Wren (The Romany Epistles) (21 page)

“He isn’t?” Confusion clouded his piercing regard. “Then who
is the man they keep in their deepest dungeon?”

“Most likely Hiller.”

A sharp hiss of drawn breath brought my gaze to his face. He
frowned. “Lord Eryant is going to draw blood over this.”

“Aye. When is he slated for execution?”

“They are to prepare him upon sighting of Orac’s company.
The plan, as far as we have found out, is to present him and Svhen to Orac
within an hour of his arrival. Then, death by hanging. You can see the scaffold
from here.”

My stomach turned. I had seen it. I lowered myself to sit on
the edge of the nearest bed. “The guard rotation on Hiller?”

“Every three hours. We were planning on a rescue tonight.”

“Too late. Orac will reach here by afternoon. How many men
are loyal to Tourth?”

He studied my face. “Maybe we better tell each other
everything we know. Then make a plan.”

I agreed. Relaying the pertinent events of the past two days
took a matter of minutes. Roulf’s only reaction was a widening of the eyes as I
described our introduction to King Orac.

His words woke a stronger response in me–hope.

“Within the walls, we almost have enough men to stage a
rebellion against the enforcer. Even the mildest of the farmers are receptive
to the murmurings of discontent among the laborers. They are farmers at heart,
content cultivating fields, but take their land away from them and they will
fight to get it back.”

“Judging from Tyron, I would suspect that you might be able
to raise support among some of Hawthorne’s men as well.”

Roulf nodded eagerly. “Three of the guards on the duty allow
visitors to Svhen’s cell and many of Hawthorne’s original band turn a blind eye
to our activities. However, only one of them has expressed anything remotely
treasonous against the enforcer.”

“That is the man I need to speak to.”

Outside the open windows, the background noise changed. A
voice I immediately recognized as Keilvey broke up the wrestling match.
Pounding feet on the stairs sparked instinct. I leapt to my feet, intent on
slipping out the farthermost window and onto the stable roof before the new
arrival, but Roulf’s hand stayed me.

“It is just the stable hands. They hate Keilvey. Most of
them have been pressed into service. They will give him anything.”

Two strapping youths burst into the room. I recognized them
from the cheering crowd below. Scents of sweat and dry earth came with the
breeze in their wake. The boys, for they were barely in their mid-teens, halted
upon spotting me.

“Roulf?” The taller asked.

“Wren, this is Parkin and Jadet. Boys, meet the Romany.”

“The one Keilvey wants?” The shorter lad sized me up.
Despite the fact he lacked a few inches to reach his companion’s height, he
still towered over me. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Roulf winked at me. “Appearances are deceiving, Jadet. Now
play nice or she might introduce herself with a knife in your ribs.”

“Are those your falcons circling the far tower?” Parkin
asked. He ran his hands through his sweaty hair as he eyed me.

“Most likely,” I replied.

He grunted. “They are causing a skirmish in the guard house.
The enforcer promised a half barrel of ale to the first man to bag one.”

My chest constricted. Surely Keaton and any new arrivals
knew how to stay out of trouble.

Roulf crossed to the shuttered windows. “We best get a move
on, boys. Keilvey himself is on his way over to straighten out the mounts for
the parade. You need to be ready to hop to it. I don’t fancy receiving another
dock in food rations if you are not up to his standards.”

The youths sprang into motion, grabbing clean tunics from
their trunks. Roulf turned to me.

“Stay here. You will be safe.” He trod heavily down the
stairs.

Parkin left with a polite nod of his head, but Jadet shot me
a smirk. “Keep away from the windows,” he said before disappearing through the
doorway.

I crossed to the windows and peered through the cracks in
the shutters. The courtyard was suddenly clear, everyone most likely about
their work. Below, echoes of Keilvey’s grating voice rose and fell as he
lectured the hands. I eyed the distance to the prison building. If I could
reach it undetected, I could speak to Svhen and assess things for myself. I
trusted Roulf, but I would be hard pressed to wait until Orac arrived.
Lord,
give me wisdom.

The habitual prayer sparked a thought. I perched on the
chest beneath the window and adjusted so I could see the largest swath of
courtyard. Then quieting myself, I sought my heavenly guide and protector.
Spending time in His presence would prepare me for the challenge ahead.

“On your feet.” Portan burst into our tent with two thugs in
his wake.

Tyron, a recent veteran of military service, jumped to his
feet before his mind was fully awake. Dardon grumped and mumbled as he rolled over.
I rose, not inclined to rush after a sleepless night worrying about Wren’s
overconfident streak and the inevitable battle ahead.

“Where is the woman?” Portan demanded. He scanned the space
as though he simply missed her presence the first time. Not likely with no
furniture to hide behind.

“Wren left shortly after we retired last night.” I adjusted
my sword belt; the buckle was bent. I couldn’t think of how or when it
happened. “She said if she stayed with us, her presence would give away our
plans before we had a chance to try them. So, she traveled ahead.”

“You let her?”

Dardon barked out a laugh.

Portan glared at him.

“No one controls Wren, my lord,” I explained.

“Wasn’t she under your protection?”

“She is more of a swordmaiden than a lady.”

“We should move, my lord,” one of the soldiers pointed out.

Portan nodded. “Yes. Escort these men to their horses. We
will be marching within the hour. See they are fed.” He turned and left us. The
soldiers exchanged surprised glances.

“Why did he come to wake us?” Dardon asked as he scratched
his head and then stretched.

The two men eyed each other and then the older one shrugged.
“I don’t know.”

The younger grinned. “I wager it was the lady.”

“Where are we to get food?” I asked before the conversation
went places I didn’t want. It was bad enough Wren’s safety cost me sleep. I
didn’t need her unusualness costing me potential friendships as well.

“This way.” The older soldier swept aside the canvas and
preceded us out into the bright morning light. “See the red banner over
yonder?” He pointed toward an open-sided tent marked by a crimson banner on a
pole.

“Aye.”

“That is the kitchen tent. If you head that way, we will be
right behind you.”

I eyed the man in surprise. “No escort?”

He met my gaze evenly. “You are not prisoners, my lord.”

“Thank you….”

“Matoner, my lord, the name is Matoner.”

I nodded. “A good name. Thank you, Matoner. I will meet you
and the others there.”

King Orac’s company set up an orderly camp. The
horsemaster’s tent, marked with a blue banner of a russet horse and the smell
of animals, lay far from the food area. Rows of square, two-point tents flanked
a main avenue lined with the various services the men would need. I passed the
leathermaster’s tent. The leather worker was attempting to pack up his gear
while a soldier harangued him about something. The clang of the blacksmith
echoed across the hillside from farther down the row. However, the smell of
pork and porridge beckoned from the kitchen tent.

Dardon joined me moments after I took a seat at the plank
table beneath the awning. “Supposedly we aren’t prisoners,” he commented. “I am
surprised he let us keep our swords.”

“The king is a fair man.” I shoveled warm pottage into my
mouth.

Tyron joined us. “Not the reception I expected. Where did Wren
disappear to?”

“Didn’t you hear Tourth?” Dardon asked around a mouthful of
bacon. “It isn’t as though he had a reason to lie.”

Tyron met my gaze.

“Yes, he is usually this ornery in the morning.” I pointed
to his still full bowl with my bread. “Best eat fast. We still need to prep our
horses and gear.”

As Tyron turned his attention to his food, Dardon banged his
empty trencher on the table. “I hope Wren knows what she is doing.”

“I hope we all do.” I closed my eyes and pleaded with Deus
to give me wisdom for the conflict ahead.

Within the hour the company was itching to move. Following
the directions of Matoner, we joined the mounted company. Apparently they owned
a reputation for intense loyalty to Orac. Just listening to the conversations
around me made me realize how out of place we were. Many of the men were
veterans of the civil war, Orac’s side. I most likely killed someone each
soldier knew. If not my sword, Dardon’s had brought a comrade down. Regret and
guilt settled at the base of my neck, knotting my shoulders.

“Where were you during Catrona?” Matoner asked. The
conversation topic was greatest battles and he claimed to be a survivor of the
last wave of defenders of Catrona.

Dardon stiffened at my side.

Fear edged a sharp blade into my chest.

Honesty always honors Deus.
“I was part of the second
wave, the Mounted Cougars.” I waited for the words. I could almost quote them
before they reached his lips.

“You were part of the Butcher’s company?” The incredulous
expression on his face was just the most recent of a long array since that day.

I took a deep breath. “I am the Butcher.” I waited for the
next line, but it never came.

“I am sorry.”

My head snapped up. I scrutinized his face. No disgust or
condemnation, only sympathy. He was a rare man.

“My nightmares are horrible; yours must be….” He let the
next words die. The two of us fell into silence. Dardon’s relief almost
tangible, but nothing compared to the lightheadedness of my own.

Thank you, Deus, for the freedom of forgiveness.

“Move out!” The call echoed over the meadow, followed by a
flurry of movement as every man gained his horse and adjusted his gear.

What followed was hours of tramping. It offered plenty of
time for running through the coming confrontation in my head and seeking out
the Lord. By His grace, my equilibrium returned by the time we approached
Hawthorne’s fortress.

A thousand strong by my estimation, Orac’s mounted warriors
moved across the rough terrain with the skill of experience. They circumvented
trees and brush, reforming ranks between obstacles. This veteran company knew
how to work as a whole. Despite the disadvantage of numbers, I was confident
Orac’s men would overcome Hawthorne’s in a fair fight. This level of precision
came from years and battles together, something Hawthorne couldn’t replicate in
a few months with his reinforcements.

“There she lies,” Matoner commented.

Dark gray walls contrasted sharply against the white
limestone around them. The poor design of the walls stood out even from a great
distance.

Dardon insisted on riding on my left side. Matoner rode to
my right and Tyron brought up the tail as we transitioned into a field. I
flinched at the damage we were doing to the poor farmer’s turnip crop, but
there was little choice.

The orders to halt and form up ranks moved back to us and we
promptly obeyed. Arraying ourselves in a wall, five men deep, beginning in the
meadow bordering the turnip field, we were well within sight of the castle’s
main gates.

Before the last man guided his horse into place, a
delegation appeared on the road. Festive flags and bright armor, the huddle
quick marched toward us.

As they approached, King Orac, with Lord Portan at his side
and an honor guard of four surrounding them, slipped out from the company.
Comparatively less festive and bright, King Orac’s appearance declared his
attitude, all business. Mounted and armed, they waited in silent readiness. It
was hard to judge whether they were an envoy of peace or war. The approaching
convoy from the fortress responded to the mood by slowing and approaching with
cautious reverence.

We were not close enough to hear any of the exchange, but
Orac’s tactic became immediately clear when the convoy retraced their steps,
clearly bringing less than enthusiastic news.

“I wager King Orac refuses to enter Hawthorne’s fortress,”
Dardon commented. “I don’t blame him.”

“I am with you.” Matoner adjusted his grip on the reins. His
mount shifted in response. “Orac hates enclosed spaces.”

I nodded. I could relate. It took me a while to adjust to
sleeping inside again after the war.

“It is easier to see the enemy coming from out here. And it
forces Hawthorne to expose his hand or handicap himself. Either is to Orac’s
advantage and not Hawthorne’s.”

“What do you know that we don’t?” Matoner asked.

The necessity of answering passed as the massive gates of
the fortress opened and ranks of foot soldiers appeared.

A man dressed in the livery of King Orac’s personal detail
walked through the ranks to stop at my knee. “The king wishes your presence at
his side, sir.” He turned without awaiting my reply.

I nudged Trader to follow. Dardon’s mount fell into step in
my wake.

The messenger noticed and stopped. “His majesty only
requested Mynth. Please return to your place.”

Dardon shook his head. “Where he goes, I go.”

The messenger shrugged. “Your head, not mine.” Then he
continued off toward the front where King Orac’s party awaited the arrival of
Enforcer Hawthorne.

~~~~~

To get out through the main gate, I hid among the crowd. I
prayed that my falcons didn’t decide to greet me. A falcon swooping out of the
sky to land on my shoulder would certainly cause a stir among the closely
packed people and draw Hawthorne or Keilvey’s attention. Head bent, cloak drawn
close, I shuffled along, trying to regain my inner peace.