The Fire Star Page 4

  ‘Enchanted,’ he murmurs, and even I hear my lady’s indrawn breath. Or perhaps it is my own.

  But she gives no outward sign of appeasement, instead snatching the hand back a moment before it is courteous and whirling about to sketch a cursory curtsey in her uncle’s direction. I scuttle back to my position in the hallway by the door.

  ‘I look forward to a lengthy discussion on the morrow,’ I hear the Airl say as Cassandra strides towards the door. She gives no sign of having heard the dark tone of his words, no sign beyond pulling the door behind her shut with more force than was necessary.

  I grip her arm, my finger on my lips to silence any outburst, and march her at pace down the hallway. As we walk, I can hear the hubbub of conversation begin again, with bursts of raucous laughter amidst the discussion.

  A footman materialises out of the darkness by the magnificent stone staircase that leads up and away to the accommodation wings of the castle.

  ‘Just tell us how to get to my lady’s quarters and leave us,’ I snap. Cassandra is melting beside me as he gives directions, her energy sapped by our long day and the courage required for the performance she has just managed.

  As I struggle up the stairs with her, the footman watching us all the way, I whisper, ‘Not long, my lady. Stay strong. Appearances are everything.’

  Cassandra takes heed, straightening up, recognising, as I do, that every move we make in this place will be reported upon, dissected, discussed.

  ‘How did I do?’ she asks me, and I can hear in her voice her need for affirmation. That Cassandra gets it only from her fifteen-year-old maid sums up most of what has brought her – and me – to this place.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But let us not speak of it until we reach our quarters.’

  ‘The wheels are in motion,’ Cassandra says, her free hand creeping up to clutch the stone at her throat, where it continues to sparkle even in the dim light of the hall.

  ‘They are.’ I nod, finally reaching our door and pushing it open. ‘But they have a long and bumpy road to travel before we reach our destination.’

  Later, as I place the Fire Star in a leather pouch and tuck it inside my lady’s jewel case, I think upon her words. I understand what drives her to the desperate action she has undertaken, and I will do everything in my power to help her. For if she succeeds, then so do I.

  But that does not mean that I am confident.

  Cassandra does not know the world as I do. Despite her despised position within her own family, she does not really understand that her family has a superior position within the world. Nor can she see the many, many souls who are worse off. Souls who would tear her family down in an instant if it meant bettering their own lot even a tiny bit.

  But I see it. I know. I have been there. I may be ten years younger than my lady, but the truth is that I am worlds older than she.

  And so, after I have unbraided her hair and brushed the glossy strands until they gleam, after I have washed her feet in lavender-scented water, after I have tucked her beneath crisp linen sheets and drawn the velvet curtains – all while she talks and talks and talks of her plans, her dreams, her demons – only then do I slide from the dark room, closing the door behind me with the tiniest of clicks.

  It is time for me to introduce myself to those members of the Beech Circle who dwell within the walls of Rennart Castle.

  Our meeting at the Beech Circle sanctuary earlier today was fruitful, and we have been offered all assistance – as we would give to others under different circumstances. It is a small chapter, but well resourced, with a leader who engenders trust, and members from all societal strata. I hope that we will have no need of the two members who reside at Rennart Castle, for I do not wish to deliver our troubles on others . . . but I am grateful to know they are nearby.

  If all goes well, they will have received the message to meet and I will be back here within the hour.

  If I am discovered – if the Beech Circle is discovered – I will not be back at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As Reeve pulled back Sir Garrick’s chair for his master to settle himself before the dessert selection, the knight turned to Airl Buckthorn.

  ‘That went well,’ he remarked, trying for a light tone.

  ‘She always was headstrong, that girl,’ Airl Buckthorn responded, his tone fierce.

  Sir Garrick winced. ‘You never mentioned that when you were telling me how beautiful she was and how beneficial this marriage would be.’

  The Airl paused and then grinned. ‘My father once told me that Rhoswen was too headstrong to be a lady,’ he said, before slurping up a delicate mouthful of jelly.

  ‘And?’ Sir Garrick prodded after a moment.

  ‘I don’t think I need to add anything more,’ the Airl said.

  ‘Too scared to add anything more, more like,’ Sir Garrick murmured under his breath before turning to his own dessert.

  Reeve suppressed a smile even as he stood to attention behind the knight’s chair. The idea of anyone daring to describe Lady Rhoswen as headstrong to her face was, indeed, laughable. But neither could he imagine the dignified older woman causing a scene like the one Lady Cassandra had made here tonight.

  Reeve could already imagine the whispers of scandal leaking out from under the castle doors and out into the wider world, where they would be pored over and dissected in parlours across the kingdom.

  For Lady Cassandra to turn up unannounced the night before she was due was a big enough social crime. But for her to have come on her own, escorted only by a maid, and to boldly walk in here wearing that valuable stone without so much as doing her hair or wiping the dust from her boots . . .

  The maid should have known better. Maven, Cassandra had called her, and Reeve had known immediately that these were the two he’d met on the road that afternoon. Cassandra had kept her head down, but the other . . .

  Where had they been all these long hours since they’d left him? Reeve was still frowning over the question when the Airl spoke again.

  ‘On the subject of headstrong, have we news of our friend?’ he asked Sir Garrick.

  Sir Garrick took an inordinate amount of time chewing his jelly before responding. ‘The only news is that there is no news,’ he said, looking glum. ‘Our pleas and the pleas of others who worry fall on deaf ears. He continues to spend Cartreff’s coffers for his own ends, claiming that it is his birthright.’

  Airl Buckthorn sighed. ‘I was afraid of that,’ he said. ‘And, in the meantime, the dissent from the Great Families of the western fiefs grows louder, and I see factions rallying. They will not stand by as the kingdom goes broke, to be picked over by our enemies.’

  ‘Some in the North report they already hear whispers from beyond our borders,’ Sir Garrick revealed.

  The Airl sat back in his chair, staring out over the Great Hall, where people were happily squabbling over the last skerricks of dessert and beginning to sit back in their own seats.

  ‘Twenty-seven years of peace we enjoyed under his father, and he has managed to undo all of that in the space of just two years,’ Airl Buckthorn said. ‘You won’t remember the last war, but I do, and the soil of Cartreff ran with blood – our own blood. It must be avoided at all costs.’

  Sir Garrick was now also staring straight ahead, as though the two men were not really speaking to each other at all. ‘You know what it is that you say,’ he said. ‘Dangerous words for dangerous times.’

  ‘I do,’ said the Airl, turning to look the Knight Protector square in the face. ‘I do. God knows I wish that they were words that could be unsaid, but I fear that these and worse will be uttered over and over before the year is out. Cartreff will not survive his reign.’

  ‘You will be labelled a traitor for even speaking of such things,’ said Sir Garrick, ‘and you have heard the rumours of spies, as I have . . .’ Reeve felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he realised at last what the two men were discussing. He glanced around, seeing no one within ea
rshot except Neale, who was ambling past without even acknowledging Reeve’s presence.

  ‘This I know,’ the Airl said with a heavy sigh, as Reeve focused once more on the conversation. ‘But to do nothing would be to stand as a bigger traitor to this kingdom. I cannot stand by and watch as all that is good and fair about Cartreff is put to the sword by a king who cares only for himself and his pleasure. King Bren must be convinced to change . . . or the king must be changed.’

  Sir Garrick nodded. ‘I am your man, as always. What you need done, I will do.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Airl Buckthorn, looking relieved. ‘The first thing you can do is to get married. It will secure the alliance with my brother-in-law and –’

  He broke away with a smile.

  ‘And?’ Sir Garrick asked.

  ‘There is no better cover for a war counsel than a wedding,’ said Airl Buckthorn. ‘By the time you have a wife, our plans will be underway.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Sir Garrick, as Reeve refilled his mug with ale. ‘And I will be off to war. This could be the shortest marriage in the history of marriages.’

  Airl Buckthorn laughed. ‘Given how pleased Cassandra was to see you this evening, that might not be a bad thing.’

  ‘Alas, your excellency,’ said Sir Garrick, taking a deep swallow from his mug, ‘I think you may be right.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday

  Rubbing bleary eyes, Reeve stumbled into the kitchen, nearly falling over a tiny scullery maid who carried a cooking pot half her size.

  ‘Oi!’ she said, in a surprisingly big voice. ‘Watch it, you oaf!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Reeve mumbled as she darted off towards the huge hearth, where various pots and pans were steaming and sizzling.

  ‘Come to give us that hand now, have you?’ said Cook, stirring a cauldron of something that smelled like onions and beef broth. ‘We could use one.’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Reeve. ‘I’m to report to Lorimer straight after breakfast.’ He rubbed the stubble on his head ruefully and smoothed his tunic, trying to look as though he was ready for duty. He suspected it was a big stretch. When the page had appeared at sun-up with Lorimer’s message, Reeve had been in bed not more than an hour.

  ‘Where’s Neale then?’ Cook asked, sounding grumpy. ‘He’ll do in a pinch.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Reeve said. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  His long night in the Great Hall had become even longer when, after eventually escorting Sir Garrick from the table as the last candles guttered and then half-carrying the knight to his chambers, Reeve had discovered that Neale was absent. Instead, the room looked as though no one had been there for hours, the fire having burned down to coals and the thick quilt still drawn tightly up to the end of the bed.

  Hadn’t Reeve seen Neale leave the Great Hall during dessert? Surely he’d had ample time to prepare Sir Garrick’s chamber? Either way, no matter how late the hour, Neale should have been waiting to assist Sir Garrick in his nightly routine.

  Surprised and frowning, Reeve had wrangled Sir Garrick to the foot of the bed, wrestled his boots off and then dragged the by-then gently snoring knight under the covers, drawing the velvet canopy around the bed against the morning sunlight, which was just a few short hours away.

  Finally, Reeve had been able to steal away down the dark, silent hallway to his own quarters, still wondering where Neale could be. When a door had closed somewhere behind Reeve, the click echoing through the halls like a woodcutter’s axe, he’d stopped dead, feeling the blood rush to his ears, wondering at his own jumpiness . . .

  ‘Hummmph,’ said Cook, dropping a heavy lid on the pot with a clang that brought Reeve back to the present. ‘Typical Neale. Always skulking about somewhere else when there’s work to be done. Not that you can say anything, given the temper on that lad. Goes off like a blacksmith’s spark at the slightest bit of criticism.’

  Thinking of the thunderous expression on Neale’s face during their exchange yesterday, Reeve nodded. He was not looking forward to having to discuss last night’s lapse of duty with Neale, but also knew that if he let it pass this time, he’d be working night and day to cover for Neale for the rest of his life.

  ‘And did you say breakfast?’ Cook continued now, bringing him out of his dark thoughts. ‘You’d be lucky. Didn’t you hear? The Lady Cassandra has arrived.’

  ‘And don’t we all know it,’ muttered a flaxen-haired kitchen maid who was seated at the table, slicing carrots into thin sticks. A great pile of honey cakes sat cooling on a wire rack beside her, making Reeve’s mouth water as their sweet scent wafted towards him.

  Cassandra. Just her name conjured up that vision in green, the great red stone flashing at her throat. And the peasant girl in brown – Maven – whom Reeve had seen with her the day before. He wondered again just what it was that the pair of them had been doing for all of those hours between the goat incident and Cassandra’s dramatic entrance in the Great Hall.

  He frowned and reached for a honey cake, only to feel a sharp pain across his knuckles. ‘Do that again and I’ll leave a bruise,’ warned Cook, brandishing the heavy metal spoon with which she’d slapped him.

  Speaking of bruises, Reeve thought, as he flashed her a rueful smile, he could feel a big one blossoming across his ribs. Another factor in his sleepless night.

  He’d waited a few moments after hearing the door shut and, when all was again silent, had begun creeping down the hallway, arriving in a large antechamber where three or four passageways connected. The torches in the room were flickering, almost at the end of their life, and shadows moved across the walls.

  At least he’d thought they were shadows. Right up until a solid mass had hit him in the stomach, driving all of the breath from his body and sending him to his knees with a loud ‘oof’.

  Gasping, Reeve had heard running feet and realised that someone had barrelled into him in the gloom. Whether he’d been felled by a punch or simply the glancing blow of contact with the headlong runner, he wasn’t sure – but Reeve noticed that whoever it was didn’t so much as hesitate in their flight to check he was okay.

  Eyes watering, Reeve had risen slowly to his feet, gulping in air as he’d staggered back to his room, where he’d lain awake, tossing and turning as he pondered his long and troubling day.

  ‘Oh wait, you were there,’ said Cook. She handed her spoon to the tiny scullery maid who stood up, moved to the stove and removed the huge pot lid with ease before standing on tiptoe to take up the rhythmic stirring while Cook advanced towards Reeve.

  Reeve said nothing. Lady Rhoswen had always taught him that the best way to learn anything was to keep your mouth closed. And he’d learned very quickly that household politics shifted on a breeze and it never did to let anyone know where you stood on any matter. One memorable thrashing at the hands of the head groom – who’d overheard when Reeve had innocently agreed with another page that the Harding Manor horses were not the best he’d ever seen – had taught Reeve that lesson.

  ‘Was it as bad as they say?’ Cook asked, and Reeve took a step back at the avid curiosity in her eyes. ‘Was she dishevelled? Is it true she travelled with only a maid?’

  Reeve hesitated, thoughts whirling. The kitchen was not only the stomach of any household, but its very heart when it came to keeping abreast of important information. Reeve knew that anything he said now would be flying down the castle hallways within moments – and also that if he said nothing, he’d be ostracised forevermore.

  For a moment, Reeve fancied he felt a jester’s tightrope swaying beneath his feet.

  ‘My Lady Cassandra did indeed arrive ahead of time last night,’ he said, slowly. ‘So keen was she to meet her betrothed.’

  Cook smirked.

  ‘I heard that the Airl was not so keen to see her,’ she needled.

  Reeve smiled easily in return, careful not to react. ‘Airl Buckthorn is always pleased to see family,’ he said. ‘As the Lady Rhoswen will be when she arrives today.’


  Cook nodded, acknowledging his artful changing of the subject.

  ‘You will be pleased to see my lady,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But not as pleased as Airl Buckthorn, I’d say,’ Cook continued, laughing raucously and turning on her heel to take the spoon back from the scullery maid. ‘A woman’s touch will be required to bring Lady Cassandra to heel – and Lady Rhoswen is just the one to do it. I wish we saw more of her here at Rennart, but she knows her own mind, that one.’

  Reeve couldn’t help but agree with Cook’s summation, but he took care to show nothing of his thoughts. ‘The wedding will be a great day for all, and my Lady Rhoswen looks forward to it,’ was all he said.

  Cook chuckled again before frowning. ‘Yes, well, it won’t be a great day if I don’t get some more help,’ she declared, and Reeve sighed inwardly – his mention of the wedding had deflected her interest, as he’d intended.

  ‘Then I will get out of your way, mistress,’ he said, edging towards the door as Cook turned to berate the unfortunate scullery maid for not stirring the stew fast enough. As Reeve sidled past the table, he slipped a warm honey cake into the deep pocket of his tunic. He would have just enough time to wolf it down before he got to Lorimer’s parlour.

  Scurrying out through the kitchen door, Reeve turned left towards Lorimer’s parlour under the stairs, before retrieving the honey cake and taking a big bite. He hoped that whatever the steward wanted wouldn’t take too long. It wouldn’t do to be late to table for Sir Garrick – though Reeve did wonder if the knight would make it to breakfast that morning.

  ‘Better watch out. You wouldn’t want to be caught stealing.’

  I keep a straight face as he whirls around at my words, nearly choking on the honey cake I watched him purloin as he left the kitchen.

  He swallows hard, recovering his dignity with his breath as he realises it is just me, a lowly servant girl, lounging against the wall. No one to cause him any trouble.