The Map Maker's Daughter Page 9

  ‘I’s not the regular barkeep, Miss. He’s away visiting his sister, and what with this weather we couldn’t get him back. I keeps the keys for him when he’s away in case there’s a need. Not that many folk travel on the cusp of the season. The fogs being so unpredictable ’n’ all. But if you says what you wants I’ll bring it yea right quick. Wife’s in the kitchen and she’s a good cook if I say so meself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ answered Sharra through numb lips. ‘I don’t really mind what you’ve got as long as it’s warm.’

  ‘You poor wee thing,’ exclaimed the man. He dragged a table and chair closer to the fire. ‘You sits yourself down here and get warm. I’ll have something out to you faster than you can say Jack Pickering. That’s my name, Jack Pickering.’

  Sharra sank down onto the hard wooden chair and smiled gratefully. Within a few moments the man returned with a bowl of hot soupy-stew and a tankard of cider that he heated by plunging an iron in it from the fire. Sharra wished she had been more specific. The soup, though warm and full of better meat and vegetables than she had expected, had an unappetising scum over the surface and the poker Jack Pickering used to heat the cider was dirty. But the man was smiling and nodding at her, so she didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

  Her first spoonful confirmed her fears. The stew, or soup, or whatever it was, was not good. It tasted of nothing but salt. Resolutely, she ate her way through it. It made her so thirsty she ended up drinking far more of the large tankard of cider than she intended. ‘Is there a necessary room?’ she asked awkwardly.

  ‘Why, bless you, love. I should have thought to say. Go up the stairs and first door on the right is the night bucket room. One next to it is a place where you could have a little lie down in comfort while you wait for your carriage to be ready. Men’re out the back downing a couple of ales. Reckon it’ll be a while yet before they’re ready to go.’

  Sharra made her way up the creaking stairs to the bucket room and found it was exactly as described. However, after drinking so much cider she had little choice. Exhausted, sore and embarrassed she opened the door to the bedchamber and was astonished to find it seeming both clean and comfortable. There was little in the room, a chair for her cloak and a medium-sized bed with a soft green cover. A small fire burned in the grate and the window to the rear was shuttered tight against the wind. When Sharra touched the cover it was warm. Someone had put a pan of hot coals between the sheets. It was a kind touch, but Sharra hesitated.

  She looked out the window into the white and realised she had no idea where she was. A voice at the back of her mind asked was it usual to bring envoys from Milton to such lowly inns? Or was it really the only one open at this time in the season? If only Ivory hadn’t arranged all this she would have felt more secure. But she was so tired. She closed the shutters and snapped down the old latch. It clicked shut and a shower of rust fell onto the floor. It would be difficult for anyone to open it again.

  She checked the door. It did have a bolt, but it was old and crude. There was a distinct gap between the edge of the door and doorframe. It would be easy enough to slide it back using the tip of a knife. She’d done much the same herself to break into the pastry cupboard on more than one occasion. With a bit of jiggling and fiddling she fitted a chair tightly underneath the door handle.

  It was bliss to sink into the soft covers. Someone had put lavender in the pillow and she took deep breaths of the sweet, calming scent. Patterns swam before her closed lids and within moments she was soundly asleep.

  Sharra opened her eyes to near darkness. The room was lit only by the smoky embers of the fire. At first she couldn’t remember where she was. She felt sore, queasy and uneasy. Then she heard a scratching sound. It was coming from the door – the sound of metal on metal. The bolt. Someone was moving the bolt with a knife. She sat up; looking wildly around the darkened room, there was nothing else to push against the door, but the bed. She threw back the covers, jumped out and shoved hard against the bed. It didn’t move. She dropped to the floor. She couldn’t see properly, but she felt around the bed’s legs. They were nailed to the floor.

  She could call for help. But some instinct warned her that those within earshot might not be overly willing to help her. She crawled under the bed. It was dusty and grimy. She knew it was stupid, but she had no idea of what else to do. She banged her head. The scratching at the door stopped.

  ‘Wot were that?’ It was Pickering’s voice. Very low. She had to strain to hear it. ‘Yous said how she wouldn’t be awake.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be. Not with what she got at the Hold and what your missus put in that stew,’ answered another male voice. ‘Not that it matters. There ain’t nowhere for her to go.’

  Then came the long, chilling sound of metal against metal as a sword was drawn.

  ‘Hang on! Hang on a minute,’ this from Pickering. ‘You didn’t say how there was going to be any killing. You said how you were going to take her somewheres. A ransom like?’

  ‘And you believed that? You old fool.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. But I didn’t count on killing on the premises.’

  ‘You want to be her champion? I can easily send you into death first.’

  ‘World bless you no, sir. Just a bit squeamish. The mess like. And the missus won’t like it. Not a young girl like that. Seems a shame.’

  ‘Shame or not it’s what I’ve been paid for and I have a reputation to maintain.’

  Sharra stopped listening. What could she do? What could she do? Any moment Pickering would stand aside and let the assassin get on with his job. He might not like the idea of her being killed, but he wouldn’t risk his own life. She crawled out from under the bed. There was nothing, nothing in the room that could help. She thought about using the embers to start a fire, but all that would do was achieve the assassin’s job for him. The fire might take Pickering, or Pickering’s friend’s, with her, but it would be small consolation.

  The window.

  The latch on the shutters was stuck, but fear lent her strength. The latch fell away. She pulled the shutters open one by one. A white sea floated before her. Fog. Fog through glass. There was glass in the window. Earlier that had seemed like a welcome luxury, now she realised the glass did not open. It had never opened. It had been installed as a single, thick, sheet embedded into the wall around it. Only then did Sharra appreciate the lengths to which someone had gone to trap her. Not only the drugs – in the tea she’d barely drunk at the Hold and the stew she had foolishly consumed, not only the driver and the outriders paid – or dead by the assassin’s hand, not only the inn in the middle of nowhere with the missing landlord and the sleep-enticing room, but a window – the thick panes put in to ensure she could not escape. The effort, the money that had gone into plotting her death was astounding. Why should anyone care this much? Why?

  Bang!

  No more protests. No more discussion. He was putting a boot to the door. Sharra wrapped her arm in her cloak and punched the glass as hard as she could. It shattered.

  Bang! The sound of groaning wood. The pop of one of the nails from the hinges.

  Using the heel of her hand Sharra struck out as much of the loose glass as she could.

  Bang! Another nail went.

  She snatched up the lavender pillow from the bed. Sharra looked back at the door and then over at the window. Neither choice was good. She had no idea how high she was.

  Bang!

  But she did know the assassin would show no mercy. She climbed onto the bed.

  Bang! The chair shot from under the door handle.

  Sharra held the pillow up before her face and leapt from the bed through the broken window.

  Chapter Seven

  Cold mist enveloped Sharra like a wet shroud. She was falling down, down. Above her she heard the distant sounds of the door breaking. There was a harsh cry of a man, but his words were muffled by the fog.

  Bang! Pain shot through Sharra’s heels and she toppled forward. Still clinging t
o the pillow she rolled over and over. The ground vanished. She was falling again. Tumbling. For a moment she no longer knew which way was up. Then the certainty of where the ground lay hit her forcefully down her right side. She lay on the wet ground overwhelmed with pain. Her breath was knocked right out of her. She could barely see her hands in front of her face.

  A shadow fell from above. Crash. A body landed. The man uttered an oath as he too slid across the lower roof.

  There were only moments before he would land on top of her. She rolled onto her stomach. Abandoning the pillow she started to crawl away.

  Everything hurt. Behind in the fog, the man landed on the ground. He swore again. Then she heard the sound of him getting to his feet.

  Sharra kept going.

  A sound of metal upon metal. A sword being drawn from its sheath. Then the whistle of a blade against the air. Another oath. A step forward and the whistle of the blade.

  ‘Show yourself, girl! I’ll make it quick if you do. Make me chase you and I’ll take my revenge before I end it.’

  Another step. Another swing.

  ‘C’mon, girl! Your family wants you dead. There ain’t no place for you to go. Daddy wants his little girlie dead. Time to give up now.’

  Sharra pressed her fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out. She crawled forward as quietly as possible. He might not be able to see her, but he was close, very close and one wrong movement and he’d skewer her like a worm on a fishing hook.

  The ground under her hand was changing. There were more pebbles. Then her fingers met air. A ditch! If she could roll into it . . . If it was deep enough . . . If she could get to her feet . . . If nothing was broken . . . She could get away faster . . . further . . . escape. But he would hear.

  There was a sudden bang of boot against door.

  ‘There weren’t no need to do that, sir,’ whined Pickering. ‘I’d have found the key shortly.’

  A loud slap and a cry of pain from Pickering. ‘Witless fool!’ chided a new male voice. ‘Dale, do you have her?’

  ‘Nay. The skirt’s hiding in the fog. Doesn’t seem to realise the game is up.’

  ‘Mayhap she broke her neck in the fall?’ The other voice was hopeful. His accent more refined. ‘Kick about and see if you can find a body.’

  ‘Come out and help me!’

  ‘Not while you’re swinging that rusty old blade of yours.’

  Sharra didn’t wait to hear more. She inched her way over the edge of the ditch, lowering her hands, until her fingers met freezing water. It wasn’t a ditch, it was a burn. She had no choice. The men behind were still arguing. She lowered herself as quietly as possible into the freezing water.

  ‘Hey! Wait! Wot were that?’ Pickering’s ears were sharp. ‘I heard somefink.’

  ‘What, you old fool?’

  ‘Like somefink falling into water. There’s a burn . . .’

  ‘Where! Where!’

  ‘On the left.’

  ‘Which left? Yours or mine?’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Where’s that! Curse this miserable fog!’

  ‘Shut up, Dale. Listen. Follow the sound.’

  It was now or never. Sharra scrambled to her feet. Fear gave her strength. She ran forward along the burn. Unable to see. Hoping she wouldn’t trip. Hoping she wouldn’t fall. And every second imagining the breeze on her back of a descending blade.

  ‘There!’

  ‘I heard it!’

  Dale was running. His heavy boots thudding against the earth.

  Sharra slipped. Her feet shot out from under her. Sharra put out her hands to save herself, but they crumpled under the force of the fall. She landed hard against the stony riverbed. Freezing water lapped at her nostrils.

  ‘There! There! Get her, Dale. She’s down.’

  No, thought Sharra, no. This is not how I will die. She forced her limbs to life. She pushed up. She got her feet beneath her, only for her boots to slip once more in the treacherous mud. She went down again. This time her head struck a rock. She lay there dazed, confused, lost.

  Dale was almost upon her. She could hear his blade whistle though the air.

  ‘World’s death!’ Dale gave a startled cry and he fell, hard and heavy.

  ‘Where in the world’s name are you, Dale?’ called the man from the inn. Silence answered him.

  ‘Reckon he’s fallen, sir.’

  ‘I know that, you wretched fool. Get out there and find him.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but that ain’t in the bargain. I’ve got no more use for going out there and getting skewered on the end of his blade than you have, begging your honour’s pardon.’

  The left side of Sharra’s face was becoming numb in the water. She felt sleepy. The cold was taking away the pain. She’d die in a ditch never knowing if it was her father who had sent her to her death and Ivory would laugh. Ivory would say she died where she belonged.

  World blast that!

  Sharra pushed herself up once more and this time, she half crouched, half slid her way along the riverbed. Behind her the men continued to argue and Dale lay, somewhere, out cold on the ground.

  Under his feet lay Sharra’s discarded pillow.

  The fog did not abate. Sharra had no idea of how far she had come nor how long it had taken. Eventually exhaustion swept through her. She fell more often and each time it took her longer to pick herself up.

  I have to get out of this river, she thought, or I will die here.

  She heaved herself up out of the riverbank. Her hands met leaves. Bushes. She pushed her way in until she met the trunk of a tree. Her fingers traced across the bark and found an opening. A hollow tree. Drawing her damp cloak around her she crept inside and into the tree’s embrace.

  She slept.

  Sharra came to stiff and cold. Darkness surrounded her. Had the assassin caught her? Was she locked in a cell? She felt around her. Wood. A cold dread crept over her. She’d been buried alive. The stress and panic of the last day and night dissolved into terror. Sharra beat her fists against the wood and screamed. ‘I’m alive! Let me out!’

  There was a rustle outside. ‘Who be in there?’ inquired a woman’s voice.

  Light blinded Sharra.

  ‘Why, land and sea bless me, but it’s a girl. What you be doing in there, honey?’

  Sharra blinked against the light. She could make out the silhouette of a woman holding back the branches. The fog had vanished into a bright, cold day. She became aware her teeth were chattering.

  ‘I-I-I lost my carriage in the fog.’

  ‘Why’d you get out in the first place?’

  ‘I-I-I had to.’

  ‘Mountains above! You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death of cold. Next time keep your legs crossed, young woman. No point dying for sake of a comfortable bladder. Now out you come.’ The woman leaned in and pulled on her arm.

  ‘No,’ exclaimed Sharra, shrinking back.

  ‘You can’t stay there, me duck. I might not be mistress of a fine Hold, but I can offer you a hot drink and a warm fire, which is more than you’ll find among the roots of old black troll.’

  ‘Troll?’ asked Sharra faintly, as she allowed herself to be helped out. ‘You have trolls here?’

  ‘Sky bless you, honey. It’s but the old name for the tree you found. Been there since forever. Some folks be frightened of it, but I reckon his shelter kept you alive last night. What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘Marnie. I’m a maid servant in Lord Milton’s hold.’

  ‘Well, I’m Mabel Gilly. Me and my man run this fruit farm. Not far now. You can see the outbuildings. House is just beyond.’

  Mabel, a plump, cheerful and chatty woman in middle years, rambled on. Sharra concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. She was too cold and weary to pay much attention to her surroundings.

  She awoke some time later to find herself lying in a clean bed. She had a vague memory of endless cups of hot soup, a warm bath she hadn’t wanted to leave a
nd a final climb into bed. Bright light streamed in through the shutters and onto the bare wooden floor. Her clothes lay washed, dried and neatly folded on a chair near her bed. She got up and dressed quickly. When she opened her door the smell of baking bread made her stomach growl.

  ‘Glad to see you awake,’ said a floury Mabel. ‘You slept like the dead.’ Mabel knocked down the dough she was kneading and gave Sharra a big smile. ‘But I’m glad to see I was right; you’re the strong sort. Reckon a frailer body might have given up the ghost.’

  Sharra swallowed. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Martin, our winter hand, will escort you to the Hold this afternoon. After chores. Bread’ll be out of the oven in a little while. Go get some fresh air. It’ll put colour in your cheeks.’

  Leaving Mabel to her baking Sharra went out to look around the farmyard. It was a clear, bright day, sharp with the promise of frost to come.

  In the bright day the sun glinted off the golden stone of the farmhouse and the open barn that lay next to it. This was a well tended and prosperous farm. A road led away into rolling hills. A small cat, its coat matted with mud, rubbed around her ankle petitioning her to re-open the back door. She picked up the little feline and walked over to the barn. ‘It’ll be warm among the hay, puss,’ she told it, stroking the soft fur behind its ears. The cat purred happily and sank its claws into her clothes. Sharra picked her way carefully through the baled hay, until she came to a clear space. She sat down upon an upturned bucket and began to disentangle the cat. It turned up its pointed little face to her, showing bright green eyes and mewed softly. Sharra felt herself relax as she petted the little creature.