eaglen had heard this tale before and didn't want to hear it again.
“I'll take a tankard of that ale.” Eaglen said. “It might be that it will warm me a little.”
Ralph leaned over the counter, grabbed a dusty, brown bottle of ale and a dented, dirty coloured tankard. He smashed the neck of the bottle on the side of the counter and then poured the ale into the tankard.
“I tell you,” Ralph said, “you won't be in any hurry to taste another. I think this stuff's been here since the time of The Ancients.”
Eaglen took the tankard and drank from it. It did indeed taste like piss. Thanks to his empty stomach, it made his head swim almost instantly.
“Take a seat,” Ralph said. He pulled a stool towards the counter.
Eaglen lifted his robe and sat down.
“You'll know Lord Ribald, then?” Ralph said.
Willmot spat on the floor at the utterance of the lord's name.
“I haven't seen him since I was but a boy. I did my service at Rowley Castle.”
Eaglen's memories of Rowley Castle were not pleasant ones. He was just thirteen when he began his service there, he remembered. Lord Ribald lived a life of luxury and excess. He had six wives, but still found time to sleep with most of his servant girls. Once, the young Eaglen even witnessed an orgy taking place in the Great Hall, with the lord and two of his wives in attendance. Wine was very important to Lord Ribald too. Smugglers arriving on ships from the south sea would bring Ribald casks from all over the world in exchange for gold, something the lord seemed to have an endless supply of. Food was in abundance too, although Lord Ribald would rather drink than eat. The lord had six sons and three daughters, all to different mothers, and they too would wait on him hand and foot. Eaglen wasn't repulsed by the excess, he was only frustrated that being a wizard meant he would live a much poorer, solitary life.
“And where are you going, Eaglen?” Ralph said. The soldier wasn't just making conversation, Eaglen knew, there was suspicion in Ralph's cold-blue eyes, as if he were accusing the wizard of desertion.
“I'm on a mission for the realm.”
“What type of mission?” Willmot said.
Eaglen took another swig of ale and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A secret mission.”
Ralph eyed him for a moment and then said: “We could join you. Two of us are able, at least. It would be an honour to serve the realm again and to fight with a wizard.”
“I work best alone.”
“Suit yourself. We'll be gone by tomorrow, anyway. We're heading to Elloughton Dale to raise the alarm. It's my guess Lord Chester has no idea an army ten-thousand strong is heading his way. We’ll fight for him.”
“Brave men.”
“If you're half the man your uncle is, we're not as brave as you are.”
“I could do with a woman to warm my bones,” Carle said. The soldier's lips had turned blue. This place will be his grave, Eaglen thought.
That got him thinking about Erin. Little Erin, how I miss you already. The girl had once belonged to Lord Chester Boham of Elloughton Dale, until Eaglen stole her from him. The mystery of what happened to the lord's little wife probably still plagues him to this day. The girl came to me willingly enough, but Chester could've given her a better life. That thought filled Eaglen with a jealous rage. Before long, Chester would've impregnated her, Eaglen suspected; something a seedless wizard could not do. Chester had given Erin handmaids and ponies and jewels; something a wizard does not own and therefore is not able to give.
Chester was loyal to the realm. The lord would likely have his men fight to their deaths rather than lose his castle and lands to Volk. Lord Chester does not have enough men to defend his lands against ten thousand, though. And when he's defeated, what will happen? A public execution for the lord on the streets of Elloughton Dale, that's what. Nothing more than the man deserves. And here I am, still alive. What would Erin make of that if she were here to see it, I wonder?
Eaglen spied Ralph's blade propped against the counter. Careless. These men can't leave here. I can't let them warn Lor
d Chester of the coming attack.
“I need a pee,” Ralph said, standing. The man swayed and then steadied himself on the counter. The ale may taste like piss, but it's certainly strong.
Ralph stumbled to the door and went outside. The wind howled in his wake. But when the door slammed shut, the storm was just a mere suggestion again.
Willmot scratched at his blonde stubble. “How's that ale? Do you want another?” he said to the wizard.
“I'm good,” Eaglen said. He eyed the soldier. He doesn't seem as drunk as Ralph. Nevertheless, Eaglen thought the soldier was drunk enough to not put up much of a fight. Using magic to dispose of someone left you vulnerable to an attack by another, Eaglen knew from experience. But Carle won't be a problem, what with his lame arm.
Without warning, Eaglen lunged with his staff and hit Carle square between the eyes. The injured soldier fell off his stool backwards, hitting his head on the counter as he fell. He sprawled on the floor, moaning, but made no attempt to get back up.
“What the—” Willmot began.
Eaglen thrust out his hand, imagined Willmot's neck between his fingers, and made a fist. Willmot fell from his stool, holding his neck. On his knees, the soldier pleaded with the wizard in a raspy voice: “Stop. Stop. Please.”
The wizard, his face contorted with rage and anger, squeezed his hand into an even tighter ball. Willmot gurgled, saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. Then there was a crack as his neck snapped. The soldier dropped to the floor like a felled tree.
Eaglen stepped towards Carle, who was lying on the floor clutching his bleeding arm. He thought about leaving him there to die a slow death. But where's the fun in that? The wizard took his staff, held it high, and then brought it down again and again on Carle's fevered face. Soon, the soldier was just a bloody mess, with spatter all around him like some crude halo.
“Eaglen?” Ralph said sharply from the doorway. “What have you done?”
The wind howled and tugged at the wizard's robe. Eaglen turned, staff in hand, a maddening expression on his face.
Ralph looked to the counter where his blade was still propped.
Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 21
