Theido was discovered in the stable behind the inn, looking to the horses. “Good morning, lad. I am glad to see an early riser. I have only just come down myself.” He straightened from his work of strewing fodder for the horses. “Well, that is done. Let us fend for ourselves as well.”
They ate together at a small table in the kitchen, for Theido wished to have privacy, although none of the other guests, if there were any, had stirred.
“I have a plan that will do for us,” Theido said, speaking in low tones. Quentin ate quietly and listened to the plan as Theido described it.
The plan was simple: they would enter as furriers just arriving from trading in the wilderlands, and would offer to show the Queen the finest of the treasures they had obtained.
“We have no furs,” Quentin had objected, and Theido countered by telling him they would not need any. They were merely to be admitted in order to make a proper appointment and to receive any garments which the Queen might wish to have adorned with their wares. Such appointments were not uncommon with craftsmen of high repute. However, once in the Queen’s presence they would discard the ruse and make known the real purpose for their visit.
“Now, if something goes wrong,” Theido continued, his voice steady and his eyes hard in earnest, “you get out any way you can. Do not stop to think or look around, just run. Go back to Durwin and tell him what has taken place. He will know what to do. Hear what I say, and obey. Understood?”
Quentin nodded solemnly. He had not considered the possibility that they might indeed fail. But Theido, noticing the boy’s somber mood smiled and said, “Cheer up, lad. It is not the first time I have been hunted by Jaspin’s men. I can take care of myself. Besides, my plans seldom fail.” Quentin was not comforted by the thought. They finished breakfast and left by the kitchen entrance, crossing the yard to the horses. Upon reaching the stables Theido threw open the wide doors and froze in his tracks. “Run! Get away!” he shouted to Quentin, at the same time throwing his cloak aside and drawing out a short sword from a hidden scabbard. Quentin stood rooted in terror. Theido turned on him and shoved him away, saying, “Run! You must get free!”
In the same instant two riders bolted from inside the stable. Both had swords drawn and small arm shields, or bucklers, held at ready to ward off their captive’s blows. Quentin turned and fled, looking back over his shoulder as he ran. He saw Theido thrust beneath the shield of one of the armed men who knocked the blow aside just as the other, while pinning their quarry between their horses, raised his sword to deliver the fatal stroke.
“Don’t kill him, you fool!” a voice rang out in the yard behind Quentin. He turned just in time to avoid colliding with another man on a horse. This one was a knight by the look of his finely wrought armor. The knight called out again, “He must be taken alive!” And the next instant Quentin felt a hand grab his cloak in a powerful grip, jerking him nearly off his feet.
Quentin, without thinking, lashed out at the horse’s leg and landed a sharp kick. The spirited animal tossed its head back and raised its forefeet off the ground as it jolted backward. The knight instantly lost his hold on Quentin and the boy dashed beneath the rearing horse’s belly and away. He gained the corner of the inn just in time to see one of the riders swing the pommel of his sword down upon Theido’s head. He heard a dull crack and Theido slumped to the ground.
SEVEN
QUENTIN ran blindly down the narrow streets-some little more than footpaths-between shuttered dwellings. He cast a hasty glance over his shoulder as he ran, expecting the man on horseback to come charging into view at every turn. His strong legs dodged and turned and flew as fast as his fear carried him away from the scene.
Presently he became winded and ducked into a close passage between two buildings on what might have been the main street of the city Askelon. He stood out of view of the street and waited to catch his breath and to think.
“Go back to Durwin,” he remembered Theido’s voice saying, “he will know what to do.” But he had no horse, and Durwin was a day’s ride away. He could not make it on foot, alone, without provisions; those he would need to secure. He had no idea how or where that might be accomplished.
Not wanting to remain too long in one place he began walking along the streets; he had not the slightest idea of where he was going-unaware that he was approaching the castle until he happened to look up and see its high walls soaring above him. He seemed to be drawn to it. For although he twice changed directions purposefully to avoid coming too near it, lest he be spotted and straightway taken captive, each time he looked again he was closer than the last.
In the meantime, the shops in the merchant district, through which he was walking, had begun to open to their daily trade. Although roofs hung heavy with snow and icicles dangled from the eaves, merchants threw wide their shutters onto a bright, cloudless morning and signaled the beginning of another business day. Soon the cobbled streets began to hear the tramp of busy feet and the strident voices of shopkeepers, patrons, and street vendors exchanging greetings, hawking their wares, and haggling over prices. A number of farmers had braved the cold to set up stalls in which to sell their winter commodities: eggs and cheese, and several types of ale and cider. Large braziers filled with charcoal burned before the stalls. Quentin loitered before these, warming himself and trying desperately to come up with a suitable plan for outfitting his journey.
In the end he decided to risk going back to the inn to recover his horse, providing that it was still there and the kidnappers had not taken it. He turned down a street, by the look of it the craftsmen’s quarters; Quentin saw several artisans’ dwellings-a smith’s forge, the chandler’s, the furrier’s. The furrier-something drew him closer to the place. He stood at the entrance for some time, just looking, wondering why he felt like he belonged there-an unaccountable feeling. He had never seen the place before in his life.
Quentin paced along the outside of the building and gazed at the bright-painted sign with the picture of a red fox with an exceptionally long, bushy tail. Finally he turned to move on before someone within, noticing his shameless loitering, urged him away. As he swung away from the door a small, two-wheeled, covered carriage drawn by a shaggy brown pony drew up. The coach wore a coat of shiny black paint with an insignia on the door-a red, twisting dragon outlined in gold.
The driver, walking ahead, steadied the horse, frisky in the cold morning air, and the hansom’s door swung open. A lady sat within, bundled in a thick robe with a hood over her head. The lady seemed about to disembark when she noticed Quentin standing just before her. She smiled and said, “Boy, come closer.” She threw back her hood to reveal a fine-featured face and long dark tresses spilling over her shoulders. Quentin thought he’d never seen anyone so beautiful in all his life. What is more, she appeared to be his same age, for all that he could tell, or if not, only a year or two older. But her manner and bearing let him know that he was no doubt in the presence of royalty.
Quentin stepped woodenly nearer the carriage, and placed his hand upon the door. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
The girl laughed and Quentin’s face colored deeply. “I am not the Queen,” the girl replied. “I’m only Her Majesty’s… companion. My Lady wishes to be called upon this afternoon by your master.” The girl nodded to the furrier’s shop. “Take this,” she said, handing the surprised Quentin a small folded parchment enclosed by a ribbon and sealed with wax. “It will usher you directly into my Lady’s apartment. What time shall I tell her you will call? She suggests after the midday’s repast.”