Flight From Blithmore (30 page)

Right
at the moment when Gaffen was ready to head back to his oat-raisin-and-whatnot
stand, six soldiers passed through the crowd no more than a dozen feet from
Willard’s grain stand. A dose of panic stung Henry’s chest, but he knew if he
pretended that he belonged like anyone else, he would be fine. He told himself a
dozen times in two seconds not to look at them, to look at anything but the
soldiers.

But
he couldn’t help himself, and Gaffen was quick to notice.

“Criminal!”
Gaffen screamed over the din of the market. “Criminal ‘ere!” His hand clamped
on Henry’s shirt.

Henry
jerked himself free and stumbled backwards into one of the horses. Gaffen
screamed again, louder than before, and the soldiers barked orders for the
crowd to part for them. Henry picked himself up, and without bothering to look
back at Ruther, he made the call out to Brandol.

Confusion
broke out in the marketplace. Between the yelling of the soldiers and the
shouting of the crowd, Henry had no chance to collect his thoughts. Women
scrambled to pull their children to safety while others hustled to make way
before they were injured. Many people hurried in Gaffen’s direction to watch
what promised to be an interesting scene. The six soldiers were not guardsmen,
but to Henry they were the difference between life and death.

Coming
toward him were ten more soldiers. Behind him were still the six. Henry turned
to run in between two stands: one selling onions, carrots, and potatoes, the
other selling fish. The owner of the fish stand picked up a particularly large
bass, and swung it at Henry, catching him on the bridge of the nose and
forehead. Henry took the full impact standing, but felt a snap in his nose.
Tears of pain watered his eyes. The smell of blood and fish was strong in his
nostrils. The vendor swung again at the back of Henry’s head, but Henry ducked
it.

“This
way,” the vendor yelled. “Over ‘ere!”

Henry
ran between two houses, a tight space, even for someone as thin as himself.
Something strange was happening. His vision was slowly turning black. A thick
wetness covered his face, and Henry tasted the blood, tears, and sweat combined
with the slimy residue of the fish’s impact. His hands followed the walls of
the houses as the blackness continued to grow like a swelling blot of ink. He
knew he was not moving fast enough because he heard the soldiers coming into
the small alley behind him.

He
thought he saw Brandol in the distance on his horse, and he made the call
again. Hands behind him grabbed at his shirt. He ran faster but stumbled again.
A body fell down on him. As hands grabbed all over him, tearing and yanking his
clothes, the blackness filled his vision, and his mind went out like a candle
in a windstorm.

Thirty-Six
-

The King’s Guard

Henry
awoke briefly
when the soldiers jerked him up by his arms. He must have
muttered something they didn’t like because a thump on the back of the head
made him pass out again. He woke up not long after, and another blow to his
head gave him the strangest impression that someone had thrown a potato at him.
Not three minutes later, someone slammed him into a chair, but at this point,
each thought in his brain had to travel through miles of cobwebs. He mumbled to
himself and tried to move, but his mind was too groggy to do much more. Then a
large amount of frigid water fell on his head.

Henry
gasped. He sputtered. He even believed for a moment he had died. When he tried
to open his eyes, he found himself unable to do so. Voices around him called
his attention.

“What’s
your name?” The shout belonged to a man, but it was high-pitched and whining.

Henry
almost said, “Henry Vestin,” without any hesitation, but he stopped himself.
“Jennifer Nobrad,” was his answer instead. He did not need eyes to know that in
the silence following his response the soldiers in the room exchanged looks of
deep skepticism.

“Where
are you from?”

“Richterton,”
he said, hoping one true answer would support the lie. Then he cried out,
“What’s wrong with my nose? The pain is terrible.”

“It’s
bleeding.”

“It
feels like it’s on fire,” Henry told them, not concealing his terror. He was
not lying this time, either. Something horrible had happened to his nose.

“Do
you recognize the name Henry Vestin?” the same grating voice asked.

“Of
course!” Henry used his own anger and pain to fuel his lies. “Everyone knows
that name. Why can’t I open my eyes?”

“Are
you him?”

“Am
I Henry Vestin?” His own blood and spit almost choked him, and he coughed it up
when he tried to fake a laugh. “My name is Jennifer! Why can’t I open my eyes?”

“Your
eyes are open.”

Henry
thought the man was lying to him until he tried blinking his eyes and found he
could do it. He began to weep. “I can’t see! What have you done to me? I can’t
see!” He tried standing up, but several hands forced him back into his chair
where he continued to sob in fear. “What have you done . . . ?”

“Why
are you in Bookerton?”

Henry
was through answering their questions. The blindness consumed every thought as
he tried to tell himself he could still see. He didn’t believe it, but kept
repeating it anyway. He needed to hear the words.

“Shut
up!” someone snapped at him.

Henry’s
mumblings ended and he sat in his chair, quaking as he tried to quell his sobs.

“Who
is traveling with you that can confirm your identity?” the soldier questioned.
It seemed the more impatient he grew the higher his voice’s pitch became.

“No
one,” Henry forced himself to say. “I have no friends . . . very little family
remaining. Please help me.”

“How
convenient for you.” The voice sounded more sniveling than whining now. Henry
could see this man’s smile as clearly as if he were staring at it. “How
terribly convenient. A vagabond, traveling through Bookerton, with no one to
claim him. Yet you have the arms of a man who works hard and often.” Henry felt
his hand being picked up from his side. “And your hands are rough. Like a
carpenter’s.”

“I
am a hard worker,” Henry said, his voice thin and shaky. “I’ve worked many
different jobs to earn my way south. Please . . . .”

“Name
one person you’ve worked for.”

The
first person whose name came into Henry’s head was old Master Franklin, the
silversmith next door to him in Richterton. “Master Matthew Franklin,” he
sputtered, hoping no one would know the same silversmith to which he was
referring, “the silversmith in Grubbingville.”

“Write
that down,” the soldier said to someone else. Henry heard for the first time
the sound of a quill pen scratching paper, writing down every word being
spoken. “That will be investigated. You have a long journey ahead of you, Mr.
Jennifer. I doubt that’s your name, but it’s what I’ll call you for now.”

“Where
am I going?”

“To
Richterton, for examination by the Royal Interrogator.”

Henry
sputtered even worse, feeling drops of blood and spit fly from his lips. What
could he say? “You—you can’t take me. I—I don’t want to go! I’m not the man you
want!”

“Shackle
him for the journey,” the soldier ordered in a voice so excited, so high that
it hardly registered.

The
door slammed open and a pair of boots stomped into the room. “What soldier is in
charge here?” a barking voice shouted so loudly that it startled Henry. He
thought he could hear every head turning toward the man with the whining voice.

“I
am, sir!” came a squeak of an answer.

“And
who in Blithmore are you?”

“Under-Brigadier
Ercumist, sir!”

“I
know you are not a brigadier!” the new voice stormed. It astonished Henry that
this man could bark for such a long time without losing his voice. “Do you know
how I know that?”

“No,
sir.”

“BECAUSE
A BRIGADIER WOULD HAVE FOLLOWED ORDERS!” the man bellowed so loudly that
several people in the room jumped, including Henry.

“I
have not disobeyed orders, sir,” came a response so weak and so high that Henry
thought the name of Jennifer had been assigned to the wrong person.

“Were
you not aware that the King’s Guard was to be alerted immediately when one of
the high-priority criminals were taken into custody?”

“Yes,
sir!”

“Then
why have I not received word?”

“I
sent word immediately to Lieutenant Wellick—”

“Lieutenant?
We don’t have Lieutenants in Blithmore! Lieutenant Wellick is an officer of the
Elite Guard!”

“Yes,
sir, but—”

“And
the soldiers of King Germaine do not take orders from the Elite Guard!”

Henry
had temporarily slipped out of the insanity his blindness had caused. Now he
wondered how long this man could keep yelling. The new officer stood close,
close enough that Henry got a whiff of his terrible breath.

“In
a time of joint cooperation—”

“Don’t
you dare recite code to me!” the new man shouted. More stomping and swearing
came, followed by a smack. The whining soldier yelped and hit the ground.

“I
am the reigning officer from the King’s Guard, who you directly answer to!”

“Yes,
sir!”

“Has
this man been interrogated?” the booming voice of the guardsman asked.

“Yes,
sir!”

“What
is his name?”

“Jennifer
Nobrad, sir!” The whining soldier’s words were followed by several stomps, dull
thuds, and screeches. Henry had no doubt that the whining man was being
punished again. Several of these punishments were interrupted by enraged
interjections and vile curses: “Disgrace of a soldier! Jennifer is a woman’s
name! Never would have believed it! Not fit to wear the uniform of Blithmore!”

The
soldier with the whining voice pleaded for mercy, and when it finally came,
Henry heard him crying.

“Who
is second in command here?” came the assaulting question.

Henry
wondered if anyone would dare to volunteer.

“I
am, sir,” came a voice from a man standing directly on Henry’s right. It was
much braver than Henry had expected.

“Name
and rank.”

“Captain
Markel Steele.”

“Captain
Steele,” the angry guardsman said, getting nearer to Henry. The guardsman’s
breath seemed to hover around Henry’s face, choking him. “Here are your orders:
Clear out your men. Give word to Second Guard Hanson on the far west end of the
town to send a half company of guardsmen to me. Write yourself a letter of
promotion for me to sign, and as your first act of duty, demote Under-Brigadier
Ercumist to stable duty at Germaine Castle. It’s clear that he is unfit to
oversee anything but the droppings of horses.”

Henry
heard no hesitation in Captain Steele’s voice, only compliance. “Clear out,”
the new Under-Brigadier shouted with fresh vigor.

“And
Steele . . . ” the guardsman barked.

“Yes,
sir?”

The
guardsman now stood at Henry’s feet, close enough for Henry to feel the man’s
breath on his nose and lips. The smell almost made him gag. “Bring me a
horsewhip.”

The
hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood straight at
horsewhip
. Words
tumbled from his lips as he again lost restraint over his emotions. The fear of
being discovered, the blindness, the pain in his nose, the smell from the
guardsman’s mouth, the thought of a whip—all of it came to a head and he broke
down.

“Please
. . . I don’t want . . . blind . . . whip . . . . ”

As
he blubbered in terror, he heard the man’s stomping feet go to the door and
receive the whip. The brutal guardsman accepted it curtly and slammed the door
shut. When Henry heard the first crack of the whip he lost all abandon and
screamed. He screamed and screamed without realizing the whip had never hit
him.

“Henry!”
a voice hissed in his ear. “Henry, stop it!”

Henry’s
mind was so far along the path of madness that it took a hard shake from rough
hands to call him to his senses.

“Shut
up, Henry, don’t you recognize me?”

Henry
gasped for air. It was James. The brutal, barking, bad-breathed voice belonged
to James. Henry’s voice cracked as he cried out to his savior: “I’m blind,
James! I’m blind! I can’t see anything. Not light or dark.”

“We
can deal with that, Henry.” James touched Henry’s nose with his hands. “Your
nose is probably going to be crooked for the rest of your life, as well. We
need to leave out the back of this house before more men come. Do you
understand?”

Henry
nodded. “What did you put in your mouth?”

“Just
a special powder mixed with rotten onions we use sometimes to make soldiers
very miserable.” James pulled Henry to his feet, supporting him with an arm,
and helped Henry take his first steps. Henry leaned most of his weight on
James, trusting him to be the guide. Only a few steps outside the guardhouse,
James ran into more trouble.

“We
heard word one of the Richterton rebels was caught,” another new voice said.

“It
was a false capture,” James barked back, resuming the terrible voice Henry
still did not recognize.

“Forgive
me, sir,” the same voice replied, “but this man matches the description and
sketches we’ve been given by the King.”

“What’s
your name, soldier?” James asked.

“Ranger
Ryan Thompson ,” the young soldier replied.

James
muttered something about insolent rangers when Henry felt a jerk and a sudden
heat in front of his face. The crackling sounds of a lit torch filled his ears
“Does this help?” James shouted. “No reaction at all. This man is blind and was
taken advantage of by your men.”

“Yes,
sir,” Thompson said, “but we were sent here to inquire about you, too.”

“What
about me?”

“With
all respect, sir, one of the Richterton rebels was a First Guardsman. James
Oslan.”

“I
know the man’s name!” James replied. “Obviously, I’m not him.”

“We
require proof of that, sir.”

James
swore at Ranger Thompson. Henry couldn’t imagine what Isabelle would have said
if she heard the stream of curses flying from James’ mouth. “This is
insubordination. If you wish to request my commission papers, present to me
someone with the authority to do so.”

“Yes,
sir!” Thompson said. “Until then, it’s been requested that we escort you to
headquarters.”

Henry
heard the clopping of horses’ hooves on the stone around the guardhouse. An old
man’s wheezing voice called out in a thick southern accent, “Excuse me, I’ve
received word that First Guard Wilmore is here. May I speak to him?”

“Who
are you?” Ranger Thompson asked.

“Friar
Bentley,” the old man croaked. “Is Wilmore here?”

Henry
tried to follow all the voices with his head, but being unable to see made it
utterly useless to do anything but stand and listen.

“I’m
here,” James answered.

“Ah,
that is you,” came the response. Henry could hardly understand him through the
ancient accent. “I didn’t see you at first, Wilmore. These eyes of mine used to
see clear across the town, can you believe it? Now I hardly see ten feet ahead
if I ride slowly.”

“What’s
your business here, Friar?” Thompson asked.