The other girls gasped and Wynn could not help smiling as the girl remembered the encounter. How could someone be so stupid to try it with Arabella? She was glad Arabella had frightened him and his gang of friends. The only problem was her own safety. The girls assessment of her rang in her ears, she looked weak and vulnerable and in no way the Foreseen. It was not surprising; she had in no way acted like it, she could not save Theodore or Rueben, or stop Byron from being captured. Her stomach was thick with guilt. She shook her head and found her way back to her room and threw herself onto her bed.
Wynn could not begrudge Nethali her doubt that she was the Foreseen when she had been so weak in the past, but it still stung her pride and confidence. She looked around the room and found her pack; inside was the small rebec Medea had given her. She took it out and ran the bow over the string randomly. She had never played a rebec before, but whatever note she sounded, no matter how wrong she knew it was the sound was always pure and sweet. Wynn began to sing a song Cook had sung to her as a child:
“Sleep my darling,
And dream of me
When the moon shines
Your smile I see
And when you are alone
Know you are free
Have no cares
Know no pain
Be safe my love
And dream of me
Happiness is all I wish
For the one that dreams of me”
Wynn looked down at her hands, watching them shake, and wept, wept for all those who had died, all those she could not have saved. She fell asleep where she lay, exhausted, tears still streaming down her face.
***
Byron tentatively touched his ribs. He could tell they were almost healed for gone was the searing, eye watering pain and now all that remained was a dull but insistent ache. The General had allowed him more food and water now his stomach had settled and his health depended on it. His ribs were checked daily by what seemed to be the ship’s physician, Byron had his suspicions about the man’s right to be called a physician, for every time he inspected Byron’s ribs he had poked just a little too hard and swayed a little too much for a sober, educated man. His breath more often than not smelt of strong spirits or cheaply produced metheglin.
Bryon knew now, and had known for a while, that his death would not be aboard this ship, he was treated too well for a man marked for death. The General would not waste his food, or time, on keeping him alive when he could just as easily slit his throat and throw him overboard. His life for now was safe, and he had become so indifferent to his treatment that boredom wracked his mind. He had taken to inspecting his cell-like room until it became so familiar he knew every crack in the wood, every splinter, every leak. His left arm was still shackled to the wall, but he had free reign of his right arm. Not that he could do anything, the shackle was steel, and through close inspection he found it was tightly screwed to the wall, and no amount of tugging would free it. Instead he felt the floor beneath him, receiving more than one splinter, and the wood behind him, searching for a slit that would mean his freedom. He never found one and so spent his days half awake, sleeping to pass the time and regain his strength. He was fed twice a day, salted beef, dry biscuits and a mug of ale.
Byron waited each day to reach The Rune. The General visited him from time to time, warning him of the horrors and the fate that awaited him. His visits had become comical, no harm was allowed to befall him and so if Byron spoke back to the General he could do nothing but shout and slam the door as he left. Byron did not know how long he had been aboard this ship, the journey to Terra had been a short one he was sure, the horses providing a quick method of transport, it could not have been more than three weeks. He had tried to keep track of the time spent at sea by marking the boards next to him but his nail had broken after thirty days.
Byron had also found that he had become used to the movement of the ship, the gentle bobbing when the weather had relented, or the violent rocking when the weather became harsh, which sent his stomach into spasms, so he instantly knew by the still of movement that they were stopping, and making port. They had been plagued by storms that had made him glad that he was confined to the small store room and not being soaked by the elements. Byron could tell from the conversations he caught from the men who talked outside his room that they were beginning to tire of sea travel. Now as he listened out for the men he heard them chattering excitedly of visiting the whorehouse and tavern. Where were they?
Before he had time to speculate his door was flung open and a man unshackled him, lifting him to his feet. He noticed that they were becoming less and less gentle with him now that his injury was healing. He was half dragged to the deck and saw they were making port on a small island. He guessed they were near to The Rune, stopping merely because they had run out of supplies. He followed the man down the plank and onto the harbour, his legs had gone to jelly and he looked around to find most of the men shaking and massaging their legs. He guessed it was because they had been at sea for so long that dry land seemed strange.
Ahead of him he saw a bustling town, women dressed provocatively sauntered around the men, in the broad daylight, leaning close to them and whispering in their ears. The smell of the crisp sea air was strange to Byron after so long breathing musty air and it made him feel quite ill. He inspected the town before him quickly knowing this may be his only chance of escape. It rose up in the distance, roads and houses winding off into the horizon. The whole town seemed to follow a circular layout, houses built round and around each other, taverns and inns placed in between. Far in the distance was the artisan’s region and it seemed to be the centre of the small island. Byron fancied he could smell the acidic tang of dyed leather and the sound of metal on metal from the blacksmiths. Along the pier were the homes of the captains and his seamen.
The sound of the soldiers rubbing their hands in glee and voicing their plans for the day dragged Byron back and he shivered in revulsion. The General signalled to the men to disperse and all separated wordlessly, this day was theirs and they could spend it how they pleased. Bryon was dragged to the nearest tavern – being put under the command of a less than pleased soldier – and plonked onto a seat next to him. Byron’s hands were tied together and after that the men began to drink. Byron was goaded and prodded for what seemed like hours, the men making him the butt of all their jokes. The beer never ran dry and as the morning wore on they became more and more intoxicated. Byron saw his chance and plotted quickly on how to take it.
The first obstacle was his bound hands, he could probably wiggle out of them eventually, but he did not have time, he would have to be cunning and trick one of the soldiers into untying him. From there it got increasingly more difficult. It would not have escaped the other patrons of the tavern that he had spent a good few hours stone cold sober and bound; he would have to get past the rowdy soldiers and the suspicious inhabitants. What he needed was a distraction. He did not get as far as planning one when a soldier, a dim-witted man who was the drunkest of them all cried:
“I feel a game of
cross and pile is in order men!”
Byron knew this was his chance to get the soldiers to untie him. He sat up straighter and watched as the intoxicated soldier produced a coin and turned to the man opposite, “Heads or tails?” he asked.
“Heads,” the man said, confident behind his tankard.
The soldier threw the coin in the air, catching it and pressing it down onto the back of his hand. He revealed it to the rest of the men who cheered, it had landed on a head and the first soldier had lost. He grumbled as he produced more coins and paid his opponent. Byron watched as three more games were played and took his chance.
“My grandmother could play a better game of cross and pile,” he snorted loudly, keeping his eyes firmly on the table. He was not foolish, this plan could go either way and a beating was not how he wished this day to finish. The men all stared at him in shock, their eyes bleary and their mouths twisted in a sneer.
“The stable boy thinks he can do better!” One shouted mockingly.
The soldiers all laughed and slapped their thighs at the joke and Byron let them, he had to act completely aloof for his idea to work and getting upset or mad at their insults would not help him.
“Aye, I think I can, but if you are too
scared
to try me –”
“Oh no lad,” the man opposite him cried, “we ain’t afraid of you, do you need another beating to prove it?” He raised his fists in warning.
Byron merely smiled and watched as the man opposite him faltered, “Fine,” he said, lowering his fists, “untie him and let’s see if he is so confident.”Byron knew this was his chance, he had to act quickly; he watched the man undo the tight knot in the rope that bound him, his fingers tingling as the blood returned. The same man took a coin from his pocket and glanced at Byron.
“Heads or tails?” he slurred.
“Heads,” Byron said confidently, and stood up and punched the man in the face. He fell back from his chair, knocking into the man beside him who in turn caused the man next to him to fall, the soldiers all toppled over like skittles. It would have been comical, had Byron not jumped clean across them, dodging through the closely packed tables and heading out of the door. Chaos reigned behind him but he did not stop, he
ran until his lungs burned and breathing was painful. He stopped beside an ally, walking into it and leaning against the wall to regain his breath. He was free for now, but he had to disguise himself or he would easily be found; there was more than enough witnesses in that tavern to send him straight back to the General.
He was not in the alley long before he was interrupted. “Oi, you! What you doing against ma pa’s shop!” A voice sounded from beside him. He spun worriedly and his hands rose in attack, but he found only a girl before him. She had her hand on her hip and was staring at him accusingly.
“Oh sorry, I – I was...” he began but had to stop. How was he to explain? He was a captive who had escaped from the army’s clutches and was on the run. The girl did not look dim-witted and so he went with the only line of thought he could think of, “I’m lost.”
“Aye,” the girl said sceptically, walking towards him, her lips pinched, “You better not think of stealing from my pa, he’ll break your legs like sticks.”
Byron nodded quickly and the girl began to walk away, “Wait!” he called.
The girl came back and eyed him, “What? I’m a busy girl.”
“Do you have a dagger?” Byron asked, his eyes pleading. The girl frowned and eyed him, looking for something in Byron’s personality or face that she evidently found for she handed him a dagger which had been hidden the folds of her dress. With a swift motion Byron cut his hair above the leather thong, the cut hair fell to the ground into a puddle of urine and water, lost forever. His long hair was now a messy uneven mop.
“What you do that for?” The girl said; her thick common accent was unusual to Byron’s ears and matched the ferocious expression on her face.
“I’m wanted by... some people.”
“What people? You a villain? We get them ships stopping here every so often; we’re told they contain murderers and to report any suspicious looking folk straight to the authorities.”
Byron suppressed the urge to groan, how was he to answer without causing suspicion? He decided the truth was the only option, or as much as he thought safe to reveal, “A friend of mine, she was attacked, I defended her and now I am being hunted.”
The girl stared at him for a long while, and Byron began to get anxious, any moment now the army could turn the corner and capture him straight back, he would never get this opportunity again. After a while the girl seemed to relax, Byron’s answer satisfying her curiosity and she motioned for him to follow her. He felt guilty, she was too trusting, he could have lied and if he was not an honourable man this girl would have been in considerable danger. They entered the shop he had been leaning against. It was empty, her father was down in the basement gauging from the loud clashes and obscenities floating through the shop. She took him upstairs, into a room and sat him down on a chair. He looked quickly around noting the whitewashed walls, bed, drawers and mirror. It seemed she had taken him to her bedroom. He had no time to feel embarrassed as she bustled around him. He studied her; her short blonde hair was hidden under a white scarf. She wore a long grey cotton dress with a white apron tied to the front. He forgot to look slyly for she turned around and looked at him quizzically.
“What the hell are you looking at?” She snapped. Byron looked at the ground, embarrassed that she had seen him studying her. She produced a razor from a drawer and began to expertly cut his hair, making it look neater. When she had finished she stepped away to admire her handiwork, nodding to herself. She then handed him the razor, “You might want to shave,” she said briskly motioning to the mirror. Below the sound of the shop door opened and she hurried downstairs to serve the customer. Byron walked up to the mirror and began to shave, it irritated his skin as he had no soap but he continued on, a few moments of irritation were far more welcome than a trip to The Rune.
The girl entered the room again after a while, holding a bundle of clothes and looked at him, “Aye, you look much different now, put these on,” she handed the clothes to him and left the room before Byron could thank her. He sighed and gratefully changed. The clothes were strange but comfortable, material of greys and browns. The girl entered again and nodded.