The Lost Stories (29 page)

“I'm sorry, my lord!” he began. “This man just barged in before—”

The Baron waved a hand at him. “Never mind,” he said. “It's obviously an emergency. What's the trouble, Richard?”

This last was addressed to the watchman and Gilan smiled once more, impressed by the Baron's use of the man's name. Many barons, he knew, would have no idea of the individual names of their village watchmen. It was one of the qualities that made Arald an effective, as well as popular, leader.

“Your pardon, my lord,” Richard replied. He was breathing heavily and Gilan guessed he had run all the way from the village. “There's been a robbery.”

He noticed Gilan in the room for the first time and nodded deferentially to him. Gilan inclined his own head in reply.

“Who's been robbed?” the Baron asked. “And by who?” Sometimes, in the excitement of the moment, his grasp of good grammar deserted him.

“It's Ambrose Shining, my lord,” Richard replied, and the Baron sat straighter in his chair.

“The silversmith?” he asked. This sounded like more than mere petty theft. “How much did the thief take?”

“Thieves, my lord. There were three of them. And Ambrose says they've taken several hundred royals worth of silver and gemstones.”

“He's all right?” Gilan put in. “They didn't harm him?”

Richard shook his head. “They left him tied up and gagged. It took him half an hour to free himself and then he raised the alarm.”

“So he didn't see which direction they took when they left?” Gilan asked.

“No, sir. But he heard them talking. They were planning to head for Stiller's Ford.”

Gilan fingered his chin thoughtfully. That made sense. Beyond Stiller's Ford there was wild country, an area of thick woods, high, rugged cliffs and deep rivers. It had long been a favored hiding place for criminals. Years ago, when he had been Halt's apprentice here in Redmont, the two of them had cleaned out the area, capturing many of the outlaws who were hiding there and scattering the rest.

“So what action has the constable taken so far?” Arald asked.

The watchman turned his attention back to the burly nobleman. “He's sent a galloper on to Stiller's Ford to rouse the constable there, my lord. And he's following with a posse of ten men.”

Arald relaxed a little and exchanged a glance with Gilan.

“Hmm,” he said. “Sounds as if the constable has things pretty well in hand. These men will be caught between two forces—and presumably they have no idea that the constable knows where they're heading. Does Walter need anything from me? Half a dozen men-at-arms? A few cavalrymen? Anything like that?”

Walter was the village constable and he was a capable official, but Arald thought he should make the offer. Richard was shaking his head.

“He simply wanted me to inform you, my lord. He said he'll have these three rounded up by morning. One of the posse men is a po—” He paused. He had been about to say “poacher,” but he realized that might not be a politic thing to say in front of the Baron.“A hunter,” he amended. “He knows a back trail through the woods that will get them to Stiller's Ford well before morning. They should be there ahead of the thieves.”

Again, Arald let his glance wander to Gilan. “Looks as if we won't need your skills for this one, Gilan,” he said comfortably.

Gilan nodded assent. He had been glancing out the window. He couldn't see the sun, but the length of the shadows outside told him it must be hovering near the brink of the horizon. “Be too late for me to track them anyway,” he said. “It'll be dark soon. And as you say, the constable seems to have things in hand.”

The matter seemed straightforward, he thought. If the constable and his posse failed to apprehend the thieves at Stiller's Ford, then Gilan might need to join the pursuit. But that seemed unlikely.

Arald smiled at the watchman standing to attention before his desk. “Thanks, Richard. I imagine you'll want to join the posse and get after these men?”

Richard allowed himself a faint smile in return. “I would, my lord. I've known old Ambrose all my life. But I don't know the turnoff to the back trail they'll be taking. I'll stay behind in case I'm needed in the village.”

Arald pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Not a bad idea at that,” he said. With the other members of the watch absent, along with a further five able-bodied villagers in the posse, an opportunist might well take the chance to cause mischief in the village. “Very well, Richard. We won't keep you any longer.”

The watchman gave a short bow of his head in salute, turned and left the room, accompanied by the still-annoyed clerk. As the door closed behind them, Arald looked once more at a sheet of notes on the desk in front of him.

“Well, I think that just about finishes our business, Gilan,” he said. “You'll join us for dinner? My wife would be delighted to hear the latest gossip from Whitby Fief.”

Gilan hesitated. Strictly speaking, he should have expected to dine with the Baron on his first night at Redmont. But Jenny's invitation had driven any thought of protocol from his mind. He realized that Arald was grinning at him.

“Got a better offer, perhaps?” the Baron said slyly.

Gilan felt himself flushing. “Um . . . well, sir . . . as a matter of fact, Jenny had asked me to—”

The Baron held up a hand to silence him. He knew Jenny, of course. She had been a ward in his castle and had been an apprentice to Master Chubb, his chef. She was every bit as good at her craft as Chubb was. And in addition, she was blond and vivacious and pretty. In the Baron's eyes, that constituted a much better offer than dinner with himself and his wife. For a moment, he felt a little old.

“Say no more,” he said magnanimously. “We'll have plenty of opportunities to dine together while you're here.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Gilan. “We'll definitely do it another night. In fact, perhaps I could invite you and Lady Sandra to be my guests at Jenny's restaurant later in the week?”

Arald beamed with pleasure at the thought. Chubb was a master chef, without doubt, but Jenny brought an array of imaginative and adventurous new ideas to her cooking and the prospect of a meal cooked by her was too tempting to refuse. Besides, Lady Sandra would enjoy an opportunity to get out of the castle for an evening. Gilan, for his part, knew the presence of such exalted guests in her restaurant would do Jenny's business no harm.

“Later in the week then,” Arald said. Then he couldn't help smiling. “And enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Gilan, rising to leave.

As he turned toward the door, Arald added in an undertone, “And the dinner as well.”

TOMAS LEANED AROUND THE DOORJAMB INTO THE KITCHEN. The large window facing onto the village high road would allow any passerby to see him and his men if they went farther into the room. He gestured to Jenny. “Pull that curtain.”

She eased past him and pulled the curtain across, cutting off the view of the street. Satisfied that he couldn't be seen, Tomas moved into the kitchen and prowled around, looking in containers, opening and shutting drawers. Nuttal and Mound entered with him, but they contented themselves by sitting on the straight-backed chairs at the kitchen table.

Tomas's eye fell on the plum tart, which Jenny had set to cool on the sill of the side window. “What's this then?”

“It's a plum tart,” she told him.

There was a dangerous tone in her voice that should have told him to keep his hands off, but Tomas was used to ignoring such warnings. He seized the pie dish and brought it to the kitchen table. Setting it down, he drew his dagger, cut a large, uneven chunk out of the pie and crammed it in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, then a look of distaste came over his face and he allowed a large, half-chewed mouthful to spill out of his mouth onto the kitchen table. He tossed the rest of the slice beside it.

“Not sweet enough,” he exclaimed angrily. “Should be sweeter than that.”

Jenny's eyes narrowed. It was one thing to break into her home and hold her captive. But such oafish criticism of her cooking took things to a new level of enmity. “The filling is made from plums,” she said. “They're supposed to be tart. That's what plums taste like.”

Tomas shook his head vehemently. “It's a tart. It should be sweet,” he said. “What would you know about it?”

“It is a tart, and that's what it should be . . . tart!” She searched for another word, realizing how ridiculous the repetition sounded, but couldn't find one. “Just the way it is!” she added, her cheeks beginning to burn with anger. Gilan loved her plum tart, she knew. And he particularly loved that she didn't make it too sweet, but let the natural flavor of the plums come through. What would this buffoon know? How
dare
he criticize her cooking!

Tomas eyed the angry young woman before him. Pretty girls shouldn't argue with their betters, he thought. And he was convinced that he was her better, for the simple reason that he was male. She needed to be taught a lesson. Needed to be brought down a peg or two. He swept the tray and the tart off the table with the back of his hand, sending it rattling to the floor. The tart broke into several pieces and he stamped his foot on the two larger ones, mashing them into the floorboards.

“Oy!” said Mound, half rising from his chair, and angry at his leader's self-centered behavior. “I wouldn't have minded a piece of that!”

Tomas included him in his glare. “It was no good,” he said. “Needed sugar.”

Nuttal, ever anxious in the face of any sort of altercation, rose and moved away from the table.

“You numbskull!” Jenny flared at Tomas, her eyes flashing from the ruined tart—Gilan's tart, she thought—to his face. This . . .
thing
. . . had ruined Gilan's tart. Suddenly, she hated him with all the passion she could muster. “When Gil—”

She was about to say “When Gilan gets here, he'll make you pay for that!” but stopped herself in time. She mustn't give them any warning that the young Ranger was due to arrive in less than an hour.

Tomas leaned forward, his brow creased with a thoughtful frown. She had been about to say something and then she had stopped herself, he thought. In his experience, when people did that, they knew something that they didn't want him to know. “Go on,” he said. “When . . . what?”

Jenny shook her head, dropping her eyes from his gaze. “Nothing,” she said, trying to sound casual. “It's nothing important.”

“Then you can tell me what it is,” he said in a silky voice, moving closer to her.

“It was nothing,” she insisted. But before she could back away, he reached out and grabbed her forearm in both his hands. He gripped hard, then, with a sudden movement, he twisted one hand to the right and the other to the left, still maintaining his hold. The effect on her flesh where his two hands met, suddenly twisted hard in opposing directions, was agonizing. A burning pain shot up her arm and she screamed. Tomas released the pressure and the pain eased.

“Leave her be,” Mound said. He had resumed his seat, but now he stood again, confronting Tomas across the table. He wasn't totally against torture if it could provide useful information. But he felt Tomas enjoyed it too much. The bearded thief glared at him, his hands still loosely circled around Jenny's arm.

“Back off, Mound! Don't be soft! There's something she isn't telling us and I plan to know what it is.”

“All the same . . . ,” Mound said, and made an ineffectual gesture toward Tomas's hands, still gripping her forearm, ready to inflict more pain at any second. But he couldn't find a valid argument to stop Tomas, and his voice trailed off. A cruel smile twisted Tomas's lips and he tightened his hold on Jenny's arm again.

“Now, miss, you were going to tell me . . .”

Jenny set her teeth, glaring in fury at him, determined that, no matter how bad the pain might be, she would tell him nothing. She felt his hands tighten again, then Nuttal interrupted.

“What's this then?”

They all looked at him. He had been prowling the kitchen, examining implements and her pots and pans, when his gaze fell on the note she had propped up on the dresser. He picked it up and peered at it more closely. He couldn't read, but he recognized the oakleaf letterhead at the top of the page.

He tapped it now with his forefinger. “That's a Ranger's mark, that is,” he said. He proffered the sheet to Mound, who was the only one among them who could read. “What's it say?”

Tomas released Jenny's arm and moved to look over Mound's shoulder as the big man slowly read the note, his lips moving as he silently sounded out the words. Then he read aloud.

“Dear Jenny, I'd be delighted to have dinner with you this Thursday. I'll come by your house around six in the evening. Looking forward to it already.” He looked up. “It's signed ‘Gilan,'” he said.

Tomas allowed a string of curses to spill from his mouth. “Gilan!” he said.“He's the one who comes here when the local Rangers are called away.”

Nuttal was frowning, not understanding. “But you said he wasn't coming till next week.”

Tomas sneered as if he were talking to a simple child. “And that's what I was told. That's why we robbed the silversmith today!” He looked angrily at Jenny. “ This Gilan, he's a friend of yours, is he?”

She tried to look as if the whole subject of Gilan was totally unimportant. She shrugged. “I just know him, that's all. Sometimes he drops by.”

“And he's ‘just dropping by,' as you put it, tonight? At six o'clock!” Tomas shouted at her. “Were you going to mention this at all?”