15

THE GATEHOUSE

A watery sun woke Drest, and with it came a sense of dread. Today they would arrive at Harkniss Castle. Today Lady de Moys would agree to help them—or reject their pleas. Or worse: She might take advantage of Emerick’s weakness. And then the wolf’s head would be with Drest forever.

They staggered on through the brightness of morning. Emerick kept up with Drest’s pace, though he was panting. It was past midday when he asked to stop at a golden wheat field that seemed to glow beyond the trees.

But when they came to the field, they saw where it ended: in the near distance at a long, towering wall. Within the wall rose a brutal gray block of a fortress.

“Oh,” said Emerick, sounding as if his word had crept from deep in the ground. “We’re here. Harkniss Castle.”

Two spear-bearing guards in helms and brown tunics stopped them at the gate.

“Your business?” said one, his eyes flicking between them.

Drest had donned the cloak and hood to hide her sword and most of her face. The guard’s gaze slid off her and fixed on Emerick, who was sweating and pale.

“We—we’ve come for an audience with Lady de Moys,” he stammered. “Is she—is she seeing anyone today?”

“Yesterday was Petition Day,” the guard said. “You’re too late.”

Emerick’s posture wilted. “May I send her a word?”

“Nay, you can’t do that. But you can wait for Petition Day next week.”

The other guard nudged the first with flat of his spear. “He could send word, couldn’t he? Just to ask?”

“Has the lady ever seen a villager outside of Petition Day? Nay, she hasn’t. Were I him, I wouldn’t waste my time.”

“But I’m not one of her villagers,” Emerick blurted. “I’m her friend, an old friend from many years ago.”

Now both guards were frowning.

“What’s your name?” said the first.

“E—Edric. Edric of Weemsdale.”

“Weemsdale isn’t one of the lady’s villages,” said the first guard slowly. “Strange. I don’t think she’s ever been there.”

Above their heads, a hawk that had been circling the bailey let out a piercing shriek.

Emerick flinched.

Now the guards were staring. The first had lowered his spear. The second had set his foot to the side, in what Drest knew well was a balancing position, ready to fight.

She suppressed an urge to throw back her cloak and draw her sword.

“Everyone the lady’s kind to thinks she’s their friend,” Drest said. She cleared her throat. “She was kind to Edric long ago, when he was but a lad. She was kind to my da too. He fought for Lord de Moys as a man-at-arms. He told me I should see her if I was ever in need. And I am.”

The guards glanced at each other.

The sun beat down on her hood and cloak.

“That’s different,” said the first guard. “If your da fought for the lord’s army, she’ll listen to you.”

The second guard pointed into the bailey with his spear. “Go ahead. Find someone to take your message to her. Make sure you say your da’s name, the name of a battle he fought with Lord de Moys, and what your need is. She doesn’t see petitioners outside of her one day, but she’ll do it for a lass with that connection.”

“But go to the well first,” said the first guard. “Your Edric there seems parched.”

“Thank you.” Drest took Emerick’s hand and led him away from the gatehouse and onto the grass of the bailey.

“Oh, God,” breathed Emerick, “I didn’t know what to say. I can’t do this.”

“Nay, you can. We’re in, are we not? Do you see the well?”

Everything in the bailey distracted her. This green was different from Faintree Castle’s expanse of grass: This was a town between the walls.

A tannery belched foul odors nearby into a river by the guardhouse. Smoke floated up from a smithy. Loud clanging sounded from there too. Across the path, rich scents of bread and meat wafted from a cookhouse.

And the people—as many as had been in Launceford, clustering, gossiping, rushing, forming a sea of faces.

And then Drest’s breath stopped in her throat.

Not more than four sword lengths away stood a knight in a white surcoat with a bold blue tree: the colors of Faintree Castle.

Emerick ducked close. “That’s Sir Roland, one of Oswyn’s most trusted men. I don’t know what this means. If he recognizes me—”

“Let’s hide.”

“No, I—you go on. I’ll hide at the tannery. There’s some shade there, and no one will question me if I’m resting. Find Lady de Moys and tell her where I am, or—or beg her yourself for what we need and—just go!” Emerick staggered back toward the buildings clustered near the end of the curtain wall.

He’d left her. There, alone in the bailey, with a knight who surely knew of the wolf’s head curse.

You’re not my friend but a filthy coward, Drest thought.

The Faintree Castle knight was still standing on the path, idly, as if he were simply out enjoying the sun. His eyes were drifting around the yard. They flicked on Drest, then away—but then came back.

“You there. Do I know you?”

“No, sir,” said Drest slowly.

“You were staring at me.”

“I—didn’t mean to, sir.”

Her chest was tight. There was no room to draw her sword, nor room to run.

A hand closed over her arm.

“There you are, dawdling as you do,” said a woman’s stern voice. “Come along, before I lose my temper.”

And a hard grip pulled her back into the crowd.

The knight grinned and looked away.

Drest looked up at her rescuer.

And nearly let out a cry.

In a humble shift and apron with a modest cap holding back all her hair was the vengeful woman she had saved from an angry mob and fiery death at Soggyweald:

The witch and healer Merewen.