she answered quietly. ‘My maid told me about it. Bragged, actually, of how the lad she is to marry was right in the thick of it, getting rid of the Piebald. That’s what they call them in this valley. Piebalds.’
The river wind blew between us. ‘So you came out here …?’
‘To see what was left to be seen. Which isn’t much. I feared it might be our prince, but –’
‘No.’ Nighteyes was leaning heavily against me, and I shared what we both suspected. ‘But I think it was one of his companions.’
‘If you know that much, then you know the others fled.’
I hadn’t known that, but I was shamefully relieved to hear it. ‘Were they pursued?’
‘Yes. And the men who chased them off have not returned yet. Some chased, some stayed to kill the one they had caught. It is planned that the ones who did this,’ and she indicated the rope and the fire circle with a disdainful kick, ‘will ride out in the morning. There is some anxiety that their friends have not returned yet. Tonight they’ll drink, and build up both their courage and anger. Tomorrow they’ll ride.’
‘Then we had best ride out before them, and swifter.’
‘Yes.’ Her glance travelled from me to Nighteyes and back again. We both looked around at the trampled ground and the dangling rope and the burned out-place. It seemed as if there should have been something for us to do, some gesture to make, but if there was, it escaped me.
We walked back to the inn together in near silence. I marked her dark garments and the soft-soled boots she wore, and once again I thought that Queen Kettricken had chosen well. I dirtied the night with a question whose answer I dreaded. ‘Did she tell you many details? How or why they were attacked, if the boy and the cat were with them?’
Laurel drew a deep breath. ‘The one they killed was not a stranger. He was one of their own, and they had suspected him of beast-magic for a long time. The usual stupid stories … that when other lambs died of the scours, his survived. That a man angered him, and after that, the man’s chickens died off. He came to town today with strangers, one a big man on a warhorse, one with a cat riding behind him. The others with him were also known to these folk, boys who had grown up on outlying farms. There are usually dogs at the inn. The innkeeper’s son keeps rabbit-hounds, and he had just returned from the hunt. The dogs were still excited. At the sight of the cat, the dogs went mad. They surrounded the horse, leaping and snapping. The man with the cat – our prince, most likely – drew his blade to defend the cat, and slashed at the hounds, cutting an ear off one. But that was not all he did. He opened his mouth wide, and snarled, hissing like a cat.
‘At the commotion, other men boiled out of the inn. Someone shouted “Piebald!” Another cried for a rope and a torch. The man on the warhorse laughed at them, and put his horse to kicking out at both dogs and men. One man was kicked to the ground by the horse. The mob responded with rocks and curses, and more men came out of the tavern. The Piebalds broke the circle and tried to ride off, but a lucky stone caught one of the riders on the temple and knocked him from his saddle. The mob closed on him, and he yelled at the others to ride. The girl made them all out to be cowards for fleeing, but I suspect that the one they caught delayed the mob so his companions could escape.’
‘He bought the Prince’s life with his own.’
‘So it would seem.’
I was silent for a moment, tallying my facts. They had not denied what they were. None of them had attempted to placate the mob. It was confrontational behaviour, a harbinger of things to come. And one of their company had sacrificed himself, and the others had accepted it as necessary and right. That indicated not only the value they placed on the Prince, but deep loyalty to an organized cause. Had Dutiful been won to their side? I wondered what role these ‘Piebalds’ had assigned to the Prince, and if he concurred in it. Had Dutiful accepted that the man should die for him? Did he ride on, knowing the man they left behind faced an agonizing death? I would have given much to know that. ‘But Dutiful was not recognized as the Prince?’
She shook her head. The night was growing darker around us and I felt more than saw the movement.
‘So. If the others caught up with him, they would not hesitate to kill him.’
‘Even knowing he was the Prince would not delay them. The hatred of the Old Blood runs deep here. They would think they were cleansing the royal line, not destroying it.’
Some small part of me marked that she called them Old Blood now. I did not think I had heard her use the phrase before. ‘Well. I think time becomes even more precious.’
‘We should ride on tonight.’
The very thought made me ache. I no longer had the resilience of youth. In the past fifteen years, I had grown used to regular meals and rest every night. I was tired and sick with dread of what must come when we caught up with the Prince. And my wolf was weary beyond weariness. I knew it was a false strength that moved his limbs now. Soon, his body would demand rest, no matter how hard the circumstances. He needed food and healing time, not to be dragged on tonight.
I’ll keep up. Or you’ll leave me behind and do what you must.
The fatalism in the thought shamed me. The sacrifice was too close to what a young man had done today for a prince. The inarguable truth was that once more I spent all our strength for a king and a cause. The wolf yielded up the days of his life to me for an allegiance he understood only in terms of his love for me. Black Rolf had been right all those years ago. It was wrong of me to use him so. I made a child’s promise to myself that when this was over, I would make it up to him somehow. We would go somewhere he wanted to go, and do something he longed to do.
Our cabin and the fireside. That would be enough for me.
It is yours.
I know.
We returned to the inn by a roundabout path, avoiding the better-travelled roads of the village. In the dark of the innyard, she put her mouth close to my ear. ‘I’ll slip up to my room to pack my things. You wake Lord Golden and let him know that we must ride.’
She disappeared into the shadows near the back door. I made my own entrance through the front, presenting the scowling face of a chastised servant as I hastened through the main room. The hour was late now and the mood more one of brooding than celebration. No one took notice of me. I made my way to our room. Outside the door, the sounds of argument reached me. Lord Golden’s voice was raised in aristocratic fury. ‘Bedbugs, sir! Thick as swarming bees. I’ve most delicate skin. I cannot stay where such vermin thrives!’
Our landlord, garbed in nightshirt and cap and clutching a candle, sounded horrified. ‘Please, Lord Golden, I’ve other bedding, if you would –’
‘No. I shall not spend the night here. Prepare an accounting immediately.’
I knocked on the door. At my entrance, Lord Golden transferred his temper to me. ‘There you are, you worthless scoundrel! Out carousing, I don’t doubt, while I’ve had to pack my own things and yours as well. Well, make yourself useful in some way! Run and knock on Huntswoman Laurel’s door and tell her we must leave immediately. Then roust the hostler and have our horses made ready. I cannot spend the night at an inn infested with vermin!’
I hastened away from the innkeeper’s insistence that he ran a good, clean inn. In a surprisingly short time, we found ourselves outside and
