Page 36 of Lord of Deception

Chapter Twenty-Nine

As the minutes ticked by and Kit did not appear, Alys’ anxiety increased. So many things could have gone wrong. What if he’d been captured? Wounded? Even killed? What if he hadn’t managed to send off his dispatch, or couldn’t find a horse—how were they to make a speedy escape with only her old nag between them?

“How unkind of me to think of you in such a way, Pennyroyal.” She stroked the animal’s silky nose and found comfort in its warmth. But the worries soon resurfaced.

When would they miss her at Selwood? How long could she stay away before Kirlham, Avery, or their “constables” came after her? It was a great pity it wasn’t market day—then she’d have a valid excuse for dallying. Oh, what was the time now? Where was Kit?

When what must have been a full hour had passed, she knew what desperation felt like. She couldn’t bear to return home, not knowing what had happened, and couldn’t go in search of him because she had no idea where he would be going to send his message. How had he managed to make contact with his web of spies without anyone at Selwood knowing? When had he found the time or the excuse to leave the estate? On market day, certainly, for they’d been there together.

But on that day, he’d not spoken at any length to anyone, and she’d been within earshot in every case. Was there any way he could have left a dispatch for one of his allies to find? Yes, indeed, there was! He’d gone to market with a hat. He’d returned without it, but never complained of its loss. She racked her brains, trying to remember when he’d last had it. Was it in the old gypsy woman’s pavilion? In truth, the woman had seemed to recognize him—could she possibly be his contact in the village?

Chill from the dismal drizzle and her fears for Kit’s safety, she could bear the waiting no longer. She dropped her handkerchief over a branch near the gate. Nearby, she arranged some pebbles into an arrow pointing towards Cheyneham. Praying only Kit would look closely at her clue, and that he’d interpret her signals correctly, she clambered back on Pennyroyal and set off down the road, as near to a gallop as the beast could manage.

So, she had a new string to her bow—she could play the spy. She was learning to act, dissemble, and tell outright lies—not something to boast about, but useful in the circumstances. Buoying herself up with such positive thoughts, she trotted into the village.

Once there, she hit the problem of how to find the old gypsy. Surely the village folk must know the woman if she were a regular at the fair? She’d have to start knocking on doors to find out. But it was crucial she ask the right person, in case Kirlham had any sympathizers amongst the village folk. Jacob! Jacob, the gardener, lived here, with his wife and children. She asked a passerby for the address and, moments later, was tapping at the door.

After some confusion, and a good deal of bowing and scraping on behalf of the gardener’s wife, Alys had directions to where the wise woman’s caravan might be found. She left the humble cottage, praying Jacob’s wife had swallowed her story of wanting to consult the seer about disastrous events that had recently occurred at the house.

It was less easy to discover the caravan than expected. Only the whinnying of a horse in response to Pennyroyal’s scent gave the wise woman’s location away. Tucked in a thicket of hawthorn—which almost surrounded the covered wagon—the woman had made camp.

At last—she felt as if she were doing something constructive, something that might help her find out what had happened to Kit. But if she was mistaken in where the old lady’s loyalties lay, the consequences would be dire.

“Good day. I come to learn my fortune.” She kept her voice low.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” was the quavering response from behind the canvas. “Prithee be patient with an old crone. I cannot move as fast as I used to.”

“I must urge you to haste, Goodwife.” Alys swung off her horse, relieved to find the woman at home. She put her face close to the flap at the front of the wagon. “Someone’s very life may be in danger.”

The muffled scrabblings and rustlings from within ceased abruptly. “If you can predict that, what need have you of a seer?”

“If the future can be changed, mayhap you can tell me how to do it. I cannot lose this man—he is too dear to me. Too valuable to everyone.”

“What makes you think I’m capable of changing what Fate has decreed? I’m no witch, you know.”

“Of course, you’re not.” How could Alys convince the old woman she was no casual inquirer, but party to all Kit knew? “Even though you have a speaking hat,” she added.

“Methinks you must be fond. No such thing exists. Now, begone. An old woman needs her rest.”

Alys folded her arms across her chest. She couldn’t be wrong, surely? This must be the person conveying dispatches between Kit and Walsingham. She knew Kit had left his hat behind, undoubtedly with a message concealed within it.

“Won’t you come out and speak with me? I shall not leave until you do.”

She resisted the urge to tap her foot impatiently as the rustlings from within the wagon commenced again. What was the woman concealing? How could she convince her she was no enemy? She had nothing of Kit’s that couldn’t have been taken from him by force, knew nothing about him that could not have been extracted by torture. She shuddered.

Eventually, the canvas flap started moving as the ties were undone, and a head topped with untidy grey hair peered out.

“Oh, you are very young.” An odd pronouncement.

“You have seen me before.”

The shadowed eyes narrowed. Much of the crone’s face was concealed by a kerchief she held across it, as if she had a toothache. “I have?”

“Aye, at Cheyneham Fair, in the company of Kit the gardener, of Selwood Manor.”

“Tall, vain fellow, dark-haired?”

“Indeed. Mayhap not so vain as once he was. It is he of whom I speak—I fear his enemies have taken him.”