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“I’ve paid to enjoy my ale in peace,” muttered Curtis. “The girl got money for nothing, what more does she want?”

“I don’t want any trouble in here.” The barman folded his arms, empty tankards dangling from one hand, waiting for their empties.

Weaver stood up. “We’ll take our custom elsewhere.” There was no point lingering in hopes of finding work: the place was dead.

“I’ll drink this in my own sweet time,” Curtis grumbled. “I paid good money for it and there’s a war on, if you haven’t forgotten. Money’s scarce.” But he downed his drink and stood as Weaver had done. Blaine followed their lead wearily but he didn’t bother to argue.

Weaver led the way to the inn door, alert for trouble. The two men with the girl continued to fire hostile looks at them, but they didn’t seem inclined to take it further – perhaps as a result of seeing just how well the three carried themselves now they weren’t hunched over a table.

It was too easy. Weaver set a hand on his sword pommel as he reached for the door handle, nodding to the others. They filed out behind him in silence, pulling the door shut in their wake.

Weaver stepped out into the darkness and immediately to his right, the others peeled away to the left, alert for sounds of ambush. There were several figures leaning against the fence across the road, waiting. At least they hadn’t been carrying crossbows. Weaver and Curtis strode off down the street, waiting to see who the men followed. There was a moment’s hesitation as they conferred, then they seemed to think better of it and crossed the road, returning to the inn. The door opened, lighting up the street for a moment, then darkness fell once more and the street lapsed back into silence.

Back at their camp Drew slouched by the fire. He prodded at the embers with a stick, twisting it until it began to smoulder.

Weaver sat down nearby. “Women, eh?”

Drew glared at him. “She should have taken the hint.”

Weaver studied the lad. There was an intensity about his anger as he prodded the stick into the fire, out of all proportion to the difficulty he’d had at the inn. The teasing? It had been gentle enough. Had he had such a strict upbringing he couldn’t face a woman, or even the thought of being with one?

The youth had been natural enough with the Lady Alwenna– And there she was again. Every time he thought he’d managed to put her from his mind she sneaked back in. Every damned time.

Weaver finally broke the silence. “She wasn’t to my taste either.”

Drew raised his head, about to ask something, then seemed to realise the answer. “Oh, I see. You mean you already have someone.”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

Some of the shadow lifted from Drew. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell no one. But you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Could see it when you arrived at Vorrahan.”

There was no point denying it. “She’s better off where she is.”

“With Vasic? You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I don’t want to believe it. But she’s highborn – spent all her life surrounded by servants. Living in a castle, plenty of food to eat, fine clothes to wear, courtiers to entertain her.” He had to cling to that idea. She’d come to terms with her marriage to Vasic, probably long before Weaver would. “Can you see her living like this?”

Drew leaned closer to the fire. “I can.” The words were a challenge. “I told you about when we left Vorrahan. She tried to steal a boat. All by herself. Sneaked out at night and dragged a rowing boat halfway down to the water before Garrad caught up with her.”

If Weaver hadn’t left her there… He should have kept himself in check, not run away at the first chance.

The shadow crossed Drew’s face once more as if he’d read Weaver’s thoughts. “That’s when I knew I had to help her. I’d already decided to leave myself.” He looked around before continuing, as if to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “That Brother Irwyn, in the kitchen – I don’t know if you saw him?”

“I did.” Weaver hadn’t been told how Drew and Alwenna had escaped from Vorrahan, not in any detail. The youth had been circumspect about what he said in the dungeon, surrounded by potential spies. Now he seemed to need to tell the tale. Weaver had no objection to listening – not when it involved the Lady Alwenna – but Drew had fallen silent.

“Brother Irwyn?” Weaver prompted.

Once more Drew stirred the embers with the charred stick. “He was… not a kindly man. Nor pious. He tried– I had to get away.”

Weaver nodded. He saw where the youth’s story was leading.

Drew continued speaking. “I told you of two monks in the stable the night we left? That was Irwyn and Brother Francis, breaking their vows of abstinence. They must have knocked their candle over after we disturbed them. By the time we were crossing the sound the whole barn was on fire.”

“And Garrad seized his chance to blame you both for setting it.”

Drew nodded, his expression troubled. “I… was only glad to escape at last. And of course I was glad to help the Lady Alwenna escape. If I hadn’t, Irwyn would have choked me for sure. She brained him with a rock – did I tell you that?”

“She what?” He must have misheard.

“She clobbered Irwyn on the head. With a rock. I didn’t hit him hard enough the first time, and she saved me. No one else came after us because they were all busy dealing with the fire in the barn. If we hadn’t ridden straight into a group of Vasic’s soldiers…”

“You were travelling east by that time?”

“Yes. We stopped one night with my family. The Lady Alwenna charmed them all.”

“I can imagine.” Weaver knew how that worked.

“I’d do anything for her.” Drew summoned a deep breath. “But not for the same reasons as you. They didn’t know who she was, of course, but my father was much taken with the idea of me riding with a highborn lady. She let him think I’d been brave and chivalrous, and was off to become a proper squire. And so subtly, without uttering a word of a lie.” He prodded at the fire again and the stick snapped. He threw it into the embers. “I doubt I’ll ever see them again, but for once my father wasn’t disappointed in me. He used to say the only place I was fit for was the precinct, because he couldn’t beat me into becoming a real man.”

And now Weaver understood Drew’s reaction to the girl. The youth watched him warily, as if he expected a blow to be launched against him.

Weaver realised he was expected to say something. As if he was bothered where the lad chose to put it. “I see how it is, lad.” To think he’d been jealous of any attention the youth had received from the Lady Alwenna. He’d bolted when he’d had his chance – or what he thought might have been his chance. Because of a promise made to a dead man. And now he was unlikely to see or speak to her again. And knowing he’d kept his word would do little enough to warm him at night.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The surface beneath Alwenna yielded as she shifted her weight: a luxurious feather mattress – so comfortable. Yet every bone, every muscle ached. She sat up, stretching taut limbs. How had she come there? She’d been stripped to her shift by someone. And she was in her own bed at Highkell, enclosed by the familiar hangings. She racked her brain to remember what had happened, piecing together the fragments – courtiers shrinking back as she approached, the soldier and maid at the foot of the stairs, peering back through the grille to see Hames’ boot poking out from the corner where he sprawled on the floor – and her nightmare resolved into full recollection. She’d collapsed at Vasic’s feet before she could raise so much as a finger against him. How unutterably foolish. And how soon before she had to pay the price for her folly? She very much doubted being restored unharmed to her own chambers was any part of it.

Faint sounds warned her somebody was moving about the bedchamber. She flipped the curtain back, determined not to be caught unawares, only to see the startled face of a maid who was carrying a bundle of logs to the fireside.

“My lady.” She bobbed her head, then set down the logs with a clatter on the hearth. “Would you have water to bathe?”

The girl’s full eyelashes, high cheekbones and fair hair were familiar. She’d seen those features recently. Ah, yes. Flirting with the guard on the stairs.

The girl watched her cautiously. But not with fear – something more like speculation. Was she another of Vasic’s spies? Or simply the closest to hand when Alwenna collapsed? Time would tell.

“Yes, thank you, I would have water to bathe.”

“Very well, my lady.” The girl turned and hurried for the door. As she reached for the latch, Alwenna spoke up.

“Do you have a name, girl?”

“Erin, my lady.” The girl bobbed a hasty curtsey and reached for the door handle.

“I saw you outside the guardroom with that soldier.” Last night – or had she slept longer? She mustn’t reveal how little she knew. “Is he your sweetheart?”

“No, my lady.” She spoke with quiet force, and the sharp jut of her chin as she raised her head in defiance suggested the words were spoken in truth.

“Very well. If he bothers you again, tell me. I would not have his sort near the private chambers.” In truth Alwenna cared little what sort of vermin roamed loose about Vasic’s keep, but she sought to know more about anyone who had access to her chamber – and to her person.

The girl gave her a careful look, her expression closed. “Yes, my lady.” And then she slipped out of the door without more ado. The girl would tell her nothing: she would deal with any unwelcome advances in her own way, Alwenna was sure of that. And she didn’t trust the mad woman lately returned from the cells. Not at all. Who could blame her?

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Weaver had had enough of the inn. And Brigholm. They’d been chasing their own tails all day, trying to find a stranger they’d been told might still be hiring.

Curtis set down a full jug of ale, slopping some over onto the table as he clambered over the bench to sit down again. “Cheer up, Weaver, it might never happen.”

Weaver took the jug from him and refilled his tankard. “Mind what you’re doing. We’ve little enough to spend on ale without you spilling half of it.”

Curtis laughed. “It’s all going into your hollow legs. Try inhaling it instead of drinking it.”

Weaver had forgotten how bloody infuriating the man could be. But he’d seen them right in Vasic’s dungeon, he couldn’t deny it. “And you never could hold your ale. Bugger off back to camp and leave the drinking to those who can.”

“Mind your language, you’ll shock the young ’un – he won’t have heard the like.”

Weaver was about to reply in more forthright terms when he realised Drew wasn’t at the table. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Went out back a while ago. Probably spewing up your precious beer. Hasn’t the stomach for it.” Curtis refilled his own tankard and was about to slide the jug over to Blaine but stopped when he saw the man had slumped over on the table.

“He hasn’t drunk that much.” The lad could nurse a tankard of ale longer than any Weaver had ever known.

“Trust you to keep an eye on him – always were a miser with the beer.”

Weaver ignored him. The taproom wasn’t so crowded now. After spending half the evening looking daggers at them, the whore from the night before had gone – probably found herself some custom. So, too, had the men who’d been whispering with her. Maybe they’d earned themselves a discount for their trouble. But a few of the other regulars who’d been lurking by the bar, muttering about the offcomers, had vanished, too.

Weaver set down his tankard, the contents untouched. “Something’s not right,” he muttered to Curtis. “Keep your eyes peeled. And wake Blaine.”

Curtis snapped out of his merry mood at that. “Aye.” He nudged Blaine, who mumbled in protest.

“I’m awake. What you wanna do that for?”

Weaver made his way out back, alert for any hint of trouble. The latrine backed onto the small beck, which ran shallow and noisy over its stony bed at this point. There was no sign of Drew there. Weaver paused to empty his bladder. If he could empty his mind half as easily he’d be a happy man. As he adjusted his clothing he became aware of some alien sound carried on the night air. He listened, cursing the lively flow of the stream behind the outhouse. Then he heard it again, clearly this time: shouting. Not the merry shouting of rambling drunks, but the angry shouting of a mob. He stepped back inside the bar room. The barkeeper’s expression gave nothing away, but his manner was too studied. The man avoided Weaver’s gaze, busying himself cleaning tankards. The disappearance of the whore and her menfolk along with Drew was too big a coincidence to ignore.

Curtis looked up, but the joke he had been about to voice died on his lips. “Trouble?”

“Aye, trouble.” Weaver made for the door. Curtis nudged Blaine to his feet and he blearily stumbled after them, with a regretful look at the unfinished ale.

“Where are they?” Curtis asked as they dog-trotted down a dark street.

“Marketplace, from the sounds of it. You hear the crowd?”

“Aye.”

Weaver should have heeded the bad atmosphere at the inn last night. He should have heeded his doubts. But no, he was hell-bent on drowning his sorrows. And even that he’d done badly, for his head was clearing rapidly.

“You think they’ve got the youth?” Curtis jogged alongside him.

“Seems likely.”

“He might be under a hedge somewhere, sleeping it off.”

“Could be.”

Shambling behind them, Blaine coughed and spat. “Boy’s prettier than the whore.”

“I doubt they’re offering him paid work.” Weaver’s head was crystal clear now.

Weaver halted at the end of the side street. A crowd of perhaps two dozen had gathered in the marketplace. There was no sign of a night watchman – in Weaver’s day this mob would have been broken up already. It was a merry gathering, out for some entertainment. A few of the rabble still carried tankards. The focus of their attention was slumped on the steps before the market pillar, unresisting. A couple of men stood over him, having clearly administered a beating. One of them stepped forward and delivered a rib-crunching kick to the figure, earning a pained grunt for his trouble.

“Step aside, or you’ll answer to me!” Weaver barked in his best drillmaster’s voice.