by Diane Magras
THE TRAITOR’S STORY
A tiny gasp came from the knight’s clenched lips. It sounded like a cry.
Are you going to slay him or sit there like a snail? said Uwen.
Nay, Drest thought. I’ll take him back to his knights.
She let go of his hand, and crawled off his chest onto the ground, ready to pounce again if he moved.
But the traitorous knight didn’t budge.
She spotted his dagger in the leaves. She grabbed it, and stuck it into Tancored’s scabbard beside the sword.
“Sit up,” Drest said.
Sir Fergal opened his eyes a crack. Slowly, he obeyed. He sat there, hunched and shaking.
She should have felt powerful, like a warrior or knight—but instead she was uneasy. Not afraid, but unsure. This knight, this enemy, was in her power. But that did not make her feel strong.
“Have mercy,” Sir Fergal whispered. “Please.”
Like the mercy he showed to you? snapped Gobin.
Drest nudged the knight’s back. “Don’t move.”
“Please do it quickly. I know I’ve no right to beg a favor, but I do, and if you’ve any pity in your heart—”
He was shaking all over now.
Drest knelt by his cloak, which hung in a rumpled heap off his back, and with her dagger cut a thin strip from the bottom. The wool was strong and thick. She pulled the man’s limp hands behind him and bound them.
Then she jerked him to his knees.
The knight began to cry.
“You don’t need to do that,” Drest said gruffly, trying to sound vicious. But she couldn’t; his hopelessness made her think of the time she’d almost slain Emerick, and she pitied him. “I’m not going to slay you unless I must. Now get up.”
He struggled to his feet, breathing hard. “Why are you sparing me? And where are you taking me?”
“To the village. And I will slay you if you struggle and try to attack me again, but I don’t slay for revenge.” Unlike my da. She touched the dagger to his back. “Now go.”
He flinched, and began walking.
For the first few minutes, they were silent.
But soon Sir Fergal began to speak in a low, trembling voice. “I’ve blatantly disobeyed Lord Faintree. He doesn’t even need a trial to sentence me. Do you know what I’ll face? A horrible death, worse than any—”
He stumbled.
Drest jerked him back to his feet. “Then you shouldn’t have been a traitor.”
“I’m not as disloyal as they think, I—have you ever failed?”
Drest thought, and shook her head. “Nay.”
“You’re lucky. I’ve failed in everything since I was your age. My first battle, and I could not move, not with the noise. A man came at me on a horse. I still remember his face and how I felt: like a target. I fled. Everyone saw.”
In his shuddering, broken voice, he went on to tell of other battles. He’d not always fled, but he’d always flinched, and the first time he’d slain a man—
“I fainted as I dealt my blow. Only for an instant, but when I woke, he was crushing me, that man I’d slain. He’d toppled forward upon me.”
Drest had heard many battle stories from her father, but none had been like these tales of humiliation and fear.
“You shouldn’t have been a knight.” She hadn’t meant to speak much to him, but the words came out.
Sir Fergal nodded vigorously. “I didn’t know that when I was a boy. I knew it when I was in battle. I’d stand amidst the chaos and think, What is this? This is not who I am. But I’d no choice. I was born to be a warrior in my lord’s army.”
I was born to be a warrior, Drest thought, but it was always right for me.
He went on: When the old Lord Faintree died and Emerick had been choosing his war-band to capture Grimbol at his camp on the sea, Sir Fergal was not asked to go.
“I went to him anyway,” said the knight. “I knelt and told him I would serve him honorably. I understood him, you see: This was his chance to prove that he was as strong as his father had been. And it was my chance to prove that I was more of a man than anyone knew.” Sir Fergal winced. “He said no.”
And when Sir Oswyn had come to him after Emerick’s war-band had left, Sir Fergal had been ready to listen. Sir Oswyn had promised that under his rule, Sir Fergal the Weak would become Sir Fergal the Bold.
He used you, Drest thought. He knew what he had to say to make you follow.
He gave that man hope, said Wulfric’s voice. Hope in the darkness can be a powerful weapon.
Sir Fergal cast a glance back at her. “You must think I am worse than the dirt in your fingernails. I meant you no harm. I only wanted honor. I know you won’t believe that, and I can’t blame you, but it’s true.”
They walked the rest of the way without speaking, the only sound the rustle of their steps.
* * *
• • •
At the edge of the woods, Drest paused. Before them lay the path, and beyond it the meadow and the mill. Grimbol was in the square in the distance, Wulfric towering over him. They were talking.
“I can’t go on,” Sir Fergal said. “Please, I beg you. Let me free. I’ll run far away, and you’ll never see me again. Have mercy.”
Suddenly, two dark figures seemed to materialize from the woods behind them. The twins swept up on either side.
Sir Fergal whimpered.
“Mercy would be to slay you now,” said Gobin, “before your lord or our da sees you. Drest, turn your back. This will take but a moment.”
Drest grabbed the wool rope with which she’d bound the failed knight’s wrists. “Nay, Gobin,” she said, “he’s my captive. I shall do with him as I see fit.”
Gobin gave a low laugh. “Lass. Come. Give him to us.”
“You had us on quite the run,” said Nutkin. “We must have our wee reward.”
“You were following me?”
“Aye, Da told us to. You’re not to be alone, you know.” Gobin put his hands on hers and deftly slipped his fingers onto the wool rope beneath her grip. “Let go and turn aside. I promise it will be quick.”
Sir Fergal’s breath was coming faster.
“Nay.” Drest glared at her favorite brother. “This man’s been hunting me for days, and it’s my choice. I’ve said that twice now, and I’ll not say it again.”
Gobin studied her. He exchanged a look with his twin and stepped back. “What do you mean to do with him?”
“I’ll give him to his men.”
Sir Fergal’s chin sank to his chest.
Nutkin tapped her shoulder. “You handled him nicely, lass. The chase, the way you overpowered him. I don’t remember teaching you how to do that.”
“No one taught me that.” She shook Sir Fergal’s bound hands. “Go on. Forward.”
They walked out of the woods, the twins flanking them, and onto the path. After a few minutes, villagers drifted out from their huts to watch. Grimbol and Wulfric turned. But no one advanced. No one moved as the girl and the slumping knight and the twins crossed through the field to the edge of the dirt square.
As they reached the center, Mordag swooped over them with a raucous call. She circled, not stopping, until Tig came running up the path.
“Drest?” Then he saw Sir Fergal, and his mouth closed. Wordlessly, he stretched out his arm. With a final harsh creea, Mordag landed on it.
The mill’s front door opened.
Sir Reynard came out, followed by Emerick. The old knight’s eyes widened.
“By God,” he murmured. “You caught him.”
Cold fury lit Emerick’s face. “When you became a knight, Fergal, you vowed to serve Faintree Castle and its lord with honor. You have broken that vow. Take his sword, Drest. Give it to one of your brothers. They have served me with more honor than this ma
n ever has.”
Sir Fergal took a long, shuddering breath.
Drest pulled out the scabbard from his sword-belt. The loops parted, and the leather dropped to his feet. She held out the sword. Uwen strode up to her and grabbed it.
“You are no knight,” Emerick went on, “no man. You are a traitor to Faintree Castle. Get on your knees. Sir Reynard, draw your sword.”
The failed knight seemed to crumple. Onto his knees, bowing, his forehead on the dirt.
“Wait,” said Drest—and thumped to her knees beside Fergal. She set her arm over the back of his neck. She wanted to hate this man, but somehow she understood his misery and fear. “Aye, he’s a traitor, but your uncle tricked him and used him, see, and he never had a chance.”
Fergal—no longer Sir Fergal—swallowed.
“Step aside, Drest.” Sir Reynard did not lower his weapon. “He disobeyed a direct order from his lord.”
I disobey orders.
She met Emerick’s eyes. It was as if he had heard her thought; his face softened.
“What would you have us do, Drest?” Emerick said gently.
“You promised me mercy once. Do you remember? I want it now. For him.”
Fergal tilted his head until his eyes met hers: wondering eyes, brimming with tears.
“If I give you a real chance, a true chance, to be honorable,” she told him, “will you take it?”
Beneath her arm, he bowed his head in a nod.
“Do you promise?”
“Yes. And—I will prove it. I can help you. In what you need to do to save your life. I can help you find him.”
“Find who?”
“Oswyn. I know where he’s gone.”
part three: the last battle
30
THE FINAL PLAN
Drest stood with her family and the castle men in the village square, the dishonored knight at her side. She’d called Emerick her captive before, but he had never really been one. Fergal was a true captive: a dangerous man who, if free, might well find a way to cut her throat despite his promise.
Though it seemed unlikely.
It was as if he were a wolf whose teeth and claws had been torn out.
But a wolf who had told them the story they needed to hear: Oswyn was on the headland.
“How many men does he have, Fergal?” Sir Reynard’s voice was sharp. He’d been scowling as he’d sheathed his sword ten minutes ago.
“Eight knights. With thirty-two spearmen.” He paused. “I was to go there in four days. He said he’d be there to collect . . . her head.” To Drest: “I beg your pardon.”
She shivered, but managed to get out in her old insolent tone, “How would you have carried my head through the woods? Do you have a sack? I’d think it would have made a mess on your tunic.”
Uwen snorted.
“I—I hadn’t thought that far.”
“You know the way to the headland, Fergal?” Sir Reynard’s tone hadn’t changed.
“Does everyone at your castle know the way to my headland?” growled Grimbol.
“No,” said Fergal quickly, “but I was told to go to the sea, then walk north, and look for the rope ladders on the cliffs.”
“Rope ladders,” said Grimbol. “Listen close, lads: We’ll take those ladders down, climb on our own ropes, and slay every man in the bowl of the camp. Aye, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Perhaps you’d like to have my help with that?” murmured Sir Reynard.
Grimbol regarded him with a faint smile. “Aye, I’ll take it.” He went on: “Forty-one fighting men with Oswyn. And eighteen of us.” He glared at the squires. “Can you fight?”
The boys shifted.
“Eighteen, then.” With a sigh, Grimbol dropped to his knees on the dirt and unsheathed his dagger. “We’ll have to hunt him down. Lads, are you up for a hunt at the headland?”
Drest’s brothers all nodded. None of them smiled.
“Reynard, mind this. I’ll draw you a map of where we’re going.”
He drew a series of lines.
“That’s the cliff no man can climb, where they have the rope ladders.” He pointed. “The ravine below. There’s a river in the back. Be wary of it; it’s as strong as the sea. Then up here, there’s the paths. Here’s the camp. The cliffs here are not safe, but my lads and lass can climb them. Then here: These cliffs empty that river out into the sea, and they’re the most dangerous yet.”
Grimbol rose smoothly. “Lord, will you let me order your men? I must have total command down there for this to work.”
“Of course. Sir Reynard, Sir Torstein, Sir Cerdic, Sir Bren—all of you spearmen as well—you’ll be under Grimbol’s lead out there. Do you understand?”
The castle men nodded, including Sir Reynard.
Grimbol pointed to his sons. “Each of you take a castle man as your battle-mate. Show him the way. Gobin and Nutkin, take two of them, unless they slow you. Tig, I want you to keep watch with your crow from the top of the cliff. Squires, you’re up there too. You’re protecting the lord. Lord, I want you to watch, but don’t come down.”
“I want Drest with me.”
Grimbol’s chin dipped in a nod. “Aye, that’s what I was thinking.”
“Do you not need me on the paths?” Drest said softly. “Do I not know the headland as well as the lads?”
“Aye, you do, but you did not follow my order when I gave it to you just now. So nay, I don’t want you down there.”
Drest flinched.
“I want her up with me for a wholly different reason,” said Emerick slowly. “I want her at my side because that is the only way I can be confident I shall live past this battle. Someone will see me, and they will try to slay me with an arrow, or a signal to a man who’s hiding at the top. I have survived the most danger I’ve ever faced in my life thanks to her.”
She looked at him gratefully.
“As long as she stays at the top of the cliff, I do not care the reason.” Grimbol slid his dagger back into its sheath and surveyed the men around him.
“This is our final chance. If we win, we gain back Faintree Castle, and Lord Faintree will be where he belongs. Castle men, you’ll fulfill the vows you swore when you agreed to fight under our lord’s name, in honor, in glory.” Grimbol paused. “And you, my sons, this is your chance to prove that your legends are true. Remember who you are: Wulfric the Strong, Thorkill the Ready, Gobin the Sly, Nutkin the Swift, Uwen the Wild—and Drest the Clever. You are the war-band of the Mad Wolf, and no one in this world or the next could stand against our power when we are together. I have trained you to crush your enemies. There are no greater enemies than these you will be facing. They shall fall like flies against us.”
Grimbol rocked back on his heels.
“One word more: Slay everyone you find but Oswyn. Save him for me. He’s put a price on my daughter’s head, and I shall have my revenge.” He crouched again and swept his hand across his sketch in the dirt. “Be ready to leave as soon as we have our supplies. From what the traitor says, we’ve no time to lose.”
Grimbol eased himself to his feet and marched toward the door of the mill.
The squires gazed nervously at the knights. Drest’s brothers and the castle men stood awkwardly apart. Emerick and Tig were completely still, their eyes on the dirt where the map had been.
“You haven’t enough men,” Fergal said tentatively. “One more will be little, but one more could help. Let me go with you, my lord.”
“No,” said Emerick sharply.
“Let me prove to you that I am worthy of your trust. Let me prove that my honor—”
“You have no honor,” snapped Emerick, “not after what you’ve done. Drest, I want this man bound to a post in a hut with a village guard kept round him. I know you pity him, but he’s dangerous, and he’ll kill you if h
e has the chance.”
“No,” said Fergal. “I will never harm her.”
But as he looked down, the swift glance he cast upon the men in the square held such malevolence that a small voice within Drest wondered if her mercy had been the right decision.
31
ON THE HEADLAND’S CLIFFS
It was midday, though the sky had become a murky cloud as the war-band started off. They made a curious procession: Drest’s brothers in their hunt formation, each of them with a sword from the knights they had slain; then the men-at-arms with their spear points above their heads; the knights with their chain mail clinking; and the squires, who clustered nervously at the end.
The Mad Wolf led. For the first hour, Tig strode beside him, Mordag swooping among the branches. Then the boy drifted back to where Drest and Emerick walked in the middle, between Grimbol’s lads and the castle men.
“What do you think of the guard I’ve made you?” said Tig to Drest with a wink.
She shrugged and rolled her shoulders. Nervousness had knotted all her muscles there.
“I hope you tied your captive well, lass,” Gobin called back. “I’ve a bad feeling, and I hope it’s not him creeping after us.”
She had tied Fergal carefully with the kinds of knots that Thorkill had shown her long ago, knots that would take even her nimble fingers hours to untie. And she’d whispered to him that everything would be well when they succeeded, as they would, thanks to his help.
“But it doesn’t matter.” The failed knight had met her eyes in the darkness of the hut where she’d bound him. “Lord Faintree will never forgive me. If he succeeds, I will be taken to the castle and executed within days. If Oswyn wins, I shall be slaughtered where I stand. If you would only let me go—”
“I can’t let you go. You have to understand that.”
His smile had been faint. “Letting me go would be the bravest deed of all. And coming with me—think of it, lass: I’ll protect you with my life, as if you were my own daughter, and we could run far from here, and be safe.”
“I am not as much of a fool as that.”
