Read Online Suzanne Robinson by Lord of Enchantment - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lord of Enchantment
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eyes and sighed. Then he put his full strength into the chore, pulling so hard, they all stumbled backward as it gave. Then something caught, and the rope stopped. Pen careened into him, and Erbut into her. Tristan crashed to the floor with both on top of him.
Luckily they scrambled off before he suffocated. He leapt up and joined Pen in hanging over the wall. Below, on the path before the drawbridge, the five men-at-arms churned and scrabbled in the dirt. Tristan followed the rope that hung over the wall to where it angled around a post and fastened to a net that had been covered with dirt and straw.
He surveyed the victims with a frown while Dibbler and Wheedle rushed back across the drawbridge. Pen shouted instructions at them as they drew the ends of the net over the men before they could stand. Thenthe two hurried back inside the gatehouse, and the drawbridge rose. Erbut went to join his comrades farther along the wall walk. Unable to quite accept what he’d seen, Tristan said nothing when Pen clapped her hands and bent over the trapdoor at the top of the stairs.
“Well done, Wheedle,” she called.
“Think you so?” he asked, but she hadn’t heard him.
He joined her at the door and peered down at the pig girl. Wheedle was one of those girls one could mistake for a boy. She wore heavy, cracked leather boots, hose, and a long smock wherever she went. Her lanky hair was shorn in ragged lengths, and her face seemed permanently begrimed so that her blue eyes stood out against their smudged surroundings.
Wheedle beamed up at them. “Guess who we got in the big net in the woods, mistress.”
“Not Ponder.”
“Aye, mistress. He’s hanging there like a plump Christmas goose.”
Pen clapped her hands again and hopped in place. “Right marvelous, Wheedle.”
Tristan uttered a curse of exasperation and walked back to gaze at the men struggling in the net. One had managed to free himself and was unwrapping the others. Erbut, Dibbler, and several other castle denizens jeered at them from the battlements and threw sticks and clods of mud. Once freed, the men shouted a few curses at their tormentors before limping back down the path to the woods.
“Come, Tristan,” Pen said as she joined him. “I can show you Highcliffe before mealtime.” She gazed down upon her handiwork and nodded to herself with a smile.
She expected him to approve! Barely containing hisaggravation, he pointed at the men-at-arms. “Again you engage in this foolhardiness. You set some sort of trap for those men, for Cutwell.”
Pen was watching the retreating men-at-arms and didn’t appear to notice his ire.
“Marry, I haven’t laughed so since Twistle put a purgative in Ponder’s favorite wine.” Her laughter bubbled over, showering him with its beauty.
Regardless of his disapproval, as she laughed Tristan felt his body grow light. The laughter took on a hollow quality and began to echo until he heard someone else’s laughter. Without warning, he felt a jolt of familiarity—a woman’s laughter. She was tall, much taller than he, with ebony hair and eyes. Tolerant laughter.
Run away, child. I’ve much to attend. Run away, child
.
He blinked, then gasped, but the vision was gone and Pen was calling him. He glanced down to find her at his side, her warm hand on his arm, gazing up at him with unfeigned concern. He caught her hand, knowing without thinking the words that the feel of it nestling in his would anchor him. Her gaze darted to their hands. For a moment he thought she would pull away from him, but she didn’t.
“Is aught wrong?” There was a tremor in her voice that spoke at once of fear and attraction. “Are you ill?”
“I think not,” he said, distracted by the quaver in her voice. Then he shook his head. “There was something, some memory. A long-ago memory, I think. Mayhap from my childhood, but I can’t make sense of it.”
Pen smiled at him. “Saints, did I not say you would get well?”
“But there
Luckily they scrambled off before he suffocated. He leapt up and joined Pen in hanging over the wall. Below, on the path before the drawbridge, the five men-at-arms churned and scrabbled in the dirt. Tristan followed the rope that hung over the wall to where it angled around a post and fastened to a net that had been covered with dirt and straw.
He surveyed the victims with a frown while Dibbler and Wheedle rushed back across the drawbridge. Pen shouted instructions at them as they drew the ends of the net over the men before they could stand. Thenthe two hurried back inside the gatehouse, and the drawbridge rose. Erbut went to join his comrades farther along the wall walk. Unable to quite accept what he’d seen, Tristan said nothing when Pen clapped her hands and bent over the trapdoor at the top of the stairs.
“Well done, Wheedle,” she called.
“Think you so?” he asked, but she hadn’t heard him.
He joined her at the door and peered down at the pig girl. Wheedle was one of those girls one could mistake for a boy. She wore heavy, cracked leather boots, hose, and a long smock wherever she went. Her lanky hair was shorn in ragged lengths, and her face seemed permanently begrimed so that her blue eyes stood out against their smudged surroundings.
Wheedle beamed up at them. “Guess who we got in the big net in the woods, mistress.”
“Not Ponder.”
“Aye, mistress. He’s hanging there like a plump Christmas goose.”
Pen clapped her hands again and hopped in place. “Right marvelous, Wheedle.”
Tristan uttered a curse of exasperation and walked back to gaze at the men struggling in the net. One had managed to free himself and was unwrapping the others. Erbut, Dibbler, and several other castle denizens jeered at them from the battlements and threw sticks and clods of mud. Once freed, the men shouted a few curses at their tormentors before limping back down the path to the woods.
“Come, Tristan,” Pen said as she joined him. “I can show you Highcliffe before mealtime.” She gazed down upon her handiwork and nodded to herself with a smile.
She expected him to approve! Barely containing hisaggravation, he pointed at the men-at-arms. “Again you engage in this foolhardiness. You set some sort of trap for those men, for Cutwell.”
Pen was watching the retreating men-at-arms and didn’t appear to notice his ire.
“Marry, I haven’t laughed so since Twistle put a purgative in Ponder’s favorite wine.” Her laughter bubbled over, showering him with its beauty.
Regardless of his disapproval, as she laughed Tristan felt his body grow light. The laughter took on a hollow quality and began to echo until he heard someone else’s laughter. Without warning, he felt a jolt of familiarity—a woman’s laughter. She was tall, much taller than he, with ebony hair and eyes. Tolerant laughter.
Run away, child. I’ve much to attend. Run away, child
.
He blinked, then gasped, but the vision was gone and Pen was calling him. He glanced down to find her at his side, her warm hand on his arm, gazing up at him with unfeigned concern. He caught her hand, knowing without thinking the words that the feel of it nestling in his would anchor him. Her gaze darted to their hands. For a moment he thought she would pull away from him, but she didn’t.
“Is aught wrong?” There was a tremor in her voice that spoke at once of fear and attraction. “Are you ill?”
“I think not,” he said, distracted by the quaver in her voice. Then he shook his head. “There was something, some memory. A long-ago memory, I think. Mayhap from my childhood, but I can’t make sense of it.”
Pen smiled at him. “Saints, did I not say you would get well?”
“But there
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