him to find it.
His eyes fell on her. She knew him.
Him!
She knew the big blond beard, like a spade. She knew the red vest over his armour and the red pennant on the end of his lance. This was one of the men who had attacked her house. This was the one who had stood at the edge of the woods with his bow, shooting arrows after her and laughing as she dodged between the trunks, while the others had hauled Dadda into the tree.
Her brain yelped. Urgent messages went to her legs and hands, begging them to get up, to push her off the ground, to run, run, run, as she had run all those days before. Nothing happened. Her limbs were heavy and barely stirred.
Again she tried.
He’s getting off his horse. He’s coming over!
Her arm moved, a fraction.
He was standing over her. He was fumbling at his belt. She turned her head, just a little, to look up at him. There was a knife in its sheath.
‘N-n—’ she said.
He frowned and knelt down beside her. There was nothing she could do.
Maybe she would see Mam again now.
Something popped – a bung, coming out of a bottle.
‘Drink,’ said the man.
He was holding it before her lips – a water bottle. She could smell it. Suddenly she knew how thirsty she was.
‘Drink,’ said the man, more urgently. ‘You must drink.’
I can’t drink while I’m lying down, she thought.
He seemed to see that. Setting the bottle on the earth, he took her by both shoulders and propped her against the trunk of the tree. Then he lifted it again and poured it gingerly at her mouth. Water splashed on her lips and down her front. She caught a gulp of it and choked.
‘Not too much,’ grumbled the man.
She put a trembling hand on the bottle, steadied it against her lips and drank some more. Again she choked. She lost her hold and between them they dropped it. The man muttered angrily and returned the bottle to his belt. He stood up, looking down ather. She wondered if he would get out his bow and arrows again and tell her to run through the trees. She knew she could not run. She did not think she could even crawl.
He reached up to his shoulder and undid the brooch that held the red cloak. He put it round her. It was warm from his body. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.
‘You stink,’ he said.
So do you, she thought, with her head hanging down against his back.
He carried her to his horse. Again she felt herself lifted, up and across its shoulders. Her face was against its hide. Her head, upside down, seemed a horrible distance above the ground. The man climbed up behind her.
‘He says we must go to him,’ grunted the man. ‘Both of us, together.’
‘For all the Angels!’ cursed Padry. ‘Where are they then?’
Again the man-at-arms banged at the castle door.
‘Ho there! Lackmere! Open for the lord chancellor!’
There was no answer from inside.
Night was coming early. Heavy, dry clouds hung low over the land, dimming the light to a feeble yellow in the west. Already the details of the thorn forest out of which they had climbed were dissolving into shadow. The rocks of the crag on which Lackmere stood were a dull grey-brown, and the walls of the castle were the same grey-brown colour, rising above their heads to aline of battlements and squat towers against the gloomy sky.
The man-at-arms set his shoulder against the gate.
‘It is barred from within,’ he grunted. ‘There must be someone inside. Unless they are drunk, or dead now.’
The castle was a single enclosure, constrained by the narrow hilltop on which it was sited. Surely no one inside could fail to hear them. But there were no lights, and no banners on the walls. To left and right the gate towers peered down on them. Black arrow-slits showed nothing within.
‘Try it again.’
‘Ho, Lackmere …’
Lex was looking out over the shadowy waste like a shipwrecked sailor at the sea.
‘It is wolf country,’ he said. ‘If we camp, we must hobble the horses.’
‘There’s someone
His eyes fell on her. She knew him.
Him!
She knew the big blond beard, like a spade. She knew the red vest over his armour and the red pennant on the end of his lance. This was one of the men who had attacked her house. This was the one who had stood at the edge of the woods with his bow, shooting arrows after her and laughing as she dodged between the trunks, while the others had hauled Dadda into the tree.
Her brain yelped. Urgent messages went to her legs and hands, begging them to get up, to push her off the ground, to run, run, run, as she had run all those days before. Nothing happened. Her limbs were heavy and barely stirred.
Again she tried.
He’s getting off his horse. He’s coming over!
Her arm moved, a fraction.
He was standing over her. He was fumbling at his belt. She turned her head, just a little, to look up at him. There was a knife in its sheath.
‘N-n—’ she said.
He frowned and knelt down beside her. There was nothing she could do.
Maybe she would see Mam again now.
Something popped – a bung, coming out of a bottle.
‘Drink,’ said the man.
He was holding it before her lips – a water bottle. She could smell it. Suddenly she knew how thirsty she was.
‘Drink,’ said the man, more urgently. ‘You must drink.’
I can’t drink while I’m lying down, she thought.
He seemed to see that. Setting the bottle on the earth, he took her by both shoulders and propped her against the trunk of the tree. Then he lifted it again and poured it gingerly at her mouth. Water splashed on her lips and down her front. She caught a gulp of it and choked.
‘Not too much,’ grumbled the man.
She put a trembling hand on the bottle, steadied it against her lips and drank some more. Again she choked. She lost her hold and between them they dropped it. The man muttered angrily and returned the bottle to his belt. He stood up, looking down ather. She wondered if he would get out his bow and arrows again and tell her to run through the trees. She knew she could not run. She did not think she could even crawl.
He reached up to his shoulder and undid the brooch that held the red cloak. He put it round her. It was warm from his body. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.
‘You stink,’ he said.
So do you, she thought, with her head hanging down against his back.
He carried her to his horse. Again she felt herself lifted, up and across its shoulders. Her face was against its hide. Her head, upside down, seemed a horrible distance above the ground. The man climbed up behind her.
‘He says we must go to him,’ grunted the man. ‘Both of us, together.’
‘For all the Angels!’ cursed Padry. ‘Where are they then?’
Again the man-at-arms banged at the castle door.
‘Ho there! Lackmere! Open for the lord chancellor!’
There was no answer from inside.
Night was coming early. Heavy, dry clouds hung low over the land, dimming the light to a feeble yellow in the west. Already the details of the thorn forest out of which they had climbed were dissolving into shadow. The rocks of the crag on which Lackmere stood were a dull grey-brown, and the walls of the castle were the same grey-brown colour, rising above their heads to aline of battlements and squat towers against the gloomy sky.
The man-at-arms set his shoulder against the gate.
‘It is barred from within,’ he grunted. ‘There must be someone inside. Unless they are drunk, or dead now.’
The castle was a single enclosure, constrained by the narrow hilltop on which it was sited. Surely no one inside could fail to hear them. But there were no lights, and no banners on the walls. To left and right the gate towers peered down on them. Black arrow-slits showed nothing within.
‘Try it again.’
‘Ho, Lackmere …’
Lex was looking out over the shadowy waste like a shipwrecked sailor at the sea.
‘It is wolf country,’ he said. ‘If we camp, we must hobble the horses.’
‘There’s someone
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