CHAPTER THIRTY
Weaver woke in the dark. A voice somewhere had cried out. His face was pressed against cold stone, which was slick with sweat and urine. He eased himself upright, head spinning, pain throbbing, blackness pitching about him. Chains clanked, digging into his wrists. Reason began to reassert itself: the chains had to be fastened to something. He reached out a hand and sure enough there was a wall, the worn stone smooth and clammy beneath his fingertips. He shuffled over until his back rested against it. About him he could hear other prisoners breathing, mumbling.
Prisoners
. He was a prisoner. In a rank, fetid dungeon. The place stank. His hair was plastered to the side of his head, matted. His scalp beneath it was tight, scabbing over and painful to the touch. He’d been lying in Goddess knew what kind of filth, while vermin scurried about. He let his head sink back against the stone. Reason was not his friend here. But now it had returned he couldn’t banish it. How had he come here? The effort of thinking was too much. So much easier to yield to the dark that pressed about him. His eyes closed and he let sleep claim him.
Through the dark he could see trees. Many trees: a forest. Pine needles softened his horse’s hoofbeats. Then his horse raised its head, ears pricked, and something crashed against Weaver’s skull.
He woke with a start, his neck stiff. It was still dark, punctuated by the same scufflings as before, but this time he could remember. Alwenna, alone at Vorrahan.
He had failed.
The jangle of keys heralded a guard who unlocked the door to the chamber where Weaver was held. The sudden influx of light made him blink. He raised one hand to shade his eyes as best he could while hampered by the chains. The first guard waited at the door, holding his lantern high, while another guard crossed the room and stooped to unlock the manacles that shackled Weaver to the wall.
The guard’s face was familiar, but it took Weaver a moment to place him: Curtis. He’d trained him as a raw recruit, years ago. Curtis had been skinnier then.
“His highness wants to speak to you.” The guard met Weaver’s eyes for a few seconds; it might have been compassion in his gaze.
Weaver stood slowly, trying to ease life back into cramped muscles that had been still too long. How long had he been in there now? How long spent unconscious before he arrived? Hours or days? He had no way of knowing. Curtis might be able to tell him, but not while his superior looked on. Still hobbled at the ankles, Weaver shuffled across the uneven floor, seeing too clearly the filth in which he’d been lying. He couldn’t afford to be too particular right now, but he promised himself if he ever got out of there alive he’d burn his clothing. Climbing the steps proved difficult. Twice he stumbled on the uneven stone stairs. His head still pounded where his assailant’s cudgel had landed, although the dizziness had faded. He was in no shape to make a run for freedom, even if the chance offered itself.
“In here.” Curtis ushered him into an empty guardroom. For the briefest of moments he caught Weaver’s eye, then glanced towards his superior officer and turned away. The door closed behind him and a key grated in the lock. It seemed they were taking no chances where Ranald Weaver, renowned King’s Man, was concerned.
Weaver peered out of the guardroom window, eyes pained by the daylight. He already knew what he would see, but until that moment he’d been able to pretend he was prisoner at some lesser place than Highkell. The guardroom was above ground level, close enough to lower himself down and drop the remainder to the ground safely if he’d been in his usual condition. But even if he could have smashed the window unnoticed it opened into the inner bailey. And that was crawling with as many soldiers as his clothing must have been crawling with lice. He’d only resort to that if he were desperate. He’d rather die a free man than as a prisoner in that stinking dungeon. But living as a free man would be preferable. And as he stood there with the daylight on his face he could indulge a moment’s hope. They hadn’t killed him yet, so they wanted something from him. Even a bargain of some kind might not be out of the question. His situation no longer looked as grim as before, at any rate.
The key rattled in the lock and he turned to face his captors.
Curtis stepped into the room, followed by his superior. They took up positions by the door, then Vasic himself entered, two men-at-arms following him and stationing themselves at either side. Apparently Vasic was as cautious as he was ambitious.
Vasic curled his lip in distaste and raised a scented square of fabric to his face. “This is the one?” He directed his question to the superior guard.
“Yes, sire.”
Vasic swung his gaze to Weaver once more. “You are Ranald Weaver?”
“I am.”
“Address his highness correctly, you oaf.” The superior guard moved forward, raising a business-like cudgel.
“I am Ranald Weaver, your highness.”
“And arrogant with it, I’ll be bound.” Vasic stepped closer, but took care to remain out of reach. “You were the most highly trusted of my late cousin’s King’s Men.”
“You are well informed, your highness.”
“Indeed I am. Yet I find it difficult to credit.” Vasic studied Weaver, the handkerchief held beneath his nose.
“The dungeons here are not best equipped for washing. Your highness.” Whatever game Vasic was playing, he’d no doubt get to the point soon enough.
“That is not your habitual state?” Vasic studied Weaver over the kerchief. “I have no doubt the Lady Alwenna will be shocked to see you thus.”
Had he captured her already? Weaver forced himself to remain composed.
“Come now, there’s no need to make this difficult. You took the Lady Alwenna away from here, did you not?”
“I did, your highness.” Vasic must have this information from Father Garrad already, no need to provoke him unnecessarily. Weaver had had plenty of time to think and he had no doubt the ambush had been arranged by someone who knew the route he must take when he left Vorrahan.
“And where did you take her?” Vasic appeared uninterested.
“To sanctuary at the precinct on Vorrahan. In the care of Father Garrad. Sire.”
“And you have left her there?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Upon whose orders were you acting?”
“Tresilian’s orders, your highness.” He hesitated; it might work. “I’m a soldier, not a nursemaid. I make my living with my blade.”
“Indeed. Are you suggesting your blade is for hire?”
“If Tresilian is dead, I am no longer bound to his service.”
Vasic laughed. “Would you have me believe you’d serve me, Weaver? Your reputation goes before you. Stanton would have brought you into my employ if you could have been bought. His death was your handiwork, I understand?”
“Stanton’s dead? I had no idea, sire.”
“False modesty becomes you even more ill than your current guise. But you may wish to know I myself put an end to Tresilian while you were busy with his wife.”
So that was it. Weaver bit back his words of denial.
Vasic was smiling now. “Oh, yes, Weaver. Father Garrad shared all his concerns at how cosy you had become with your erstwhile sovereign’s widow. Tresilian was ever the trusting fool. Let’s have the truth of the matter.”
“I obeyed his orders, nothing more. As I said, I’m no nursemaid, your highness.”
“We’ll see.” Vasic returned to the door. “Take him back to the dungeon. I have more pressing matters to deal with before questioning him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alwenna huddled in her bed, sitting up so she could stave off sleep as long as possible. She would have to give in soon, but sleep brought with it the visions: intense moments of others’ lives intruding on her rest, fuelling her own fears. Whether they belonged in the past, present or future she couldn’t tell. But if she didn’t find a way to fend them off soon she’d end up as mad as old Gwydion. She was nodding off when she thought she’d heard some noise. She held her breath to listen but all remained quiet. An owl outside, perhaps. She settled back beneath her covers.
Then she heard it again. Metal grated on metal: the creak of the hinge on the outer door. Unmistakable. Who would be opening that at this time of night? Pointless to feign sleep now. They would make enough noise breaking open the bolted door, and she was trapped in this room with no way out. She rolled over to the edge of the bed and grabbed the pewter candlestick. It was hefty enough to at least do some damage on her account. She lowered her feet to the floor, snatching up her clothing in case she had time to scramble into it.
Then came a soft knock at the door. Did would-be assailants pause to knock at doors?
“Lady Alwenna?” The voice was low. She couldn’t quite place it. She pulled her kirtle over her head, and dragged it into place as the unseen visitor knocked again, louder. “My lady?”
“Who is it?” She crept over to take up a stance behind the door, raising the candlestick in the air.
“Brother Drew, my lady. May I enter the room?”
What on earth could he want? It could be some trick, but she would sooner go out to meet her fate bravely than cower in the dark until Vasic’s men dragged her from the chamber. She reached out and slid the bolt open, drawing silently back from the door. “Very well. You may enter.”
A glow appeared beneath the door as he lit a candle, then the latch raised and the door eased open. Drew stepped inside, halting when the light from his candle fell upon the empty bed. He carried no weapon that Alwenna could see, and his eating knife remained in the sheath belted to his waist. Bewildered, he scanned the room slowly. There was no feigning the alarm on his face as he discovered her holding the candlestick aloft.
He recoiled. “My lady, I mean you no harm.”
Alwenna lowered the impromptu weapon, but kept hold of it. “What brings you here under cover of darkness, brother?”
“I have news, my lady. Father Garrad has taken care to keep me busy outside the precinct since that night on the beach: he fears I have been corrupted by your presence. But today – well, I overheard him speaking to Brother Irwyn.” He paused the flow of words to draw breath.
“Brother Irwyn? Do I know him?”
“He has charge of the kitchens. But he acts for Father Garrad when he is called away on precinct business, so he holds his trust.”
Alwenna nodded. “Go on.”
“I was on the way to collect grain when I overheard them, out by the field-house. I ought to have revealed my presence, but I did not. Out of petty resentment, I confess, for the way I have been treated since I spoke up in your support. But that is neither here nor there. Father Garrad expects a detachment of soldiers to arrive shortly to take you back to Highkell. Vasic intends to be crowned king as soon as he has taken you as his wife, my lady.”
“I see.” Alwenna paced across the room. “This isn’t entirely unexpected.”
“I can take you away tonight, my lady, if that is what you wish.”
She halted. “You would take such a risk?”
“My lady, I joined the brethren with a pure heart, but what I have seen of late sickens me.” His words tumbled over one another in his eagerness to unburden himself. “The corruption here comes not from your presence among us, but the very head of our order. Father Garrad has been seduced by worldly concerns. He may be my superior, but I can no longer sit back while he meddles in affairs that should be none of our remit here at Vorrahan. To betray a guest of the order who was sent here by a generous patron – it is wrong. Father Garrad would have it that my head has been turned by your beauty and dark powers, of course.”
He’d run out of words at last. “Indeed? It seems I have offended Father Garrad more than I ever thought possible. Either he is much changed since Tresilian was tutored here, or my late husband was much mistaken as to his character.” She paused. “But tell me, brother, where do you stand with regard to my supposed beauty and dark powers?”
“My lady, I admire your beauty, and fear your power, but I believe you would never knowingly misuse either.”
“Can you be sure, brother, that your faith is not misplaced?”
“My lady, that night in the brewhouse Weaver spoke of your journey and… he extracted a promise from me that should any ill befall him I would be watchful for your care. And from what I overheard – if I understood correctly – he has already been captured.” Drew’s fingers clenched and unclenched around the candlestick he carried. “My lady, if you would leave Vorrahan it must be now, or we will likely run straight into Vasic’s men before we are clear of the bay. There are horses in the mainland pasture.”
“I would leave… but if you help me you risk everything, even your life.”
“My life is worth nothing if I sit idly by while you are betrayed. It lies within my power to help you now. The tide runs in our favour but by daylight it will have turned.”
“Brother, I ought not accept this sacrifice from you, but I am hard pressed. Are you sure? You may leave this room now and suffer no reproach.”
“My lady, I leave Vorrahan tonight no matter what. I would offer you assistance and this is the only way I may. It is unlikely there will be another such chance.”
“Then give me five minutes to make ready.” Alwenna gathered such belongings as she thought might be useful, hastily throwing on the remainder of her clothing. She set a bolster in the bed to at least give the impression she slept there to a casual observer, then hurried from the room. Drew waited in the anteroom where Weaver had slept.
“Wear this habit over your clothes: it will help disguise you.”
With the bulky habit over the layers of garments she already wore, Alwenna looked nothing like the slender lady Weaver had brought to Vorrahan. Drew handed her the knife and belt that Weaver had removed from one of Stanton’s men the night they left Highkell. Alwenna fastened it, grateful for the familiar object despite such unpleasant associations.
“Which way do we go, brother?”
“Please, my lady, call me Drew. From this moment I am no longer a brother of this precinct.”
“As you wish. Do we make for the shore gate?”
“No, that is guarded now. But there is another way through the stables and out through the hayloft door to the pasture. That is not watched, and I have a boat waiting nearby.”