“Come,” said the lady, pulling at Robert’s arm.
“But, Phillippa,” he answered, “I must bring Cecilia. I cannot leave her alone.”
“That is your affair,” the lady said. “Come.” She rustled away down a side passage. Robert took Cecilia’s hand and they both followed, into a large empty room full of comfortable silk chairs and then, beyond a curtain, into a much richer room, light and loaded with silks, tapestries, jewels, and crystal ornaments. There, on low chairs, sat Robert’s mother and the other, younger lady. Cecilia realized that this younger lady would be the Princess, wife of the dead Prince and mother of the boy in black.
The Princess was crying. “What have you done now, you wicked man?” she said to Robert. “Where have you taken my son? Why do you persecute us like this? Why not proclaim yourself Prince at once and have done?”
“Madam,” answered Lord Howeforce, “I have not seen your son. I am as concerned as you to know where he may be.”
“How you lie,” said the Princess. “How you lie! You have him prisoner, or you have killed him, and tomorrow you will cry yourself Prince through the whole country—just as you cried yourself wronged on Christmas Day.”
“Madam,” repeated Lord Howeforce, “I have not seen your son. I have no knowledge of his whereabouts. If I had, I assure you—”
“—You would have killed him before this,” the Princess finished for him, and put her face in her hands.
Robert’s mother looked up at him. “It is impossible to persuade her,” she said. “Robert, it is true you do not know where Everard is, is it?”
“Quite true, I assure you.”
“Then,” she answered, “you must have spies out and inquiries made and not rest till you have found him, and the Outsider. She will not believe your innocence, nor will anyone, until the Prince is found.”
“I will try to find him.”
“We can guess where he is,” answered his mother. “Now go, please, and make sure at least that this girl is safe.” And as Cecilia, who had stood by a little resentfully all the while, curtsied to her, the lady smiled. “We are in your debt for a night’s lodging,” she said, and held out a small dog-eared piece of paper with the little orange seal stamped on it.
After this, Cecilia again crept after the outlaw through corridors and courts in the great mansion. As she went, she thought how strange the outlaw’s position was. If she had been the Princess, she would have called soldiers and had him arrested even though he was her nephew. “So all I can think,” she said to herself, “is that the Princess is not as sure as she pretends that he is so wicked. I wish I knew all there was to be known about how the Prince was killed. I think there must be much more to it than we have learned.”
They came to a tiny side gate, outside in a bitter frost. There was a chilly guard there in green livery who raised his lantern to look at them. Cecilia was terrified, but the outlaw smiled and clapped the guard on the shoulder.
“Many thanks, Tom. Has the true guard come to his senses yet?”
“Aye, my lord. Had to gag him.”
“Then ungag him. He may shout all he likes now. Then follow us where you may wear your own livery again.”
“I have it underneath this, my lord. Comes warmer like that.” Then the man, whistling merrily, and not at all secretive, went over to where Cecilia could see the wriggling shape of the real guard. “Come on, you,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes to get clear, my lord.” As Robert unbolted the gate, Cecilia saw the false guard heaving the real one along to where he would be seen in a white bar of moonlight.
Beyond the gate were empty fields of snow, hardening in the frost. In the great black shadow of the walls was a clinking and movements. Robert took her that way. There was a group of horses, breathing out steam, with riders in steel and a faintly glowing orange livery—Cecilia thought it was orange, but in the moonlight it could have been brown.
“I fear we have no side-saddle for you,” Robert whispered.
Cecilia laughed. “I prefer riding astride. It is easier. But you must not stare at me.”
He seemed relieved. Cecilia was helped into her saddle by a soldier, while the outlaw mounted the same blue-gray horse they had seen him ride across the bay. Then the group set off at a sharp trot, over the frozen fields, westwards, and up into the hills.
Everyone was very gay, even Cecilia, despite her fears for Alex. She was thankful to be out of Falleyfell and delighted at the moonlight ride. The men around sang and whistled and were plainly heartily pleased to have their leader back out of the mansion. After about a quarter of an hour, Tom, the false guard, caught them up, and he was merrier than any of them. Cecilia took to him completely. He had a little curly black beard which thoroughly caught her fancy.
“I can turn Hornet again now, my lady,” he said to her, twirling his mustache.
“Whatever is a Hornet?” asked Cecilia.
They all exclaimed that she did not know. “Us—we be Hornets.”
“The orange livery,” Robert explained, “with the two black stripes. It is the true Gairne livery, and famous in the Principality. It is as old and honored as the Prince’s green, or the Darron white and red.”
“And we be honored to wear it,” said Tom. “So all of us turn outlaw too.”
“Oh, I see,” said Cecilia, and thought how nice they all were to go as far as that.
They rode on, and after a while, Robert asked her seriously: “Did the Prince give no indication of his intentions toward your brother? If we knew what he meant to do, we could more easily discover where they are.”
“Well,” said Cecilia, “he looked daggers at Alex out of his black eye—Alex had blacked his eye on the island, you know.”
Robert laughed. “No, I did not know. Poor Everard! He would take that very ill. Then I begin to see something of what happened. There would be a return fight, I am sure, but it need not have been far from Falleyfell. This makes me certain that Towerwood left in order to follow them, though I was told he had gone to Gairne.”
“Oh, no!” said Cecilia.
“I fear so,” said Robert. “I will send spies down to Gairne and Towerwood as soon as we reach our camp. They should discover something. I am glad you told me of this fight, since I had been wondering if Everard had not gone to Landerness—he went in that direction, it seems.”
This spoiled the rest of the ride for Cecilia, though they rode where they seemed on top of the world and the soldiers were as merry as ever.
She revived a little when they came to the camp. It was where an outcrop of rock leaned over a high, shallow valley. There were caves in the rock, with lights in them, and tents pitched near the caves. Fires melted circles of snow and flickered on lines of picketed horses. Several young men in long cloaks came running out to meet them beside their own strange blue shadows. They ran back with the horses, calling greetings, and asking for news. When the riders stopped near the tents and Cecilia had dismounted, Robert introduced the young men to her. Cecilia was a little bewildered by them all, but she gathered that the one with the long nose was called Rupert Lord Strass, and that the very young dark one was Robert’s squire, and that his name was James of March. Robert went with them all to one of the caves, talking as he went. They seemed very dismayed to hear that the Prince had vanished.
“Towerwood,” said James of March.
“Surely,” Robert agreed. “Now my eyes are opened to that man, I believe him capable of anything.” Then he laughed. “Then I was called before the Princess, and she and my mother were unspeakably indiscreet. And there stood Phillippa of Towerwood hearing every word.” He turned to Cecilia. “Did you notice how indiscreet they were?”
“No indeed,” said Cecilia. “I—I was angry at the way they thought it was all your doing. How were they indiscreet?”
“Perhaps it was not so obvious then,” he said. “I hoped it was not, since I can do little for them and Towerwood can do them much harm. The Princess as good as told me to decla
re myself Prince before Towerwood seized the coronet for himself.”
“You should take her advice,” said James of March. “You are next in succession, and you are of age.”
Robert laughed, as if his squire had said a very stupid thing. Cecilia liked him enormously for the way he laughed. It made her trust him at last, completely. “Oh, James,” he said, “let us have no more troubles than we already bear. Poor Everard is no doubt finding enough heaped on his head, as it is. Now, let us eat. Cecilia, I cannot offer you tea.”
Cecilia laughed and blushed. They had an excellent meal at a proper table in the cave, with a charcoal brazier to warm them and wine to drink. While they ate, Cecilia had to explain tea to Lord Strass, who seemed serious-minded and anxious to learn. While she explained, there was constant coming and going, and Robert left to give orders about spies to go to Gairne.
“We should know by the morning,” he said, when he came back.
Then Cecilia became very sleepy, what with the wine and with her day’s adventures. She wondered what she would do for a bed. The cave was bare and rocky, with rushes on the floor. She hoped fervently that she did not have to sleep on rushes. It seemed, from what they said, that the outlaws all did. But then she found, rather to her embarrassment, that most of the coming and going had been to make ready a tent, entirely for her.
“I wish,” said Robert, “that we could provide you with a maid, but you are the only lady here.”
“Good heavens!” said Cecilia. “I have no maid at home! Why should I need one here?” She could have bitten her tongue off after she said that. In her anxiety to seem pleased with all they were doing for her, she had embarrassed Robert again, just as she had on the farm. The light was too poor for her to see whether or not he was blushing, but he did not seem to know what to say. All the others, seeing that he was put out, were embarrassed as well, except James of March, who scowled at her. The rest of them all looked at the cave roof, or out of the entrance at the frosty stars, until Cecilia hardly knew what to do with herself.
“May—may I see the tent?” she said at last.
“I will show you there,” Robert answered, and things seemed all right again.
Cecilia was delighted with her tent, and was careful to tell Robert so. They had found a camp bed and a mirror for her, and a bowl to wash in. There were a great many blankets and an orange cloak in case she was cold. There was a carved ivory comb for her hair, and even a spray of evergreen leaves in a little clay vase. “This is extremely kind,” she said. “What trouble you have gone to.”
When, however, she was left to herself in the tent, she found it more difficult to go to bed in than she had expected. She had never slept in a tent before. The nearness of people outside frightened her, until she realized that what she could hear were four guards walking up and down to keep her safe. Then, although she had no maid at home, there was always Miss Gatly to help. When it came to undressing, Cecilia found she could not bear to try, all by herself. They had not found any nightclothes, either, so she would have had to sleep in petticoats.
“My habit will be ruined,” she thought, “but it will just have to be. And my hair will be wild in the morning, although it curls of itself.” At home she had Mary-Ann, who was good with hair and was called in by the Gatlys too for big occasions. “After all,” said Cecilia, “this is camp-life.”
So she went to bed and slept at last, very uneasily, with wild dreams of danger to Alex and to Robert. Her worst nightmare was almost at dawn, when she dreamed that Conrad of Towerwood was walking toward her with a saber like a Saracen’s, and driving her into the quicksands in the bay. She stepped backward and backward, whatever she did, and, just as the quicksands closed softly over her head, she awoke to hear trumpets blowing. She sat up, hot and frightened from her dream. People were running about. She heard horses neighing. Then someone came to the door of her tent.
“Cecilia.”
She recognized Robert’s voice. “Yes,” she said.
“Will you come out as fast as you can? Conrad of Towerwood is riding up to attack us and you are not safe there.”
Chapter 3
Dungeon
Alex saw little of Endwait. It was nearly dark when they came out into the valley beyond the gorge, so that all he gathered was the vaguest impression of a deep enclosed space. Somehow, he knew that it was a cultivated, fertile valley, full of fruit trees and prosperous cottages, and he heard the noise of the waterfall which shone in the snow at the other end. It was not so cold in the shelter of the hills. The snow had scarcely settled on the road through the village, nor much on the boughs of the great trees beyond. Under the trees it was dank and un-echoing and Alex’s heart sank. Then he saw a house, set back under the hills, a large house, or a small castle, he was not sure which.
“A castle,” he decided, as they halted outside. It had a dark, glinting, unfrozen moat, and people inside were lowering a drawbridge. The clank and rattle of the chains on the bridge made Alex so frightened that his teeth chattered. They reminded him of all he had ever read of dungeons, fetters, and racks.
The drawbridge went down, with a crash, leaving open a dark archway lit by a flaming torch in a bracket. The Count of Gairne and his soldiers rode with them, thundering, into the archway, past the flare, and into a tiny dark courtyard. Behind them, gates were banged and the drawbridge came clanking up again.
The soldier behind Alex dismounted and roughly pulled at Alex’s leg. “Get down, ye Outside thing, ye.” Alex slid off the horse as well as he could, using his elbows for balance because his hands were tied. All around him soldiers were coming off horses in a clashing and jangling of mail. He had a glimpse of Prince Everard being pulled down by the scruff of his neck. Alex stood in the dark among the soldiers, shaking with cold, while other people led away the horses. He could see the Count of Gairne a little way off, under a light, giving orders. Then the Count came striding back toward them. Alex tried to stop shaking.
“They will think I’m frightened,” he thought, “and I am not—I am not.”
The Count said: “They have the dungeon ready. Take them away.”
The soldiers wheeled and marched, away from the light, into a deep dark archway. There were stairs almost at once, and Alex stumbled. Someone lit a lantern, which swung great shadows around on thick stone walls. There was a massive door unlocked downstairs ahead, and when they came through that, more stairs. This time the light glistened on the walls, streaming wet from the moat outside. Then there was a lower, narrower door, which took time to unbar. The soldiers did not go inside. Two of them took Alex, untied his hands, and pushed him through. Alex, remembering that dungeons were always deep, had the presence of mind to jump as they pushed him. He landed on his hands and knees in damp straw some three feet lower down and had to scramble hurriedly out of the way as they pushed the Prince in after him. Above them, the door thumped shut. Bolts screeched home, and the chains of padlocks rattled. Then, very faint and distant, Alex heard the feet of the soldiers marching away.
He stood up then, and felt his way across the dungeon. It was quite spacious, some five long strides to the end from where he had been kneeling, and the floor was deep in fresh-seeming straw. The wall, when he reached it, was wet, much wetter than the walls they had passed earlier, and, since it was so cold outside, the water running down was icy. Alex took his hands away with a shudder and turned around again.
It was lighter than he had expected. High out of reach in a side wall, there was a tiny grating which must have been just above water-level beside the moat. Alex guessed this, because the light it let in was a vague beam of moonlight which wavered and moved on the wet wall. It was not the direct light of the moon, but its reflection in the moat. And it allowed him to see the paleness of the straw and the black figure of Prince Everard, his white hair and his whiter face.
The Prince was standing leaning against the wall near the door, as if he had hardly moved since the door closed. Alex realized—suddenly, as if someone h
ad pushed a cold sponge into his face—that, while his own position was desperate enough, the Prince’s was not only hopeless but horrible. His father had been killed, and killed, it seemed, in this very place; his friend had just been murdered before his eyes; and, since the Count of Gairne was able to do this to him, it looked as if he had not another friend he could rely on in the whole Principality.
“How terrible!” Alex thought. “I can at least think of home, or school or the Gatlys. I can think of father, or even the Courcys, but I should not imagine he can have a pleasant, homely thought in his head.” He felt so strongly sorry for the Prince, that he tried to think of something comforting he could say. This was difficult, though, since, now he came to think about it, he scarcely knew him. A remark on the dungeon might have to serve, he supposed, and he was just about to say how damp it was, when the Prince spoke.
“If only,” he said, “if only I did not dislike you so much, I could bear all the rest.”
All Alex’s sympathy vanished. He put his hands in his pockets and strolled under the grating. “You sound as if you want another black eye,” he said. “Or would you prefer me to punch your nose?”
“Boast away,” said the Prince. “The advantage is yours, but if they had not taken my sword away, it would be mine.”
“Oh,” said Alex nastily, “I have a clasp-knife in my pocket.” He waited to see if the other boy would make peace at that, but he said nothing. So Alex added airily: “I will lend you it, if you like, but I would still beat you.”
The Prince did not answer. Alex turned around from the grating and saw that Everard had his arms against the wall and his face in his arms. Again Alex felt sorry for him, and was irritated that he should feel sorry. He sat down in the straw, with his chin on his knees, and concentrated on feeling sorry for himself. He was badly off enough. His father returned from London in two days’ time, and by that time everyone would have given Alex at least up for dead. Then, suddenly, it struck him that they would probably be right to give him up for dead, and he found that he was going to be in tears any second. He would have cried his eyes out then, with Everard standing there, if someone had not begun unbarring the door.
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