“Quiet, young master!” he whispered hoarsely. “We dare not be seen lurking hereabouts.” Then he removed his hand with an additional caution not to cry out.
“Who were they?” Quentin whispered. Trenn rolled his eyes upward.
“Orphe, help us! It was Prince Jaspin and one of his nobles, Sir Grenett-a more foul gentleman I never want to meet.”
“Then let us get away!” said Quentin, seeing no good reason to linger in the vicinity any longer.
“We cannot-any moment Oswald will walk into a trap unaware! We must do something to prevent it.”
The plan had been simple enough, but not without its element of risk. The chamberlain, Oswald, was to impersonate Prince Jaspin, after secretly obtaining some of the Prince’s clothing. A forged message was delivered to the dungeon keeper to place the new prisoner under guard and bring him to the great hall, which was the only place the conspirators could think of where Jaspin himself would not likely show up. But their worst fears had, as on such occasions frequently happens, materialized in force.
Prince Jaspin and one of his noble knaves had chosen this time for a private parley in the great hall where Oswald, in disguise, would momentarily appear. Only the doughty Trenn and Quentin knew of the serious mischance. “I fear the gods go against us, young master. Yonder comes Oswald and too soon the prisoner will follow.” Footsteps could be heard far down the corridor, Oswald was hurrying to his place. “There is but one thing for it,” said Trenn. “A diversion.”
He peered around the huge door and pointed diagonally across the hall to the darkened arch of an alcove. “You see that door over there?” he asked. “That is the storeroom of tables, benches, and all that fills the hall on feast days. And also a quantity of banners and pennons, and other such frippery-set them afire!” He thrust into Quentin’s uncertain hands a small flint and iron attached with a leather thong, which he carried in a pouch at his side. “I will be right after you yelling to catch their attention. Mind, when you hear me call, leave all and come out. We will not have much time, but maybe enough.”
“I understand.”
“Then go.” Trenn pushed Quentin forward with such force that the boy fell sprawling into the entrance of the great hall, dropping the flint and iron which clinked dully as it skittered across the black marble floor not five paces from where Prince Jaspin and Sir Grenett had stopped to confer.
Quentin leaped to his feet and dived to snatch up the flint and iron. Trenn behind him shouted, “Stop him! Stop that thief!” Prince Jaspin and Sir Grenett turned just in time to see Quentin dash toward them, swoop to retrieve his lost utensil, and then away. Sir Grenett, without thinking, made a swipe after the fleeing youth, but Prince Jaspin, considering this an ill-timed interruption in his important affairs, stood fuming in his place.
Quentin reached the door of the storeroom and smacked the iron latch with his hand. The door was secured from within. No, it gave somewhat, but Sir Grenett was upon him. Putting all his weight upon the effort Quentin managed to force the latch and barely swung the door open, squeezing through and closing it again in almost the same motion. Sir Grenett’s heavy fist rattled the door as he threw the bolt.
The room was almost pitch dark; only a feeble light found its way in from an arrow loop set high up in the wall. With Train’s excited voice and Sir Grenett’s angry challenges and both men pounding upon the door, Quentin stumbled forward and found in a corner of the room banners on standards. He threw them down and set to striking the flint and iron.
The effort appeared futile; there was no edge or kindling which could catch a spark. Furiously he looked around for something else to start the blaze. On the floor he spied a single piece of parchment, a proclamation of some sort which had been read at a feast now forgotten. He picked it up and ran back to the door, crumpling the parchment as he went. He threw it down just in front of the door and struck the flint and iron to it. The spark caught on the brittle, old skin. He blew carefully and the spark leaped to flaming life. Trembling, Quentin shoved the smoldering parchment to the threshold and blew his breath on it, sending the smoke streaming under the door.
“Fire!” he heard Trenn’s voice boom out. “The rascal’s set the stores on fire!”
Prince Jaspin, growing more and more impatient with the impertinence of the supposed young scoundrel, came steaming up to where Sir Grennet and Trenn stood beating the door with their hands. “Call the guards! I’ll have this door down at once!”
“The room will be in blazes before that,” Trenn objected. “My Lord, allow me to remain here while Sir Grenett goes round to the other door through the anteroom.”
“The room has two such entrances I believe,” explained the exasperated Prince, quickly losing his temper.
“My Lord could see to the other,” suggested Trenn.
The Prince seemed about to overrule this plan, but the smoke was now curling about their feet. “By Azrael! I’ll flay his foolish hide myself.” he swore, trotting off to find the other door, a location he knew but imprecisely. “Sir Grenett,” he shouted, “take your post! Let us end this vexation instantly!”
The two left to their appointed stations. As soon as they were out of sight, Trenn called, his face close to the door, “Young master, they are gone. Let us away!”
Hearing the signal, Quentin emerged coughing from the room. The parchment was now but ashes on the floor, completely consumed. Trenn grabbed his arm, nearly wrenching it from his shoulder, and pulled him across the floor and away. At the entrance to the great hall they met a confused Oswald fearfully peeping in at the scene he had just witnessed.
“Our plan is discovered,” he said as they drew up.
“No,” replied Trenn in a hushed tone. “But you must not linger here all night. We have bought some time. See to your business and flee!”
Oswald appeared far from certain, but the noise or voices in the corridor behind, and a quick glance to see the dungeon keeper and his guards with their prisoner moving toward them, made up his mind. The chamberlain crossed to one side of the hall and took up his position, back turned toward the entrance.
Trenn and Quentin did not remain longer to see the drama to its end, but hurried on toward their appointed place-the postern gate.
Quentin felt the sting of the cold night air upon his face as they dashed out of the castle and into the broad expanse of the outer ward. Trenn and Quentin flitted like shadows over the snow and, stealing through a low stone archway set in a low wall, entered the small postern gateyard. There in the whitened square of the gateyard stood three horses laden with provisions. Standing nearby was a member of Trenn’s gatewatch who was checking saddle and tack for readiness.
“Everything is in order, sir,” the guard reported when the two came close.
“Good,” said Trenn. “Go see that the plank is let down. The others will be here shortly.”
The man turned and hastened off. Trenn cast a worried glance back over his shoulder toward the castle and said softly to Quentin, “We have pushed our luck this far; the gods will have to see to the rest.” He paused and added in a hoarse whisper, “But listen! Someone comes!”
TEN
QUENTIN shivered in the cold. A large bright moon was beginning to show its silvery disc just above the eastern curtain between two towers. Quentin watched in nervous excitement, waiting to be off. He stood in the snow holding the reins of his mount, none other than the stout Balder, rescued by the Queen’s thoughtfulness from the stable at the inn. The ambushers, having captured their man, had given no thought to the horses and left them behind.