EARLY IN THE AFTERNOON, LONG BEFORE THE SHADOWS began to lengthen, Maddie slipped away from the village and walked out to the spot where Bumper was waiting. Will had taken Tug, of course, so her black-and-white horse was alone in the small clearing a little way off the road. She had worried about this, but Bumper seemed quite content with his own company.
She brushed him down and fed him two apples. A small stream ran near the clearing and she took the water bucket and filled it for him. Of course he could have drunk from the stream, but it was visible from the road and there was a chance that he might be seen by any casual passersby.
Or any who were not so casual, she thought, considering the stories she had been told in the past twenty-four hours. She was glad she had visited Bumper while it was still full daylight. She would have been too nervous to walk out to the clearing after dark. She hurried back to the village while there was still plenty of light.
After sunset, troubled by the story of the evil and mysterious Stealer, Maddie was glad to spend the night in the inn. The attic room she had been given had a stout door with a good lock on it. That gave her a certain sense of security. But she was still nervous and tended to jump at any unexpected noise. The sound of footsteps on the stairs would make her freeze, head cocked to one side and listening attentively. Even though logic told her they probably belonged to Jerome or his wife, or another member of the inn’s staff, she would keep one hand close to the hilt of the saxe knife, hanging over the bedhead, until she heard them move away again.
As Will suggested, she offered to help in the kitchen and her offer was
gladly accepted. Aside from anything else, it gave her a few hours in the company of other people, and the noise and bustle of the busy kitchen was a welcome change from the little room at the top of the stairs.
Jerome watched approvingly as she bundled her hair up under a headscarf, donned an apron and began scraping the greasy platters, then plunging them into a large iron cauldron of soapy water suspended over the kitchen fire. She would then scrub them thoroughly with a long-handled wooden brush. After a few minutes, her face was red and damp from the steam, and her arms were coated with soapsuds up to the elbows. When the washing-up was done, she busied herself sweeping the kitchen and the taproom. She was still at it when the last customers made their way out, calling their farewells to the innkeeper. A few of them muttered pleasantries to her as well. They’d seen how hard she had been working and they admired such industry.
It was still relatively early when the tavern emptied out. It was a weeknight, after all, and country folk went to bed and rose early.
Jerome entered the taproom as she finished sweeping and put the broom away in its cupboard. He moved to the front door and shot the two heavy iron bolts across to lock it—one near the top and the other at the bottom of the door. He glanced at her and smiled reassuringly.
“I’ll bolt the kitchen door too, once Emma and Ted have gone,” he said.
He assumed she might be nervous with her father away and he wanted to reassure her. He liked her. She had worked hard through the night. Even though he would charge Will for a night’s accommodation in the stable—
after all, their handcart and their belongings were stored there—he decided he would pay Maddie a few coins for her work.
Maddie smiled at him. The doors were solid oak, with the inside reinforced by a second layer of planks, set diagonally to the outside layer.
The tavern, after all, held a lot of valuable items—wine and ale and food, not to mention the money that had been paid across the bar during the evening. It was probably the most secure building in the village.
The cook and the kitchen hand, Emma and Ted, said their good nights and left for their homes. Jerome went into the kitchen and locked the door that led into the stable yard. He moved around the big, low-ceilinged room, pinching out the candles and blowing out the one large lantern that hung from the central beam. The only light now came from the fireplace. The fire had been banked down and cast flickering shadows into the corners. That left only
Jerome and his wife, Tildy, in the inn with Maddie. The innkeeper and his wife had a small suite of rooms that took up half the first floor of the building, leaving room for an additional three bedrooms for guests. Maddie’s room was on the next floor up, under the sloping ceiling of the attic.
“Time for bed, Maddie,” Jerome told her. “Be careful with your candle now. Make sure it’s out before you go to sleep.”
After the cheerful noise and bustle of the evening, the inn seemed strangely silent as Maddie mounted the stairs to her room. She carried a candle with her, in a pewter tray, shielding its open flame with her free hand as she went upstairs. The inn was riddled with drafts and the night was cold.
The attic was positively icy. None of the heat from the ground floor seemed to penetrate here, and she shivered as she pulled her dress over her head. She hesitated, then delved into her pack and took out her breeches and jerkin, pulling them on over her shirt. There was a thick pair of socks in there, and she pulled them on too. When she finally lay down and pulled the two thin blankets up to her chin, she felt passably comfortable, if not exactly warm. The wind had risen during the night, and it whistled round the upper floors of the inn, seeking out the many cracks that would give it entry and shaking the walls and rattling the small attic window with its heavier gusts.
“A good night to be inside,” she told herself. Of course, the wind set off a myriad of small noises, with the timbers of the house creaking and groaning as they moved and rubbed together. Just as she would become accustomed to the pattern of sounds, a new one would arise and set her teeth on edge. Then she would listen for several minutes, lying tensed under the blankets, until she was sure the new noise was nothing sinister.
Lying wide-eyed while the wind pounded the walls, she reached up behind her head to where the belt holding her saxe was hanging over the head of the bed. She unhooked it and placed the weapon under her pillow, her hand resting on the hilt.
Comforted by the feel of the heavy weapon, she finally nodded off.
And woke.
Her eyes shot open, but other than that, she showed no movement. Apart from a momentary hesitation, her breathing remained the same—deep, even and rhythmic. Will had trained her to wake at the slightest sensation that danger might be present, but to do so with the smallest possible outward signs. Hurriedly, she closed her eyes again, leaving only the smallest slit between her eyelids to see through.
She sensed a presence in the room. Someone, or something, was standing by her bed. She was lying on her right side, facing away from the door, her right hand touching the hilt of her saxe under the pillow.
Whatever or whoever was in the room was behind her, out of her field of vision. She didn’t know how she knew it was there. She could hear no breathing, no small movements. Outside, the wind still battered at the window and walls.
But she could sense something there. Something close. Something malevolent.
“You awake, girl. I know you awake. Don’t move. Don’t try to turn over.
And leave whatever is under your pillow where it is.”
The voice was a hoarse, croaking whisper. The speaker sounded foreign
—Maddie could detect an accent and he had said “you awake,” rather than
“you’re awake.” She lay rigid under the blankets, not daring to move. She wanted to whip over, drawing the saxe as she went, and strike out. But she couldn’t find the will to do it. Now she heard a low rustle of clothing as the speaker moved slightly. How did he get in? The front door and the kitchen door were bolted solidly. And her room was locked as well.
She realized there was no future in trying to answer that question. He was here, and that was all there was to it.
“You been asking questions, girl,” the voice croaked. “That not healthy.
Not healthy for you. Not healthy for that village boy you’ve been talking to.”
Her heart lurched with fear—for herself, and for David. David was vulnerable and virtually unprotected. His parents were simple villagers.
Probably brave enough, but not fighters.
“You know what happen to people who talk about the Stealer. You don’t want that happening to you friend. Or to you. So keep you trap shut.
Understand?”
She said nothing, not knowing whether to admit she was awake or not.
The silence became unbearable.
“I said, understand?” the intruder repeated. Obviously, he wanted a response. She tried to speak but her mouth was dry with fear. Finally, she managed to say in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
“I understand.”
Again, she heard a slight sound of movement. Then to her relief, she realized that the man was moving away from her.
“Make sure you do,” that horrible voice continued. She heard the soft
click of her door latch as he carefully lifted it. He was going, she thought, and relief flooded through her. The hinges squeaked as the door opened, then he spoke again.
“Don’t look after me. And don’t try to follow me. I’ll know if you do.
And the Stealer will come for you one dark night.”
She shivered. The faceless threat of the Stealer, the horror of the very name, made her blood run cold. The door closed quietly and the presence, whoever it was, was gone.
For at least twenty seconds, she lay motionless, paralyzed by fear. Then, slowly, fear began to be replaced by anger. She wasn’t a helpless child, to be frightened by a voice in the dark. She was an apprentice Ranger! She had been trained to use her saxe, her throwing knife, her bow and her sling. She had been trained to fight without weapons if necessary. She was a member of a proud and highly skilled Corps. And she was its first female member! If she were to lie here now, quaking under the blankets at the sound of a croaky-voiced foreigner who didn’t dare show his face, and who threatened her with some vague character out of a horror story, she would be letting down the Corps. And she would be proving that all those doubters (and she knew there were many) who said a girl didn’t have what it took to make it as a Ranger were right!
It was the last thought that galvanized her into action. She swung her legs off the bed, bringing the saxe out from under the pillow. She was already dressed. The cold night air had seen to that. She started for the door, then hesitated. Her sling and the saxe’s scabbard belt were looped over the bedhead. Along with the scabbard, the belt held her shot pouch, with twenty lead shot nestled inside. She scooped both up, putting the belt over her shoulder and sheathing the saxe as she did so. The sling remained in her right hand, ready for action. As she opened the door, her left hand was scrabbling in the shot pouch for one of the smooth, heavy lead projectiles.
She loaded the shot into the sling and made her way softly down the stairs, placing her weight to the sides, close to the walls, to minimize movement and creaking. In the taproom she glanced round quickly. The window was gaping open, its simple lock bent and distorted. That was how the intruder had entered, she realized. The front door was also slightly ajar.
She hurried across to it now, went to throw it open, then hesitated.
Her heart was racing and she realized that it would be foolish to plunge headlong out the door. The intruder could be watching and waiting to see if
she had followed him. Instead, she opened it a crack and slipped through the opening, staying close to the wall, in the dark shadow of the low-hanging eaves.
She glanced around the street, eyes straining for some sign of movement.
Nothing. She cursed quietly. Had he escaped in the time that she was lying, quaking in fear, under the blankets? She didn’t see how he could have. She hadn’t taken that long to gather the resolve to come after him. Her eyes raked the shadows of the street and she thought she saw a blur of movement forty meters away, in the narrow alley between two houses.
As she did, she felt a stabbing pain in her stockinged foot as she trod on a sharp stone.
Gasping in pain, she bent over to seize her foot in a reflex action—and saved her life by doing so.
Something heavy whirred over her head and thudded into the wood of the door frame behind her. Now she could see her attacker more clearly. He was a dark shape in a gap between two houses, and as she watched, his arm went back, preparing to throw another projectile.
Her training clicked into place. She straightened up and reacted to the threat without thinking. Arm back, step forward, then whip the sling over and through. The lead shot flashed away on its journey, and a fraction of a second later, she saw the man’s arm jerk forward as he threw in his turn.
Instinctively, she dropped flat to the ground.
The shot, with the extra impetus of the sling to propel it, hit its target first.
She heard an ugly, meaty smack and a muted cry of pain from her attacker as it struck home. Then the dark figure staggered, threw out his arms and crashed over on his back. A second later, the projectile he’d thrown slammed into the door behind her, a meter and a half above where she lay prone.
She rose, her eyes intent on the dark shape on the ground. Automatically, she loaded another shot into the sling and moved toward him, placing her feet carefully, making as little noise as possible. She felt horribly exposed as she moved into the open street, where the pale moonlight suddenly seemed to be as bright as day. She followed a curving path as she approached him, looping out to the right, then coming back in. That way, if he was foxing and suddenly sat up, she wouldn’t be where he expected her.
A part of her mind wondered at the effortless way she had carried out the sequence of actions. Responding to the attack, dropping flat, now moving in a half circle to approach him, the sling dangling, ready for use, from her right
hand and slightly behind her. They were all things that had been dinned into her head over and over again in her lessons with Will.
The man didn’t move as she got closer. She paused a few meters away.
She could see no sign of movement, no sign that he was still breathing. She realized that at close range, the sling would be useless. She stuffed it quickly into a pocket and drew the saxe. The soft whisper of steel on leather and wool was strangely comforting.
She circled round him, staying out of reach of his arms and legs, and moved closer. She knelt by him and she could see the wound on his forehead.
His eyes were wide-open and staring and she knew he was dead.
For a moment, she was numb with horror. Then her stomach lurched as she realized that she had killed a man. She wanted to be ill but she controlled herself with an effort, and sat back on her haunches to study him. She had reacted instinctively when she hurled the shot at him. It was an automatic reaction—and one of self-preservation and self-defense. She hadn’t had time to think of the possible result. The man had already tried to kill her with the first missile he threw. He was about to throw a second. If she hadn’t retaliated, it was she who would be lying dead now. She remembered how his second missile had whizzed overhead, remembered the vicious thuds as both missiles had slammed into the inn doorway.
It had been him or her. As she considered the fact, remembering how he had threatened her and tried to terrify her to gain her silence, and then twice tried to murder her, she found she couldn’t regret her actions. She did what she had to do.
He was dressed all in black. A black woolen skull cap. Black trousers tucked into black felt boots, and a black woolen shirt under a short, waist-length cloak with a high collar. A black leather belt around his waist held a long, curved-bladed dagger in a sheath. He had dark hair and a dark, drooping mustache—uncommon among Araluen men—and his skin was swarthy.
Under the cloak, she could see a leather strap crossing his chest diagonally. She moved the cloak aside with the point of her saxe and revealed a flat leather satchel hanging by his left side. It was impossible to remove it easily, encumbered as it was by the cloak and the fact that he was lying on the strap where it crossed his back.
She slipped the saxe under the strap and sliced easily through it, then tugged the satchel clear.
Inside were a few personal effects: a few coins and a small, short-bladed knife that might be used for eating, an iron spoon, a flint and steel. Her interest was piqued by two cross-shaped items. She took one out carefully and examined it. It consisted of a heavy brass disk, with four blades set around its circumference at right angles to each other. The blades were approximately eight centimeters long. Their edges were smooth but the points were razor-sharp.
“A quattro,” she muttered. She had seen one once before, in the armory at Castle Araluen. They were an Iberian weapon—an assassin’s weapon—
designed for throwing. With four blades spinning rapidly through the air, it was almost certain that one would strike and penetrate the target. She realized that this was what had whizzed over her head and thudded into the tavern door. She shook her head slowly. Thank providence for that sharp stone in her foot, she thought.
As she replaced the quattro, she heard the rustle of papers and discovered a second compartment at the rear of the satchel. She pulled it open and looked inside. There were several folded sheets there.
“We’ll look at those later,” she said softly, then stood, considering what she should do about the dead man.
In the end, she decided to leave him where he lay.
If she roused the village now, there would be questions asked. How had she managed to overcome a grown man—and one armed with a long dagger and a pouch full of quattros? What was she really doing here? What was in the papers she found on him?
Inevitably, her real identity, and Will’s, would be discovered. It would become obvious that he was not a harmless itinerant worker but a King’s Ranger. And that would give a warning to the Stealer and his gang that they were being pursued.
If that were the case, they might slip away to another fief, and Will and Maddie would lose track of them.
If she left him here, his friends might well wonder what had become of him. They might hear that he was found dead in the village high street. But they would have no idea how it had come about. They might suspect. But they wouldn’t know.
Coming to a decision, she scanned the surrounding ground, finally catching a dull gleam of metal in the moonlight. It was the lead shot she had hurled at him. She retrieved it, then turned and walked quickly back to the
inn, pausing to prize the two quattros from the timber of the door frame. Then she slipped back upstairs to the attic, after locking the door and window into the taproom.
She was awoken early the following morning by a hubbub in the street.
Peering out her narrow window, she saw a small crowd gathered round the still, black-clad figure. He had been discovered by a dairyman, on his way to bring his cows in from the village green for milking. He had raised the alarm and now eight or nine villagers clustered round the mysterious dead man.
They wondered aloud where he had come from and what had happened to him. His black clothing and weapons indicated that he had been up to no good.
Eventually, he was placed on a litter and carried to one of the houses.
They would arrange a burial later.
His presence, his purpose and his death were a mystery. And in a small village where extraordinary events rarely happened, it would be a topic of conversation and speculation for months, perhaps years, to come.
But among all the theories that were discussed, nobody ever associated him with the young girl in the attic of the inn.
