Bedtime Story (3 page)

His laugh faded when he saw the wood in the boys’ hands.

The fight was quick and dirty, and left the two men in sodden heaps in the muck of the alley.

“Is that true?” his mother’s question jarred Matthias out of his reverie, but she wasn’t talking to him. She had turned to confront Arian.

The girl paused a moment, not able to meet the older woman’s gaze. Finally, she nodded.

“You should have told me,” she said, in a voice as close to understanding as Matthias could ever recall hearing. “I would have taken a round or two out of them myself. You need never tolerate that, do you understand?”

Arian kept her eyes on the ground, looking more uncomfortable with the sympathy than she would have been with Mareigh’s temper.

Tamas sighed and deflated a little, obviously relieved.

Matthias, though, knew that it was not yet over.

“And as for you,” his mother said, rounding on him. “What business is it of yours if some customers have a little fun at the expense of the help?”

“She was—”

“That is her business. And mine. It has nothing to do with you.”

She took a long look at his face, and he willed himself to be stony, to give nothing away. But she had seen something. And she did not like what she saw.

“Unless—”

A furious pounding at the front door seemed to shake the whole tavern.

“Open in the name of the King.”

“Matthias,” Mareigh whispered hoarsely, turning toward the front room.

“Mother, I didn’t …”

She shook her head. “I’ve told you your temper was going to be the end of you.” She looked at the serving girl, who shrank under her gaze, and back at Matthias. “You’ve brought this down on all of us.”

He could barely breathe.

Mareigh tied on a fresh apron. “I’ll get the door, and pretend that I don’t know exactly why they’re here. You two”—she looked at Matthias and Tamas—“take the back door. Don’t go home,” she said sternly to Tamas. “They’ll be looking for you as well. Find a place, maybe on the shore, to wait this out.”

Matthias was stunned; the idea of running from the King’s Men had not occurred to him, and now to have his mother suggest it …

“Go,” she snapped, pushing her way through the swinging door into the tavern.

He didn’t move. What was she doing? She had worked so hard to build this place, and now she was suggesting that he run. It could ruin her. If anyone even suspected that she had helped in his escape, the Royal Fiat that allowed her to run the tavern on the island, inside the walls, would disappear like a night of drink. How could he have been so stupid?

But then he looked upon Arian, and he realized that he’d really had no choice. He would do it all again, and damn the consequences.

Her eyes were wide and dark, shining against her ivory skin. She was looking at him as if she was about to cry.

Tamas tugged at his sleeve. “Matthias, come on,” he whispered frantically.

He could hear his mother shouting, “All right, all right, give a poor woman a chance …”

Matthias wanted to go to Arian, to say something to comfort her, but there was no time.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They ran out the back door and retraced their steps, again not bothering with the gate. It seemed like hours since they had tumbled over the stone wall. This time they pushed themselves over it—

—and into a small group of King’s Men, facing them in an orderly row.

Waiting for them.

The captain of the King’s Men stepped forward. “I command you halt, in the name of the King.”

The soldiers lowered their halberks toward the boys, backing them
against the wall with the gleaming metal blades, then herded them into the tavern kitchen.

Mareigh was already sitting down, her hands on the table in front of her. Arian was sitting beside her; she bit her lip as Matthias walked through the door.

More of the King’s Men stood surrounding the table, their halberks at their sides.

When Mareigh saw her son, her face fell.

They had caught him anyway.

“Matthias,” the captain said, grasping the boy’s sleeve. “Take a chair.”

Matthias shook off the captain’s grip, then stumbled as the captain pushed him onto the bench across from his mother. How did the captain know his name?

The captain turned to Tamas. “You, boy.” Tamas wilted under his gaze. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the stables?”

Tamas looked blank at the question, then nodded.

“Then I suggest you hie yourself over there and not give the master further cause for a whipping.”

Tamas barely hesitated. Matthias watched his friend race out the back door—it was only right. Following the men from the tavern, the beating in the alley—it had all been Matthias’s fight. It was better that Tamas avoid the consequences.

And given the number of King’s Men gathered in the kitchen, the consequences would be dire indeed. He tried not to think of the stories he had heard of the dungeons, buried deep within the castle. The stories of men who went in and never came out.

The captain stepped to the head of the table, and with both hands lifted the bronze helmet from his head. His hair was long, damp with sweat. He had bright blue eyes and a short, well-trimmed beard.

He set the helmet carefully on the table, and nodded toward Matthias’s mother.

“Good morning, Mistress Mareigh,” he said.

“And to you, Captain Bream.” Matthias’s mother met the captain’s gaze and held it.

Matthias looked between them: his mother knew this soldier?
Matthias had seen him in the street on occasion, but he wasn’t one of the soldiers who frequented The Mermaid’s Rest.

Arian shuddered next to him, close enough to touch.

“I trust you are well,” the captain said.

Mareigh looked pointedly at the men ringing the kitchen. “I’ve had better mornings.”

Matthias flinched at his mother’s tone. He expected the captain to lash out at her, with either words or, more likely, his hands.

Instead, he looked at the guards. “Gentlemen,” he said.

At the single word, the men broke rank and filed out through the swinging door.

“They’ll wait in the tavern,” he said. “Out of sight. I am aware that the sudden appearance of the King’s Men can be bad for business.”

Mareigh nodded. “I appreciate that.”

“We’re here about your son,” he said, turning to look at Matthias.

Matthias pushed back from the table, starting to rise to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t …” He glanced at Arian, then back at his mother. “My mother, she told me to wait here while she answered the door, but I was scared so I ran.”

The captain listened to him, his face set in a dark scowl that broke, surprisingly, into a smile. “What are you talking about, boy?”

The question stopped him. “About what happened this morning.”

The captain took a satchel from one of the men. He tossed the bag as if it weighed nothing, but it landed on the table in front of Matthias with a heavy smack.

“About Zekariah and Jarrett.”

“That is none of my concern. There are clothes in there. Boots. You’ll need to clean up.”

Matthias glanced at his mother; she seemed as puzzled as he.

“Clean up,” the captain repeated. “The Queen has summoned you.”

The sound of the door slamming brought me back to myself. Davy’s footsteps were already fading into the house, up the stairs toward his room. Jacqui was standing in the doorway, her keys in her hand, her
purse under her arm.

“You’re not coming to his game?”

It wasn’t really a question, and I didn’t answer. I just closed the book slowly.

She shook her head. “You should have bought him
The Lord of the Rings.”

She walked away before I could say anything.

Mareigh swept aside the heavy curtain and stepped into Matthias’s sleeping room without warning. He hurriedly finished pulling the new shirt over his head.

“I’m worried for you,” she whispered, so as not to be overheard by the guard at the foot of the narrow staircase.

Matthias was scared too, more than he would let his mother see. His insides had turned to water when the captain delivered his summons, and the feeling was only getting worse.

“You know the captain?” he asked.

“Captain Bream,” she said. “He served with your father.”

“But …”

She squeezed his arm so tightly it hurt. “Stop,” she said firmly. “We don’t have much time.”

He pulled his arm away from her and took a step back. His legs pressed against his low bed.

She moved closer to him. “You have to be careful,” she whispered. “The Queen …” She shook her head as if she had decided something. “She gets what she wants.”

Of course she gets what she wants, she’s the Queen
. He didn’t dare say so; his mother’s face was white and taut.

“I’ll be all right,” he whispered, though he feared the words were a lie.

He hugged his mother close, holding her tight until Captain Bream called for him from the tavern below.

“Be careful,” she said, as he started down the stairs.

The captain looked at him appraisingly as he descended. “That will have to do, I suppose.”

Matthias had hoped to see Arian one last time, but the captain led him directly into the street, where the King’s Men formed a tight circle around him. There was nowhere for him to turn, no way for him to run, and he fell into step with them as they led him away, up the sharp rise of the island, toward the castle.

“Are your teeth brushed?” I asked, up to my elbows in soapy water.

“Nolan fed?”

“Yup.” He was already in his pyjamas, and his face was red and shiny from a recent encounter with a washcloth.

“Okay. I’ll be up in a sec.”

I finished the dishes and opened a bottle of red wine, leaving it on the counter to breathe as I went upstairs to read David his story.

Jacqui and I passed on the stairs: she was coming down after kissing David good-night. I tried smiling at her, but her face displayed the same stony rigour she had maintained since dinner.

I tried to put it out of my mind before I got to David’s room.

Davy’s bedtime was my favourite part of the day, and we had stumbled into it by accident. When Jacqui had gone back to work at the ER after her maternity leave, we had talked about the importance of consistency and routine. Knowing how crazy her schedule was going to be—shifts all over the map, on-call so often—we had decided that it would be best if bedtime were my domain.

It worked for me, too. I was at home, busy with the new book, and finding routine was essential for both my writing and my sanity.

At first it had been easy. Babies don’t need much of a bedtime routine. As Davy got older it became more involved: fights about tooth-brushing, constant negotiations for extra time, arguments about TV shows.

That was before we discovered reading together.

Standing in front of the bookshelves beside his door, my back to him, I asked, “So, what shall we read tonight?”

“Daaaad,” he said, drawing out his exasperation. Playing along.

“All right …” I slid the hardcover of
The Hobbit
off the shelf and carried it over to the chair beside the head of his bed.