by J. V. Jones
“Leave me alone.” Baralis’ voice was coldly menacing and his servant wasted no time in doing what his master commanded.
Baralis was in a fury. He paced the length of his chamber, absently rubbing his pained hands. How could this have happened? How could Maybor have avoided the poison? He knew for a fact that the drunken lord took a glass of wine every night to help him sleep. He must have discovered the poison, yet the drug had been odorless and tasteless. Maybor had the luck of the devil!
Baralis calmed himself. He needed to think clearly; he now had several problems to solve. He could not allow the betrothal to go through. If he could not prevent it by murdering Maybor, he would have to set his sights upon the daughter—the sweet and lovely Melliandra. The girl would have to be disposed of. Maybe he would do it with own hand. He shivered with anticipation; it would indeed be a pleasure to steal the life from one so fair. He might even have a little fun with her first. Women, he found, were always more appealing with terror in their eyes.
Then there was the problem of the baker’s boy. So Jack had headed into the woods, undoubtedly seeking cover amidst the dense trees. Well, the boy was a fool to think he could hide from him. There were methods by which a man could gain access to the deepness of the wood. Baralis lifted the tapestry and entered his study.
He handled the bird gently, trying not to damage any of its feathers. He had calmed it, and although it was restless in his hands, it made no move to escape. He stroked its small head and it cooed lightly. Baralis was about to change the nature of the bird.
He was determined to find Jack. The search would probably locate him, but it never hurt to make contingencies. He didn’t place great trust in the castle guards—it would take them many days to scan the thick woodland that surrounded much of the castle, and even then the feckless fools might miss him. He had other matters to attend to and so would send something to do his work for him.
A dove. What better creature than a bird to sight someone in the depths of the forest?
To this end he would change the nature of the bird, superimposing his wishes over the natural inclinations of the dove. Baralis had done such drawings many times before in birds, in cats, in mice. It was a delicate operation requiring twinned animals. Creatures born from the same egg. Baralis, like other masters, had ways of cultivating such creatures and usually had an assortment of them at hand, identical to each other in every way.
He soothed the first bird into an uneasy sleep, then poured some fresh water into a bowl. Next, he made a careful incision into the second dove, straight down the center of its breast. The bird’s blood ran into the bowl. Baralis took the still beating heart between his fingers and made an invocation as the life drained away from the bird. He raised the heart to his lips and swallowed it. The bond. He then took the first dove and immersed it in the bloody water, its gray-white feathers becoming pink with blood. Baralis then dried the bird with a soft cloth and commanded it to awaken. The bird’s eyes opened and it was eager to be on its way.
He carried the bird out of his study and let it out of the window. It flew away quickly: it had no will of its own—it was Baralis’ creature now.
He was pleased the messy business was over. He had no taste for warm dove hearts, but, he thought grimly, at least they were small.
It now was time to see what mischief Maybor was cooking up. He was bound to have some unpleasant revenge planned for the attempt on his life. Let him try, Baralis thought as he made his way down to the second cellar, he will not catch me unawares.
Before long Baralis was on the dark side of Maybor’s chambers, listening with great interest to the conversation between father and son:
“She has been in the village this very morning, Father.”
“Who saw her?” Maybor’s voice was low and strained.
“Quite a few people, Father. She even bought some supplies.”
“What supplies? She has no money to buy supplies.”
“She never paid for them. The shopkeeper gave me the bill. She said you would honor the payment.”
“Oh, she is a sly one. What did she buy?”
“Apparently she bought supplies for a fishing expedition.”
“Fishing!” Baralis could hear the amazement in Maybor’s voice.
“Yes, and she was seen heading east with a horse.”
“Damn it! She must be found, Kedrac. Put your best men on it and swear them to secrecy. I want no one to know of this—especially the queen. Tell anyone who asks that Melliandra is abed with a fever.”
Baralis’ lips curved into a delicious smile. So his dove was not the only bird to have flown the coop. Melliandra had done his work for him. As long as she remained unfound, the betrothal could not take place. Furthermore, he thought with delight, if the queen were to be told of the disgraceful behavior of Maybor’s daughter, she might well decide to call the match off altogether. He was almost glad Maybor was still alive. He would enjoy witnessing the unraveling of the great lord’s plans.
Jack’s confidence was dwindling fast. He was cold, he was wet, and he was lost. What was he but a baker’s boy? He wasn’t cut out for adventuring. Heroes never forgot to bring warm clothes with them, or if they did, they killed then skinned some wild beast and made a cloak from its hide. He didn’t even have his knife.
Judging by the gray of the sky, it was mid-afternoon. Normally at this time he’d be mixing the dough for the fancies. The fancies were the special pastries that he and Frallit made for the noblewomen of the castle. The pastries were heavy with honey and syrup, rich with butter and brandy, or aromatic with fruit and spices. The mix depended upon two things: what ingredients were in season or store, and what the current fashions were in the south. What Rorn did one day, the kingdoms did the next.
Jack enjoyed making the fancies. Unlike the daily bread, there was never any rush to get them to oven, so he could spend time kneading and dreaming. And, if the ingredients weren’t measured too carefully and the sweet breads didn’t bake to plan, he could remove the threat of a beating by telling Frallit it was a new mix he was trying out. The master baker had received much acclaim by taking the credit for Jack’s recipes.
At this time, two hours before dark, the kitchens would be warm and busy, there’d be ale losing its chill by the fire, and broth warming on the top of the stove. There’d be the yeast to wash and spread, and then he’d be done for the day. If he were lucky, Findra the table maid might have smiled his way and invited him to sit beside her later at supper.
It was all gone now. Everything he’d ever had. All the people he’d ever known. And for what? One moment’s madness and eight score of loaves.
For the first time in his life he was truly alone. What had happened this morning had set him apart. If he traveled to another town and became a baker there, the same thing might happen. Only next time there might be people around and his condemnation complete. Yet what alternative did he have? He was a baker with a baker’s skills. He would travel a while and settle where he could. Jack stepped up his pace and tried to find his way out of the woods.
Harvell Woods began sparsely at first, a mere sprinkling of bush and tree. The woods had a way of sneaking up on one, though, and before he knew it he was in the heart of the wood. Tree and bush crowded thick and close, and even with the dwindling foliage of winter, little light passed through their branches. With every step he took, he seemed to make an alarming amount of noise: twigs and bracken crackled harshly underfoot, breaking the guarded silence of the wood.
The smells of early winter assailed his senses: the ripe but cooling earth, the fragrant rot of leaf, the dampening bark and the suggestion of rain upon the breeze.
Jack was a little unnerved: the heady scents together with the denseness of the trees combined to make him confused. He was sure he’d only walked a league or so and couldn’t remember the wood being so thick when he had collected berries in the past.
His leather sandals were soaked with dew and his clothes were too thin for wa
rmth. He was afraid. The memory of the loaves haunted him. He recalled the sick feeling in his stomach, the feeling his skull would surely burst. It was sorcery, and every child knew sorcery was an evil used by heathens of old. Even Borc himself had condemned it. Jack sighed deeply. He didn’t want to be stoned as a heretic or marked as an outcast.
The air of the forest stirred within his lungs, slipping softly into his blood. He became calm, and out of calmness came determination.
He was already an outcast. At Castle Harvell he was known to be fatherless, his mother branded a whore. People were usually kind to him, but when his back was turned, or when he did something wrong, the whisperings would begin again. As long as he stayed, he would never be anything but a bastard. To leave Castle Harvell would be to leave his shame behind. There was hope. He could bake in another town and never have to bite his tongue or stay his hand at the sound of people whispering. He could begin a new life, where no one knew he had neither family nor history of his own. Finding his mother’s origins was an impossible dream; he had nothing to go on. It was better to make a fresh start and put childish fantasies behind him.
With renewed optimism, Jack made his way through the trees. The wood presented a subtle path and he was content to go where it led.
After a while he heard the sound of someone crying out. “Help! Help!” came a woman’s voice. Without hesitation, Jack headed toward the noise. He found himself on a cleared road. Ahead, he saw a woman being attacked by a young boy with a knife. He wasted no time in rushing to her aid. The boy was fast and sped off into the woods. Jack dashed after the lad, but he was already out of sight. He turned back to the woman and realized she was only a girl.
“Are you hurt, lady?” he asked gently, coming toward her.
“Please, leave me be. It is only a nick.” Jack saw that she was referring to a cut on her wrist.
“Please, lady, let me help you. It looks more than a nick to me.”
The girl regarded him coolly. “It is not the wound I am concerned with. My purse has been robbed.”
Jack desperately searched for something intelligent to say. “Lady, you should return to town and inform the royal guard. They will catch the lad.” The girl paid his words scant attention.
“At least he never stole his horse back, and I still have my supplies.” As she spoke, she dragged forward a large woven sack.
“Lady, you should return to Harvell at once and get the cut seen to.”
The girl considered for a moment and then said, “I will never return to Harvell again.” Her voice was strong and clear, and despite the coarseness of her cloak he could tell she was a noblewoman.
“Where are you headed?”
“You ask too many questions. It is no concern of yours. I must be on my way.” With that she loaded the sack on the horse’s back and faced east. Jack did not want to see her walk off.
“I am heading east, too,” he said, thinking quickly and deciding that he would indeed head east.
“That is nothing to me. I will walk alone.” The coldness of her voice made him wince, but he was not about to be put off that easily.
“Next time they may steal your horse.”
The girl hesitated, her deep, blue eyes flickering over her horse and its burden. “Very well, you may accompany me a little way, until we are free of town and castle.”
They walked in silence for a while, the girl sucking on her wrist to stop the bleeding. Then she surprised Jack by saying, “I think it would be better if we left the road.” He’d been thinking just the same thing and wondered what her reason was for suggesting it. Her tone did not invite questions.
He led her into the woods and tried to strike a path parallel to but some distance from the road. As they walked, the lowering sun shone through the trees and illuminated the face of the girl. Jack had never seen such perfect milky skin or such large dark eyes. The image of Findra the table maid, who had long stood for female loveliness to Jack, now seemed less enchanting. Here at his side walked someone more exquisite, more regal, and therefore more unattainable than any woman he had ever met.
Jack was thrown into a turmoil of self-awareness. Never had his legs seemed so long and so beyond his control. Every step he took seemed fraught with the potential for embarrassment. What if he misstepped and tripped on a twig? What if his foot became stuck in a rabbit hole? His hair had lost all semblance of order and fell over his eyes every fourth step—he knew, he’d counted them. And to top it all off, he’d been robbed of the ability to speak. Not only were his lips refusing to move, but his mind had stopped playing its part in the whole process, as well, and kept coming up with ridiculous subjects to talk about. As if this girl with the perfect profile and cheeks as pale as just-kneaded dough would want to hear about Master Frallit’s gout!
He stole a sideways glance—there was something about the expression on her face that struck a chord within him. Gradually he began to comprehend what he saw there: it was a reflection of his own emotions. She was scared and trying to hide it. He decided to risk speaking—if he made a fool of himself, so be it. “What’s your name?” he asked softly.
“What is yours?” she replied quick as a flash. Jack could not help but smile.
“I am called Jack.” The girl seemed reluctant to name herself, so impulsively he asked the name of her horse.
“He has no name. Or rather he has a name, but I don’t know it.” That she did not know the name of her own horse struck Jack as funny, and for the first time that day he laughed. It felt good to do so and his spirit was lightened. “I just bought it today,” the girl explained, mollified by his laughter. “If you think it’s so funny, come up with a name for him yourself.”
Jack was pleased to be asked to do this and thought for a while. “How about Silver, after the flower. I just saw one earlier.” It was the girl’s turn to laugh now.
“He can’t be called Silver—he’s brown.” Her voice was lightly mocking and Jack felt foolish: Silver! Where was his brain? He quickly searched his mind for something clever to say in response. When nothing came to him, he settled for attempting to endow his silence with a knowing air.
They walked for a while more before the girl spoke up. “My name is Melli. I will tell you that, but I beg you, ask me no more questions.” Jack nodded slowly. He knew she was a lady, and so that was not her full name. Ladies had long and beautiful names. He was pleased she had told him part of it, though, and for a time, the pleasure of sharing names with the girl by his side was enough to keep the morning in the past.
The sun gradually descended below the treeline and the sky turned to dusk. The woods, which already knew the stillness of winter, embraced the greater quiet of the night. Jack and Melli both agreed they were hungry. The day was drawing to a close and so they decided to make camp for the night. They had stumbled upon a deer path which headed southeast, and they were now several leagues south of Harvell’s east road.
Melli unceremoniously dumped the contents of the sack on the ground. There was a large amount of a very unappetizing dried meat and several packages containing drybreads. There were two tins, one of which was sealed closed with wax. Melli opened them: the first contained snatch, and the second, to her horror, contained live maggots.
“Ugh.” She threw the tin away, which proved a disastrous action, as the maggots spilled out all over the ground and onto the precious supplies. Jack quickly gathered the food, pots, and blankets, shaking them free of maggots. He then moved a few yards away, leaned against a tree and proceeded to chew on a length of pork.
“How can you eat that after maggots have been on it?” Melli grimaced, annoyed at his casual manner.
“Easy,” he replied, “there’s nothing else to eat.” This answer did not please Melli one bit. She was furious. What on earth had Master Trout been doing, giving her maggots?
“Were you planning to go fishing?” asked Jack. “You don’t look like much of a fisherman.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Why, the bait of course. Come to think of it, you don’t look like the type who would chew snatch, either.” Melli knew Jack was angling for information, but she had no wish to confide in him. Still, she was glad that she was not alone; the incident with the boy had badly scared her.
For the first time she looked properly at her companion. He was tall, if a little thin, with brown hair that kept falling over his face. His hands were large and calloused—powerful hands, used to hard work. Yes, there was something attractive about him. He was certainly brave; he’d run to her aid with no thought for himself. Bands of robbers were notorious on the east road and most people walked away at the first sign of trouble. For all he knew, there were more men lurking in the bushes. It wouldn’t have been the first time a child was used as bait in a trap.
She noticed that he was dressed very inadequately for the cold weather; he didn’t even have a cloak. She decided on impulse to give him her lambswool riding cloak; she would keep the one she was wearing because it was a lot warmer.
“Here, take this.” She offered him the gray cloak. He took it gratefully and she immediately felt a little guilty for keeping the warmer one for herself.
Melli forced herself to eat a little drybread, which unfortunately only served to make her thirsty. The water flask was, of course, empty. Jack offered to go off and find a stream, but she didn’t like the thought of being alone. So they went off in search of water together, Melli guiding the horse.
Neither spoke as they walked through the trees, and Melli was glad of the silence. Her father would be searching for her by now, she almost felt sorry for him. It would shame him to admit to the queen that his daughter had run away. She loved her father. There was softness behind his bullish facade, and he’d always been indulgent with her, but now she had to consider herself first. No, she didn’t regret running away. With her newfound ally at her side she wasn’t even afraid.
She caught Jack’s eye and he smiled gently. There was strength in his face—and kindness. She had to fight off the urge to touch him, to casually brush her hand against his. She told herself it was folly, brought on by the tensions of the day. What was he but a common laborer—and a smug one at that. He’d purposely made her feel foolish about the maggots. Indignation, combined with the fear that she might actually reach out and touch him, made Melli strike out ahead on her own.
