Sword of shadows, p.24
Sword of Shadows, page 24
‘I don’t know. Someone in the village …’
‘God’s wounds,’ said Regis quietly. ‘It’s Hærfest.’
‘Harvest? What has that to do with—’
‘Those damned pagans. Hærfest. Treknow and any other village celebrate the end of the season. But those druw in Prasgwig … It’s happened before. They stole women from the village and they never returned. The fool men of Treknow tried to get them back, but they were killed. They steal women for their damned rituals.’
‘But why her? Why come all the way to the castle just for her? Why not go to the village?’
‘Maybe she caught their eye somehow. You didn’t take her with you, by any chance?’
He cursed himself. Not only had he, but she’d already been there before. And that brooch …
He slapped his hand to his scrip … No. It wasn’t there. Damn her!
‘We must go to Prasgwig to rescue her. Will you come, Sir Regis?’
‘I want nothing to do with those people.’
‘Sir Regis, a woman under your care here, in the castle, was taken. Is it not your responsibility to help us?’
Regis sneered. He looked as if he was opening his mouth for a stinging retort … when he suddenly drooped. ‘Very well,’ he grunted. ‘Await me in the courtyard.’
He retreated to his chamber below, and Crispin and the others wasted no time buttoning their cloaks and donning hoods as they went, bustling down to the courtyard.
They saddled their horses, preparing an extra one for Regis when he appeared.
‘Grab that torch,’ he said to Jack, and mounted.
Jack leaned down from his mount and grabbed the torch from the entrance to the lodgings.
Regis led the way. ‘Let’s go.’
The horses clattered over the flagged stone and, when they got to the portcullis on the mainland, Regis whistled up to the tower. ‘Ho! Shipley, damn you! Open the sarding gate!’
A figure appeared at the topmost window. ‘Sir Regis?’
‘Open the gate, you imbecile!’
The head ducked away again, and they heard the slow grind of metal and creaking wood as the windlass bore up the heavy gate.
When it was high enough, Crispin called up to Shipley. ‘Did anyone come to this gate? A group of men?’
Shipley, though sleepy, shook his head. ‘No, my lord.’
‘They must have come up from the beach.’
Regis stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘I was told that some got into the castle by taking a route along the beach and climbing up the battlements.’
Sir Regis glared up at the raised portcullis. He must be thinking what Crispin was thinking; why lower the gate at all.
They wasted no more time and galloped through, weaving their way down the treacherous and narrow paths toward where the roads diverged. Crispin didn’t relish going through those woods at night. If the villagers posted archers on watch, there was a very good chance of ending up dead.
None of that mattered. None of this was to be borne. They’d rescue Kat and then search for the sword. God knew who had taken that.
They rode over the meadows and plains, finally reached the shadowed edge of the forest, and plunged in. The torch was a sorry sun. Though it did illuminate the road ahead, its light painted the over-arching boughs only in slashes of gray on black. It seemed to make the woods appear even more fearsome in its scant glow, for as soon as the forest around them was briefly illuminated, it would fall quickly away to darkness again, only to light another arc and then another.
When the path narrowed, they paused. Crispin looked about and remembered a tree stump just there when it became a deer path. Under the hoofbeats, birds, frightened by their ride, tore from the branches and hiding leaves, screaming into the night above them.
Was it his imagination, or was it getting lighter up ahead? It was still late in the night, not early enough for dawn to be breaking. No, it was light from something like a great bonfire. He motioned for Jack to put out the torch, and the man dumped the cage upside down, and crushed it into the dirt. He held the cage on its pike like a lance, ready to use it as a weapon.
Crispin smiled grimly. He eased his sword from the scabbard. Regis did likewise. They rode slowly toward the light that was bright enough to illuminate their way.
As they got closer, Crispin was certain that it was a bonfire, with the flickering light spilling onto the heights of the trees, with the music of pipes and drums and people merry-making ahead. He was grateful that there were no guards along the road. Perhaps they were all at their Hærfest celebrations.
Crispin signaled for them to dismount, and to loosely tie their horses there. On foot, he led them toward the village, keeping low and nearest the darker edges of the trees. He noticed that Regis was pleased enough to allow him to lead. He supposed the man wasn’t interested in doing more than absolutely required.
They came to the edge of the woods but the nearest hut was some yards away out in the open. Crispin measured the merry-makers and darted forward along a wattled fence and hid behind the cottage. He waited for the others to join him, one by one, Teague being last, his eyes wide like bezants. Crispin ran for the next cottage, hiding in the shadows. A hog nearly the size of a cow rumbled, nipping at him through the fence. He jumped back and warned the others by signaling. They all avoided the hog by skirting past the fence as far from it as they could go, and slipped toward the stone foundations of a longhouse almost opposite the village green.
Crispin clung to the wall and peered around the corner with one eye. Jack was right above him.
That large corn mannikin stood where he’d seen it before, its form highlighted in gold from the leaping fire. His gaze passed over it, stopped, and looked again. A struggling figure was tied to it.
Jack tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. He realized it was Kat.
What the devil …? And devilry it was. The villagers danced near the bonfire, wearing masks made of leaves and braided sheaves on their faces. Only their eyes glittered from time to time from the depths of their eyeholes.
‘What manner of—’
Jack clamped his large hand over Teague’s mouth. His eyes widened above Jack’s fingers, and Crispin turned to him with a digit over his own lips, and a glare stern enough to silence any further protests. Jack slowly released him and Teague nodded, acknowledging that he understood.
Crispin adjusted his grip on his sword. There was only the four of them, and only two swords between them. Jack had the snuffed torch and Teague, he presumed, had a dagger. That didn’t seem particularly good odds.
He glanced back at Regis, eyes darting here and there, but he didn’t seem to be a fount of ideas.
Jack’s mustache was suddenly tickling his ear, and then his whisper. ‘We’ll have to make a dash for the other side of that green behind the corn man. If we went the long way round …’
Crispin nodded. It was their only chance. They’d stick to the shadows and make their way there, untie her, and try to steal away while no one was looking.
Was there even a chance of that?
There was no alternative. The only thing they had on their side was surprise. Crispin motioned for them to follow, and he moved along the huts that fell into darkness far from the bonfire.
They worked their way along the trees on the other side of the green and then crossed the green along the shadow of the corn mannikin. Crispin held his hand up to pause and listen. No one seemed to have sounded the alarm. He waited one more heartbeat before he dropped to the ground and crawled around the mannikin toward the struggling figure, bathed in firelight. When he was certain he remained in shadow, he slowly rose to stand beside her. ‘Kat,’ he whispered into her ear. She froze. ‘I’m going to cut your bonds. Make no sudden moves. Only move when I tell you to.’
She didn’t so much as flick an eyelash. Her breathing evened over the gag covering her mouth, and she stood straight and still. Crispin leaned into the straw, seeking the shadows, and sawed on her bindings with his knife. She was smart enough to leave her hands behind her, even as the ropes were cut free.
‘Now slowly,’ said Crispin to her ear. ‘Sidestep toward me. Very, very slowly.’
He marveled at her coolness, how she moved incrementally toward him, sliding against the straw at her back, stopping when someone appeared to be looking her way, and proceeding again when they weren’t. At the edge of the mannikin’s leg, she slipped behind it, yanked off her gag, and kissed him soundly. ‘I knew it!’ she hissed. ‘I knew you’d come.’
‘Foolish woman.’ He grabbed her arm. ‘Make for the woods.’
They all ran together toward the trees on the other side of the green. No sooner had Crispin stepped over the line of green to woods, the music stopped and people began to shout. He led his troupe farther into the brush and the sheltering darkness, turned, crouched, and waited.
The men scattered on the green, into the village, and to the end of the road.
So far, they hadn’t looked in their direction. But the horses were clear on the other side of the green in those woods, far from where they hid. He began to wonder if they shouldn’t just abandon the horses and set out on their own … when something poked the back of his head.
‘Stand up, sowsnek,’ said the man behind him.
The arrow poised at his head insisted, and Crispin slowly stood.
TWENTY-SIX
The man with the bow ticked his head toward the green. ‘Make your way there, all of you.’
Kat’s fingers dug into Crispin’s coat, holding on tight as they walked back across the wet grass.
‘You shan’t get away with it,’ said Crispin over his shoulder. ‘The men from the village—’
‘The men from the village are all mogh,’ said the man. ‘They squeal and make their noise but they never do aught. And put your hands up away from your blades, emete.’
Hands raised, they marched back to the gathering at the mannikin. An old man leaning on a staff came forward. His face was masked by a configuration of leaves, like the leaf-faced men found carved out of stone in many a church. But it was easy to see that it was Trethewey.
‘Why have you come to disrupt what is ours alone, Crispin Guest?’
‘Because you have stolen away one of my people, my lord. We cannot sit back and do nothing when our friends are captured.’
‘She is our Hærfest sacrifice. It is so ordained.’
‘By whom? The Lord Jesus Christ does not demand human sacrifice.’
‘What is ordained is far older than your Christ.’
‘I knew it,’ hissed Jack.
‘You would have murdered Mistress Pyke?’ said Crispin.
‘It is as our gods ordained.’
‘What is she to you? Could not any one of you gladly sacrifice yourself if you must do this thing?’
Another man rushed forward. He, too, was masked, and he raised his fist. Crispin faced him down. ‘She is a robber of our sacred dead,’ said the man. ‘That brooch was from a burial.’
Crispin turned to her. ‘Well?’
‘Roger gave it to me. I don’t know where he got it. He said he got it from one of … from the other holes.’
He had to trust that she was telling the truth. This time, he believed her.
‘Mistress Pyke claims that the murdered man from the castle stole it.’
‘And if he is dead, she is the next best thing.’
‘Nonsense. You celebrate your pagan ways on your own, and leave Christians out of it. She’s coming with us. And we are leaving.’
He heard the sound of a bowstring pulled back at his ear. ‘Think again, sowsnek.’
He waited a breath that seemed like an eternity. And then Crispin whirled, grabbed the bow, and yanked. The arrow pinged off to the side into the straw mannikin. Crispin swung the bow hard, slamming the archer in the head. Once he went down, he swung it at the surprised villager with the leaf mask, and he, too, was knocked to the side.
Regis drew his sword.
‘Jack!’ cried Crispin. ‘Take my sword!’
Amazed for only a moment, Jack lunged forward and wrenched Crispin’s sword from its scabbard, holding the blade aloft as Crispin had taught him to do.
The villagers all stepped back while the bonfire painted their faces with jumping shards of gold.
Crispin was aware of their precarious situation. The three of them could not hold off an entire village. At any moment, they’d be rushed.
Out of the crowd, a screaming woman hurled herself forward with knife raised. Crispin dropped the bow and grabbed her, disarming her. She hooked his neck with her arm and pulled herself close. ‘Hold the knife on me,’ she hissed to his ear. ‘Hold me hostage, or you’ll never leave alive.’
He pushed her back and looked into her face. Eseld. But he quickly did as she said, whirling her around and holding the blade to her throat. ‘Hurt any of us and we kill this woman!’ he cried.
Some gasped. And a masked Jory Gloyn pushed his way forward. ‘Eseld!’ Apparently, by the crack in his voice, all had been forgiven.
Trethewey raised his hand for his more zealous men to stop. ‘She is brave for attacking these sowsnek. We must respect her.’
‘You have back your brooch,’ said Crispin. ‘Allow us to leave or I will kill this woman.’
They moved back, but Crispin wasn’t satisfied. How dare they come into his chamber to steal Kat and threaten her? How dare they threaten him?
‘Jack,’ he barked. ‘Do some damage.’
With a grim smile, Jack seized a flaming log from the bonfire and threw it at the mannikin. The flames roared and surged up the figure. He and Regis seemed to have had the same idea, for they both stood at the flaming mannikin’s legs, and pushed. The burning straw man teetered and smoked. The villagers screamed. Slowly, the straw man fell toward them and their thatched houses. When it slammed down, it exploded with a great fiery crash, catching the thatch, and sending a roaring fireball and sparks into the air.
Crispin and his company ran. Ducking into the woods, they stumbled and rushed toward their horses. When they reached them, they could see more glowing light and sparks light the night.
Crispin turned to his erstwhile ‘captive’. ‘Eseld, you saved us. Why?’
‘If they weren’t going to kill her, they would have kept her. Like they kept me all them years ago.’
His eyes tracked all over her face, trying to discern the emotion there. But it was blank. ‘Come with us, back to Treknow.’
‘No. I have a child here. It’s been too long. I’m as pagan as them now. I can’t go back.’
‘Bring your child. You don’t have to stay.’
‘I do. It’s too late for me.’ She stepped back from Crispin. Her stark face was still blank. He could not tell if she were happy with her lot or simply resigned. When she turned and ran back to the village, he decided it didn’t matter.
Kat had mounted on Crispin’s horse and reached out a hand to him. ‘Crispin, come on!’
He looked back at Eseld, but she had disappeared into the darkness.
‘Crispin!’ Kat insisted.
Without another thought, he grabbed Tobias’s mane and swung up. They kicked in their heels and tore through the woods, their path lit by the conflagration behind them.
They reached the castle, called for Shipley to open the gate and close it after them, and made it back to the great hall on the island. John Palliser, and the two men-at-arms, were waiting for them when they arrived.
‘What by the mass happened to you?’ asked the caretaker. ‘And what’s happened to the sky?’
Crispin looked out the window toward the distant woods and saw that the sky was still lit with the fires. ‘Hærfest,’ he said.
‘Good God,’ said Palliser, crossing himself.
‘Those goddamned pagans!’ Regis tossed his cloak aside and slammed it to the floor. ‘Someone build a damn fire!’
Jack hurried to comply since it didn’t look as if anyone else would.
Regis stomped toward the sideboard, poured himself some ale, and knocked it back. He poured more and threw himself into a chair with a belch. ‘That was a hell of a thing, Guest. And all for a sarding servant?’ But then he finally looked at Kat, who didn’t have a cloak and hood and could no longer hide her face. He nearly leapt from the chair. ‘You! I thought I told you … I should have let them burn you.’
She sidled next to Crispin, and then hung on his coat and edged behind him.
‘Will someone tell us?’ cried Palliser.
‘The pagans in Prasgwig – and indeed they are, as we now have proof of it,’ said Crispin, ‘abducted our servant girl and threatened to burn her as their sacrifice.’
‘And we burned them down,’ said Jack in a rush. He was still breathing hard. There was a smudge of soot on his cheek.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ said Palliser. He went to the window and looked out. The sky was still lit up with flames. For all Crispin knew, the whole forest was aflame. He hoped the village burned down to cinders.
‘Then … did they murder Bennet and Dunning?’ asked Palliser, still staring out the window.
‘No,’ said Crispin. He went to the sideboard. He didn’t realize he was holding Kat’s hand until he noticed he had dragged her with him. He let her go as he reached for the jug, but she grabbed it first and poured for him, handing him the cup with a grateful smile.
He took it to wash the smoke from his throat, and leaned heavily with one hand on the sideboard as he drank. He hadn’t noticed setting the cup down, nor when Kat refilled it, but he took it thankfully and walked to the fire to stand before it.
‘At least, I don’t think it was them,’ he continued, drinking again.
‘Then who did, master?’ asked Jack.
Crispin wiped his lips and lowered his cup. ‘Master Palliser, just how angry were you that Roger Bennet maliciously burned your book?’
Palliser’s face was white. He stood still for a moment before he carefully walked to a bench and sat. ‘I was extremely angry,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘But not enough to kill, Master Guest.’
‘And can you prove where you were Monday?’
