Chapter Ten

Ranald thanked all Nine Goddesses for the darkness. In daylight, everyone around would have noticed the radiance on Alys’s face, or the satisfaction in his own eyes. In the circle of the fires, the flickering light and shadows hid the outward signs of their wild lovemaking. He’d spoken truly earlier—they needed to talk, and he needed time to ponder how best to protect her now. But instead, he was compelled to sit by the fire, eat chunks of some charred animal, drink surprisingly good cider, and tell his story to Quan and his closest cronies as best he could. 

He made it as brief as possible—he’d been on a mission for the monarch, when he encountered Alys on the road. Her escort had been disabled, and Ranald, as the monarch’s envoy, had taken upon himself the obligation of conveying her in safety to her family.

“No obligation, I perceive,” Quan said, his teeth bright in the firelight as he nudged Ranald in the side.

He’d feared that. “The Lady Alys is an accommodating charge.” The loud guffaws showed his attempts at glossing over things were futile. No matter. In the morning they would be gone, and who, outside the mountains, cared for the opinions of a band of brigands? That was assuming they got out. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Quan. The road has not been easy, and with the blockage—”

“Ah! Yes!” Quan pulled a strip of meat off a bone with his teeth. “We blocked the way last spring.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye. We wanted to ensure travelers had the opportunity to enjoy our hospitality.”

“You have many guests?”

He laughed. “Enough, but seldom have I had a guest offer fare in exchange for our hospitality. Usually, we have to ask.” He looked over to where Alys and Yan were slicing cheese and toasting it over the embers of a smaller fire. “A generous young woman.”

Every fiber in Ranald’s body clenched at the insinuation. “An honorable young woman,” he replied. “I will get her safely to her family. We must leave as soon as possible in the morning.” Provocative maybe, but best to know how things stood.

“We’ll not delay you,” Quan assured him. “Though young Yan enjoys her company. He’s been sadly homesick.”

“Why did he come?”

“Why did any of us end up here, fighting for our existence in the mountains? Life was intolerable. He was one of seven children, forced into an occupation not of his choosing. His master used him cruelly and worked him at all hours. If his parents died, his fate would be no better than your charge’s. What did he have to look forward to in that village? A life of labor and punitive taxes.” Quan paused. “If you ever have the monarch’s ear, enlighten him about abuses in his provinces. That village of your charge’s is not the only one with a corrupt warden and a self-serving council.”

“What do you know about Alys’s village?”

“Yan came from there, remember? He told us enough. Not that he needed to. I fled from one similar. Men don’t take up this sort of life…” his gaze took in the fires, the small huts, and the groups of longhaired men clustered around, “…unless what they leave behind is far, far worse.”

 

 

 

They were words Ranald thought over long after Alys’s breathing told him she was asleep. She was still dressed, but curled against him like a dormouse in winter. They’d had no chance to talk. She had been half-asleep on her feet by the time the talking and eating were over. 

Ranald let out an exasperated sigh. From the outset, his mission had had little chance of success, but now it was insanely complicated. What to do with Alys? He’d noticed the coins stitched in her petticoats. Perhaps he could see her set up in a small business—as a cheese maker, perhaps. 

No! He couldn’t part from Alys—not now that she might be carrying his child—but how could he keep her with him? There had to be a way. He’d find it. For now, he would need sleep if they were to leave early in the morning. He hoped he wouldn’t have to fight his way out of the camp.

 

 

 

Quan kept his word, even sending an escort to guide them through the mountains. By noon, they were looking down on a fertile valley and a paved road that led to a fair-sized town of gray stone houses and several spires. 

“That,” said their guide, pointing, “is Gamberg, the biggest town hereabouts. Look for the inn at the sign of the Flying Ducks. Tell the host you come from Quan. He’s expecting you.” 

Ranald gave the bandit a searching look. “How?”

“Quan sent a message.” He grinned. “Here in the mountains, we have our own ways of communication. Have no worry. Host Paume will give you all the aid you need. Quan has requested it.”

Why a bandit would bear them such good will puzzled Ranald. Not wanting to rob an old playmate of one of the band, yes, that he could accept—but why extend this much help to a pair of random travelers?

Or were they random? Was there more to Alys than she’d revealed? For the life of him, Ranald couldn’t see that. She was an unlikely spy, but that hidden money surprised him. But where else would a cautious woman hide her wealth? On the other hand, she also possessed two incriminating books—which she had willingly entrusted to him.

“Ranald?” It was Alys. “Should we not descend to the valley?”

They should. After farewells and thanks, they led the horses the last mile or so down to level land. Ranald mounted Saj and hoisted Alys up behind. Leading the packhorse, they crossed the mile or so to join the paved road. 

They reached the town around mid-afternoon and found the Flying Ducks almost at once. Quan’s name had more effect than the monarch’s sigil. They were greeted like honored guests, shown into two of the best bedchambers in the place, and offered wine, dark bread that tasted of herbs, steaming bowls of rice, and a spiced stew the host called mamash. 

They were indeed in the western lands. Alys viewed the aromatic stew with caution, but after a tentative taste, dug into it with appetite. It had been a long ride since the hasty breakfast in the camp.

They ate in near silence. Ranald sensed Alys’s uncertainty about the night ahead. He shared it. He wanted her, ached for her—sweet Goddesses, he was getting hard for her—but first they had things to settle.

Ranald waited until they’d both finished eating, pushed the dishes aside, and refilled their goblets with the dark, ruby-red wine. “Alys,” he said at last, setting his goblet down on the heavy table, “we must make plans and arrangements.”

She sighed. “I know. You must resume your mission. And I will find some gainful employ. I had thought of asking the host here if he has need of a cook, but I cannot cook dishes such as these. Perhaps he needs a seamstress or laundry maid.”

Never would he leave her toiling as a servant! “I have a better thought, Alys. You have money with you.”

“How did you know?”

“I lifted your petticoats last night. It was not embroidery or flounces that made them so heavy.”

She blushed as pink as sweetberry blossoms in spring. “Oh!” She swallowed. “I did not steal it, no matter what they say. I found it in mother’s chest.”

“Along with the books?”

She shook her head. “The books were under the mattress slats. The money was in her chest with…other things she treasured and kept. I took the money as mine by right of inheritance and—”

“As it is, Alys. Why not use it to buy a business, or perhaps a share in one?”

“Do I have enough?”

“I cannot know that unless you trust me with it.”

Her mouth curled a little at the corners as she met his eyes across the table. “How could I not trust you, Ranald?”

She went up to her chamber ahead of him. He followed in a few minutes. When he entered her room, she was seated by the window, unpicking the seams of the petticoat spread over her knees. “Do you have a small knife?” she asked him. “I sewed tighter than I thought.”

“Why not just rip it up?”

“What would I wear? I have only one other spare!”

“Alys, you can afford to buy a new petticoat!” Going by the three silver coins already on the table, shortage of money was not one of her immediate concerns. No wonder she’d tried to insist on paying at the inns. 

“If you will, then.”

Almost an hour later, her carefully sewn petticoat lay in a heap of rags on the floor. On the small table was a heap of silver and gold coins. It was the latter that caught his attention. Hefting one in his hand, Ranald stared at the monarch’s head. Turning it over, he looked hard at the royal sigil on the reverse.

“Is it not good coin?” Alys asked. “I’d never seen a coin with those markings before.”

She sounded so worried. “Dear Alys, it is good coin—truly good coin—but I cannot but wonder how your parents came of them. I doubt your father, as a stonemason, was paid in gold.”

He hadn’t been. Copper and silver were all he had ever brought home. “Perhaps they were my mother’s dowry?”

“Not if she came, as you believe, from the western lands.”

“Why not?”

“Look.” He picked up several silver coins and spread them out on the table. “See these, Alys?” He pointed to several other silver coins, and the gold ones. “Now look at these.”

“They are different. What does it mean?”

“The gold and these silver were struck in the monarch’s mint. They came from the north. The others…” he indicated the smaller, flatter ones, “…were struck in the east. Probably paid to your father for his work.”

The pile with the monarch’s make was by far the largest. “Does that mean my father came from the north? He never talked of his home, only of meeting mother in the west.”

“I don’t know, Alys. Truly, I do not. But it does mean he was paid a large sum in northern coinage—or somehow acquired it.”

“I cannot believe he stole it!”

He reached over and squeezed her hand. “No reason to think that, as yet. If only you knew more about him.”

“But it is still good coin? I can use it to buy a share in a business?”

She had no idea. Understandable. In a village, she most likely had never seen a royal lyon. “Alys.” He picked up a gold lyon. “Each of these gold lyons is worth one hundred of the eastern silver shillings.”

She paled. Then blushed as understanding set in. “My father earned three shillings a week as a master mason.” Ranald nodded. They both knew there was no way to save this fortune out of his earnings. “He cannot have stolen it!” 

It seemed there was no other possibility, especially when coupled with those two books that no mere mason had a right to hold. “Alys, neither of us can know for sure, but it seems he did have a connection with the north, and some sort of connection with the monarch’s entourage.”

She shook her head. “Not possible. It makes no sense.”

She was wrong on the first, but right on the second point. It didn’t make sense for a mason and his wife to possess a small fortune and defense plans of the capital, yet live in obscure poverty in a remote village—unless the man was as unlettered as Alys and had no idea what he had. 

“Is this all you have of theirs, Alys?” The look on her face answered that. “What do you have?”

“Nothing else of value. ’Tis a trinket of my mother’s.” She scowled at him. “Ranald, you took those books, saying they must go to the monarch. That I believed, but you cannot take all I have.”

“Show me the trinket.” Unsure why he persisted, he continued. “Alys, trust me. It may tell me something.”

“Is this why you came to me last night? To see what I have?”

Dear Heavens! “Alys, I came to you last night from heartfelt desire.” That was another issue altogether. “Please, let me see the trinket.”

With a sigh, she stood and went over to her knapsack. Reaching into an inner pocket, she pulled out a small leather pouch. “I found this with the books. Mother never wore it, I never saw it before, and I don’t know why she kept it.”

As she spoke, she tipped open the small pouch, and its contents fell on the table with a light thud.