The
discussions began to wind down as the maps were put away. Suddenly, Brandol
stood up and cleared his throat, but his eyes stayed fixed on the table. “I—I
have something to say.” The room fell silent. “I was just—just wondering if
maybe I might,” his eyes glanced from Henry to Isabelle and back to the table
where they remained fixed once more, “if you’d consider me staying here, Mr.
and Mrs. Wilson. I work hard and ain’t gonna be no trouble. I promise.”
Brandol
looked to be on the brink of tears, but he managed to hold his emotions in
check. Wilson and Becca exchanged a surprised expression, and Henry saw Wilson
give his wife a slight shake of the head. James regarded Brandol as though he’d
fallen into a puddle of muck while wearing a clean uniform.
“I
understand where you come from, Brandol,” Wilson said, placing a hand on the
journeyman’s shoulder. “You’re probably scared and want to be out of this
nightmare, but you gotta keep going. It’s not that I wouldn’t mind having a
helper ‘round here. It’s too dangerous for me to let you stay. If you was to
somehow get caught, I’d be in as much trouble as you.” He patted Brandol’s
shoulder several times. “No hard feelings, I hope. Don’t worry so much and
you’ll do fine. Ain’t no one going to catch you on these paths I’ve showed
you.”
Brandol
nodded and stammered out his thanks, then the meeting was over. Henry lay in
bed listening as his friends fell asleep, one by one, wondering what he would
do if Ruther left again. Was it even his business if Ruther wanted to get out
of the house? He still could not fathom the possibility that his friend would
do anything to jeopardize the group. It seemed as likely as Isabelle running
off with Brandol, or James saying something terribly funny. There were certain
things he knew, and one of them was that he could trust Ruther.
Small
doubts crept in when he heard similar stirrings from where Ruther slept. This
time, the dark figure moved slower and with more care than last night. Henry
stuffed his face into his pillow and gripped it in determination to say nothing
to stop his friend from leaving. When the door closed, Henry did not even
bother looking out.
The
next day started with a hearty breakfast. Wilson’s sons, especially Blake and
Lafe, begged them not to go. Isabelle explained that they had to, and Henry and
company were soon packed and ready to leave. Wilson stopped Ruther, Henry, and
James on their way out of the stable and gathered them around. His face was
serious again.
“I
ought to give you one last bit of advice regarding the Iron Forest, especially
since most of that conversation weren’t taken seriously by you or me. That was
a mistake on my part because I do believe it’s dangerous. So, hear me now. When
you reach the pass, and I hope and pray you will, follow these two rules of
caution: Keep on the trail. And keep your weapons in their sheaths. If you do
those two things, you should be fine.”
Ruther
and James nodded in the affirmative, but Henry could tell they didn’t take
Wilson’s advice seriously. Henry waited until the others left and answered,
“Thank you, Wilson. We’ll give heed, be assured of that. Thank you for
everything. Your generosity has been more than we could have hoped for.”
“As
I said when I first met you, a son of William Vestin is a friend of mine.”
“My
father would agree that you have more than repaid your friendship.”
Wilson
smiled again, that same smile that brightened a room. Their host stepped out of
the way, and Henry ordered Quicken to march onward. When Henry looked back he
could barely see the homestead and Wilson still watching them with his hand
over his eyes.
It
was both a blessing and burden to be back on the trail southward. Perhaps they
had grown too soft in Wilson’s home, but Henry’s mind and spirit were
refreshed. The group as a whole seemed optimistic about their prospects, and
Henry could not remember the last time Ruther and Maggie went so long without
snapping at each other.
James
decided it was best to follow Wilson’s instructions, which they did for the
next several days. The trails were sometimes difficult to find, but almost
always provided plenty of cover and ease of travel. They got water from nearby
streams, avoiding altogether the Drewberry River. The good fall weather had
returned, with the sun melting the snow and accompanying them throughout the
days. It was not terribly warm, but with the absence of wind and snow their
days were much more pleasant. Wilson had stocked them with enough grain and
dried foods that they were able to travel almost three weeks without searching
for a market, making better speed than they had almost their entire journey,
which had now lasted over nine weeks. During that time, it became easy for
Henry to think of reasons why Ruther may have left twice during their stay at
Wilson’s home.
Eventually,
however, a stop in town became necessary. The stores of food for both humans
and horses that Wilson had given them were nearly depleted. This would be the
last stop before Bookerton barring any more bad weather. As Ruther was still
unknown to the King’s Guard and soldiers, it was unanimously decided that he
would take Ghost and a spare horse into Grubbingville for supplies. Normally
this required two people, but James was confident that with the wild game he’d spotted
in the area, they could supplement some of these supplies with fresh meat. The
group discussed Ruther’s strategy and gave him a list of supplies while
Isabelle fetched the writ of passage and the needed gold from the carriage.
“Maybe
I should also wear a disguise,” Ruther suggested. “What do you think?”
“Not
necessary,” James answered. “Your fame is more of an asset than a hindrance,
especially since you’re not wanted.”
A
small flame of suspicion flared up in Henry. Did Ruther owe creditors in every
town in Blithmore or was he merely concerned for his safety?
“Henry,”
Isabelle called. “Henry, come here!”
Henry
went over to the carriage where Isabelle stood with her head in the door, arms
rummaging through several packs. Isabelle often used opportunities like this to
sneak kisses when no one else could see.
“Yes?”
He tried to conceal his smile and failed.
“I
can’t find it!” Isabelle was distraught, throwing things aside frantically.
“The writ of passage!”
“Where
was it last?”
“Here!”
She pointed to a small, empty leather pouch.
“Don’t
worry. I’ll help you find it.”
He
calmed her down and helped her look again. They thoroughly searched through
pack after pack until Henry had the same panic as Isabelle. Once every pack had
been investigated, he called the rest of the group over to assist. Every pack
was searched twice. Everyone’s pockets were checked twice, but it was no use.
The
writ of passage was gone.
The Missing Paper
“It
was here
the day we left Wilson’s house, Master Henry.” Brandol’s face was red and
sweaty. “I swear in it! I—I—I held it on my hand!”
Isabelle
watched James shake his head in frustration, but she knew it was no use pushing
Brandol anymore. The poor young man vomited twice after they’d realized the
writ of passage was missing. He had been in charge of making certain it was
packed. It was his only responsibility. No one had thought it would be a
difficult task for him since they rarely unpacked it. Now even Henry looked on
the verge of raging at Brandol.
Isabelle
took Henry aside to calm him down while James consoled Maggie who had lost her
control after the last bag was searched for the second time. Isabelle had never
seen Maggie so distraught. Ruther, however, seemed to take the situation in
stride and began dressing himself in one of his costumes, then left without
saying a word to anyone. She watched him ride toward Grubbingville with several
empty packs and the spare horse.
It
took James and Isabelle an hour to get Maggie back in her right mind;
meanwhile, Brandol cooked dinner. Isabelle guessed this was his attempt at
making a gesture of peace, but she had a strong feeling that if someone did not
help him with the meal, he might make things worse.
Another
hour later, Brandol finished preparing the food, but there was no sign of
Ruther. Henry and James decided to wait for him to return before eating.
Isabelle asked Henry to accompany her on a short walk while they waited. She
held his hand and made small talk, but Henry was distant.
“Are
you still thinking about the missing paper?” she asked.
Henry’s
face wore a strange expression as he stared at the ground and nodded. Something
in his eyes told her it wasn’t only the writ of passage bothering him. She
responded by gripping his hand tighter. His gaze moved from the ground to the
horizon, watching for Ruther’s return. They sat together in silence on the top
of a hill. Isabelle ran her fingers through Henry’s hair—now much longer than
it had been when they left Richterton—and wondered what he was thinking about
and why he wouldn’t tell her.
The
concern on Henry’s face only deepened when they returned to camp and learned
Ruther hadn’t returned. James suggested they eat before the food became too
cold. No one argued. Isabelle sniffed the food before sampling it. It actually
smelled good. She smiled proudly at Brandol, but he quickly looked away. As the
meal went on and no one heard the sounds of an approaching gallop, a heavy mood
settled over them.
When
it came time for cleanup, James and Henry excused themselves and wandered down
a dirt trail in deep conversation. When Maggie suggested that she needed more
water for cleanup, Isabelle volunteered to fetch it. Taking two pails, she set
off down the barren trail behind her brother and Henry. From between two thick
trees, she spotted them. Henry was picking up stones and tossing them into the
creek while James threw his knives at a tall oak. If they heard her
approaching, they made no sign.
“What
do you think the chances are that something happened to him?” James asked
Henry. “I’m not suggesting he’s been captured. Maybe lost, hurt, thrown from
the horse, anything.”
Isabelle
couldn’t see Henry’s expression, but she heard the nervous tone in his voice.
“How long do you want to wait before we go after him?”
“Is
there something going on that you’re not telling me?”
Henry
shook his head.
“That’s
not how I feel,” James said. “Something’s different between you and Ruther. He
may not know it yet, but if it concerns me or the safety of my sister, I should
know.”
“I
understand,” Henry said. “There’s nothing going on.”
Isabelle
had the distinct impression Henry was lying.
“Have
you ever noticed this scar I have on my scalp?” he asked, turning his head and
parting his hair to reveal a four-inch-long mutilation on the back of his
skull. When Isabelle saw it, a jolt of sympathy pain shot through her own head.
“When—how
did you get that?” Henry asked, trying to hide his revulsion with his hand.
“I
was betrayed,” James said. His face was grim, and his tone, bitter. Isabelle
continued to stare at the grisly scar until James covered it with his hair
again. “It cost me everything, including my place on the King’s Guard. That is
why I could not be reached by post when my mother passed away. You will not
speak of this to Isabelle.”
“I
won’t, James,” Henry said, “if that’s what you want.”
“It
is. I also want you to remember that if you ever think you know someone—
anyone
—so
well that you would trust your life in their hands . . . think about this scar
first.”
“Who
betrayed you? How—”
“That
is all I am going to say about it, Henry.”
While
Henry tried to figure out how to respond to James’ bizarre warning, Isabelle
quietly left the scene with her pails and filled them in the cold stream.
Instead of returning to the camp, she sat on a fallen log near at the stream’s
bank and let her thoughts wander. She wished Henry didn’t have to bear so much
responsibility. He was much happier doing his woodwork and managing his
business. Their predicament was her fault, not his. If she had stood up to her
father and urged Henry to leave Richterton, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
“Don’t
live in the past, Isabelle,” she told herself. At the same time, she heard
James’ advice to Henry repeating in her head.
Think about this scar first
.
Living without the ability to trust sounded like a terrible way to live. That
kind of bitterness reminded her of their father.
When
she returned, she sat close to Henry at the fire. Her hand brushed his, though
he never took it. His eyes stared into the dancing flames. Maggie kept herself
busy with more cleaning, but she jumped at every small sound and constantly
glanced off to the hills where Ruther had headed on his way to Grubbingville;
Brandol helped her. By the light of the fire and the sun’s last rays, he looked
pale and sick. James sat stiffly, sharpening his knives with more concentration
than usual. No one spoke even though the same fear weighed on everyone’s
thoughts. It was as if some unknown force prevented them from voicing their
concerns about Ruther’s safety. Finally, James got up to throw his knives, even
though the sun had nearly set. Isabelle found the repetitive thumping of metal
against wood to be an irritant, like Maggie’s persistent glancing in Brandol’s
direction with her angry looks. Finally, when she could take it no more,
Isabelle stood up and went to Quicken. Henry followed her.
“I’ll
go after him,” he told her in a whisper.
“I
can’t sit here any longer,” she answered.
Henry
tried to dissuade her until she stopped him. “I am riding with you, so accept
that.” Her lips pressed against his for a long second and then released him.
“As
you wish,” he said with a grunt as he mounted Quicken.
Isabelle
saddled one of the carriage horses. The evening was a crisp, dry cold, the kind
she found refreshing. Henry pushed Quicken at a good pace, and Isabelle kept
up. The horses’ hooves fell softly in the cushioning grass as they rode
westward. They were still a mile and a half from the most western homes in
Grubbingville when she saw a shadowy figure on the horizon.
“Over
there,” Henry said, pointing to the nearest trees. They slowed the horses’ pace
and waited in a spot where their figures would be obscured by the trees’ trunks
and low branches. Her heart beat steadily in her chest as she watched the
figure approach on horseback.
It
was Ruther. Isabelle could tell as soon as she saw the second horse laden with
packs being led behind the rider. She smiled at Henry and saw that he was less
than pleased to see his friend. Henry whistled the chirping noise only members
of their party would recognize. Ruther immediately turned to their direction
accompanied by two shrill whistles.
Isabelle
left the shadow of the trees toward Ruther. Henry followed.
“Are
you alright?” he asked Ruther. The question sounded brisk and perturbed.
“Yeah,”
Ruther responded breathlessly, “it wasn’t fun though.”
“You
were only supposed to be gone two hours. What kept you?”
“How
long have I been?”
Henry
shrugged. “Four, maybe five hours.”
Ruther
hissed, swearing softly. “Sorry, friend, but at least a dozen guardsmen were in
the town square, and I thought it best if I waited until they finished their
business.”
“You
waited two hours for them to leave?” Henry’s voice grew more strained.
“Better
two hours of waiting than all of us captured, right? Why is that a problem,
Henry? Should I not try to be safe?”
“It’s
not a problem.” Henry’s answer came as quick as a bowshot. “We were worried.
All of us.”
“You
mean most of us.”
“I
said what I meant to say.”
Ruther
snorted.
Isabelle
had never heard them speak to each other like this. “Let’s go back to camp,”
she suggested as she prodded her horse to move. “They’ll be wanting to see you,
Ruther.”
“Just
a moment,” Ruther said. “We’ve got more to discuss.”
“What
is it?” she and Henry asked simultaneously.
“I
learned information in town that concerns us.”
“Is
it bad?” Henry asked.
“It’s
nothing resembling good. I stopped at an inn for the news and I’m glad I did.
One of the patrons told me the Emperor has become directly involved with the
search for his would-be-assassins.”
“How
directly?”
“He’s
sent five hundred of his men—five hundred of his Elite Guard.”
Isabelle
suddenly wished she had not eaten so much dinner. Her stomach turned over.
“Five hundred?” she repeated.
“That’s
what I was told. Their sole purpose is to hunt for us. They’ve also declared
you five to be Enemies of the King and put a much larger bounty on your heads.”
“God
help us,” she whispered. “How can we survive?”
“It’s
not so terrible,” Ruther said. “You’re looking at this with only a negative
eye.”
An
owl in one of the nearby trees hooted so loudly it startled all three of them.
Isabelle found the source and then faced Ruther again.
“How
should we view the situation, Ruther?” Henry asked. “With optimism?”
“I’m
not saying there’s no need for concern or caution, only that things aren’t
impossible. These Neverak soldiers, they don’t know Blithmore and its terrain.
They won’t work well, if at all, with King Germaine’s armies.”
Henry
shook his head and spurred Quicken away. “More troops looking for us is never a
good thing.”
“I
didn’t say it was, friend.”
Isabelle
and Ruther followed Henry at a trotting pace. All was silent but for the
muffled movement of the horses. Ruther finally spoke up, “I have something else
I think we should discuss here in private.”
Isabelle
halted her horse and gave her full attention to Ruther. There was enough
moonlight now that she could see his face. It was tired and worn. A thought
even occurred to Isabelle that perhaps Ruther was thinner than when they first
set out—not much, but a little.
“I
think we need to consider the possibility that the writ of passage was stolen
from us.”
“Stolen?”
Henry repeated. “By Wilson?”
“That’s
the most likely possibility. He was around the carriage often enough. It
doesn’t make sense for us to be angry at Brandol.”
“I’m
not angry at Brandol,” Isabelle stated. “Henry hasn’t said a cross word to him,
either.”
“By
‘us’ I meant Maggie and James, but it leads me to think what else Wilson may
have done to sabotage us. Perhaps he’s given us wrong information about our
paths. Or worse yet, he may have set us up for an ambush.”
“After
taking us in?” Henry asked. “Giving us shelter and food?”
“We
were trapped there in the snow, but so was he. Now he knows where we’re headed,
when we expect to be there, and how many of us there are. I could go on. With
our writ of passage gone, we’ve lost all protection.”
“He
knew we were stopping in Grubbingville,” Isabelle cut in. “It would have been
the perfect opportunity—”
“To
send the Guard for us?” Ruther cut in, reminding her that he had indeed seen
the King’s best men in Grubbingville.
Isabelle
thought for a moment of everything that had taken place, every conversation
they’d had with Wilson. She could tell Henry was thinking the same thing.
“No,
Ruther,” he said for her. “I trust Wilson. We must have misplaced it.”