Hearts Return - Part 11

Mid-afternoon finds Ceolfred seated in the village’s square, enjoying one of the apple pastries from the nearby stall. He’d done the best he could with his hair that morning, before coming in from his campsite; he’d even shaved with his small, sharp knife and the bit of polished steel he used as a mirror when on the road. Despite all that, the baker’s wife had given him a wary look when he approached to order, clearly disapproving of his scruffy appearance. The sight of the silver coin he lifted between thumb and forefinger mollified her. Barely. She still mumbled something about strangers and rogues as she turned to pull two of the confections off the cooling tray.

Ceolfred just smiled. He’d been called worse, and to his face, in past years when doing service for the rangers. Not that he’d ever been fully accepted into that elite company – his family had only traces of the old blood after all – but he’d won a measure of trust, even of respect, from those hard men who guarded the borders. Men who’d likely get no better treatment from this stocky woman than he had, yet men who kept these little communities safe, kept away the sort of creatures that would have had their eyes and noses – and teeth – set on the woman herself, not on her tarts. She’d be good for several meals, this one, he reflected, plump as she was. Though that was a good thing in a baker’s wife. Wouldn’t be much of an advertisement of her wares if she were as thin as Zandrianna, with her slender waist and high... he shook his head. Where had that thought come from? Zandrianna was scarcely more than a child, scarcely older than Ceolfred’s own nephew. Then the stallkeeper was back with the pastries, interrupting his meditations.

Now he sits on this shaded bench, an eye out for the arrival of the villa’s servants, his thoughts drifting back to that same nephew. He’d not been able to make Rastellion remain at their small campsite that morning, not after the younger man had heard about Talthos’ band of disgruntled young men. “What if they’re plotting something useful?” Rastellion demanded. “Or something that could interfere with the rescue? We need to find out – and I’m the most likely one.”

Privately, Ceolfred disagreed. If anyone could wheedle secrets out the young locals, it’d be that Emrabeth. Maybe she should try; that’d get the girl doing something useful for a change. Maybe. She was altogether too unpredictable. But Rastellion had the bit between his teeth and, grudgingly, his uncle had agreed to let him come into the village and try his luck. Once the young man had disguised himself a bit, that was. No point making a foolish chance even more foolish.

A flurry of activity at one edge of the square catches Ceolfred’s attention and, glancing to his left, he sees the villa’s servants, led by the same barge of a woman as before. She barks her orders, then turns to make her ponderous way toward the baker’s stall. The white-frocked girls scatter about the square, like the floating seeds of a puff-blossom, and Ceolfred’s eyes seek out the dark, slight form of Marybelle. She doesn’t appear to have seen him; she looks about in a few other directions as she makes her way to one of the shops along the edge of the square. Ceolfred puffs out his cheeks, licks the last of the spiced apple syrup off his fingers, stands, and strolls over to the mouth of an alley, clearly in view of the shop’s entrance, where he leans against the wall and pulls his hat down over his eyes a bit more.

About a quarter of a glass later, Mary emerges back outside. She looks over her shoulder to call one last instruction to the shopkeeper and, turning back, catches sight of Ceolfred. A quick glance toward the housekeeper at baker’s stall, then she’s walking toward him. She saunters past, not sparing him a look, and comes to a halt a few paces down the narrow lane. Ceolfred follows.

The girl starts talking at once, in a low voice, as soon as he joins her. “I’ve not got much time. I told Imma you were here – you and the boy. We put our heads together, best as we could, with the guards always watching her. She agrees, our best chance – likely only chance – will be during the ceremony, when she’s unchained and putting on her dress. There’s really no other good time.”

She reaches into the pocket of her apron, and pulls out a bit of tattered parchment. “I drew you a map, like you asked,” she says, handing it to him. Ceolfred examines the scrap. On it, Mary has drawn, in unsteady charcoal lines, a rough sketch of the main areas of the villa: courtyard, barracks, front entrance, reception hall, dining and dance hall, a few side rooms.

“This is where Imma will be sent to change into her dress,” she says, pointing to one of those side rooms, “as it’s just down this corridor from the back of the hall, where the high table will be. Her guard will probably wait outside it. The passage continues to these stairs here. That way leads to the kitchens and back court. But that’ll be full of guards and servants.”

Ceolfred takes the sketch in at a glance, nodding. It tallies with what he’s observed of the compound from the outside. “And other guards?” he asks.

Mary’s mouth purses. “Likely everywhere,” she says. “The master will want to make sure guests don’t wander where they’re not allowed.” She points to the map again. “You could follow this passage from the base of those back stairs, under the main hall, toward the main entrance. Could even get back up into the hall here and here, but there’ll be guards there too, and at the front.” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “Just ... I just don’t know what to expect. And there’s not much else I can do.”

Ceolfred frowns, studying the sketch. An attempted escape would be too obvious in the ‘working’ portions of the villa, where guests aren’t expected. And, the guards and servants there would recognize Immalaine, even if she weren’t in her dress. A bluff, then; talk their way past? No. A single guard with even a spark of common sense would foil that plan. One’s enemies were that foolish only in children’s tales and adventure stories. He’d been up against enough clever foes to know that.

Disguise then, whichever way they go. His eyes return to the passage under the hall, and he recalls what he knows of the barding competition. If Zandrianna and Emrabeth could do well enough to be finalists, then they’d be admitted into the front courtyard. Not into the hall itself, of course; only the winning group would get that honor, and Zandrianna had assured him that she and Emrabeth weren’t nearly good enough.

But ... it wouldn’t seem particularly strange if some of the lesser entertainers, perhaps slightly the worse for drink, were to wander in from the courtyard and get themselves “lost” in the villa. They’d have to be escorted out, maybe even thrown out. And if Immalaine were dressed as one of them, and kept her head down, what were the chances of a guard noticing her? Particularly if that Emrabeth were holding the guards’ attentions. And they’d seem a lot less out of place that way than they would trying to sneak out the back.

Ceolfred nods to himself, wanting his pipe. It always helps him think. Yes... yes, it could work. Maybe. Marybelle could evaluate the plan’s chances, once he told her about the two women and the barding. He tucks the parchment into a pocket – he’ll ask her for more details in a moment – as he reaches into his vest for his tobacco pouch.

Out of old habit, his gaze makes a quick sweep of his surroundings. To his surprise, he sees Zandrianna herself, as if summoned by his thoughts, far down the lane and hurrying toward them. He wonders what she’s doing – they’d agreed that she and Emrabeth weren’t be seen in public with either himself or Rastellion, not until they got a better sense of the situation here. Then again, she knew he planned to tell Mary about the women today; perhaps she means to come introduce herself. And why not?

Ceolfred turns back to the servant girl. Might as well start the introductions now. “Mary, I’ve an idea about how we might get you and Immalaine out of the hall. Do you see that woman...”

The attack, when it comes, almost catches Ceolfred by surprise. Only at the last moment does he hear the too-heavy slap of footsteps darting toward them, of a man’s indrawn breath as he lifts a heavy weapon. Damn. Who’d be looking for him here, after all this time?

Ceolfred squats low, expecting a blow from behind, and spins clockwise, right foot and arm lashing out, to trip or block, left hand reaching for one of the two long knives at his belt. Amazingly, he connects solidly, his forearm impacting the soft midriff of the assailant. The fellow’s out of position, or an amateur. He should have been striking for Ceolfred’s back, not there to one side.

The stranger huffs as the blow knocks him off-balance, and his crude club comes swinging down, parting the air between Ceolfred and Marybelle. The man – medium build, brown hair, clad in a dark cloak, the hood just fallen from his face – gives a slight cry of pain as his weapon hits the dirty cobbles, jarring his arm. Ceolfred springs back, balances on the balls of his feet, pulls free his second blade, one in each hand now. A glance toward the square. No one’s noticed. No Watchers. Can’t draw attention. Got to make this quick.

Then Marybelle screams.

Ceolfred’s eyes flick to her. Poor thing; she must be scared out of her wits. Her gaze is locked on the stranger, who’s not yet squared off with Ceolfred. Amateur indeed. But, no, the man’s not turning to face Ceolfred; he’s stepping toward Mary, raising the club again. And that look on the girl’s face, it’s not just terror, it’s what? Horror? No: recognition. Mary’s eyes, wide, stares another instant. Then she turns and flees.

With a grunt, the stranger starts after her. Ceolfred’s thoughts race. Throw a dagger? No. Mary’s scream has been heard. People in the square are turning, witnesses. No explaining a dead body. The girl just needs time to get away. Needs a few moments, a few paces. Ceolfred darts forward, his hand lashes out, grabs the edge of the attacker’s cloak.

The man is jerked back; his feet slip; he curses. He turns and yanks his cloak free. Behind him, Mary disappears into the growing crowd. And Ceolfred finds himself staring at an orc ... no, not an orc, but a horribly burned man, the flesh on one side of his face puffy and half-melted, that eye sagging lower than the other. “Meddling old bastard,” the stranger spits – a surprisingly mellow voice for such a face, even with the harsh words. Then, pulling his hood back up, the man turns and darts away into the square, heading in a different direction than Mary did.

More people are clustering at the mouth of the alley, half a dozen now. Mary’s probably safely away, but might as well give her what help he can. “Stop that fellow!” he calls in a gruff voice, pointing after their assailant. The small group of onlookers mumbles in confusion; one young man, quicker than the others, turns and sprints after the stranger.

Ceolfred uses the distraction to slip away himself, back along the narrow lane. No sign of Zandrianna. Well, they’d planned to all meet up after the barding exhibition. They can discuss the map and his new plan then. Damn, with that interruption, he never got to discuss it with Marybelle, or tell her about the two women. Or even set up their next meeting.

“I need a smoke,” he mutter to himself, slowing once he’s around the corner and angling his steps toward the edge of town. Time to get back to camp. Rastellion ought to be back there by now, after his attempt to ingratiate himself with the local lads. Perhaps he learned something useful. And then it’ll be more hours of waiting, until it’s time to sneak across the village roofs and meet with Zandrianna and Emrabeth, and to plan the rescue of Immalaine.