‘Yes… yes.’ Clent’s tone was circumspect. ‘You are quite right, it is our duty. We must go to Toll, we must warn the damsel of her danger, point an accusing finger at her would-be abductors, modestly claim our just reward and use it to pay our way out of Toll on the far side. And then! Ah, the fair counties beyond! The warmer winds, the trees bowing under late-swelling fruit, the streams gleaming with trout, and above all the welcoming smiles of-’
‘People who don’t know us properly,’ finished Mosca.
‘Exactly.’
Mosca and Clent parted company with the cart outside a village called Drinksoll and continued their journey on foot.
Before long the route started to climb, and after an hour or so the first straggling pines and cedars came down to meet the road, their foliage wild and feathery, their trunks ankle deep in bracken and soft dunes of dry reddish pine needles. Gradually, although the air was still, Mosca became aware that she could hear a breeze-like breath in the distance, so relentless that it might have been a tickle of trapped air in her ear.
They did not have the road to themselves for long. Soon they were overtaking carts dragged by stocky little ash-and-milk-mottled mountain ponies, their blinkers tagged with ribbons and bells to stop evil spirits calling to them from the roadsides. Alongside them tramped figures on foot, many muffled against the cold in cloaks and shawls of yellowing Grabely wool, their backs laden with packs and pots, baskets and spinning wheels. Few talked, and there was a nervous, exhausted urgency in the manner of every traveller, their hopes trodden as thin as their shoe leather. Clearly Mosca’s party was not the only one determined to escape the land between the rivers before winter set in properly.
The road climbed until Mosca’s calves burned, and the soft roar in the back of her ears grew louder and louder. As they neared the very top, it became several roars in one. A long churning bellow, a thunderous echo, a thin and delicate hiss. Finally the road cleared the trees, and they emerged on to the stark, stony, sun-gilded crest of a knife-edge ridge.
Mosca blinked, blinded by the sun, her breath still recovering. Down on one side of the ridge, back the way they had come, was the county that had shunned and half-starved her for the last few months. Its grey stone villages were little more than gravelly blots, its beet and pumpkin fields furrowed patches of brown corduroy, its drystone walls rippling over the lumpish land like seams in cloth.
On the top of the ridge itself a shanty village perched like a shabby hat. Here, it was clear, the river of desperation had been dammed. Families skulked huddled under the same cloak, all eyes bleak with waiting. On the far side of the ‘village’ she could see what appeared to be a large gatehouse of ochre-stained brick, beyond which the ground seemed to drop away. The roar which had been seething at the corner of her hearing was much louder now. Mosca guessed that this gatehouse guarded Toll’s precious bridge at the end furthest from the town itself. Looking up Mosca could see arrow slits and punctures in the stonework for pouring boiling oil upon attackers.
Listening to the murmurs around them, Mosca soon worked out the reason for the atmosphere of despondency. The admission toll had been raised, and many had trekked here for miles only to find that they did not have enough money to enter. Some families seemed to have been camping here for several days, each morning sending down a few of their number to hunt out odd jobs and try to scratch together the last few coins they needed. There were of course a number of people there who had come specifically to ‘help’ them. Men and women with an eye to the main chance, hopping through the rubble of stones and tired figures like magpies, offering a meagre price for anything the wanderers had left to sell – their boots, their heirlooms, their hair. Mosca’s heart lurched as she wondered whether the little riches in Mistress Bessel’s sock would be enough.
Mosca caught at the sleeve of one of the ‘buyers’ as he passed. He cast a quick and watery eye over her stolen handkerchiefs, then a shrewd and watery eye over Mosca herself. The price he named was a pittance, and Mosca felt herself flush. Clearly he had guessed they were stolen.
‘All right, my little linnet, I’ll add a bit more if you’ll throw in the goose.’ His smile was probably meant to be winning.
‘No!’ Mosca’s cry was echoed by Clent, who took her by the shoulder and guided her away from the haggler. ‘Trust me, sir,’ Clent added over his shoulder, ‘I am doing you the greatest of services.’
‘Mr Clent,’ whispered Mosca, ‘what shall we do if the money is short? Mr Clent?’
Clent had glanced over his shoulder and frozen, one hand creeping to his cravat as though he feared to find a noose there. Mosca risked a look behind her and felt her heart plummet like a stunned starling.
Struggling to the top of the track and into the shanty village was a familiar figure, wisps of auburn hair escaping from its mob cap, its freckled face strawberry-red with anger and effort. It was Mistress Jennifer Bessel. She did not appear to have spotted them yet, but she was barely twenty yards away and it could only be a matter of time.
Both Mosca and Clent instinctively ducked to avoid her view, and Mosca offered no resistance when Clent grabbed her wrist and dragged her away into the crowd and towards the gatehouse.
Once in the thick of the crowd, Mosca dared to raise herself on tiptoes, curious to see if she could peer past the gatehouse and catch a glimpse of the river and bridge, or perhaps even Toll on the far shore. However, here the crowds were denser and more urgent, and one short girl had no hope of seeing past the crush of adult bodies.
Worse still, there was little chance of two new arrivals pushing their way to the front. The shrill tones of Mistress Bessel were now all too audible. By the sound of it, she was mere yards behind them, and asking after ‘a girl with a goose’.
‘Coming through! Coming through! Message for the guards!’ Clent called out hastily, and his words carved a narrow pass through the throng. When Mosca, Clent and Saracen reached the front, they found what looked like half a dozen guards holding the crowds back from the portcullis and the great door behind it.
Arms aching with Saracen’s weight, Mosca watched with her heart in her mouth as the coins were counted out of Clent’s purse one by one into the hand of the leader of the guard. There was a pause. The coins were stirred with a forefinger. A nod.
As they were allowed past the line of guards the mood of the crowd changed, and the glances cast upon them became outraged, even hostile, as if they had broken a rule somehow by having enough money.
A cranking grind, and the portcullis was winched a yard or so clear of the ground, and Mosca and Clent were encouraged to duck under it while the guards held the rest of the crowd at bay. They were through the gate, and the portcullis began lowering behind them, inch by jolting inch.
‘Stop!’
Mosca flinched at the bellowed word and spun around. Pushing her way through the crowd behind them, she could see Mistress Bessel, her ice-blue eyes fixed upon Mosca’s face.
‘That’s her!’ Mistress Bessel jabbed a finger in her direction. ‘That’s them – the thieves – the skirling bandrishes! Raise the portcullis again! There is a magistrate in Grabely who-’
‘Sorry, madam.’ The guard touched his forelock. ‘These people have just paid entry – they are in Toll now. The Grabely magistrate has no sway here.’
‘What?’ Mistress Bessel stared in disbelief as the portcullis finished its descent with a resounding clang, then glared through it at Mosca and Clent with such intensity that Mosca feared the metal grille might melt.