Murkmere (15 page)

And she was clutching something.

It was the swanskin, no longer dripping but wet enough to darken the fresh, white linen.

I stood, transfixed with horror, until a sound made me start. I turned to see Dog standing in the doorway watching me, a cup
of milk in her hand. “So,” she said. “You’re leaving.”

“How do you know?” I whispered.

She smiled, and her little eyes glinted in the candlelight. She was too intent on me to notice what her mistress gripped
so hard. “Everyone knows. The Master’s sent word to Mr. Silas. At first light tomorrow you’re to have a horse, and a stable
hand to ride with you.”

“I go to fetch Gammy the Soot, nothing more,” I said distractedly.

She came closer to the bed and put the milk down on the table, still watching me like a cat. “Ah, we’ll see,” she said, not
bothering to whisper in spite of her sleeping mistress.

I saw in her eyes that she knew I planned to escape and was glad I was going. And I feared that if she’d guessed the truth,
Silas would as well.

The first pale light was filling the sky when I crossed the stable yard next morning. The air was crisp, but the cobbles shone
in the sun where the frost had already melted. I was dressed in my old clothes again under my cloak, but without any telltale
baggage; my only regret was that I was leaving my precious book unfinished. All I had to do now was to work out exactly how
I’d lose the stable hand outside the walls of the estate.

But my luck wasn’t to hold. As I approached the stables to tell the ostlers I was ready, a figure strode toward me from the
other side of the yard.

Silas had found me out.

He was dressed in riding clothes, his crimson coat swirling around his breeches as he walked, his gleaming boots ringing on
the cobbles, and his black-handled whip held lightly between
the fingers of his leather gauntlets. I stood still, my heart almost stopped by fright and despair.

“Good morning, Agnes,” Silas said easily. “The Master’s asked me to find you a good horse.” He nodded to a stable hand, who
led out a small chestnut mare from one of the stables. I began to breathe again. Could Silas really be allowing me to leave?

He had come close and was standing over me, his dark eyes smiling down. I couldn’t raise my eyes. He was too close; now he
had taken my hand to help me onto the mounting block. I wanted to protest that I didn’t need his help, but was afraid to speak.

My hand was imprisoned in his. The scent of languorous evening was suddenly in the clean air. “Good fortune for your mission,
Agnes,” he said softly, and his eyes slid over me, trapping me with their power.

He turned my hand over in his gloved fingers, and slowly he stroked the inside of my wrist with his riding whip. “But if you
don’t return, I’ll know where to find you. Won’t I?”

W
e rode past the surly keeper sent to unlock the gates. Above, the rooks were damning my escape. My heart beat fast; I fixed
my eyes on the freedom of the road. I didn’t look back at the shuttered windows of the Hall, nor at the mere in its dismal
fold. Then the walls of Murkmere were behind us, and I was urging my mare on between the icy ruts as fast as I dared.

But winter was loosening its grip at last. The mare’s hooves struck up small pebbles that glittered in the sunlight; on either
side the snow was shrinking back over the shining marshes of the Wasteland. I was free, and in my exultation it was suddenly
beautiful to me, this place I’d known all my life.

The stable hand was riding silently beside me, a stout stick for our protection across the saddle in front of him, dark green
cape bundled up around him. He couldn’t see the promise of spring. Then I looked at him harder.

“Where did you get that cape?” I said, my voice harsh above birdsong and the soft thud of the horses’ hooves.

He stared at me as if I were the strangest creature he’d ever seen, and chewed his lip. At last he opened his mouth and growled,
“Stables.”

So the clothes of poor murdered Matt must be in the stables for anyone to take
. There was no escape, for all the while I thought I was free, Murkmere’s corrupt shadow rode beside me through the bright
morning.

When we arrived at Gammy the Soot’s cottage, I slid down at once from the mare. She began to graze on the rough grass while
I hammered on the door. Somehow I had to lose the stable hand. But now he too had dismounted, and was following me, stick
in hand.

Gammy opened the door. Gray-faced, hand clutched to his chest, he looked frightened at our sudden appearance, more shriveled
still than when I’d last called on him for Aunt Jennet six months before.

“It’s Aggie Cotter, Gammy. I’ve an urgent job for you at the Hall.”

“Murkmere?” he mumbled, bewildered. “It’s not our time to clean the big house.” He looked at the stable hand, armed for action
against the wild folk of the village, and fell back, one hand raised.

“Don’t be frightened, Mr. Gammy, we mean no harm,” I gabbled. “Please come with us. It’s but one chimney that’s been blocked
by a nest.”

If I can only get Gammy outside
, I thought,
the stable hand might be distracted for a moment
.

“My chimney boy’s at the pumps. I’m doing naught without him,” said Gammy stubbornly. He shuffled over to the meager fire
and sat down, scowling at us both.

“They have to cook luncheon for the Master by noon,” I said desperately. “If you can clear it by then, you’ll be paid extra.”

There was the gleam of greed in Gammy’s face. Then he shrugged. “Can’t do naught without my boy, they ladders be too heavy.”

Biting my lip, I looked around at the brushes and ladders hanging on the dirty walls.
Where was the handcart I always saw him out with? Perhaps he kept it out at the back
. My heart began to thump. I turned to the stable hand, skulking in the doorway in his stolen cape. “You’ll help him get ready,
won’t you, Mister? He needs to carry the ladders out to his handcart. I’ll commend you to the Master if you do.”

The man turned and spat on the ground behind him as if to show his contempt, whether for me, his Master, or for Gammy, I wasn’t
sure, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t budge.

“Mr. Silas will be pleased with you if we return in good time,” I said breathlessly, gripping my hands together.

At this he grunted, shifted himself from the door frame at last, and came into the room.

As they carried a ladder around to the back, I ran from the front of the cottage and took the mare’s reins. Somehow I
flung myself across her, my legs astride her glossy back, my skirts bundled up, thanking the heavens she had a calm nature
and stood still for me. Then I was away, riding fast back up the track, and the wind was in my hair.

I couldn’t believe how easy it was.

I heard nothing behind me, no shouts, no pursuing hooves. Perhaps the stable hand hadn’t yet realized I’d gone; perhaps he
was too feckless a rogue to bother to chase me.

All the same, I avoided the high road to the village where I might be seen by the lawman in his hut. Instead, I rode the mare
toward the common. At this hour the milking would be done and the cows left to graze where the snow had melted.

I thought I might see someone I knew still there, and was relieved yet puzzled to find the common completely deserted: no
girls lingering to gossip before going home to their spindles, no children climbing on the sheep pens. Then, as I felt the
first trickle of unease, I saw the figures lolling against the wall of the cow shelter, gray uniforms almost indistinguishable
from the stone, light glinting on the rifles propped against it.

The Militia! The soldiers had come while I’d been at Murkmere. The snow hadn’t prevented them marching east. They must have
arrived in the village before the first flake had settled on the road. Last summer they had cleared the south of any rebellion.
Now they had come to “sweep” the Eastern Edge.

And my heart filled with the horror of it, for I’d heard what they did.

The soldiers billeted the best cottages, driving out the owners. They devoured precious food stocks, stole horses and cows
for their own use. They dragged away the prettiest girls, forced the healthiest youths to join up. But worst was the sweeping
itself. Officers suspicious of rebellion where there was none; villagers interrogated in their own homes. If suspected of
disloyalty to the Lord Protector, they were taken prisoner and shackled to the wagons for the long march back to the Capital
— even the elderly and sick. Those taken were never heard from again.

That’s what a sweeping was.

And how would Aunt Jennet be faring?

The mare had halted, perhaps sensing my fear and indecision. It was too late for escape, anyway: the soldiers had seen me.
They gestured at me to ride over. There were four of them, and one shouted something.

I guided my pony between the pens and came up to them. One of them seized my bridle. Another roughly ordered me to dismount.

I stood on the ground trembling, the mare tossing her head. The men surrounded us, hair hacked brutally short, hard-eyed,
the emblem of the Eagle worked in black across the front of their sweat-stained jerkins.

“This pony yours, girl?” demanded the soldier holding the bridle. He cursed as the mare flung her head away

“Never. Too good for a village girl,” rasped another. “You’ve stolen it, haven’t you, girl?”

I shook my head dumbly, taking quick breaths like a rabbit in a snare. The rifles still rested against the wall. I waited
for the soldiers to grab them up, to jam the barrels against my breast.

“Wait,” said a third. He came close to me and squinted down into my face. His breath smelled of stale wine. “We’ve not seen
this one before. What’s your name, wench?”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

“Dumb, eh? A sad defect for so comely a girl. Look at that hair.” And he sniggered, leering at me with greedy eyes.

“Enough,” said the second one, grimmer-faced than the others. He shoved the joker aside. “The Sergeant will find her tongue
for her, sure enough. She’s slipped the net somehow. I doubt he’s cleared her yet.”

I knew what that meant. Like all the villagers, I would be questioned. I faced them, trying to control my fear, as they reached
out for me.

Then we all heard it, a pail clanging against wood inside the cow shelter.

Grimface jerked round. “Who’s in there?” he shouted. “Come out and show yourself!”

The soldiers’ hands were already on my shoulders, grasping the wool of my cloak, when a youth came clumping sheepishly round
the wall. It was Jethro Sim, and his jaw dropped to see me.

All the years of my life I’d never been so glad to see my old friend. I wrenched myself free and flung myself desperately
against his sturdy bulk. “Jethro! They’re taking me!”

The soldiers, confused, let me cling to Jethro while they looked at Grimface for guidance.

“We don’t like being spied on, boy,” he said curtly to Jethro.

“Truly, S-Sir,” stammered Jethro, “I wasn’t spying, but bringing the feed.” My heart sank a little to see how scared he looked,
his face as scarlet with shock as a guilty schoolboy’s.

Grimface scowled and jerked a thumb in my direction. “This girl here. She’ll not give her name, though it seems she can speak,
after all. Maybe you know it, boy.”

Above my head I heard Jethro clear his throat. “Aye, I know it, Sir. She’s Agnes Cotter.”

“She was riding this pony, and stole it too, most like,” said Grimface. He nodded at the other two impatiently. “What are
you waiting for? Take her to the Sergeant.”

As I clutched Jethro in even greater desperation, he cried out, “Aggie’s never stolen in her life! Why, she works over at
Murkmere. Would the Master have a thief in his employment, Sir?”

“I was given the use of the pony to ride here,” I said, courage coming to me at last, and I twisted around in order to impress
Grimface with my honest look. “Of course I’ve not stolen her. I’m companion to the Master’s ward.”

The mention of Murkmere and the Master appeared to work a miracle. Grimface hesitated. “Murkmere, eh?”

The other soldiers exchanged a glance, wary, impressed. An estate owner had to be a member of the Ministration. There was
a long, tense moment as we stood there in the half-melted snow, then abruptly Grimface shrugged. “You may go, Agnes Cotter.”

Jethro put his hand on my pony’s bridle and the soldier surrendered it reluctantly. Then we made away as fast as we could.
Neither of us looked back, but I knew they would be watching us. Once we were out of earshot, I tried to speak, but Jethro
held his finger to his lips warningly.

The village street was deserted, the muddy snow gouged and blackened by days of marching feet. A child’s pale face gazed ghostlike
from a cottage window. There were soldiers with rifles standing guard outside the door; their eyes flicked to watch us as
we hurried past. I knew that cottage was where Mother Dimity lived; she was a placid, simple soul, with not a rebellious bone
in her, and her husband the same. Yet it seemed that no one in the village had had the courage to protest on their behalf.

In the frozen sewer ditch that ran the length of the street, the fluttering black shapes of carrion crows tore at a dead rat.
I touched my amber when I saw the crows, but nothing would save the village now.

As I turned to go into our cottage, Jethro stopped me gently, and steered me toward his own, next door.

“I must see my aunt,” I said urgently, pulling away.

“Wait. I must talk to you. Your aunt’s well enough, don’t fear.”

“But I’ve run away from Murkmere,” I whispered. “They’ll be looking for me soon, Jethro.”

“You’ll be safe in my place a moment,” he said, and something in his face stopped my protests.

We left the mare out of sight from the street, tethered to a stake at the back of the cottage. Jethro’s father, white-headed
and witless, was sitting by the fire in the shadowy downstairs room. I nodded to him and tried to smile as he bared his gums
at me. Suddenly I was trembling again.