Dragon Tree (27 page)

“We were about
to send men to the keep to look for you," he said to Marak. "The
horses grow restless in such a confined space.”

“Then you had
best be on your way.”

The seneschal
turned to Amie and produced a small canvas sack from somewhere
inside his voluminous robes. “I have taken the liberty of blending
the proper herbs and nostrums together in small packets for you to
steep into your favorite posset each morning and night. I have
mixed a balm for you to put over your wound if it shows any sign of
distress. As well, there is an
aumosniere
to be taken a few
drops at time but only if the pain in your shoulder becomes too
much to bear. Take only a few drops," he reiterated, pressing a
small vial into her hand. "Any more and you will fall asleep in the
saddle, fall off and crack your head open on a rock.”

“You are not
coming with us?” The thought had not even occurred to her that he
would not.

“Alas, even
though your country lies mostly under cloudy skies, I do not travel
well and under certain circumstances would become more of a
liability than a help.”

She was at a
loss for words, knowing their path would end here. “I do not even
know what to say that could adequately thank you for all you have
done.”

“Your smile,
Little One, is thanks enough. That,” he leaned closer and lowered
his voice, “and perhaps a kind word in the Mother Abbess’s ear when
you reach the priory. I am told the convent of the Sisters of Mary
Magdalene is known for the fine wine they brew in their cloisters,
and it is the sweetest burgundy this side of the Channel.

“Between then
and now, however,” he added, straightening. “I have every faith
that you will be in very good hands. The two knights you see
standing with Lord Tamberlane rode by his side in Jaffa and were
among the first to seek him out here at Taniere and offer their
swords in service. Anyone approaching you would have to do so over
their slaughtered corpses and considering that neither Sir Boethius
d'Esmond nor Sir Geoffrey de Ville have met defeat in the lists or
in battle, I would think the possibility of that happening is
slender."

The two burly
knights, hearing their names, offered courteous bows.

"The bowmen
you see," Marak continued, "are culled from the finest outlaws in
all the king’s forests and each can shoot the eye out of one of
Prince John’s tax collectors at two hundred paces.”

A soft
clearing of the throat brought Marak’s head tipping around. “Ah
yes, and not the least of the surly lot, of course, is Roland
Longchamps, whom you already know. What you may not be familiar
with is the fact that a squire must perform One Chivalric Deed
before being considered a candidate for knighthood. Roland has thus
been charged with delivering you safely into the hands of the
Abbess. The task is sacred and binding, and to fail would mean he
would never wear the spurs of a knight.”

The squire
stepped forth and went down on one knee before her. “From this
moment forth, my lady, your comfort and safety are my utmost
concern. To that end," he added, as he rose, "might I inquire... do
you ride?”

She thought
the question a little doltish under the circumstances, until she
followed Roland's glance to the four palfreys who stood trembling
in the company of the three much larger coursers meant for the
knights. Two were packhorses, burdened under supplies; the other
two were saddled without thought to a woman’s comfort or style of
riding. In keeping with her guise as a squire, she would be
expected to sit astride and endure the aches and discomforts of a
plain, unpadded wooden saddle. There would be no covered chairs if
it rained, no frequent stops to ease a tired back. Moreover, she
would be expected to sleep on the open ground and do her fair share
of menial tasks should they attract the attention of other
travellers along the way.

“Yes, I can
ride,” she assured him. “I can also fire an arrow with a modicum of
skill, hunt and skin a hare, then cook it over an open fire. But
you must not address me as my lady, nor even Amaranth. You must
call me simply Boy, or You There and I shall answer.”

Roland
grinned. “I doubt I could address you by either sobriquet, my lady,
but perhaps we will settle on an amiable compromise ere we travel
too far.”

“So long as it
is not Oaf,” she said with a slight smile. “Although I feel very
much like one already.”

“Whereas I
think you are brave and courageous and your plight touches upon the
very meaning of chivalry. To that end, I pledge my sword to your
protection unto my last drawn breath.”

They had kept
their voices low throughout the exchange, but with the last
declaration, it seemed to Amie as though Tamberlane’s head had
turned slightly to catch the words. It turned back just as quickly
when he detected her notice, and with no further delay, he ordered
the men to each take up a torch and lead their animals into one of
the gaping tunnels.

The knights
went first, led by the Dragonslayer himself, followed by Roland
leading his palfrey and holding his torch high. Amie was next with
the two foresters bringing up the rear.

Her last
glimpse of Marak, before the catacombs swallowed her into their
depths, showed him standing with Inaya, one arm around her
shoulder, the other raised in a farewell salute.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By the time
dawn broke gray and gold over the horizon, the small party of
knights and foresters were miles away from Taniere Castle. The
tunnel had taken them below the man-made moat and beneath the
village, snaking into the deepest heart of the forest. The exit
from the catacombs let them out below a waterfall, where the river
spilled over a steep incline of rocks.

Amaranth was
in complete awe. The long walk through the twisting, musty tunnels
had been half-terrifying, half-thrilling. Exiting from behind a
solid wall of flowing water seemed a magical and unworldly climax
to the escape.

Once they were
out in the open Tamberlane ordered the torches doused. The moon was
full and bright, bathing the forest floor with streamers of bluish
light that cut through the high treetops. It was bright enough to
see their way through the stands of oak and ash. They rode when
they could see and walked the beasts when the shadows were too
thick to risk a turned ankle. The foresters took turns running on
ahead to scout the way and it was a credit to their outlaw ways
that none of the rest of the party saw or heard them return until
they dropped out of a tree limb or stepped suddenly out onto their
path.

Amaranth’s
excitement kept her fueled through those first few hours leading up
to daylight, but then the anxiety of the previous day and the
harrowing walk through the catacombs began to creep up upon her and
her shoulders started to sag, her legs to ache. The novelty of
riding astride wore off long before the moonlight faded and
although Roland inquired periodically after her welfare, and she
always replied with a smile and a nod, her inner thighs ached like
the devil and her shoulders—both of them—were throbbing.

More than once
she glanced at the small canvas pouch she had tied to her saddle
and wondered how she could discreetly add a drop of Marak’s
tincture to her skin of drinking water. She could not, would not
show signs of weakness, not when all of these men were putting
their lives at risk to see her safely to the convent.

Tamberlane did
not call a lengthy halt at the hour of Prime, nor even Terce.
Happily, when the sun was directly overhead, and some distant
church bell announced the hour of Sext, he allowed the little band
to stop by a stream and rest a while.

Amie
dismounted with care, not wanting to betray how stiff and sore she
was. She even managed to smile warmly at Roland when he produced
large portions of cheese, bread, and dried herring for their midday
meal. The food, as well as the ale that was consumed along with it,
helped restore Amie’s spirits somewhat, and she was able to hold
her saddle until the late afternoon, when the knights declared they
were far enough away from Taniere to allow for a second halt.

This time, she
did put a single drop of the pretty blue tincture into her
pannikin, which worked astonishingly well to ease the cramps in her
back and legs.

The good
weather they had begun the day with did not hold. Clouds moved in
as the afternoon wore on and turned the sky overhead a sullen gray.
The trees were thick enough that when it started to drizzle, the
leaves buffered the raindrops, splitting them in half, then half
again, so that when they reached the ground, they were more of a
heavy mist than a rainfall. The light became eerie, turning the
carpets of ferns into a sea of emerald green.

Still they
slogged forward, following no path or road that Amie could see.
When the sky grew even more ominous and no amount of leaves
overhead could diffuse the pellets of rain, the foresters were
dispatched ahead to find a safe place to shelter for the night.

Amie, hunched
beneath her cloak, took another surreptitious drop of Marak’s
potion, washing the bitterness down with a mouthful of water. Her
shoulder was aching continuously now and she was cold enough to
feel her bones rattling together with each jostling step the
palfrey took. Her fingers were locked into claws around the reins
and she suspected the dripping from her nose was not all due to the
rain.

William
Fletcher, one of the foresters, appeared before them through a
break in the trees and declared that they had found a cave large
enough to provide shelter for the night. It smelled of rot but it
was dry, and within short order the men had built a fire and set
two skinned hares onto spits to roast. Because horseflesh was
valued almost higher than human flesh, the destriers and palfreys
were crowded into one end of the cave, lending it the heady scent
of wet hair, leather, and manure. Amie did not care. She ate her
portion of rabbit, drank her posset and fell fast asleep wrapped in
the cocoon of her cloak.

Morning
brought a new form of misery, introducing her to cramping and
stiffness in muscles she had not, if ever, used before. The simple
act of straightening her legs took several minutes and while trying
to stand, she was reminded of the foal she had watched being
delivered in Taniere's stables. At the time, she had found the
little creature's efforts to straighten his spindly legs almost
comical. When they were her legs wobbling, she was not so
amused.

A hand reached
out to grab her arm and steady her an instant before she pitched
face down into the firepit.

"Are you well
enough to face another day?"

She drew
herself upright and offered what she thought was her most confident
smile. "Yes, of course. I am quite rested, thank you my lord. I
just... caught my toe on the edge of my cloak."

Tamberlane
released her elbow and bent down, wretchedly unaffected by either
sore muscles or the bulk of the chain mail hauberk he wore. He
picked up her cloak and shook it out, then draped it around her
shoulders. "I estimate it should take six days to reach the
convent. We are, of course, hampered by the need to keep to the
forest and steer well away from the main roads. But if the journey
becomes too difficult for you—?"

"I am fine,"
she said. "Please do not trouble yourself worrying over my
comfort."

He studied her
face for a long moment then gave her a slight nod. "You will tell
me if the strain becomes too much... on your shoulder. Marak would
not thank me for undoing all of his good work."

She nodded and
smiled but one knew and the other suspected she would have to fall
out of the saddle and land on her head before she would admit to
any weakness.

~~

Six hours
later, in a downpour heavy enough to make the horses snort in
protest, Tamberlane led the small party down a gully and along a
spongy tract of ground that ended, abruptly, on the upper slope of
a shallow valley. Stretched out below them was a meadow dotted with
small clusters of huddled, rain-soaked sheep. A river cut through
the lowest part of the valley, bridged by a narrow wooden structure
with a gatehouse on the opposite side. Beyond that was a monastery
with two long wings housing the pilgrims hall and almonry,
separated by an iron gate and cobbled yard. Behind that lay the
cloisters and refectory and to the north, a small priory
church.

There was a
line of sodden pilgrims waiting at the gatehouse seeking refuge
from the storm. The sky was black with boiling clouds and there was
no sign the rain would ease any time soon.

Accommodations
for the coming night could be had inside the monastery walls.
Pilgrims and beggars could sleep for the price of a prayer in the
main hall, but more comfortable and private sleeping quarters could
be provided if a coin was shown to the gatekeeper. It was left to
Tamberlane to weigh the risk of staying with the common rabble, or
possibly drawing more attention to themselves by waving coins
around. Despite being summoned to London, it was not unreasonable
to assume that Odo de Langois would have eyes watching every
possible place where his wife might seek refuge.

While Amie’s
disguise might get her past the gatekeeper’s nose, the horses were
another matter entirely. The Dragonslayer’s piebald was as mighty
as his master’s reputation and no absence of silks or saw-toothed
caparisons could disguise the beast’s calling as a warhorse.
Similarly, the animals belonging to the two knights betrayed their
lack of penury as did the richness in the coats of the palfreys.
The rain might act in their favor. With hoods pulled low over their
brows and their knightly trappings hidden beneath water-soaked
cloaks, there was a fair chance they would be waved through without
too close of an inspection.