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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

An odour reminiscent of boiled cabbage permeated the air in the taproom of the
Ferret
. The inn had gone sadly downhill since Weaver had last passed through Halesworth. Back then, anyone who was worth knowing drank at the
Ferret
. A man could find out who was hiring, who was a bad payer, who would honour a contract – that was how Weaver had stumbled into Tresilian’s service in the first place. The shabby furniture didn’t appear to have changed since those days, but the faces were unfamiliar. And most of those appeared world-weary and suspicious. At least the ale was cheap. That probably accounted for the number of people still frequenting the place.

As Drew and Curtis settled at a table near the door a tall figure detached from a knot of drinkers at the back of the room. Weaver’s hand moved to his sword hilt before he recognised Blaine. The tall man ambled over to join them, grinning.

“We’d almost given you up. Finally outstayed your welcome at Highkell?” He slapped Weaver’s shoulder in greeting as he sat down with them.

“Welcome got a bit too warm.” Weaver sat on the bench opposite Blaine so he could see what was happening in the taproom. He straightened up to ease the biting pain over his ribs.

Blaine grimaced. “Like that, was it? The usurper’ll have to find himself a new plaything.”

“He has plenty of others to go at.” They’d left him one in the cell off the guardroom. They could have tried harder to free her. Weaver picked up his tankard. The beer was lifeless, the sudsy head dissipating as fast as it had formed.

Curtis swore and pulled a face. “This beer tastes like piss.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Blaine replied. “It does the job.”

Curtis glared at Blaine. “You’d know if you’d sat through an eight-month siege. Call yourself a soldier?”

Blaine grinned. “Just now the only thing I call myself is out of work.”

Weaver took a mouthful of his ale. Curtis was right, it tasted like nothing he wanted to drink. But it was cheap and wet, and now he’d paid for it he’d damned well drink it.

Curtis was glaring at Blaine, who was unbothered. Drew sat looking from one to the other, apparently uncertain what to make of Curtis’ sudden flare of temper.

A draught swilled across their table as the taproom door opened.

Blaine glanced at the newcomer and his grin widened. “Lyall. Look who just got in.”

Lyall frowned, until he caught sight of Weaver. He joined them at the table. "You managed it, Curtis? I'd buy you a drink if I had any money."

“Needn’t bother here,” Curtis grumbled. “Tastes bad enough to make a man give up.”

“No luck finding work, then?” Weaver slid the ale jug over to Lyall, who shook his head.

“No one’s hiring. Tresilian’s army was billeted here until Highkell fell, and they moved on without settling their debts. Or so they say. Everyone here’s out of food and out of charity.”

“But they were sent to Brigholm.” Weaver took an absent-minded mouthful of ale. “Did they never get that far?”

Lyall spread his hands wide. “That’s what they’re saying. This was always an army town, but they don’t want us around now.”

Blaine leaned over, speaking in a low voice. “I’ve heard there’s some lordling hiring further east – they could have gone there.”

Lyall made a dismissive gesture. “Doesn’t matter where they’ve gone if they’re not paying. Did nowt to help the rest of us who got stuck at Highkell.”

Curtis interrupted. “The way I heard it they were never called back. Not by Tresilian.”

“That’s mad.” Lyall drummed his fingers on the table. “He had two clear days before Vasic’s army reached the gates – plenty of time to send word. You told me yourself, Weaver.”

“True. But they’d have arrived too late to stop Vasic. Could still have caused some damage.” Weaver shrugged. “Messages go astray. The usurper had scouting parties doing his dirty work in the west, he might have had more in the east.”

Lyall scowled. “They left us high and dry. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they’re not paying their dues. I’m not trailing east after them on the off-chance they’ll honour what’s already owed us.”

Weaver recognised the weariness in Lyall’s face. “Sounds like you mean it.”

“Aye. Reckon I do.” Lyall drummed his fingers on the table again. “I’m getting too old for soldiering. And I’ve been too long from home.”

Home? What was that? Weaver swallowed another mouthful of the dire ale. It didn’t taste any better than the first had.

“See what I’ve had to put up with?” Blaine still grinned. “Tried to tell him it’s deserting, but he won’t have it.”

“If Tresilian still held the throne it would be.” Curtis set his empty tankard down on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“But he doesn’t, does he?” Lyall shook his head. “His widow would have done right by us, but she’s no better off than we are. She’s bought us our freedom, and I’m not wasting it. I’m going home.”

“We’re not all as old as you.” Curtis stood up, picked up the empty jug and headed for the bar to get a refill.

There was a dull ache behind Weaver’s eyes. Home represented too many things he didn’t want to think about. He downed the remaining contents of his tankard in one. It tasted bad, but it might still take the edge off if he swallowed enough of it.

“What about you, Weaver? You’re a northerner, bred and born.” Lyall watched him. “You still have a fancy to go back to farming? I have that patch of land to work.”

“Not thought about it for a long time.”

“Think about it now. The packhorse route through the mountains will be clear. No need to go near Highkell.”

Weaver had never had any interest in working the family farm alongside his father. They’d both been a disappointment to one another as Weaver grew up. Their last contact had been several years ago when, in the first flush of delight, Weaver had sent news of his wedding. His father’s reply had been a litany of self-pity: since his son hadn’t chosen a northern girl he’d likely never see his own grandchildren – assuming Weaver survived his soldiering career long enough to make any. Weaver hadn’t even bothered to tell him of his wife’s death. He had no idea now if the man was still alive, or had joined his mother at last in the village graveyard.

Weaver set his tankard down, twisting it about. “I always swore I wouldn’t go back without a scrip full of coin.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’ve unfinished business here.”

“What, with a barrel of bad eastern ale?” Lyall shook his head. “I’ve had my fill. I’m setting off in the morning.”

“I’m a better soldier than a farmer. If there’s a lord rallying opposition to the usurper I’ll serve him.”

Lyall shook his head again. “I’m telling you, it’s a lost cause.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Weaver shrugged. He wasn’t concerned about weighing the odds, not this time. This time it was personal.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Alwenna threw open the guardroom door. A startled guard spun round, a guilty expression on his face. The fingers of his left hand were still closed about a serving maid’s arm. He relaxed for an instant as he saw it wasn’t Hames about to tear a strip off him, then his eyes widened as he realised he was gaping at his erstwhile prisoner. His confusion was delicious.

“Close your mouth lad, or you’ll catch flies.” Alwenna smiled. “The pair of you should show deference to your betters.”

The maidservant curtseyed to the ground, bowing her head. The guard gaped at Alwenna a moment longer before reaching for his sword. His hand moved slower and slower until it halted halfway to the scabbard. His eyes widened as he folded at the waist and bowed in a passable imitation of a courtier.

“You show commendable sense.” The air was rank with his fear and she drew it into her nostrils as if it were the sweetest of rose scents. It was delicious, intoxicating. But they were a distraction. She had no business toying with some poor guard and his girl, not while her cousin went unchecked. She left them behind as she climbed the stairs leading up to the great hall.

The two soldiers at the entrance stepped forward, blocking her path to the door. She willed it otherwise and they seemed to melt back as she drew nearer, lowering their heads. One man reached forward and pushed open the door, bowing as she swept past him. This was her due, was it not?

Vasic was in the great hall, seated at the top table on the raised dais at the eastern end, presiding over a meal with some dignitaries or other. Vasic appeared to be unwell: his face had an unhealthy pallor while his eyes had a strangely sunken look to them. And his cheeks were gaunter than the day he’d cornered her in her bedchamber. Had he taken some infection from his injury? No, she could see the scar protruding from his hairline, red still but healing. More was the pity.

Vasic raised his head as he became aware of her approach. People ranged along the tables at either side twisted round to follow her progress, but none tried to interfere. She felt lightheaded, wanted to laugh out loud, to mock Vasic for a fool. Was that a shout behind her? No matter. Her business was with Vasic.

Her cousin’s eyes widened, then he half rose from his seat, resting his hands on the table before him as if he needed the support. Alwenna saw his mouth moving, but his words failed to reach her. A pain rose up in her forehead, building and building until it resonated through her skull and blocked out everything around her. A haze danced before her eyes, obscuring everything around her until she had no idea where her foot would land when she placed it in front of her. She raised her hands in front of her eyes but couldn’t see them, couldn’t even feel them until she dug her nails into the flesh of her own face. Darkness enclosed her, blotting out every sound. She dropped into oblivion.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The city of Brigholm sprawled across the floodplain. It had long since spread beyond the confines of the ancient walls, but the walls there had never been built for defence. They’d been built to ensure tolls were collected from travellers crossing the twin bridges to buy or sell at the market on the island in the middle of the river. Weaver had never planned to return to the place. Any fond memories he held of his years there had been wiped out by his wife’s death. And now, the further east they travelled, the more he was haunted by thoughts of her. Sure, he’d avenged her and their unborn child’s death, and the shame Stian had brought upon her. But his feelings for one of Stian’s kinfolk had to be disloyal to her memory, however distant that kinship.

Weaver had half expected to see an army bearing Tresilian’s standards camped on the plain, even though they’d passed no sign of them on the road. Somehow an entire army had disappeared like smoke on a breeze. Instead all they found were merchant encampments, and farmers who’d travelled some distance to sell their produce. Many of them seemed to be doing a lively – if illegal – trade without paying to cross to the island. All well and good until the city watch ventured out. The four travellers paid their modest dues and crossed the first bridge, setting up camp at the southern end of the island as was normal practice for the less wealthy.

The beer in Brigholm was at least better than in Halesworth. Just as well, since it was also a deal more expensive. Since entering the
Three Tuns
a few hours earlier they’d worked their way through a fair bit of the money taken from the fallen guards, but Weaver was no closer to taking the edge off anything but his tolerance for his companions’ jokes. Maybe it was time to leave.

A bedraggled group of women had been eyeing them from a table in the corner. The youngest chose that moment to stroll over to their table and try her luck, smiling and pouting. One look at Weaver’s expression was enough to make her turn her attention elsewhere. Her smile broadened when she got a good look at Drew: younger – and cleaner – flesh than she’d normally find at the
Three Tuns
. She pressed up beside the youth, all smiles and invitation, but he flushed deep scarlet and stammered something inaudible in reply.

Curtis cheered up. “What’s your rate, love?”

The girl smiled and pouted some more as she told him an extortionate figure.

Curtis grinned. “Too rich for my blood.”

She wiggled her curves again. Even Weaver couldn’t deny she was pretty. “Well, sir, it’s still early. I could give you a discount for a quick one.”

“And you’re lovely enough to tempt the very saints. But they likely have more money than me.” Curtis made much of his disappointment. Weaver had seen the strategy work in the past, but even young as she was this one wouldn’t be fooled into handing it out for next to nothing.

Blaine watched with amusement. “How about the young lad here – let him dip his wick for free, first time round? He’s good-looking enough, surely?”

The girl fluttered her eyelashes coyly at Drew. “We could come to some arrangement, I’m sure.”

“No, no.” There was more than a hint of panic about Drew now. “I wouldn’t dream of offending you – I can’t afford your full price.”

Blaine laughed. “What say we all chip in for young Drew here?” He tossed a couple of coins on the table, and Curtis followed suit. The girl scooped up the coins and smiled enticingly at Drew.

The expression on Drew’s face was one of abject horror. “No, really, it wouldn’t be right.”

She pouted and slid a hand beneath the table. “Come on. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get custom soon.”

Drew jumped to his feet, spilling his drink, and bolted for the door. Curtis and Blaine guffawed with laughter, and the girl withdrew, her face almost as scarlet beneath the powder as Drew’s. She returned to her seat in the corner, favouring the three of them with murderous glares as she muttered to her two companions.

Weaver had finished his ale. Drew still hadn’t returned, but there was little point staying in the tavern. If they were lucky their clothes might not yet be infested by whatever wildlife lurked in the straw covering the beaten-earth floor.

The barman wandered over to their table and picked up Drew’s abandoned tankard. “Are you done with those? If I were you,” he paused and sniffed for emphasis, “I’d be making my way for wherever it is you call home.” He nodded his head towards the girl who was now deep in conversation with two middle-aged men. Every so often they glanced towards the table where Weaver and his companions sat.