Guinevere's Gift
“Liam, is there any rope? Or a stout cord? In Sir Darric's baggage, perhaps?”
Dark, frightened eyes lifted to hers, then quickly looked away. “No, m'lady. There's nothing like that here.”
Of course there wouldn't be. What fool would keep twenty feet of good rope in his bedchamber? It would have to be bedding, then. She wished fervently that part of her education had been devoted to the tying of knots. She had heard of people escaping this way, but she had never known anyone who had tried it. They must have been desperate. . . .
Guinevere threw back the furred coverlet on the bed and pulled at the linen bedsheet. It was soft and pliable, but old and frayed from many washings. She did not know if it would hold her weight. Leather would be stronger.
She set the bedsheet aside and knelt by the chest at the end of the bed. Ignoring Liam's gasp of protest, she lifted the lid. A man as vain as Sir Darric was sure to have brought a fine selection of garments with him. She pulled out a light gray cloak, a dark brown overmantle of fine wool with a gilded border, a pair of good leather leggings, and, she saw with satisfaction, the green velvet robe.
“This might do. If it's not long enough, we can add the bedsheet last. Come, Liam, help me knot these things together.”
But the man shrank from her. “Oh no, m'lady. You can't touch those. Those are Sir Darric's things.”
Guinevere looked up at him. “Didn't you hear what he said? What he threatened? I've got to get out. I've got to save Elaine.”
But Liam's only reaction was a fist shoved hard against his teeth and lowered eyes that refused to meet her own. Helplessly, Guinevere recognized the withdrawal of personality, the mask of stupidity that was the poor man's only defense against the caprices of the higher born.
“King Pellinore is your lord!” she cried, as if her own need could call up courage in him. “Sir Darric is planning to betray him. He's taken Elaine. He's planning an attack against the queen. He's a traitor, and he's got to be stopped.”
But Liam only shrugged. That was when Guinevere knew he would not help her. He had a set of commands to obey, and it was not his place to think beyond them. Such obstinacy made her tremble with frustration. Time and time again, she had seen this blank passivity in the faces of servants, peasants, and villagers who came face to face with an unreasonable demand. They knew nothing, they saw nothing, they were responsible for nothing. In a land run by the wealthy and the strong, noninvolvement was the only way they could survive.
She recognized that she had a choice to make. Either she could knot the clothing herself and trust the makeshift result with her very life, or she could try to enlist this man's help. But she had to do one or the other right away.
Still on her knees, she turned to him. “Liam, you live in the village, don't you?” Her voice was as gentle as she could make it, the same voice she used with a skittish horse. “I've seen you walking there with a little girl, I think.”
He avoided her gaze, keeping his eyes on the floor at his feet. What she could see of his face held no expression at all. Guinevere's heart sank as she waited in vain for some response.
“A pretty little girl with dark curls and rosy cheeks. I thought she looked three or four. A little cherub.”
A dull flush darkened Liam's face. “Lind,” he said roughly. “My daughter.”
“She's a beautiful child. She'll make you proud one day.”
Liam fidgeted. For just the briefest moment, his bright eyes lifted to hers. “If she lives.”
“She'll live. Gwynedd is a safe place to grow up. It's why my own father sent me here.”
“Aye,” Liam ventured. “I'd heard that.”
“Gwynedd is a wider and wealthier land than poor Northgallis. King Pellinore's a strong king, and his kingdom is secure. King Pellinore's friendships with the other Welsh kings have kept our borders safe and strong. Even the Saxons have left us alone. As long as Pellinore is king, you and your daughter have nothing to fear.”
If Liam knew where she was heading, he gave no sign of it. He merely nodded in agreement.
“What do you think makes him so strong a king?” she asked, knotting one leg of Sir Darric's leggings to a corner of the green robe. Liam said nothing. Guinevere tied the brown overmantle to the other end of the green robe. “It's not just his soldiers. Every king has those. The real reason King Pellinore is a strong king is that his people support him. They do what they can to help him keep the land safe. There are many more of us than there are of him. Without us, he has no kingdom. No king can rule for long without the support of his people. You see, Liam, in the way that matters, we are Gwynedd.”
Liam was watching her very carefully now.
“What would happen, do you think,” she said, wrestling with a corner of the thick gray cloak, “if we stopped supporting Pellinore? If we turned away, refused our tithe, and ignored his commands? We would be at the mercy of any greedy adventurer who came our way. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live under the rule of a tyrant or an arrogant hothead like Sir Darric. And I don't believe you'd want little Lind to grow up under such a rule.”
Liam's eyes bored into her. At last, she had his full attention.
“I will do anything I can—no matter the cost—to keep a man like Sir Darric from taking power in Gwynedd.”
The cloak was too thick to knot easily, but finally she achieved something more or less sturdy. She rose and pulled the unwieldy length of cloth toward the window. “That's why I'm going to get out of this chamber. Because, when all is said and done, King Pellinore's power lies in the hands of people like you and me.”
Praying hard to whichever god was listening, Guinevere fastened Sir Darric's leggings to the foot of the bed and tossed the end of her makeshift rope out the window.
A sharp cry sounded behind her. “You're never going to trust yourself to that contraption, m'lady?”
She turned. Liam had made his decision. He strode forward, grabbed the knotted end of Sir Darric's leggings, and with a quick jerk, pulled them free. The rest of the knotted clothing slid out the window and disappeared into darkness.
“Beg pardon, m'lady, but only a fool would try to escape that way.”
Guinevere turned so he could not see the tears of gratitude that had sprung to her eyes. “But I must get out.”
“Aye, but not by yon window. That's death, that is. You want to go out by the door.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Silently, she thanked the listening god for Liam's anger. It was like being handed an extra weapon in a one-sided fight. “Then what shall I do?” she asked meekly.
Liam considered. “You're tall for a lass. My clothes would fit. I could ask the guard for permission to fetch you something—another blanket, perhaps, a skin of wine, or a dish from the kitchens—and then you could get out disguised as me.” He glanced at her uneasily. “If you'd consent to wear these rags, m'lady.”
“I would not consent,” Guinevere said firmly, “because where would that leave you? If Sir Darric returned and found you here without your clothes, he'd know you'd helped me. He'd kill you. And it would be my fault.” Her voice softened, and she smiled at him shyly. “But I thank you for the offer.”
Liam shifted from foot to foot. He was relieved but trying to hide it. “What then, m'lady?”
“Perhaps we could disable the guard.”
“But we have no weapons.”
She glanced around the room again, this time looking for something that could serve as a weapon. In the corner opposite the bed, she saw the waste pot, a heavy bronze bowl with a copper lid. “Liam, is the waste pot empty?”
Startled, Liam shook his head. “Sir Darric, he's a drinking man.” He grinned. “I could always empty it.”
Guinevere smiled back. “There's no one on the battlement just now. Just a pile of clothes.”
Smiling, Liam emptied the waste pot out the window. “Now what?”
Guinevere explained her plan. Together, they moved the bench in the ant
echamber to a position behind the door. She climbed up on the bench, and Liam handed her the waste pot. It was cold and very heavy, a cumbersome weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. She would have to do this part of it herself. Even for his daughter's sake, she doubted if Liam could be brought to attack an armed guard.
“Now, you stand there,” she directed, “so that when he comes in, he'll stop at once. Is the bedsheet handy? Good. Ready now? Here I go.” She drew a long breath, opened her mouth, and screamed.
A heavy fist pounded on the door. “My lady? My lady?”
Guinevere shrieked again. “Help! Help!”
The door flew open. Darnal ran in, almost knocking Liam down, but he stopped where she wanted him to stop. Raising the heavy pot high in the air, she brought it down with all her strength on Darnal's head. He staggered, grunted once, and fell.
“Now!” she cried.
Trembling, Liam bound the man's wrists to his ankles with the bedsheet while Guinevere grabbed the dagger from his belt. Darnal lay senseless and unmoving.
“Now get in the bedchamber, quick!” she ordered. “I'll drop the bar across the door. That way, you can't be blamed.”
But Liam, his courage aroused, objected to going. It took precious moments of pleading to get him to obey. “Knock yourself on the head with something,” she suggested. “Be in a faint when Sir Darric returns.” He seemed pleased with this idea and finally retreated to the bedchamber. She secured the door, then raced into the hall, only just remembering to close the antechamber door behind her.
It was quiet in the corridor. She slipped down the stairs, moving cautiously at first, until she saw that all the corridors were empty of their guards. Had Sir Darric called some kind of meeting, now that all the guards on duty were his own men? So much the better. Guinevere ran to the kitchens, which were empty at night but for the cook's boys, who slept on the hearth. The quickest way to the stables was through the kitchen gardens, and to the stables, forbidden or not, she must go. If only Queen Alyse had not picked this night to rob her of her tunic and leggings!
On the thought, she made a quick detour to the fuller's quarters, hard by the kitchens. No one was about in the middle of the night, but the baskets of clothes awaiting cleaning sat just inside the door. She found her tunic and leggings in the second basket and struggled impatiently out of her gown. Time seemed to weigh her down, each moment passing like a flash while she wrestled awkwardly with laces and thongs that Ailsa daily managed with such ease. Twice she heard thunder rumbling in the distance while her fingers pulled and pushed at the fastenings of her gown. At last, she was free of the hampering skirts and dressed again in her old, comfortable riding clothes.
She grabbed an old cloak from another basket and ran light-footed across the stone-floored kitchen to the garden door. She raised the heavy bar from its housings, pushed open the door without waking the sleeping servant boys, and stepped at last out into the rainy dark. Pulling the hood of her cloak tight around her head, she fled toward the stables.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rescue
At the edge of the stable block, she stopped. A torch gleamed dully in the rain, and by its light, she saw a guard in the courtyard, not far from the open stable door. She did not recognize him, which meant that he must be one of Sir Darric's men. She ducked back around the corner and ran to the rear door. It was barred from the inside. She wondered if she could slip in through one of the little horse windows without disturbing the animals. She had just decided to try it when a firm hand came down on her shoulder.
“Halt!” a voice behind her whispered. “And be silent.”
She whirled, the stolen dagger in her hand. Her wrist was caught in a vicious grip and the dagger wrenched away. A cloaked man pushed her hard against the stable wall, dislodging her hood.
“What are you doing here, boy?” he said roughly. “Who are you?” Then, as a stray gleam of light caught a wayward strand of bright hair, he drew a sharp breath. “Princess Guinevere?”
At last, she recognized the voice. If the light had not been so dim, she would have known him sooner by the odd tilt of his shoulders. “M-Marcus?”
“Shhh,” Marcus whispered hoarsely. “Keep your voice down. What are you doing here, my lady?”
Guinevere swallowed in a dry throat. “Did Regis send you to look for me?”
Marcus laughed softly. “No, princess. There are traitors abroad tonight, but I'm not one of them. I've just come from a conference with the queen.” He looked at the dagger in his hand. “Whose weapon is this?”
“Darnal's,” she said quickly. “Sir Darric imprisoned me in his chamber, and he's—he's abducted Elaine! Jordan and Drako took her. Have they come this way? Have they ridden off? Am I too late?”
Marcus stared at her. A hundred questions rose to his lips, but there was no time to ask them. He was certain the queen knew nothing of this disaster.
“They've taken Lady Elaine? Where? Not out into this storm?”
Thunder rumbled again in the mountains, and Guinevere shivered. “I don't know where they're going. To some kind of camp, Sir Darric said. I don't know where it is, but I've got to follow them. I'm sure I can track them in this soft ground. I've—I've got to save her.” She raised a pale face to Marcus. “Sir Darric is taking over the castle.”
Something like a growl issued from Marcus's throat. “Over my dead body. How long have they been gone?”
“I don't know. The best part of an hour perhaps.”
Marcus grunted. “Time enough. Never mind. I know where the camp is.”
“ You do?” Guinevere cried. “Then you can lead me to her!”
Marcus shoved his hand over her mouth. “Keep your voice down. The guard will hear you.” He glanced swiftly about and withdrew his hand. “Not tonight, I can't,” he said apologetically. “The queen has sent me to muster as many loyal men as I can find. There's not a moment to lose. Nor can I let you ride out alone, not at night, not in this storm.”
“But, Marcus,” Guinevere pleaded, “how much use will your loyal men be when all Sir Darric has to do to force the queen's surrender is threaten to kill her daughter? She's his hostage. I heard him say himself that she was his promise of King Pellinore's good behavior. If we don't save Elaine, the kingdom is lost.”
Marcus swore softly. “All right,” he agreed. “But if I can't muster the men, someone else has to. Where's Stannic? He's a loyal man. I was coming to find him first.”
“Probably at home. Sir Darric waited for the change of watch to set his plans in motion.” She pointed into the darkness beyond the paddocks. “He lives yonder, in a cottage near the mares' meadow.”
“I'll get him. You wait here.”
Guinevere clutched at his cloak as he turned away. “Give me back the dagger first.”
Marcus obliged and moments later was swallowed up by the darkness and the pelting rain. Guinevere looked about anxiously. It was impossible to stand here in the wet and wait. Every moment that passed was a moment wasted, when she could be doing something to help Elaine. She must do what she could while Marcus was away. If she were caught, he could find Elaine without her. If she were not caught, they could be off all the sooner.
Thrusting the dagger into her belt, she hoisted herself up to the nearest of the horses' windows. The torch outside the main stable door, which was still open, shed enough light to see a wide blaze on a long bay nose. It was old Gus, thank God, and not one of the younger stallions. He threw up his head and rolled an eye at her but he made no sound as she squeezed herself through and dropped lightly to the ground. Giving old Gus a quick pat, she slipped out into the aisle between the double line of horses. It was important to keep her breathing calm and her steps casual as she made her way down the aisle to Peleth's place in the lines. Horses could sense fear more quickly even than dogs. In the wild, it was fear and speed that kept them alive.
She saw no one about. Stannic's grooms slept in a room at the end of the stable block. She could not see the room from wh
ere she stood and had no way of knowing whether the grooms were imprisoned as she had been or taken captive or left alone to sleep in innocent ignorance. If they were there, they would be up at dawn to feed the horses and would raise an alarm when they saw Peleth gone. She wished she knew how far off daybreak was.
The old gelding nickered as she approached him. She hurried to his side and hushed him, stroking his neck and whispering endearments. She dared not fetch his bridle, for the bridles hung right next to the grooms' sleeping chamber, and she did not want to risk waking anyone up. Besides, she would have to pass the open stable door twice to get there and back, and the guard might see her.
She did not mind riding Peleth with only a halter and lead rope—she had done it often enough before—but what about Marcus? Which horse would he ride? She could not remember ever having seen Marcus on a horse. Danger beyond the castle grounds was not the business of house guards. That meant he would almost certainly need both a saddle and a bridle. She bit her lip, thinking hard. They could not risk discovery; their mission was too important. She dared not ready a horse for him when she didn't know his level of skill. Was there a chance she could persuade him to ride double with her? Stannic would know, she thought, with a great rush of relief. Stannic was coming, and Stannic would know what to do. In the meantime, she would get Peleth ready and lift the bar from the back door.
Her night sight was good now, and she walked down the aisle with something near her normal step. With infinite care, she raised the bar across the back door and went to set it down silently in the straw. But the bar was heavy, her hands were wet and slippery, and her arms, strained from the weight of holding the heavy waste pot over her head, trembled with the effort. The bar slipped from her grip and fell with a dull thud to the ground. It was not a loud noise, certainly not loud enough for the guard or the grooms to hear over the sound of pelting rain, but the horses heard it. Several of them snorted and blew, and one young stallion, backing to the end of his rope and finding he could go no farther, whinnied shrilly.