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The boy was cold. What was he thinking to keep him sitting here so long? Henry urged Lamb down the hillside, carefully, keeping an eye on Raf at his side. The pony was favoring one of his forelegs, but only slightly. The boy was cold, his beloved pony injured, well done, Henry! He gave a grimace. Pray God it didn’t get any worse.
Before long the gates of Gunlinghorn were before them, and once inside, Henry lifted Raf down from his now badly limping pony. “There, go inside and warm yourself. Your mother will not be very happy with me if you have caught cold.”
Raf, looking a little flushed, retorted that he had so many clothes on he was hot, not cold. But Henry could see the worry in his face when he looked upon his faithful mount.
“He may have bruised himself. I don’t think it’s serious,” Henry said, nodding to the pony. “If you like, we could put a poultice on that leg. I will show you how.”
Raf seemed happy with the offer, and some of the concern left his eyes.
“Then go and do what you must, and then come back to the stables. I’ll be waiting.”
When he had gone, Henry led Lamb back to his stall, while the groom took the pony. He tried to spend time with the big horse every day, and often brushed him and spoke with him. Sometimes he swore that Lamb understood every word he said and was far more sympathetic than most people.
Today he was more concerned with Raf’s pony. Henry had always had a way with animals, apart from that early run-in with the destrier. It was something else he could teach Raf before he left.
Reynard was right. He would send for Radulf’s army now, and at least stay until they came. If he could not persuade his stubborn lady to marry him, then at least he would know she was safe. He would feel better then.
But not happier.
“I am already too hot!”
Raf stuck out his lip mulishly, on the verge of rebellion. Agetha clicked her tongue impatiently but gave in. She folded the warm cloak over her arm and took Raf’s hand in hers.
“Very well, then, but you might need it later. Come on, or we will be late.”
“Late for what?” Raf demanded. “Lord Henry is expecting me in the stables. My pony has a bruised foreleg.” But, still, he went with her, used to obedience where Agetha was concerned. They hurried down the stairs and through the storerooms and the wine cellars, the smell of grain and wine and salted food heavy in the gloomy, dry air. A cat sprang out of the darkness, trapping a mouse. There was a horrid squeaking, and Raf pulled at Agetha’s hand.
“’Tis Raven! Raven has caught a mouse for her babies’ supper!”
“Hush, Master Raf.”
“But I promised Gertrude I’d show her and—”
“Come with me!”
Raf gave up and let her tug him along. He was tired from the ride on his pony and confused as to where he was going. Agetha had said something about a friend and that she would explain it all in a moment. He felt he should ask her more, but he knew her and trusted her, and although sometimes she was impatient, she was also kind. Well, most of the time.
There was a door. Agetha drew the bolt and tugged at it, pulling it open with a gasp. More stairs, down into the darkness. Someone had lit a torch, and Agetha took it from its sconce and held it up to show the way. It was a tunnel, and at any other time Raf would have been excited, but now the damp shadows made him nervous. Then at last another door, and Raf realized that this door led out through the wall of the castle. They had passed through a tunnel between the keep and the wall, and now they were outside.
“Agetha!” he gasped, but he had no time for more. She was pulling him down a slope and into a tangle of bushes, almost running, as if she was afraid of being seen by one
of the guards above. When he looked back over his shoulder, Raf could see that they were at the back of the castle, where it looked over the river. Usually the water was enough to deter would-be invaders.
The tangle of bushes gave way to marshes, and Raf saw a boat tucked away there. Agetha lifted him into it and then climbed in herself, using the oars to row them along, under the shelter of the bank.
“Where are we going?” he asked, but his voice was small. By now Raf realized that there was something very wrong. Agetha should not have had him out here. He’d known, but he had trusted her. He was beginning to think that had been a mistake.
“Nearly there,” she panted. Her face was red, and perspiration ran down it. She was not used to rowing, he thought smugly. He hoped her arms were aching. And then the boat ran into the bank and Agetha climbed stiffly over the side and pulled it up a little, so that it would not float away. She reached in and half carried, half dragged Raf to the shore.
“Ouch!” he complained. “I want to go home!”
“Well, you cannot,” she retorted breathlessly. “Not until your mother sees sense.”
He did not understand. As he made to answer, he heard a sound and turned, just as Agetha gave a cry of relief. There were men in the trees. Not Gunlinghorn men. Men he had never seen before in his life.
“Who are you?” he asked them imperiously, though his knees were shaking.
“I am Jean-Paul,” one of them said, and Raf saw with a shock that the man had no face, just a smooth piece of cloth over his head with holes for the eyes and mouth.
