The Tale of Mally Biddle (4 page)

“It is settled. Ivan, begin your search. Meeting’s adjourned.”

Ivan was amazed his plan had worked. Galen caught his eye as they rose together and followed the others up the stairs.

When the group of men reached the landing, they waited in line while Garren opened the door every few minutes, so that they could leave alone or in pairs. This precaution had to be enforced, no matter how irksome it was. They were a rebel group, formed by Adam Thain and Cian Raghnall. The two men had been acquain
tances for many a year before the Kellen Royal Family’s tragic deaths. But it was five years after Salir Romore had taken the throne that Adam and Cian had first discussed the idea of a rebel group. Times were turning dangerous and they didn’t see any of that changing in the near future. Ridiculous laws had passed, taxes had increased to the point of thievery, and those who spoke out were beaten or thrown in the dungeons.

When Salir Romore had taken the throne, Lenzar had been in a state of uncertainty and despair. Their king and queen were dead. And then shortly thereafter, the little princess had succumbed to a fever.

It was hard to pinpoint when exactly the changes started. First came the new laws. For safety, the people could no longer visit the catacombs beneath the castle’s floors. They were too dangerous, King Salir had explained. Bosc Bell Tower, a common retreat for the people with its spellbinding view of Bosc and the ocean, was prohibited after a castle servant jumped to her death shortly after the little princess died. A knight was stationed outside its circular stairway night and day.

Then the taxes increased and the knights began refusing to pay for food or drink, saying they would take what they wanted as payment for their service to Lenzar.

The months and years passed, with the knights becoming bolder. Fights began in alleys, where the knights often left their victims bleeding on the cobblestones. The king was seen less and less. Instead, Illius Molick, the captain of the knights, took the reins, or at least, that was what the people suspected.

The people supposed that the knights had finally reached a point where they knew no one could stop them. In a horrible di
splay of where the power now lay, the knights smashed and crushed each statue of King Sebastian and Queen Amara in Bosc. They removed paintings of them from shops and homes, only to rip and burn them in the streets. In hurt and anger, writings appeared—Patrick Falk, a very well respected voice in Lenzar, leading the charge—criticizing the new wave of violence. The pamphlets were circulated across the country, the people’s voices rising in rebellion. But then the knights came and searched all the homes in Lenzar. They burned every copy and threw the printer and as many of the writers they could find in the dungeons. Patrick Falk was beheaded, thanks to a new law that any ill word against the king or knights was treason, and punishable by death. The streets of Bosc were silent as Falk’s head was displayed by gleeful knights. The silence grew as the head was transported to all the towns and cities of Lenzar.

But not all of Falk’s pamphlets had been destroyed. Some very few had been hidden successfully during the burnings and were heavily guarded by their owners.

After five years of torture, it was time to act.

Adam and Cian carefully sought out people that would be i
nterested in a rebellion. This had to be done painfully slowly, for the knights—as greedy and barbaric as they were—still had eyes and ears.

There had already been many poorly planned skirmishes b
etween the people and the knights, though they usually didn’t last long and the outcomes were predictable. Those fools that weren’t killed in the fight were taken to the dungeons. There was never a discussion or announcement of how long they would be imprisoned and the knights didn’t allow visitors.

The people were divided as to who to blame. Some believed the king was behind it all.
He is the king!
they would exclaim. But others had their doubts. They watched Illius Molick strut about the city
like
a king. They watched him order the searches for rebellious writers or fighters. They did not doubt that if Salir Romore was weak, he would be easy to bend—easy to be put to use by Illius Molick

The line had dwindled and Ivan and Galen were at the door now. They were last and the only person in front of them was Vin. Garren opened the door for him and Vin brushed past without a word. Ivan frowned after him. He had disliked Vin Connolly since the first time he had met him. Garren nodded at Ivan and Galen and let them leave the dilapidated building.

They took a few steps down the deserted alley before Galen said, “That was quite a speech.”

“But they all agreed, didn’t they?” Ivan said happily. “The only one who gave me any trouble was that bastard Vin.” Ivan actually took a skipping step and Galen chuckled.

Galen looked causally around and Ivan knew he was searching for knights.

“So, when do you leave to find your spy?”

They had climbed some steps and entered a more active street.

“As soon as possible. Maybe even tomorrow. You should come!”

Galen shook his head.

“Sorry, Ivan, but no can do. Mom wants me at the inn all day tomorrow.”

“Have you still not told her?” Ivan asked, suddenly demanding.

Galen sighed heavily.

“No, it would kill her.”

Ivan exploded immediately.

“We’re doing the right thing!”

Galen gave a small smile. “It would still kill her.”

Ivan snorted, his hands deep in his pockets.

“I’m telling you, Galen, when this is all over—when the king is replaced and the knights are reformed—they’ll all be thanking us on bended knee.”

“Don’t speak so loudly,” Galen advised softly. His eyes were trained on a knight, but the brute hadn’t heard anything as he was busy leering at a girl.

They walked on in silence, Ivan shooting moody glares at the people they passed and Galen focusing on the cobbled road. At the end of the street, they parted, Ivan to the left and Galen to the right.

Ivan now walked down a large road. Heavy stone walls flanked either side, guarding the large houses sitting behind them. He passed these by until he came upon a tall iron gate. He took out a brass key from inside his trouser pocket and opened it. A hand resting on the gate, he looked around. The large lawns were still green but were starting to look pale, and some patches here and there had already turned brown. Red and yellow leaves littered the ground and as he watched, some took flight in a sudden gust of chilly wind. He yanked the gate shut with a loud clatter and turned the key in its lock.

It was near noon. He was sure his mother and father were in the garden having lunch, so he headed in that direction, walking around the large house instead of through it. Yes, there they were, sitting at a small circular table, laden with trays of sandwiches and jugs of juice.

“Ivan!” his mother called happily when she caught sight of him.

“Mother,” Ivan nodded.

“Have a chicken sandwich. They’re delicious.”

“Thank you, maybe later—”

“Have some almond toffee,” Mrs. Finley continued, raising a mug of a warm, steaming drink. “Or would you prefer tea?”

“I was actually hoping to have a word with you, Father,” Ivan said, looking pointedly at Mr. Finley who was drinking from a glass of wine.

Mr. Finley lowered his glass, but didn’t set it down.

“Certainly. If you’ll excuse me, Abby dear?”

He rose, glass still in hand and headed into the house, Ivan following behind. They entered a small study that was expensively furnished. Oil paintings of Ivan’s grandparents hung on the walls along with glass ornaments, fine dinnerware that Mrs. Finley enjoyed showing off, and a large wooden case of expensive cigars.

“What is on your mind, Ivan?” asked Mr. Finley, sighing heavily as he sat in a large armchair. “And more importantly, what is it you don’t want your mother overhearing?”

“I’ve just come back from a meeting,” said Ivan, taking a seat, his voice slightly hushed. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door.

“
Ah!
” Mr. Finley leaned forward, his face eager. “You do know that if I was younger and fitter, I would be stuffing it to those knights. Speak, son. Speak! And quickly before your mother wanders in.”

Ivan grinned and scooted his armchair closer to his father.

“I told them my plan.”

“A
nd?”
“They’ve agreed! They’re letting me go forward!”

“Well done!” Mr. Finley slapped Ivan’s knee. “Congratul
ations! Pour yourself some wine!”

Ivan happily obeyed.

“So what’s next?” Mr. Finley asked as Ivan sat back down. “Where do you go from here?”

“I h
ave to find someone who I can get into the castle,” said Ivan. “I was thinking about leaving tomorrow.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Finley rubbed his chin, his face serious. “You
will
of course inform the person of the dangers involved?” Mr. Finley pressed, suddenly stern. “If the knights realized why this person was there … if Molick or Romore ever got a
hint,
your spy would be dead before you could say almond toffee.”
Ivan nodded his head.

“Brenden, what
are
you two talking about?”

Mrs. Finley had just entered the room and was looking curiou
sly from her husband to her son.

“Nothing, Abby, nothing,” Mr. Finley said quickly, flashing a winning smile and straightening in
his chair.

Mrs. Finley’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Well, if you’re finished, I need to speak to Ivan.” She turned her attention to her son. “I need you to go to Clara’s in Halspeare and pick up a few blankets; ours are getting a little worn.”

“Clara’s?” Ivan sputtered. “But why there? They sell blankets here in the city!”

“Clara’s are better!” his mother said forcefully. “And anyway, while you’re there you can stop in on Miss Coletta. She does so love your visits.”

A quaint smile on her face, she turned on her heel and left Ivan with his jaw open in disbelief.

“
Clara’s?
” he rounded on his father. “In Halspeare! That’s a three day journey!”

“She’s probably hoping the weather will be bad and you’ll have to spend the night at Miss Coletta’s.” Mr. Finley chuckled and gazed at the empty doorway affectionately. “Your mother won’t rest until she sees you married.”

“I have absolutely no interest in Coletta!” Ivan raged furiously.

“But you must admit she’s a charming girl.”

“Oh, yes, charming, of that I am certain,” fumed Ivan, rolling his eyes. “I just wish she’d try to charm someone else! And what am I going to do about finding my spy?”
“Maybe you’ll run into one on the way? Oh, come now,” Mr. Finley said, spotting the mutinous look on Ivan’s face. “Don’t argue with you mother. The sooner you go, the sooner you will be back.”

He drained his glass, slapped his own knee and left Ivan alone in the sitting room.

4
Bonnets in the Rain

Ivan left immediately after an early and rushed breakfast the next morning. He was behind schedule, having to ride to Halspeare     and back, and didn’t want to waste any more time. He would be quick. He would be efficient. And above all else, he would hide for cover if Coletta or her mother walked by.

Clara’s was a very small shop owned and run by an extremely old woman, Clara. Her specialty was weaving blankets—Ivan had to admit that they were some of the best in Lenzar. He had been to the shop many times, mostly on his mother’s orders and thanks to her fervent hopes that he would bump into Miss Coletta Smith.

Biting back sour grumblings, Ivan saddled his horse Arrow and galloped out of Bosc. It was a chilly morning and the sky was a hazy gray. Scowling up at it, Ivan thought darkly that it looked like rain.

***

About a half a day’s journey from Bosc was a very small town by the name of Blighten. In this small town was a girl of around seventeen with thick reddish-brown hair. She had her large curls tied back, out of her freckled face. Her name was Mally Biddle, and at the time, she stood bent over, tr
ying to entice a group of unruly goats to follow her back home.

“Come on sweeties,” she cooed with a sugary voice, but there was an edge of aggravation that she couldn’t quite hide. “Come get the carrot. Come on.”

She waved the large carrot before the goat five feet from her. It stared pointedly at Mally; long strands of grass jerked up and down from its mouth as it chewed.

Mally gave an exasperated groan. Why,
why
did they have goats? Why couldn’t they have cows or a pond full of fish? Do fish suddenly develop a dislike of their pond and leap out in search of more exciting waters?
No
, Mally thought angrily,
they stay in their pond
.

She straightened and closed her eyes. The goats had escaped from their paddock five times since last week, but who was coun
ting? Hands on hips, she watched them munch happily at the grass. What was it about the grass halfway up this hill that was so much more delicious than the grass at home? A deep sigh escaped her lips as she stared at them, perplexed.

She knew what she had to do now. It was an unwritten set of steps that she had become accustomed to. The goats escaped, she tracked them to this hill, she tried to get them to come home, she failed, she went home without them, they returned on their own later. It had happened this way so many times that she wondered why she even bothered to
try
to bring them home, instead of waiting patiently in the yard. But try she did. An annoyed smile on her face, she waved goodbye to the goats and marched back down the hill.

After a thirty-minute walk, she turned onto a small winding road with wild, tangled hedges growing on either side. A twittering bird zoomed out of the hedge, barely missing her head.

Mally walked down the narrow lane, a house coming into view at the end. As she neared it, her heart skipped a beat. Three horses stood grazing by the front door of her home. Mally stood frozen before a rickety gate, taking in the horses—that were completely oblivious to her appearance—with mounting dread. The bits in their mouths sparkled; their manes were freshly combed; their saddles were the color of roasted hazelnut shells. She had seen horses like these before and always her heart pulsed painfully fast at the meaning their presence brought: the knights were here.

Mally swung the gate open and suddenly heard muffled voices from within the house. The horses snorted and one turned its head toward her. As she walked past the horses to the front door, she spotted Lenzar’s coat of arms branded on the sides of the saddles. But before Mally had touched the doorknob, the door swung open and she quickly took a step back to keep from being hit.

A short, fat knight with oily, slicked-backed hair stood in the doorway. He was turned away from Mally, speaking over his shoulder.

“Thank you for your generous hospitality, my dear,” Sir L
eon Gibbs simpered, his voice just as oily as his hair. He raised a pudgy hand that held a ginger biscuit in a mocking salute. He chuckled at his own wit and his two companions walked past him through the open door.

Mally knew Sir Leon Gibbs. He was the tax collector for Blighten, Leaveston, and Bosc. Every month he would a
ppear with two cronies demanding their silver and gold. When Gibbs felt that he wasn’t given enough, he would search their homes, trying to discover their secret stashes. Or, more accurately, he would make his fellow knights search while he ate or drank whatever the homeowners had in stock.

Mally didn’t recognize the two knights that were with Gibbs today. There always seemed to be two new ones. Not for the first time, Mally wondered how many knights there actually were.

“Remember,” said Gibbs in an obnoxious sing-song sort of voice while rattling the numerous fat bags of gold tied to his belt, “be sure to save up for your collectors! We all must do our part!”

One of Gibbs’ lackeys guffawed. The other—a blonde knight with a red hat—scowled. Gibbs finally turned around and walked over the threshold to join his companions ou
tside. Mally hastily stepped back to give them more room but Gibbs spotted her. He chuckled again, making his large cheeks jiggle and reducing his eyes to slits. He winked.

Mally tried to keep the revulsion from her face. It was always best not to take their bait, to just let them take the money and go. With some satisfaction, Mally watched Gibbs fail to mount his horse twice, due to his vastness in size. The blonde knight seemed to be looking determinedly in the o
pposite direction while the other picked at his teeth. Then they were gone, back down the narrow lane to take money that was not theirs from the rest of the people of Blighten.

Mally turned and saw her mother standing cross-armed in the doorway. Mally could almost see a thundercloud crac
kling over her head.

“Mom?” said Mally tentatively.

“Come inside,” said Susie Biddle in a clipped voice. “I have tea steeping.”

“Did they search?” asked Mally, following her mother into the house. A large, black dog immediately leapt from under the kitc
hen table and tried to lick Mally’s ears. “Down Bonnie, down!” ordered Mally half-heartedly.

Susie flashed a small smile at Mally and Bonnie before pou
ring tea into two mugs.

“I gave Gibbs enough silver to satisfy him.” Susie sat at the t
able and passed a mug to Mally. Bonnie curled beside Mally’s feet and sighed heavily. “But we still have five silver pieces under my mattress.”

Only five. That wouldn’t go far.

“Maybe I can trade Stuart mushrooms for some fish?” Mally offered.

Susie sipped her tea.

“We’re also getting low on flour,” Mally added.

Susie still remained silent.

“Did Gibbs eat all the biscuits?”

“Every last one,” Susie answered tartly. “But I managed to hide the fig ones before they knocked down the door.”

Mally smiled and then bit the inside of her cheek. She knew her mother didn’t want to hear what she wanted to say. In the silence, Mally stared into her chipped mug, trying to think of a good way to broach the subject on her mind.

“No goats?” Susie asked suddenly.

Mally looked up and shook her head.

“No goats.”

“When the beans come in we’ll be fighting to keep them out of the garden.” Her eyes were focused out the window, the mug of tea still held in her hands.

“At least I won’t have to hike up that hill anymore,” Mally r
eplied with half a smile, trying to lighten the mood. Mally licked her lips nervously and suddenly said in a rush, “I still don’t understand why we can’t go to the city.”

“We’ve been over that,” Susie replied firmly, still staring out the window.

“But we could sell at their market!” Mally argued for what seemed the hundredth time. “Allen’s told me about it—”

“Did he also tell you that the knights charge entry?” Susie r
ebuffed. “That they are just as likely to rob you blind as they are to beat you? We would be more than lucky to make any money in Bosc.” Susie took a sip, her tone steady and even. “Allen is a fool to go into that city.”

“But we need the money,” Mally said quietly. When her mot
her didn’t respond she forged onward. “The market in Bosc is four times the size of the one here. And there are wealthy people there. Or I could get a job at one of the shops—”

“I need you to pick mushrooms for dinner. I’m making soup,” Susie interrupted firmly. She put her mug down and rose from the table, turning her back on Mally as she faced the fireplace.

Mally heard the change of subject very clearly and slumped in her chair. Her mother would never let her go to Bosc no matter how badly they were in need of money.

At the words “mushroom hunt,” Bonnie perked up and started thumping her tail against the floor.

“You may want to get going soon,” Susie advised, speaking to the crackling logs. “It looks like it may rain. If you can find them, get black bonnets.”

Biting back further arguments, Mally rose from the table.

“Come on, Bonnie.”

And with Bonnie behind her, Mally walked back through the door and headed down the road in the direction she had come, but instead of continuing down the road, she turned sharply to the right at a small opening in the hedge. On the other side was a field and Bonnie galloped on ahead, snapping at bees. Mally followed, hea
ding straight for a small forest at the opposite end.

Mally was a well-trained mushroom hunter. She had been taught by her father, Jonathan Biddle, who had passed away when Mally was fifteen. Mally’s skills were well known in Blighten. She was often asked by people in the small town to find them certain mushrooms in exchange for meat or cheese. Mally didn’t mind. She enjoyed finding them. It r
eminded her of her father, always bringing home some strange fungi and them discussing its characteristics at length over steaming mint tea or, if they were lucky and managed to hide their gold pieces from Gibbs, hot cocoa.

She and Bonnie were under the canopy of the trees now, and, glancing up at the steadily darkening sky, she quickly started her search. Black bonnets were smallish mushrooms, jet black in color with slightly pointed caps. They were usually found at the bases of old oaks, but Mally had once spotted some that had fruited under a fallen tree trunk. A sharp wind whipped suddenly through the trees, making Mally’s skirt flap violently around her ankles.

Speeding up, she headed for a cluster of large oak trees that were a little farther into the forest. She hoped that there would be enough black bonnets there to satisfy her mother and that she’d be able to get back before the downpour. Smiling grimly, she thought of the goats.
They won’t be happy at all about getting their hooves wet. They’ll probably be waiting by the barn when I get back.
Then she thought of Gibbs and for a moment savored a mental picture of him catching his death in the rain.

“Oh, excellent!” Mally cried suddenly, for she had just come to the cluster of oaks and as she had expected, little black mushrooms littered the ground. Mally crouched down and started to pick, but all too quickly she had to stop. The m
ajority of the black bonnets were past their prime—shriveled with age. She rose, called for Bonnie, and headed for another promising spot by the road that ran through the forest. Mally glanced up at the sky again as a few large raindrops landed on her nose.

By the time she had spotted the road, the rain had increased at a shocking rate. Her hair was plastered to her face. She thought about turning back, but she was nearly there. Sli
pping and sliding down a hill, she crouched down by a smaller oak and inspected its roots. The rain was pounding now; she could barely even see the road, fifteen feet ahead of her. But she was in luck. A large group of young black bonnets clung closely to the trunk of the oak. She loaded her pockets as a sopping wet Bonnie jogged onto the road and sniffed a rabbit hole.

Mally knew what was coming a split second before it ha
ppened. She heard over the heavy rain the sound of hammering hooves.

“BONNIE!” she yelled, leaping to her feet.

But the rain was too dense for the horse or its rider to see Bonnie until it was too late. Bonnie yelped and dashed away from the road; the horse tried to stop, slipped, and tumbled off the side of the road.

Heart in her throat, Mally slid down the rest of the hill to the road. A trembling Bonnie sat crouched behind a boulder. The horse had already half risen by the time Mally had reached where it had fallen. It snorted and jerked away from her, but Mally had her eyes on the rider. He lay in the mud, unmoving. Dropping to her knees, she searched for a pulse. He had one.

Mally grabbed the horse’s reigns and tried to calm him. Frantically, she looked up and down the road, hoping someone would materialize through the curtains of rain. She’d even be glad to see Gibbs’ round form appear, but no one did. Looking back down at the pale man, Mally squared her shoulders and tried to lift him from the ground. After a few failed attempts and much straining and gasping, she managed to get him back onto the horse’s back, lying awkwardly across the saddle. Mally quickly made sure that he was breathing. She hoped feverishly that nothing was broken, that he had only hit his head hard on the road.