CHAPTER EIGHT

Lady Cassandra has always been a violent sleeper. I watch Reeve avert his gaze from the crumpled sheets and untucked blankets beneath the deep blue curtains of the bed’s canopy. With a blush, he turns his attention instead to the still-open window, through which I can hear the ringing clang of the blacksmith’s hammer. Indeed, the courtyard below hums with the bustle of normal life, quite as though nothing has happened.

The wispy white curtains dance gently in the light breeze, and I can see dots of dust, like starbursts, floating in the shafts of morning sunlight.

‘What do you see?’ Sir Garrick asks, and Reeve turns to him with a frown as I steady my breathing, drawing in the faint scent of lavender.

‘Don’t be a dullard,’ says Sir Garrick, snapping his fingers. ‘When we track prey in the forest, or try to outwit enemies across the countryside, the key is to focus on exactly what you can see, what you can hear, what you can smell. Not what you think you should see or hear or smell.’

I shudder a little at the analogy of the hunt. It will not do to underestimate this man, and Lady Cassandra must never forget it.

Reeve stands to attention, his head leaning to the right as he studies the room. I stand silently at my post, as still as one of the Airl’s stone statues.

‘Say it aloud, boy,’ Sir Garrick says, watching Reeve with those fierce black eyes. ‘Let us see if we agree.’

‘Very well,’ says Reeve, and I can see the effort it takes him to think in the face of Sir Garrick’s intense observation. Much is at stake for this new squire, and he will want to impress.

‘The window is open, but whether that is because it was open all night or because Lady Cassandra opened it to sound the alarm this morning, I do not . . .’

Reeve stops, appearing to think hard. ‘I think it was open already. I was in the courtyard and did not hear the shutters slam against the stone before I heard the scream, nor after.’

My heart sinks at his words, but I keep my expression blank.

Sir Garrick’s forehead smooths. ‘Very good,’ he says. ‘Very good indeed. Go on.’

Reeve creeps forward, avoiding the dressing table, peering at the floor. ‘I can see many footprints in the rug,’ he says, his hands mimicking the way in which the fibres of the thick rug have been disturbed. ‘They are . . .’

Reeve pauses again, kneeling down beside the disturbed section of the rug. ‘There is one bare foot – I can see the toes. The Lady Cassandra, recently alighted from her bed, perhaps?’

‘And?’ Sir Garrick prompts.

‘One pair of soft house shoes, of around the same size as the bare foot,’ Reeve continues, glancing across the short distance from the open window to the dresser. ‘And one larger, dusty shoe print – no, boot print.’

Reeve crawls over to take a closer look at the boot print. ‘Strange.’

‘What’s strange?’ says Sir Garrick, and now he moves across the room to stand beside Reeve as my mouth goes dry. ‘What?’

‘There is just the one boot print,’ says Reeve. ‘And it’s facing towards the window.’

‘And that’s strange because?’ Sir Garrick queries.

‘Well,’ says Reeve, standing to examine the windowsill, careful to avoid the boot print. ‘If someone had climbed in the window, I would think there would be at least one other boot print, with the toes pointing into the room. But just one, facing out of the room is . . . strange.’

I inwardly curse him.

‘Not strange,’ says Sir Garrick, ‘if the thief was already inside the castle and made his escape out of the window.’ I almost let out a sigh of relief, but manage to contain myself.

‘True,’ Reeve agrees, leaning out through the window to stare down to the courtyard below. ‘But it’s a long way down, with few toeholds in the stone. If he managed to creep in without waking Lady Cassandra, why would he not sneak out the same way?’

I am back to silently cursing. He is altogether too clever for his own good, this squire.

But I am more than a match for him. I move to stand beside Reeve at the window.

‘Perhaps he was surprised,’ I say, deliberately placing my foot into the disturbed section of the rug, all the better to mess it up some more. ‘I sleep in my lady’s dressing-room, and I wake very early. As you saw this morning.’

Reeve pulls back, resting his hands on the sill as we both stare out across the great courtyard. A plump milkmaid leads a huge brown cow past a group of young men who are lounging on hay bales near the stables, lazing in the morning sun. I recognise the rowdy group that filed past me into the hallway last night.

‘And yet,’ says Reeve, slowly, ‘you mentioned no intruder, and neither did the lady?’

I swallow before responding as calmly as possible. ‘Just because I did not see him does not mean I did not surprise him.’

Reeve turns his head to give me a long look, and I return his gaze without wavering.

‘I have seen enough here,’ says Sir Garrick, breaking the deadlock, and gesturing for Reeve to follow. ‘It seems that our thief was a member of the household, and so we have only to wait for Lorimer to unearth the stolen goods and all shall be revealed.’

‘But –’ Reeve continues to stare down at the courtyard, appearing to search for someone, before remembering his place and walking towards the door.

‘Enough,’ Sir Garrick reiterates, opening the door to the hallway. ‘I understand that you are under some pressure with regard to this, but rest assured that Airl Buckthorn would not have set you this task if he did not truly think that unmasking the thief would be the work of minutes. Leave it to Lorimer.’

Reeve pauses mid-step. ‘Sire, I could assist Lorimer,’ he begins, his face looking worried. I understand his worry and, for a moment, feel bad for him. After all, if the thief is not unmasked, it is Reeve who gets the blame and is sent home.

But feeling sorry for him does not mean that I will help him. Every hour that the Fire Star remains missing is one hour closer to freedom for Lady Cassandra. And for me.

Sir Garrick laughs, pulling me from my thoughts. ‘How? A mere boy? Lorimer is a thorough man, and a splendid steward. If anyone can winkle out the truth, he can.’

He pauses, seeming to really look at Reeve’s anxious face for the first time. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I can see how this means a great deal to you. If it would help you to feel as though you are doing something, then ask any questions you can get away with. But be aware that most will not even speak to you. You are too new to be useful to anyone just yet.’

With that cursory summary of castle life, Sir Garrick steps out into the hallway, his voice floating back through the door. ‘I will expect to see you at lunch. Do not be late.’

After Sir Garrick’s departure, the room felt strangely silent to Reeve, despite, or perhaps because of, Maven’s presence. Under the girl’s disquieting gaze, Reeve continued to pace the room, noting as he did that Lady Cassandra’s travelling trunks were all in a neat pile in the far corner of the room. The door to the dressing-room was shut, but Reeve could imagine that the Lady Cassandra’s gowns, including her wedding attire, were all laid out inside.

It seemed that Maven had been busy.

Reeve paused, looking at the closed door. Something about it bothered him, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

Reeve took a step towards it.

‘Is there something I can help you with?’ Maven asked. ‘You seem to have more questions?’

Reeve paused at the dressing-room door, which seemed to taunt him. Without responding to her question, he turned the brass knob, pushed the door open and looked inside.

To his disappointment, it was as tidy and ordinary as the room he’d just left. The Lady Cassandra’s gowns – three of them – were hanging on hooks on the walls, airing. They had few creases in them, which spoke to careful packing at the beginning of her journey. One of the gowns was shrouded in a light muslin cloth, stamped on the outside with a simple drawing of a tree and a tiny red bird – Lady Cassandra’s wedding finery, Reeve assumed, wondering which of the kingdom’s finest seamstresses had stamped this mark, which he did not recognise, on the overlay.

Two leather cases, straps buckled, sat on the floor beneath the shrouded gown, and three pairs of shoes were lined, toes to the wall, beside them. On the opposite side of the narrow room, beneath a tall stained-glass window, lay a thin mattress, the quilts pulled up to the pillow.

‘Getting an eyeful, are you?’

Reeve turned towards the voice behind him. Maven had moved and now leaned, unsmiling, on the wall near the door.

‘You don’t talk like any lady I’ve ever heard,’ Reeve blurted out. He’d done nothing wrong here but, somehow, this girl made him feel as though he’d been snooping.

Maven grimaced. ‘And how many “ladies” have you actually spoken to? Besides people who have to be nice to you, that is.’

‘I, er, well –’ Reeve could feel his face getting hotter and hotter. It was true that most of his interactions with girls had been in practice sessions for etiquette and chivalry. Except for . . .

‘The Lady Anice,’ he blurted out. ‘She’s never nice to me.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Maven, prowling across the room towards him like a cat surveying a field mouse. ‘Well, that makes you just one of many.’

‘You know her?’ Reeve asked, surprised, willing his feet not to take a step backwards.

Maven stopped in front of him, unsmiling. ‘I do.’

Reeve waited for more details, but she said nothing.

‘Right, well, er, I’d best be off then,’ Reeve said, moving to walk around her.

‘I heard what was said this morning,’ Maven said, suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I know what’s at stake for you. But don’t think for one moment that I will allow the Lady Cassandra to be hurt because you want to be a knight.’

Reeve took in her words, controlling his expression with effort. ‘All I want is the same as she does,’ he said, perplexed. ‘The truth about what happened to the Fire Star. Surely, getting it back is what she needs?’

‘Indeed,’ Maven said after a tiny beat. ‘But she is a pawn in this game of men and she deserves better. She does not feel safe here.’

Reeve just managed to stop a snort. ‘She is safe with Sir Garrick. There is no better knight in the kingdom.’

Maven dropped her hand and stepped back, allowing Reeve to pass. ‘That’s as may be,’ she said. ‘But the Fire Star was here for just one night, and it has been spirited away. It would take a well-connected person with great strategic skills to plan a robbery on such short notice.’

Reeve gasped, stepping back in shock. ‘You are not suggesting that Sir Garrick had anything to do with this?’ Had this girl taken leave of her senses?

Maven paused, her face solemn. ‘I am not,’ she said, finally, and Reeve let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘But everyone knows that he is as lukewarm about this marriage as my lady is. If he has the Fire Star, he doesn’t need to marry her to get it – and everyone knows that the only reason he is marrying is because Airl Buckthorn wants that stone.’

Reeve felt his eyebrows knit together. ‘You are suggesting that Sir Garrick and the Airl have conspired to steal the Fire Star? But that makes no sense! You heard Lorimer this morning – Airl Buckthorn wants this marriage to go ahead at all costs.’

Maven tossed her hair. ‘All I’m saying is that the stone is one of the most valuable in the kingdom. It is Lady Cassandra’s greatest asset. Without it, she is reduced to ruins, and any chance at future happiness is gone. She will go to the nunnery.’

Reeve hesitated, mulling over what Maven had said. A thought struck him. ‘And you? Where will you go if she goes to the nunnery?’

‘Why, with her, of course,’ said Maven, her pointed chin lifted. ‘As her companion, I will join Lady Cassandra in the cloister.’

Reeve was careful not to meet her eyes. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life locked up behind high walls, giving his days over to prayer and contemplation, and, from what he’d seen of Maven, even after such a short time, he could not imagine her in the role of supplicant novice, either.

‘If I unearth the thief and find the stone, I am able to help us all,’ he said.

‘Perhaps,’ Maven said, moving past him to the window at the end of the dressing-room. ‘Perhaps.’

Reeve bowed towards her. ‘Then I will leave you now,’ he said. ‘There is much to do and not much time in which to do it.’

‘Less than three days,’ Maven said softly, still staring through the glass.