Hearts Return - Part 3

Ceolfred wanders into town the next morning, having left his nephew back at their camp. Rastellion had wanted to accompany his uncle, but Ceolfred dissuaded the younger man. “Lemme take a look round first. Th’ Bree Watch might’ve circulated a description of you, an’ it could b’ere by fast courier already.”

Rastellion shook his head. “What are the odds of that? They’ve got my damn bond money. Do you really think they’d pursue me?”

His uncle shrugged. “You’re more like t’know th’ ways of Breefolk than I am, lad. But, aye, could be. So sit tight t’day while I have a look-see.”

Rastellion gritted his teeth and poked at the morning’s small fire with a blackened stick. “Didn’t come all this way just to sit on my ass,” he muttered. He was in a bad mood already – the half-ruined cabin that they’d intended to camp at, where Ceolfred himself had stayed when scouting the area the previous week, showed signs of more recent use. The previous night, over Rastellion’s protests, the older man had insisted they move further up into the hills, to a less comfortable spot. But, in the end, both that night and the following morning, he heeded his uncle’s words and stayed put.

Now Ceolfred strolls among the market stalls, his keen ears pricked to the conversations around him. He’s not the only visitor in town; he sees others moving about with the relaxed stride of those not preoccupied with immediate business. The town has a festival air about it, anticipating the wedding. From what he hears, Sallastin had merely invited some of the local notables to attend the ceremony, but the mayor had used the event as an excuse for something of a town fair, and the curious and idle and entrepreneuring from throughout the region all seem to be gravitating to it. Doubtless their pockets would be lighter when they left, one way or the other.

In accompaniment with the thought, his strong fingers seize the wrist of the urchin who’s making an amateur fumble at Ceolfred’s beltpouch. The boy shrieks in surprise at the sudden, sharp pain. “Honest work’s more reliable, young ‘un,” Ceolfred admonishes, pushing the would-be pickpocket back to land on his rump at the edge of the street. “Mebbe not as ‘citing, but d’pendable.”

The boy glares up, unrepentant. “Easy fer you t’ say, ol’ man,” he scoffs. “Ain’t like there’s work fer th’ likes o’ me wit’ th’ likes o’ him in the manor.” He spits on the ground, just missing the other’s boots, and scrabbles away before the older man can decide whether a coin or more words would be his best response.

By early afternoon, Ceolfred has learned that servants come down from the manor nearly every afternoon these days, to place or pick up orders for the coming festivities. He has no idea if Immalaine’s friend will be among them, nor even for certain what she looks like, though he expects he’ll recognize her from watching the villa on his reconnaissance some days ago.

He buys a loaf, a hard cheese, and a skin of watered beer, then goes to sit at the edge of the fountain. His old knit hat flops atop his head, limp as an exhausted puppy in the sun, and he’s sure it looks particularly absurd with the turkey feather stuck into it, the agreed signal to Imma’s friend. But the hat was made by his sister – one of the few things of hers he still has – and he treasures it, absurd or not. Nearby, a platform is under construction, apparently intended for visiting musicians and entertainers to perform, and he idly watches the laborers working on it as he eats.

He’s just finishing up the cheese, and debating whether or not to treat himself to one of those apple pastries – the distracting scent from across the cobbles has been teasing him for the past quarter-hour – when he sees a group of women coming into the square past the baker’s stall. They’re led by a stout, red-faced woman, seeming nearly as broad as she is tall, who pushes her way through the crowd like a trading galleon sending smaller fishing boats reeling away in alarm.

“You know yer duties!” she announces in an aggressive contralto that Ceolfred can easily hear, even this far away. “Get them done an’ be back by th’ next glass, or you’ll be feeling my switch on yer lazy shoulders.” Then she banks and, apron billowing, sails over to the stall and buys three of the apple tarts before docking herself on a nearby bench.

The young women scatter, giggling, in twos and threes: all but a dark-haired one, who looks about the square, then comes over to the fountain. Her dark eyes flick up to Ceolfred’s hat before she kneels down to lift water to her mouth in cupped hands. “Ceolfred?” she murmurs.

“Mmm,”he affirms, studying her from the corner of his eye. She seems tense, nervous, like a young deer coming to drink at an unfamiliar stream – hardly surprising, if she’s betraying Sallastin to help her friend.

“I’m Marybelle. Immalaine sent me.” She pauses to sip and swallow. “I don’t want that old biddy seeing me talk to you. Can’t have her flapping lips gossiping.” She straightens, not looking at him. “Meet me around back of the tailor’s shop.” She moves off without waiting for a reply, and Ceolfred’s eyes follow as she strides to the far side of the square and enters a stone-and-plaster building. Over the door hangs a sign displaying the image of needle and bobbin.

He finishes his food, casts one regretful look toward the baker’s stall – the large woman is just licking her fingers clean before beginning her next tart – then rises and ambles a circuitous route that brings him around back of the tailor shop. He leans against a nearby brick wall to wait. Shoppers and residents stroll by along the side street; a young couple, arm in arm, saunter into an archway some yards away and begin to murmur and kiss.

A few minutes later, Mary appears, a roll of fabric under one arm. She glances around nervously before walking up to Ceolfred. “I’ve not got long,” she says. “The old bag’ll want us back as soon as she’s done stuffing herself.” She glances up and down the side street again. No one seems to be paying them the slightest attention, but still,she lowers her voice and takes a half-step closer. “You must swear, though, that if I help you, you will help my mother. Take her with us. I’ll not leave her behind where that man can get to her.”

“Your mother – Sallastin 'as a hold on ‘er?”

Mary nods. “He owns the house, and there’s over a year’s rent due. Mother can keep living there as long as I work for him… but if not… and she’s too old for prison… ” Her lower lip trembles and she swallows. “We got nowhere to go. That’s why I keep workin’ for him.” Then she straightens her shoulders and meets his eyes defiantly. “So I’m not helping you unless you promise to get me and her far away.”

Ceolfred studies her for a long moment, then nods. “Tha’s fair,” he agrees. “An’ I know folks as can get you both well clear of him.”

Mary’s shoulders lose their stiffness. “Then I’ll help. How many with you?”

“Jus’ me and the boy,” Ceolfred prevaricates easily. The girl seems honest, but caution is one lesson he’s learned well in a long life. “Rastellion. Din’ have time to fetch anyone else, an’ I figgered ‘less I brought a small army, we’d not be getting’ in ‘cept by stealth anyway.”

He reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out the cloak clasp that Rastellion gave him that morning: silver, worked in the figure of a boar, the one his nephew said that Immalaine would recognize. He rubs a thumb over its smooth surface, then passes it over. “He said to give this to Immalaine, as a sign.”

Mary glances down at the brooch. “I’ll give it to her,” she says, tucking it into an inner pocket.

“Is Immalaine alright?” he asks.

The girl nods. “She’s fine. He’s not hurt her, not much.” Her free hand rises instinctively to rub at her collar, and as the fabric moves, Ceolfred can see bruising there. “He wants her to look good at the wedding. He always wants everything just perfect.” A hint of resentment touches her voice at these words, and her hand falls away from her neckline. Poor thing, Ceolfred thinks.

“You’re right, though,” she continues. “The only chance for us is sneakin’ out. He’s got patrols, and there’s almost always a guard watching her, and Sallastin has her ankles chained, day and night. She ran away from him once before, yu’know.” A brief flicker of ambiguous emotion flashes over Marybelle’s features at this statement, and Ceolfred too winces at the image. No wonder this girl pities her.

Then he focuses his attention, to consider her words in light of what he already observed about the villa’s layout. “Too difficult,” he agrees. “What then?”

Again, she draws closer, lowering her voice. “There’s only one chance I can think of,” she says. “A time when she’ll be unchained and her guard absent. It’s dangerous, though.” Ceolfred motions for her to continue, and Mary takes a deep breath. “Here’s what I think we should do…”

Some minutes later, Ceolfred watches the young woman hurrying back to the other servants, gathering near the bakery stall. He purses his lips. She’s a brave one, he muses. Taking a big risk to help Immalaine.

He rubs the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. Maybe there’s something he can do out here, to improve the chances of escape. It’s not an easy plan that she’s proposed, and there will be factors they can’t prepare for … but it’s not as if it ever were going to be as simple as a stroll in and out in broad daylight. There’s time yet, before the wedding and the rescue, to improve upon it.                                            

Ceolfred nods. He’ll talk to Zandrianna and that other girl tonight, see what they’ve learned. Marybelle said she’d be back with the other servants tomorrow afternoon; he’ tell her about the two women then, he decides. The girl knows the villa and the town; perhaps she’ll have an idea how best to employ their additional allies. Brow furrowed in thought, he turns back toward the edge of the village. Rastellion will be waiting, anxiously, for any news.

Emrabeth has been watching Ceolfred’s meeting from the shadowed archway – watching as best she can, that is, while fending off the more intimate advances of the dark-haired man she flirted with at the Stoat and Stout. She’d been lingering on the edges of the square, hoping to catch Ceolfred’s eye after his meeting with Immalaine’s friend… and caught this one’s eye instead.

She went along with the flirtation, as it seemed to offer an effective disguise. Too effective, she realizes now, as Ceolfred begins to stroll away. She turns to offer some excuse, but has barely opened her mouth before her companion’s lips are on hers, as he finally claims the kiss he’s been angling after for nearly a quarter hour.

Ceolfred pauses and glances back at the resounding sound of a smart slap, palm to cheek, and sees Emrabeth pushing away a shamefaced young man. He suppresses a grin and, pretending merely passing interest in the little village drama, steps back to the fountain in the center of the square, keeping track of the young woman out of the corner of his eye. Probably she's on her way back to the Stoat and Stout, he thinks.

Upon seeing that she's gotten Ceolfred's attention, Emrabeth straightens and starts walking, as though simply taking a stroll, leaving the confused young man rubbing his cheek. She walks up to, then past the Stoat and Stout, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she glances back to make sure Ceolfred is still watching.

Ceolfred, washing his hands in the fountain's cool water, catches her quick glance as she starts away, past the inn. Something's up, he thinks. He splashes water on his face then saunters along the same lane at a relaxed pace, pausing occasionally to glance around at the buildings and shops, for all the world like some  newcomer or ignorant woodsman taking in the sights.

Eventually, Emrabeth turns in at the Tarnished Tankard. Wrinkling her nose at the sound of a brawl coming from inside, she pushes the door open and steps through it.

Ceolfred frowns to himself as the brunette steps into the other inn. What’s here? He continues past, then pauses at the next corner to lean against a wall and pull out his smoking pouch. He extracts the pipe and fumbles over lighting it, glancing back to the inn from under the falling tangle of his salt-and-pepper hair.

Inside, Emrabeth lightly bounces up the stairs, two at a time and, without bothering to knock, enters Zandrianna's room.

"Ever heard of knocking? I could have been indecent," Zandrianna says with a frown before turning to pick up her hairbrush.

"Well, you weren't, and it's not like I've never seen a woman’s body before." Emrabeth chuckles as Zandrianna attempts to brush through the tangled tresses. "Here, why don't you let me help you with that," Emrabeth says and reaches to take the brush before Zandrianna can argue. "Sit in the window, so I have more light to see by."

Zandrianna shakes her head as she's led to the window. "You know, I'm quite capable of tending this myself," she starts.

"Yes, I know Miss 'I Don't Need Any Help," Emrabeth replies sarcastically as she runs the brush through Zandrianna's blonde-red hair. "Tough. Just sit here and let me take care of this. A lot faster that way too."

Zandrianna sits down on the edge of the bed and turns her attention to the outside, staring over the unfamiliar rooftops.                                                                   

In the street below, Ceolfred nods to himself. Clever, he thinks, lighting his pipe. The women must have wound up at the Tankard; why else would Zandrianna, in house dress, be sitting in a bedroom window?

His gaze flicks to the surrounding buildings, picking out a way up. Easy enough. He lingers an extra moment, to watch the sunlight glint off Zandrianna's hair. Then, puffing on his pipe, turns away from the Tankard and continues down the street toward the village's edge and his campsite beyond.