Using the horses for cover, I slunk closer. The two men were shouting now, the fat one’s voice a heavy boom while Skullface’s words came quick and sharp like bullets. Good. As long as they argued, they wouldn’t pay attention and the innkeeper would keep his slimy nose inside.
I carefully scanned the windows above. Hopefully the overnight guests were either sleeping or having breakfast. I rushed forward. As expected the men didn’t pay any attention to me.
Inside the entrance I threw a glance into the barroom. The keep was polishing mugs with a grimy cloth while a young servant girl with braids wound around her head carried platters to a table.
Hurrying straight toward the staircase I heard movement: chopping and cutting sounds in the back. That had to be the kitchen. Peeking over the rail, I only saw a small part of the basement rooms below. In the first game I’d been down there during the harvest festival. The entire inn was built on top of a catacomb of cellars where the poorer guests came to feast.
I snuck around the banister and scurried down the steps anxiously scanning the benches and tables. Empty. I couldn’t believe my luck. I jumped the last three rungs and dashed toward the back. The secret path to the castle had to be down here.
In the heavy gloom, I made out three oak doors. The first one was locked. I was trying the next when I heard footsteps. Bending low I ran deeper into the shadows. Then I squeezed myself against the wall and waited. A light danced near.
I held my breath. The servant girl I’d noticed upstairs, an ornate key dangling from her hand, opened the door in the middle. I crept after her to glance inside. The room was filled with barrels and shelves. Baskets of carrots, peas, beans and onions were stacked along the wall.
Tubs with oats, rye, wheat and barley filled the floor, so that the girl was nearly hidden as she rummaged through several wheel-sized cheeses lined up on a shelf. When she mumbled to herself, I rushed back to my spot.
Unlikely that the tunnel would be in there. The girl reappeared and locked the door, a cheese wedge under her arm. The light grew dim and disappeared.
I moved farther into the darkness. Better hurry before someone else showed up. The hall narrowed until my shoulders almost touched the sides.
The plunge came out of nowhere. In my panic I flailed my arms to stop from falling as something metal slipped from my fingers and clattered to the ground, then rolled and banged until it came to rest in the blackness below. Shit!
I’d dislodged the torch holder. By the sounds of it, I was in a staircase. This was it. A tunnel was usually deep underground.
In the darkness I stuck out a foot and searched for the step below while my hands groped for the wall. It was damp and slimy under my fingers.
I needed a light. Even if I’d find the tunnel, I’d never make it hundreds of yards in complete blackness. I turned around and climbed back up to collect one of the keen torches I’d seen along the walls of the cellar rooms. All I needed was a match. The lighter!
The flame shot up with modern efficiency, but the shine barely reached my feet. Changing my mind I hurried below. I’d pick up the one I’d dislodged. My toes touched something hard…the torch. Bingo.
I quickly lit the wood, the pine smell sharp in my nose. Ahead stretched a narrow passage of trampled dirt. No wider than two feet, it disappeared into blackness. This had to be the tunnel.
“Where do you think you are going?”
I spun around and stared into the face of the innkeeper who quickly took hold of my arm and ripped away the torch. Two brutish-looking men with flat noses and sinister grins on their nearly identical faces crowded behind him.
For a moment the barkeep was quiet, his eyes glittering darkly. I got a whiff of his unwashed body and leaned away, but the man’s grip held like iron.
“The spy!” he shouted all of a sudden. “I never forget a face.”
I wrinkled my nose. He stank like year-old laundry.
“What is that?”
I uncurled my fingers where the lighter’s metal tip had burned a blister into my palm.
Before I could react, the barkeep’s hand lunged forward. The apple green plastic shone unnaturally in the man’s thick fingers. He sniffed it and shook it, the lighter fluid moving inside.
“What is it?”
“To make fire.”
The man turned the lighter back and forth. “I do not see fire, you lying hoodlum.
“I’ll show you,” I said. The innkeeper’s face twitched nervously as he licked his lips and handed over the lighter.
I rubbed the wheel with my thumb, causing sparks. The flame shot up an inch, nearly singeing the barkeep’s fat eyebrows. He jumped back in fright while the bodyguards grunted something unintelligible. I let go of the tab and the flare disappeared.
The innkeeper crossed himself. “Witchcraft! We shall report it to the Duke. A matter for the inquisition. Give it to me.” He stretched out a shaking palm. “What are you doing in my inn?”
I swallowed. I hadn’t really thought about a good excuse.
Heck, I really hadn’t thought about what would happen if I were caught.
Chapter 6
I marched upstairs, the guard’s fingers digging into my biceps. They would simply kick me out. But we passed the front entrance and climbed to the second floor. No such luck.
The barkeep unlocked a door. “Get inside,” he barked, adding a vicious kick that sent me flying. “I shall get someone to take care of you. Might earn me a nice little reward.” With that he bolted the door.
I peered up from the ground straw that had feathered my fall, but reeked of urine, decaying food scraps and mold. My right shoulder pounded from where I’d crashed into a table leg. Twinges of pain shot up my wrist. I hurried to get my nose out of the stink, wiping the sticky remains of straw blades from my wool pants.
The place looked like a private dining room. A table was set for eight, pewter dishes, mugs and two-pronged forks with wooden grips. People in the Middle Ages brought their own knives. Along the wall sat an empty shelf for kegs and serving dishes.
I rushed to the door and listened. In the staircase people were talking. No doubt the innkeeper would alert Schwarzburg’s soldiers. What they hadn’t accomplished last night—catching me—would be served to them on a platter today, courtesy of the barman. I scanned the wood-paneled walls, soot-stained from torch fires. There were no other doors and no place to hide. Panic choked me as if giant fingers were squeezing my neck.
I began to tremble.
Forcing myself to move, I ran to the window, which was no bigger than two square feet, with small roundish panes of yellowish glass opaque with grime and fly poop. I lifted the crude iron latch and yanked. The window screeched open.
In the distance soared the giant oak. I was on the north side of the building, way too far from the tree.
Something grunted. When I bent over the ledge, I stared at the low-lying roof of a pig barn below. Though the thatched surface was no more than ten feet below, it hadn’t been tended in a long time. In places the reed was missing, exposing the shit-covered straw beneath.
The innkeeper didn’t care if his pigs got wet. Bero would’ve never allowed it. Bero had loved his pigs like children. But then, Bero had a heart while the barkeep… I shook my head. Never mind that now.
I squeezed through the opening and over the sill. My injured wrist pounded in protest as I gripped the window frame, my feet dangling and scraping against the outside plaster wall. Chances were good I’d break a leg.
At that instant the key turned in the door. I let go and fell, my feet landing on a beam of the barn roof, then slipping. My legs went through, my body following. I remembered to cover my crotch at the last moment before I crashed onto the beam. The extra weight made the entire roof come to life. My forearm and legs hit the side of the pig barn and collapsed beneath me. Reed thatch, wood framing and straw burst into a great cloud of dust.
While I contemplated whether I’d broken my wrist, I was glad I still felt my balls.
Temporarily blind, my nose and eyes filled with grit, indignant snorts exploded around me. I scrambled through the reed and pig shit, ignoring my stabbing wrist. I stood again, except that my left foot was wedged underneath the beam.
Above me somebody yelled. I recognized the voice, cruel and cutting like a knife—Schwarzburg’s top henchman.
Fighting down new panic, I leaned forward and struggled to free my boot. The guards would arrive any second. More shouts rang out above. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, doors banged followed by heavy steps. They were rushing downstairs and would find me trapped like a pig on a skewer.
I wiggled and cursed the idiotic winter boots. Pushing against the reed, my good arm doing all the work, I finally lifted the rickety roof enough to free my foot.
Without another glance at the inn, I raced past the screaming pigs and jumped the fence, frantically searching for a place to hide. Bile surged to my throat. I had to get out of sight and I had only seconds to do it.
Fifty yards ahead the wagon with the stinking hides disappeared around the bend.
I sprinted after it, past the giant oak, up the path, thankful fast vehicles hadn’t been invented.
Without another thought I dived underneath the cover. The carriage was stacked high with kegs, barrels and stoneware flagons of all sizes and I had trouble finding an open spot. I pushed my shoulders against the smaller barrels like I’d seen in football. Something cracked and I felt myself become drenched as the smell of wine mixed with the stench of the hides. I’d broken one of the clay flagons.
For a moment I lay still to catch my breath and listen. The sloshing, horse clatter and creaking wheels made it hard to hear, which was good in the sense the wagon drivers couldn’t hear me. It also meant I wouldn’t hear when somebody approached. Schwarzburg’s men would search the grounds and soon spread out. While I’d been happy to catch the wagon, I now wished it would speed up.
Impossible. It seemed to slow down more.
I remembered the horses in front who were probably cursing under their sweaty manes. In the gloom my hands appeared to be drenched in blood. Hopefully the wine was soaked up by the grass-covered lanes of the trail. My wrist throbbed as if someone were stabbing it with a screwdriver. The sloshing intensified. The road was getting steeper.
I sat undecided. I could jump off the wagon and try to melt into the woods, risking discovery by the drivers. It had been a complete miracle nobody had seen me. Even if I hid, chances were great they’d catch me. I was on foot. They had horses and knew the forest like their hand. And once I was out in the open, there would be other spying eyes and ears.
In the distance somebody yelled. The voice was deep and even from here I could tell fuming mad. Someone wanted me bad.
An idea formed in the back of my head. I took out my pocketknife and began to hack around the edge of a barrel. Horse gallop grew louder and with it my frantic cutting. I lifted the top and climbed inside, ignoring the alcohol vapors filling my nose.
“Stop the wagon!” a muffled voice said just as I replaced the lid. The wine was to my neck. I’d run out of oxygen soon. I’d lay low and later circle back to the castle. Asking for an audience with Lady Clara was my only chance.
“We have a delivery,” the driver said, terror swinging in his voice. I recognized the fat man who’d argued with the skinny one in front of the Klausenhof. The wheels halted.
“In the name of Duke von Schwarzburg, I command you to show your wares. Now!”
“What is this about?”
“We are searching for a dangerous fugitive. A spy to be brought before the Duke.”
I shuddered. They were talking about me.
“But, good sirs, all we have is wine. The best wine, of course, vintages from the Rhine and as far as France. We don’t harbor any spies.” The merchant’s voice, which sounded like skull face, was shrill and somewhat indignant.
“Then you have nothing to fear. Open your wares for inspection.”
Something scraped while the wagon’s platform creaked with the extra weight of the wine merchant.
“See for yourself. We are fully loaded, Your Lordship. Every space is filled.”
As an answer wood tore and splintered, liquid sloshed and trickled.
“Please, good sirs, I beg you. It is our livelihood. You must believe us. We are honest merchants from Marburg. Please?”
“He is not here,” someone said.
“Search the forest,” the cruel voice said. “He cannot be far.” I held my breath as the swooshing sound repeated—they were placing the hides back over the carriage.
When at last the wagon stopped, I was soaked, my legs dead logs and the fingers of my right hand numb. Pushing against the keg’s lid, I climbed out. I didn’t care anymore. Let them take me. I’d had it.
I straightened my achy joints and crawled across the barrels for some fresh air.
Slowly climbing off the cart, I found myself alone. The merchants had disappeared. The sun blazed as I stretched my aching limbs. My formerly brown leather boots, my pants and shirt had turned burgundy like the wine I’d dunked them in. Great. Now I reeked like a wino.
Disgusted with my smelly self, I looked up…and almost slumped to my knees. I was standing inside the gate of Castle Hanstein. The portcullis was unmistakable. The keep and two towers loomed straight ahead, with the great hall and living quarters to my right. Its size was breathtaking even now after I’d been here several times. Remembering the guards I dropped low behind the cart. No point getting arrested now that I’d made it inside.
Three maids, pails in both hands, hurried toward the barnyard where pigs, goats and chickens scavenged. The girls whispered to each other, their giggles like silver bells. I smiled. I hadn’t heard a laugh in a long time.
Near the keep at the entrance to the cellars I saw the merchants. Right now they looked like best friends as they spoke to ‘Lame’ Hans, Lord Werner’s brother.
Of course, Hans hadn’t gone away to fight. Had he ever wanted to become a knight, his bad leg preventing it? Right now he squinted, his face expressing his usual grumpiness while he threw an occasional glance at the wagon, his shoulders leaning to the right while he stretched out his bad leg. I kept cowering behind the carriage. Lame Hans would gladly throw me in the dungeon.
I had to make a decision before the wrong person saw me. I had no idea where Bero was—if he was even here. He may have gone with Werner. My best chances were to find Lady Clara. She’d been nice and thankful that I’d helped her get away from Schwarzburg. If I could convince her, I’d stay until I found Juliana and Werner returned from his trip. Until I found Karl.
When Hans pointed at the cellar entrance, I straightened and scampered toward the great hall. Maybe I’d be mistaken for a squire, at least from a distance. Inside, a staircase led to the kemenate, the chambers where women and children lived. I still wore the ridiculous boots and wool pants, now sticking to my thighs and reeking of wine.
Lady Clara would laugh at me before ordering a squire to find me new clothes.
Thankfully, the great hall was deserted. A lone maid was raking the straw and picking up who knew what from the ground. I didn’t want to think about all the critters that scrounged inside the walls and made a good living from scraps. I took two steps at a time, glad that nobody came my way. It was quiet as if the building were deserted. Only the stink of the garderobe, the nasty Middle Ages toilet, spoke of inhabitants.
I kept climbing until I reached the third floor where Lady Clara had her quarters. I opened the door, but the living room Lady Clara had received me before was empty.
“Hello?”
I moved to the second door, the Lady’s bedchamber. “My Lady?”
Nothing.
I knocked. “May I have a word?”
Still nothing. Slowly, I opened the door.
I choked, tears rolling down my cheeks. The air was thick with smoke and the odor of something else.
Disease.
Chapter 7
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I coughed as the acrid fumes attacked my throat and nose. The light from the window was no match for the smoke. Had someone started a fire with wet logs? I checked, but the flames in the hearth burned brightly. I took a tentative step. And another. The bed, to my left, was surrounded by ornate curtains of a dark blue with gold-embroidered moons and stars.
I remembered Jimmy’s comment about the plague. What if Lady Clara had some kind of horrible illness? Or someone else lay in that bed? My foot kicked something and I bent to investigate. A clay bowl had turned over, its content emanating a sickly smolder. Someone was burning things in here—the medieval way of purifying.
Like the bubonic plague. During my research I’d discovered paintings of dying people covered with horrific lesions, bleeding from their eyes.
Leave, my mind screamed.
My legs kept going toward the silent bed. Something drew me near.
Like one of those bloody car accidents when passersby stop to stare at the carnage, I couldn’t look away, weirdly fascinated with the terrible suffering of humanity.
I crept closer when I heard a low rattling sound…someone fighting to breathe.
Still I couldn’t leave. Like a stranger I watched my own hand take hold of the curtain and pull.
Lady Clara, what was left of her, lay on her back. Her formerly beautiful skin had turned to parchment, yellowish and crinkled. Her eyes were open and stared blindly at the ceiling. Her beautiful cornflower-blue eyes were dull as if a layer of gray dust had been sprinkled across. One of her nearly translucent hands lay on the bedcover. I counted the bones under the skin.
The low rattling continued as she struggled for air.
“My Lady?” I whispered, fighting down shock. I didn’t quite recognize my own voice. “It is Max Nerds, your old friend.”
Nothing. Lady Clara kept staring as if she slept with open eyes. No wonder she couldn’t breathe. Some idiot had filled the room with stinking smoke. I rushed to the windows and yanked them open, the fresh air heavenly.
At Witches' End Page 4
