The Tale of Mally Biddle (3 page)

“Oh, yes, dears.” Olive fumbled with a piece of paper and extracted a short quill from her apron pocket. “What will it be?”

“Can you believe that?” Cayla hissed heatedly, watching O
live’s retreating back after she had scribbled down their order. “
You can’t tell with some people
… She spoke as if she was glad Alice was dead!” 

“Well, I think they are,” Nanette said carefully.

Cayla’s head jerked around.

“Alice’s memory is being dragged through the mud!” she whispered lividly. “
Alice does not deserve this!
”

“No. She doesn’t,” Nanette agreed softly.

Cayla felt tears welling in her eyes. Her throat constricted.

Nanette squeezed Cayla’s arm before removing her hand to make room as their beer and a healthy wedge of stilton were placed between them.

Cayla hastily wiped her eyes on her sleeve and took a sip of beer.

“Do you think, that for right now, you can simply enjoy you
rself?” Nanette asked quietly, leaning forward over the table. “This isn’t healthy, Cayla.”

Cayla smiled slightly and nodded. 

“I’ll drink to that!” cheered Nanette.

They clanked their heavy mugs together, beer sloshing over the edges.

Suddenly, the whole room seemed brighter, as if a thin cloth had been lifted from the scene. The merry customers around them drank and danced foolishly and before Cayla knew it, her foot was happily tapping to the beat of a young traveler’s fiddle.

“Pheasant pie?” huffed a long-nosed young man, who had just arrived to their table, staggering under the weight of a huge pie.

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

Sweat beading on his forehead, he bent his knees and slide the pie onto the table between them, where it steamed.

“I tell you, I could live off this pie!” Nanette said with a feverish glint in her eyes.

As the night continued, the Lone Candle seemed to grow even louder. After a few pints of mead, the musicians had sped up substantially, the thumping of heavy boots keeping tempo to the pounding drums.

Cayla and Nanette finished their pie and beer, along with a helping of apple crumb tart topped with almond cream. Cayla was leaning back in her chair, gazing peacefully around the inn. It had been beautifully decorated for Christmas with baubles, ribbons, and bundles of holly. Cayla’s roaming eyes rested on a corner a few tables away from where she and Nanette sat. It was a good bit darker than anywhere else in the room because there were no torch brackets nearby. The table was empty and Cayla thought she u
nderstood why. Why ever would you want to sit in the dark?

“Perfect dinner!” Nanette exclaimed, startling Cayla by sla
mming her hands on the table and pushing herself up. “I think it’s time we headed off.”

They slowly made their way back to the castle, stumbling over uneven stones in the road, chuckling at their clumsiness. They turned a corner and the brightly lit windows of the castle shone proudly through the night.

“… didn’t expect this to happen …”

Cayla stopped so sharply that Nanette stumbled again.

“What—” Nanette began, but Cayla pinched her sharply.

“Shhh!” she hissed, suddenly fully awake.

For some reason, the harsh voice she had just heard through the darkness left her feet frozen in place.

“… Just finish the job—
tonight
, along with the maid,” said the cold voice so quietly that she inclined her head to hear better; her eyes strained painfully as she tried to see through the dark alley.

“Cayla—”

“
Shh!”

But whoever had spoken had vanished.

“They’re gone,” Cayla whispered.

She started walking again, tugging Nanette along with her.

“Cayla—
Cayla, what is it
?” Nanette huffed, jogging to keep up with Cayla’s quick pace. “Who’s gone?”

“Nothing,” said Cayla shortly. She nodded curtly to the gate guard and entered the castle. “I just thought I heard something.”

“Well, I didn’t hear anything,” Nanette grumbled dismissively. “I’m going to bed—see you in the morning.”

With a large yawn, she turned on her heel and shuffled down the corridor. Cayla stood stationary in the corridor for a full three minutes before coming to her senses with a start. She ran up the spiral staircase to Princess Avona’s chamber, the cold words ech
oing in her brain. She wrenched the chamber door open with such force that Kiora dropped the tea pot she had been holding.

“Never mind it, never mind it!” huffed Cayla quickly as Kiora bent to retrieve the broken pottery. “I’ll take care of it—don’t know my own strength sometimes—Go on, I’ll take care of ever
ything.” And with an arm tightly around Kiora’s shoulders, she half-pushed half-led her out the door before she could protest and closed the door with a snap.

Cayla stood staring at the wood of the door, her hand pressed flat against its grainy surface. Surely she was overreacting … pa
nicky about the slightest thing that seemed strange … Cayla shook her head as if trying to rid herself of an aggravating fly. No, this was real—what she had heard was real—she had to act
now!

She spun around, a plan—a horribly, foolish plan—had taken form in a matter of seconds. Her face set with fierce determination, she crossed the room and picked up the sleeping baby.

3
The Plan

Ivan Finley walked quickly through the crowded streets of Bosc. He attracted many looks from passer-bys. Perhaps it was his high brow or his steady, firm gaze. Or it could have been his fres
hly waxed boots or the glimmering of his expensive cloak, both of which spoke volumes of his social standing and his wealth. Either way, Ivan didn’t seem to notice or care that people watched him brush by. He seemed oblivious to the hopeful glances of many a young woman. His long, red cloak swished behind him as he weaved through the jostling people, hurrying from stand to stand in the large market. In fact, the only time Ivan Finley appeared to take the slightest interest in anything about him was when he neared a rickety table just erected that morning, nearly buckling under many miniature mountains of apples.

“But, m’lords,
please
,” wheezed a stooped man, whose entire frame seemed to vibrate with every word, “please, don’t take them all! I must make a living, Sir Adrian!”

Before the poor man’s stand stood five knights, loading apples in large satchels. The fifth smirked at the man.

“Come now, dear fellow,” Sir Adrian Bayard simpered. “Us knights are spending valuable amounts of time and energy to look after poor fools such as yourself. It only makes sense that you repay us.” Bayard shook the man’s shoulder slightly like a friend sharing a joke, but he laughed harshly, his eyes cold. The four other knights laughed.

Ivan jerked to a stop and watched the knight continue to pat the tiny man on the back, making him quiver worse than ever.

“It’s our right to take whatever we like,” Bayard continued with a sharp grin, fingering the hilt of the sword at his hip. “But if you are so attached to your apples, perhaps I would be content with your granddaughter instead?” Bayard leered at the girl shivering behind her grandfather.

The farmer’s forehead immediately beaded with sweat.

“No-no, m’lords! Take the apples! Take all of them, please!”

Bayard and the knights laughed loudly, making those around them turn and stare. They loaded their satchels and Bayard snic
kered and winked at the girl, now white as old oatmeal.

It took a moment before Ivan realized he was still standing fr
ozen, glaring in fury at the pitiful farmer. Grinding his teeth so much that his jaws hurt, he forced his legs to move. With a bitter taste twisting his mouth into an ugly frown, he turned from the scene and resumed his trek. He quickened his pace and left the large crowds as he turned sharply off the main road onto a narrower one. He nearly flew down it, his shiny boots clattering loudly on the cobblestone. Next, he hurried down a section of steps, the noise of the main road more muffled with each step he took.

For someone who hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in his surroundings, he suddenly spent a good deal of time looking over his shoulder. The steps ended at a quieter street. He passed bolted doors before halting suddenly, his cloak swishing violently about him, as he stared intensely down the street behind him and up at closed, dirty windows. The street was empty. Ivan continued on his journey.

He was now rushing down a dirty alleyway. The stench of rotting food hung heavy in the air and a rat scurried under an upturned basket, torn and stained with mud. Ivan Finley stopped halfway down the quiet alleyway before a heavily bolted door. His eyes lighted upon a muttering old woman, shuffling at the other end of the alley as he knocked thrice on the splintered door.

“Who’s there?” grunted a voice through the door.

“Ivan Finley,” Ivan whispered to the door, his eyes still on the murmuring woman.

“Password.”

“Sebastian.”
The door creaked open and Ivan stepped over a dark threshold. The smell of mildew and dust nearly overpowered his senses. Ivan wrinkled his nose.

“Why do we have to keep coming here, Garren?” he asked in aggravation.

“Because the knights haven’t searched it yet, that’s why.” A gruff-looking man closed the door behind Ivan, throwing them into even deeper darkness. He was powerfully built with large arms and shoulders. A thick, brown beard covered half his face. “The meeting’s started. What kept you?”

“Got a little distracted.”

“You weren’t followed?” Garren asked sharply.

“No.”

“Good.” Garren started walking down a set of warped stairs with Ivan close behind, “I don’t care to think what Adam would have done if you had been.”

“Bit testy today, eh?”

In the dark, Ivan couldn’t see Garren’s face, but he had the feeling Garren had rolled his eyes.

“Testy doesn’ describe it.”

They had reached the end of the stairs and stood before a closed door. Muffled voices issued from behind it. Garren half turned to Ivan and said with a twisted smile, “Get ready.”

He opened the door and the stairway was flooded with light from the room before them.  Loud, arguing voices pounded against Ivan’s eardrums. The room looked more like a cave, with its low, dirty, stone walls.

A rusty wagon wheel, adorned with stubby candles, hung from the smoke stained ceiling, illuminating a crowd of men gathered around a large wooden table that took up the most of the room.

“But we can still go forward with the plan,” argued a young man with copper hair. He stood at one end of the table.

“And get ourselves killed?” replied an irritable voice.

“Vin, if we don’t then countless months of planning will have been for naught!” shot the young man.

Ivan inched along the edge of the room toward his empty seat while Garren closed the door and took his own. Ivan sat next to the youngest man in the room. He had sandy-blonde hair that was slightly curly. He shot a questioning glance at Ivan, but Ivan jerked his head slightly and turned his attention to the argument between Egan and Vin.

“Yes, Egan,” Vin said icily, “but are countless months of pla
nning more valuable than our heads? The knights have gotten wind of the attack. It would be suicide.”

“Jacob risked his life to be heard!” Egan continued heatedly. “He should not rot in the dungeons!”

“He should not have been stupid enough to get caught.”

“That’s enough, Vin,” said the oldest man in the room. “Egan, Vin is right. We cannot possibly continue with our plans for fre
eing Jacob. The risks are too great.”

Egan seemed to deflate. Not looking at anyone in particular he sat down and glowered at a small burn in the worn table. There was a momentary silence, then …

“What took you?”

Ivan turned his attention to the man sitting at the opposite head of the table: Adam Thain. His muscled shoulders and hard eyes made it clear he was not a man to be crossed.

“Nothing to worry about,” Ivan answered, shrugging, as if he didn’t mind Adam’s harsh tone. “Slight distraction. That knight Bayard was bullying another farmer.”

An angry murmuring sparked around the table.

“We must do something!” an angry man exclaimed.

“What can we do, Daniel?” the old man beside him asked.

“Something, Cian, something! I’m tired of watching knights abuse our families and take our gold! Another house was burned because the owner refused to call that-that
creature
‘His Majesty!’ What use are we if we stand aside and do nothing? We are acting like cowards!” Daniel slammed his fist on the table.

“The knights are livid from Jacob’s writings. They are looking for any excuse to lash out at the people,” said Cian.

Ivan lowered his eyes, fighting the shame that ate at his insides. He could have forced Bayard away from the farmer, he could have …

“What use would
you
be Daniel, if you were locked in the dungeon?” the young man beside Ivan asked quietly.

All eyes focused on the youngest of their group who was sta
ring at Daniel.

“Not much use at all,” he continued, answering his own que
stion.

“Galen—”

“We are doing what we can,” Galen spoke over Daniel’s feeble attempt to argue. “If we attacked every single knight on our own or at the spur of the moment, then we wouldn’t be here right now. We’d all be sharing cells on the bottom-most floor of Bosc Castle.”

“Galen’s right,” said Cian to the sudden stillness. “We’re ge
tting to the knights, there’s no doubt about that. Molick is making it his top priority to have us snuffed out. We have made progress—”

“But not enough!” shouted Egan, thumping his fist on the table.

Silence settled once more on the seated men. Garren cleared his throat.

“We could try talking to the king again? Surely he can’t be happy with the knights.”

“We’ve already tried that,” Vin snapped angrily. “And if you remember, the letter was supposedly ripped apart and burned. I don’t think he’s interested in speaking to us.”

“Maybe we should try again,” Garren growled.

Vin glowered at Garren.

“King Salir is either too stupid or too scared to act against Molick,” Vin stated harshly. “It’s obvious who’s running the kin
gdom. Romore is just his puppet in fancy clothing. We’d be wasting our time.”

“I have an idea,” Ivan spoke suddenly.

His heart was racing. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He knew that he was probably going to be laughed and sneered at, but at least he wasn’t the youngest in the room. He was ahead of Galen by four years.

All eyes had turned to him and his pulse quickened under the intense gazes.

“Well, speak young Ivan,” said Cian Raghnall impatiently.

Ivan swallowed, his eyes darting from face to face.

“Find the heir to the throne.”

There was silence so complete one would have thought the room was empty. Galen first looked shocked and then smiled in mock exasperation. But there was a bark of laughter that shattered the heavy silence.

“
Find the heir to the throne?
” Vin repeated, leaning over the table to get a better look at Ivan. “You must be joking? She’s dead.”

But Ivan was ready for this; he had been planning this very conversation for days.

“Her body was never found.”

Vin laughed even louder.

“Do you hear him?” he cried, turning to the others. “Where exactly did you get that information, boy? She’s buried beside her dead mother and father.”

“Why was no one allowed to witness it?” Ivan shot loudly over Vin’s continued chuckles. “Why was no one allowed to pay ho
mage to it? Why were the catacombs shut off from visitors?”

“Her body may have been too mangled for—”

“Vin,” Adam cut in sharply, a warning in his voice.

Vin fell silent but continued to sneer at Ivan. But Ivan stared at Vin with the intensity of a mind reader.

“So you don’t believe she died of a fever?” Ivan asked him.

Vin shrugged dismissively.

“I don’t believe anything that comes out of Romore’s mouth,” he replied, his tone icy.

There was a slight pause as Ivan breathed deeply through his nose. The others seemed to be holding their breath, their eyes dar
ting from Vin to Ivan.

“I have heard rumors,” Ivan continued, looking around the t
able at the other members. “Rumors that I believe the knights have not gotten wind of … yet. The people are clinging to this hope as if it is their last breath.” He felt a rush of anger as Vin rolled his eyes. “You have heard them, Galen! You all have heard the rumors. They are whispered. They are spoken only in the most extreme of confidences. The people guard this one hope as intensely as any member of their families. Is it so hard to believe, to hope, that she is still alive?”

Vin was scratching his chin, gazing at the wagon wheel above his head. He had obviously stopped paying attention to Ivan, but Cian frowned at Ivan across the table.

“If she was alive, and we found her, our task would still not be easy,” the old man stated. “She would be in more danger than any one of us if Molick discovered she was alive and threatened to take the throne.”

“What do we have to lose?” Ivan asked quickly, glad that Cian wasn’t on Vin’s side. “We can sit here and plan and plot and not do anything or we can look for the princess and continue to plan and plot.”

Cian smiled slightly and turned to Adam.

“What do you think, Adam?”

Adam frowned deeply.

“It’s a long shot—a
very
long shot. How do you plan on finding her—if she is alive at all?”

Ivan leaned forward, heart racing in excitement.

“I’d love to get someone inside the castle—someone posing as a servant to ask questions, discreet ones—find the people that were there the night it happened—discover what information has been hidden from the people about her so-called death.”

Ivan searched Adam’s face, but he couldn’t decipher an a
nswer.

“Who all agrees?” Adam finally boomed across the table.

Ivan smiled triumphantly as he watched the nodding heads—all except Vin who looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.