One
East coast England—September 1326
‘Success?’ Waleran called up, softly, inching forwards on his stomach.
From the top of the slope, Katerina smiled down at her friend, mouth curving generously in her pale, heart-shaped face, and held up her heavy satchel. ‘Success,’ she answered, tucking her catapult back into the bag. She moved down through the trees, the drab colours of her boy’s clothes blending in with the surrounding vegetation, loose, flapping garments that camouflaged her true sex. Her stomach growled at the prospect of eating roast rabbit for breakfast; the last time she had eaten meat had been three days ago. Since then, they had been ekeing out the last dusty contents of a sack of oats, watered down and cooked to make a sloppy gruel. John would be pleased with them; the rabbit was fat enough to feed at least half the circus troupe.
‘Come, let’s go.’ Waleran pulled his thin, wiry frame upwards, heavy dew darkening his patched tunic.
‘It’s still early.’ Katerina cocked her head on one side, grinning; her grey eyes sparkled. The sun peeked above the horizon, a crack of golden light firing the white birch trunks, touching the wisps of tawny hair that poked out from beneath her hood. She patted the bulge in her bag. ‘These rabbits will feed only half of us.’
Waleran shifted uncomfortably, hunching his shoulders. ‘I don’t want to risk it, Katerina. Even at this hour, the Earl’s men could be about; I don’t want to be caught poaching.’
Katerina snorted. ‘And when have we ever been caught? I doubt he’ll miss a couple of rabbits from his vast estates.’
‘Why not return to the camp along the beach?’ Waleran suggested. ‘At least the fish are free.’
‘All right, Waleran—’ Katerina tucked her arm through his ‘—we’ll do it your way this morning. Roast rabbit and fish, what could be better?’ She lifted small hands to pull her hood more firmly forwards, obscuring the brilliant colour of her hair.
An amused look crossed Waleran’s narrow features. ‘Have you forgotten?’ He stared pointedly at their linked arms. ‘Two boys, arm in arm, would certainly draw attention.’
‘Oh!’ Katerina clapped a hand to her mouth. Her laughter echoed out, sweet and clear, amongst the trees, against the slight breeze dislodging the occasional leaf from the branches spanned above their heads. ‘Forgive me, I forget sometimes.’
‘It’s for your own safety, Katerina.’ Waleran grinned at her, his gaze soft. Who could have known? he thought, as they walked through the forest, lapsed into a friendly silence, calf-length boots scuffing through the fallen leaves, kicking up the desiccated papery shapes. The daughter of a lord, no less, now sunk to the level of a common acrobat. None of the other entertainers, the jugglers and the jesters, the other acrobats, not one of them in the troupe had a clue about who she was, where she came from. All she wanted was a place to hide, to disappear.
Nearer the shore, the woodland trees grew sparser; the sound of waves breaking against shingle, then sucking back to lurch themselves forwards once more, reached their ears. The bent pines on the edge of the forest turned to scrubby blackthorn, bramble patches sprawling across shifting sands. The wind blew in from the east, keen and nippy, straight from the vast plains of the northern countries and Katerina hugged her arms about herself, against its cruel bite knifing painfully through her threadbare tunic, her worn chemise. Eyes watering against the wind, she turned towards the expanse of river estuary, salt marshes bisected by deep, muddy creeks, an immense sweep of mudflats, peppered with scores of pale-grey birds, yellow beaks bright against the dun-coloured mud.
Descending towards the salt marsh, they began to pick their way across, heading for the beach, the suck and crash of waves that landed on the shore in a boiling froth of foam. To their left, shallow cliffs, grass-topped, began to rise: sandy, amber-coloured flanks striated with clay. The wind snatched at Katerina’s cloak as they rounded the base of the cliff into the next bay, Waleran walking a little in front of her, playing the role of her protector, as always. He stopped suddenly, abruptly, staggering back, swinging one arm back to stop Katerina.
‘What...?’ she blurted out, confused by his unexpected halt.
And then she saw.
Further up the coast, bathed in the pinky-orange glow of morning, a fleet of maybe thirty ships clustered to the shore, coloured square sails flapping in the wind. Horses, muscled, shiny warhorses, their eyes rolling in fright at the prospect of entering the water, were being led down wooden ramps, pulled by their bridles through the foaming surf to the shore. Men, hundreds of men dressed in glittering chainmail, helmets obscuring their features, swarmed over the sides of the ship, running through the shallow sea to gather on the beach. Already, some had mounted up, swinging their horses about with a look of intent, orders shouted in a harsh guttural language.
‘Lord in Heaven!’ breathed Waleran. ‘Who are they?’
In the rising sun, the metallic shields of the soldiers shot back the light; it was difficult to decipher the colours. Heart thumping, Katerina screwed up her eyes, forced herself to focus on one shield only. Dark-blue background, gold fleur-de-lys. A gold crown above. Her stomach dropped, hollowed out in panic, and her legs began to shake.
‘It’s the Queen, Waleran,’ she managed to judder out. ‘Queen Isabella...of England.’ She touched a hand to her face, unsure, confused. ‘But I don’t understand. Those are not English knights...’
Waleran paled. He grabbed her hand. ‘This bodes ill, Katerina. We must run...and run fast, away from this place. It’s not safe.’
Heeding the wavering panic in Waleran’s voice, the warning, Katerina spun on her heel, leaping the ditch behind them with the easy agility of a deer, her tunic’s loose hem fluttering out over slim legs encased in woollen braies. Waleran paused, assessing the creek’s wide gap, wondering if he would make it.
‘Got you!’ a gruff voice echoed in his ear.
Something, someone, hauled roughly at his belt, dragged him unceremoniously backwards. All he could see was Katerina’s expression, white and stricken on the other side, the safe side of the creek, her mouth falling open in horror at whoever was behind him. Fear crawled in his gut; he had no intention of turning around.
A group of four or five soldiers clustered around her friend, the oldest and burliest of the group holding on to Waleran. There was no doubt as to their identity: gold fleur-de-lys glinted dully on their dark-blue cloaks and on their shields. Steel helmets obscured their faces, shining silver, the rest of their bodies clad in chainmail.
‘What’s in the bag, boy?’ The lead soldier indicated Katerina’s satchel, his eyes glinting out, narrow and mean, from the shadowed confines of his helmet.
‘Let my friend go and I tell you,’ Katerina replied. An angry helplessness swept over her as she watched Waleran’s futile struggles within the soldier’s burly grip. There was little point in her going to him; she hadn’t the physical strength to wrest him away, but every instinct in her body wanted to do it, to go there.
The soldier’s features darkened; he shook Waleran, but kept his eyes on Katerina. ‘Don’t play games with me, lad. You’re in no position to bargain. I ask you again, what’s in the bag?’ His voice was threatening.
One of the other soldiers, a younger one, shuffled uneasily. ‘Hey, Bomal, take it easy. We weren’t sent out to torture the locals, remember?’
‘Keep
