Lady's Pursuit (Knight and Rogue Book 6) Read online

  When the notebook could tell me nothing more, I picked up the crossbow and his supply of bolts — he carried a full score — and took them out to a nearby field, to see if I could determine what it did.

  I chose a knot in a dead oak as my target, worked the little forked lever that spanned the bow, and loosed. To my astonishment, my first careless shot thudded into its center.

  I’m reasonably adept with the short bow I use for hunting, and crossbows are easy to aim and shoot, but I’m not an archer of this caliber.

  I aimed again, this time more carefully. My second bolt struck the knot so close to its fellow that it might have taken one of the metal vanes off the other shaft.

  I started to aim more carefully still ... and realized I was going about my testing the wrong way.

  I turned, walked several paces away from the tree, then spun and shot wildly in the direction of my target, hardly bothering to aim ... and the bolt landed less than an inch from the others.

  I went a bit mad then, shooting in all directions, striking narrow fence posts from an impossible range, or lopping the heads off flowers.

  But eventually I settled down — assisted in regaining my calm by the need to hike out and retrieve my bolts, digging several out of the wood where they were embedded with my knife. And True refused to fetch, even the loose ones.

  After a number of shots, I’d established that all I had to do was to point the crossbow in the general direction of the target, think of the place I willed the bolt to go ... and there it went, even if my eyes were closed when I pulled the trigger.

  Once I got over my astonishment — and I shouldn’t have been so shocked, for I’d known the thing was magica — I found there were some limits to its power. It would hit any target within its range, but if I aimed at a target too far off the bolt would lose energy in the normal way and plow into the grass and earth ... though still along a straight line between me and the target. And once it left the string the bolt’s path was set — if I aimed at a bird in flight, the quarrel would sail right through the place the bird had been when it launched. To hit a moving target I would have to lead it, just as I would with an ordinary bow — but if I judged the distance aright, the spot I aimed for was where that bolt would fly.

  Quail or duck might make a pleasant change from pork, for I expected to soon grow tired of eating that big haunch.

  Sobered, I retrieved my last bolts and went back to fix myself and my prisoner a belated luncheon. After shoving it past his door I went back to the stables, and searched till I found a pair of hobbles — one buckle was broken but the leather was still sound, as was the chain between them. In addition to the tools I had with me, I found a few others in the tack room’s workbench.

  The fit wasn’t bad, for a man’s ankles are much the size of a horse’s pasterns, but I had to replace the buckles with some more complex fastening. Given that I had neither locks nor keys, I replaced the buckles with a pair of iron rings, which I could fasten together by wrapping a bit of heavy wire around them, and then twisting it into a tight spiral and clipping the loose ends.

  With a pair of pliers he’d have them off in minutes, and with more time even a slender nail might have done the trick. But without tools my makeshift lock should hold, and I could check to be sure they were still fastened before I released him from his cell. He might be able to get the drop on me, knock me senseless or kill me, and then go in search of tools ... but he was unlikely to get the drop on True.

  I went back to the kitchen and put some pork in the kettle to brown, then out to the wild garden to put my trowel to use, plucking a pocketful of herbs while I was there. And while bread might be beyond my rough and ready skills, biscuits are within them.

  My prisoner stepped away from the door on my order, and with True keeping watch I bound his hands behind his back. I then attached my makeshift shackles — tight enough to hold him, but loose enough to wear for days without cutting off the blood flow to his feet.

  He watched the process with interest but said nothing, even when I freed his hands and swung the door aside.

  “Dinner’s in the kitchen. You may have to sit down to manage the stairs.”

  In the end he chose to hop down, clinging to the rail and moving both feet to the next step together. I remembered Kathy doing that as a toddler, but ’twas easy not to smile at the comparison, and True became so agitated at these sudden movements I had to call him sharply to heel. When we went into the kitchen, the dog retreated to a corner where he could see my prisoner and stared fixedly.

  The man looked warily back at True, then down at his place setting, which included neither knife nor fork, but only a spoon. A slight crease appeared between his brows.

  “You’ve some question, Master...? What is your name, anyway?”

  I ladled stew into his bowl as I spoke and I’d little hope of a reply, so I wasn’t disappointed when I got none. However...

  “I must call you something, so I suppose ’twill have to be Master Assassin.”

  I thought he twitched at that, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Anyway, True here is your real guard. He’s fond of me, and would be very aggressive with anyone who tried to kill me. And since he’s seen you do that once already, he probably thinks that name suits you well.”

  I sat down at my own place — on the other side of the table — and began to eat. With honest appetite, as I was reasonably certain that at this distance even the most skilled fighter couldn’t kill me with a spoon.

  I let him eat several bites before I went on.

  “Although, having found your... What do bounty hunters call them? Warrant books? Having read your warrant book, I’m not entirely sure ‘assassin’ fits. But bounty hunters are generally paid by the authorities, and return the men they hunt to the law’s keeping. Do you do that, Master Assassin? Well, I suppose it makes little difference to me. Though I must say, I wonder that even a bounty hunter would kidnap an innocent woman, who has done no one harm.”

  He still said nothing, but his gaze shifted aside. Whether he was one of the kidnappers or only allied with them, he knew something about them. But ’twould take more time, alas, before he told me what it was.

  “I also found your crossbow...”

  I chatted amiably through the meal, with him mostly ignoring me. When True and I returned him to his cell I took a moment to swap his honey bucket for an empty one. I thought I saw a flash of gratitude in his eyes at that, but I couldn’t be sure.

  The next morning I pushed his breakfast into the room and departed, to spend the day trying to find out who had stocked this keep and loaned it to kidnappers.

  I started at the nearest village, buying bread, eggs and a chicken. This gave me an excuse to tell the baker and grocer that I was camping in the area, waiting for a friend to join me, and that I’d seen an old keep nearby which seemed to be deserted...

  The conversation wandered a bit, but I managed to learn that Baron Tatterman had sold the keep to a sawmill owner in Kettering, who had wanted “a country home.” But he’d only come out once, to inspect the place, and had never come back. Looking for another fool to sell it to, the villagers supposed.

  A sawmill owner seemed less likely to have court connections than the baron, though both probably knew the place was empty. I asked a few more questions, and discovered that Tatterman’s new manor had been built closer to Rudley. I got directions to it, and to Kettering for good measure, though that town was a full day’s ride away.

  That evening over dinner I reported on my efforts to Master Assassin, who seemed genuinely indifferent to my discovery of the keep’s true owner. This surprised me, for surely his attacks on me and Margaret’s kidnapping must be connected, the source of both events originating in the High Liege’s court. But his mask was back in place, and he showed no interest in anything I said, eating his chicken as if I wasn’t even at the table.

  He’d probably guessed what I was about — ’twas not complicated, after all. But his knowledge woul
d make little difference in the end. Like the creatures of pack, herd and flock, men must be with their own kind. Sooner or later, if I was the only human he had, he would accept me.

  Indeed, I thought he’d respond faster than some of the dogs my father’s hound master had tamed.

  The next day I gave him a wrapped sandwich for luncheon along with this breakfast, explaining that I was going to Rudley and wouldn’t be back till dinner.

  In Rudley, I asked myself what Fisk would do, and presented myself as the agent of a man who wished to buy a country home and had heard that Baron Tatterman had moved out of his ancestral keep. People here knew little of the distant keep, though a few had heard the Baron had sold it to some merchant. They referred me to Baron Tatterman for more information. Yes, the baron was in residence at the hall. Where else would he be? Court? No, he wasn’t one of those lieges who ran off to the city, wasting time and money better spent on his own land.

  Visitors from court? Baron Tatterman socialized mostly with the local gentry. Baron Mortenson, Baron Hopley, and their families, were his most frequent guests, and they weren’t ones to go haring off to court, either.

  I rode back to the keep in a sober mood, and then went out to cast a hook into the nearby stream. I had sometimes thought that the tenants on our estate knew my father better than I did. If people here said Baron Tatterman was indifferent to court, ’twas probably true.

  Master Assassin made no comment on the fish, but I filled the silence by telling him how I’d caught each one, and how the smallest had actually given me the hardest fight.

  “Do you fish, Master Assassin? You must, traveling about the countryside as I think you do. I travel a lot myself, and I fish whenever I get the chance. What do you like for bait? I got some worms from the garden, but I know a young man who swears by—”

  “I’m not an... I’m not that,” he said abruptly. “My name’s Wheatman.”

  I knew better than to show the triumph that swelled in my heart.

  “Master Wheatman, then,” I said. “Thank you. So what do you use for bait? Have you tried cheese, like my young friend?”

  I lingered a few more days in the keep, killing my spare time working on the kitchen garden. Man-taming wasn’t something that could be rushed, the trip to Kettering would take some time, and I wanted to secure the ground I’d gained before I abandoned my prisoner for so long.

  I took pains to keep the conversation trivial, and he’d begun to respond to my questions, though his answers were short. The night before I left for Kettering I told him where I was going and why, and promised to leave him plenty of water and food in case my return was delayed.

  His lips pressed tight, though whether in anger or dismay I couldn’t tell.

  “Would you leave me a book as well?”

  His voice was rough with the humiliation of having to ask. And part of my strategy was to keep him bored as well as lonely, so that dinner with another human being would be the greatest pleasure he had. But I still pitied him.

  “I would if I had one, but I don’t travel with such things any more than you do. And when Tatterman moved out, he took all the small valuable objects, like books, with him.”

  He passed some of those empty, echoing rooms on his way to the kitchen each night, so he’d know what I said was true.

  “And you know why I can’t leave you any tools.” I made my voice gentler still, and he nodded jerkily, his gaze cast down.

  “But I’ll probably return by Darkling Night,” I added. “’Tis two nights hence, you know. Though my father didn’t believe in ‘those old superstitions,’ and he wasn’t much for reflection either, so we never paid the Darkling Nights much heed. Did your family?”

  I didn’t expect a reply, but he said, “We were townsmen. Several neighbors held big parties, and we’d go to one of their homes. They let the children stay up as late as we wanted and we’d run around — indoors — playing fox and hounds, or hide the thimble, then fall asleep on a mattress in front of the hearth while the grownups talked into the small hours.”

  ’Twas the most of himself he’d given me, and I had to honor it.

  “Father sent us off to bed at the usual time,” I said. “But Benton and I — he’s the brother closest to my age — we’d slip away and creep down to the kitchen. Father may not have believed in the old ways, but the servants were all telling tales of magica monsters, who only roused on Darkling Nights, and ghastly things that had happened to folk who went out when both moons were gone. The victims were always someone their uncle or aunt or cousin knew, personally, and they swore the tale was true... ’Twas never anyone they’d known, and when he grew older Benton started to wonder about that. He’s my scholarly brother, so he tracked down some of those uncles and cousins and found that either they’d never heard the tale, or that it had happened to someone their uncles or cousins knew, personally...”

  I turned over the supplies I’d promised him the next morning. And I was genuinely sorry I couldn’t leave him a book.

  The good part about the coach heading toward Uncle Roger’s fief was that he’d help us intercept it — and if he didn’t, we’d know he was involved with the kidnapping. Rupert swore he wasn’t, and that meant we wouldn’t even have to present my forged writ to a sheriff, which I particularly appreciated.

  The bad part was that we had to reach his fief at least a day before the coach would, which meant two days of very hard riding.

  The worst part was that Kathy endured the long days in the saddle better than I did.

  Uncle Roger’s “house” was a square stone manor that, despite its size and its master’s obvious wealth, managed to look more like a big farmhouse than a mansion — an effect that was enhanced by the elderly man in his shirt sleeves who answered the door.

  “Good evening, sirs. You got business here at...” Then his jaw sagged — and he wasn’t looking at the dog, who had slipped into the bushes as we rode into the yard. “Master Rupert? Really? I thought those rumors was... Ah, welcome, Your Highness. I’ll go tell the master you’ve come, shall I?”

  Rupert’s smile was tired but genuine, and I remembered all the common folk of Crown City who’d addressed him so casually.

  “It’s good to see you too, Mickle. What rumors? I hoped no one had noticed me.”

  “I can’t say as they’ve noticed you, sir. But we been hearing that you ran off after some ... ah, that you left the court, and might be traveling in these parts. Jacky, come and take these horses round to the stable.”

  He stepped aside, and Kathy and I followed Rupert into an entry hall that might have been imposing except for a clutter of hunting bows and spears, the muddy boots someone had stripped off just inside the door, and a big dog lying on a cushioned window bench that caught the last rays of the lowering sun.

  I trusted that City Mutt lurking in the bushes was smart enough to keep out of the farm dog’s way. I was also sorry to hear that city rumors had spread to the countryside ... but surely even Advisor Arnold, who’d been so adamant that no one find out about the Heir’s peccadilloes, couldn’t hold it against us.

  Rupert’s smile had vanished. “They’re talking about Meg? Even out here?”

  “Well, you’re the Heir, young master. Though I thought that bit about her being kidnapped off the street had to be claptrap. ’Least, till you showed up.”

  He led the way down the hall, and ushered us into the room where the family sat at dinner with a casual, “Look who’s here, Master Roger.”

  “Rupert, my boy! You look terrible. Are you really chasing after that ... ah... I thought that was nonsense!”

  Uncle Roger was a muscular man, growing stocky with the onset of middle age. He rose from the table as he spoke, and came over to throw an arm around Rupert’s shoulders. A young man, who would look a lot like his father in about twenty years, cast Rupert a sympathetic grin.

  “I am chasing after her,” Rupert admitted. “But Meg’s not an ‘ah.’ I want to marry her. And we think the people w
ho took her may be heading into your fief. We’ve been riding like mad to get ahead of them.”

  “Well, well.” Uncle Roger had too much sense to comment on that. “Sit down and have some dinner — you and your friends — and we’ll think about what’s best to do, eh?”

  Plates were fetched so we could join them, and Rupert introduced us to Roger and his son, Corbin. He then set about trying to convince the worldly older man that sending a troop of local guards to intercept his kidnapped mistress was “what’s best to do.” Kathy put in a word every now and then, and I ate my roast pork and left them to it.

  Though more and more, as the conversation went on, I watched them at it. It seemed to me that Roger’s reluctance to raise troops to go after the Heir’s mistress had less to do with Rupert and Meg, and more to do with Corbin’s enthusiasm at the prospect. It didn’t feel like either of them had a hand in the kidnapping, but something else was playing out here and I didn’t understand it.

  Kathy did. As the conversation escalated from discussion through debate and into argument, she spoke less and less, but her gaze was keen.

  Rupert, with a self-control that was almost unnatural, managed to win his point without ever saying aloud that someday he was going to be High Liege, and that getting in his black books would be a really bad idea. But he came close to it. By the time the meal ended, Roger had reluctantly agreed to send word to several nearby sheriffs, who’d have a troop of twenty deputies assembled by tomorrow morning.

  This seemed to confirm Rupert’s belief that he wasn’t part of the plot, because we should be able to intercept the coach soon after they entered Roger’s fief — certainly before they left it. We finished dinner with a berry-laden trifle soaked in cream, and a lot more constraint all around than when the meal had started.

  As we left the dining room, Corbin snagged Rupert to “come and check on the horses.” I’d have gone straight to bed — I didn’t want to show it, but I was feeling the effect of all that riding. But as a maidservant escorted us toward the stairs, Kathy took my arm and asked the girl, “Is there someplace around here we can go to ... discuss something in private?”