Chapter 26
I had but little time to act. The villa was dark and quiet. There seemed to be no one about. Little wonder that—after the night’s revelry the men would be deep in their mead-soaked dreams. Back to the cookhouse I went. I took a little care to wash the dried blood from my legs and clean myself as well as I could, then set about gathering a few bits of things to see me on my way: a few small crusts of black bread, some of the dried meat of the kind the hunters took with them when they rode, a few apples, and some cheese. I wrapped everything carefully in one of the shifts the servants wear over their mantles when cooking. I considered taking some beer or wine for drink, but I had nothing to carry it in; anyway, water is not difficult to find in the hill country. That done I retraced my steps, taking care to remain in the shadows.
The courtyard was still. Deserted. Even so, I decided to simply sit and wait just to make sure. I perched on one of the stone benches against the wall and remained still and silent. Neither echo of voice, nor gleam of light disturbed the peace of the place, so after I was certain I was alone, I gathered my cloak around me, picked up my bundle of provisions, and stole to the gate.
I paused, cast a look behind me—there was no one to see—and then lifted the beam as carefully as I could. It was heavy, but came free easily enough. I put it aside and, pushing open the door just a crack, slipped out. Once beyond the walls of the villa, I put my feet to the trail and walked—quickly, not running so as to tire me, but with urgent purpose—to get as far away as possible before dawn. My aim was to re-join the road and continue my journey north to Deva.
True, I did not know how many days it might take, but I reckoned that providing I walked steadily and the weather did not delay me overmuch, I would reach it before many days had passed. That was my hope and it burned in me like the flame of a candle, lighting my way in the dark.
In fact, I did not make it to the end of the track leading to the road before I sensed, rather than heard, a surge of motion behind me. Then came the barking.
The dogs!
Until that instant, I had not spared a thought for them. Stupid girl! In all my scheming I had not considered that they would be let out at night to guard the villa, and now the pack came snarling and yapping after me—seven of those rangy, sharp-toothed, shaggy dogs the size of ponies—called deer hounds, or wolf hounds, I think—effortlessly bounding over the track on their absurdly long legs.
The biggest one raced up and nipped me on the heel when I tried to run. Suddenly, I saw myself as a mauled and bloody carcass beside the road. But, even as panic welled up inside me, I recalled what Addas had said—that running would only make them chase and they would pull me down and tear me apart like a deer or errant sheep. Thanking the Good Lord once more for Addas and his sage advice, I plucked up my courage, stopped, and slowly turned to them. They stopped, too. I thought it might be best to try calming them with soothing words and a gentle voice.
It was no use. It only made them bark and howl all the more. Likely, they would have gone on yapping and snapping if the noise had not wakened the old servant who was keeper of the kennel. He came limping up the trail, shouting and waving a stick.
“Coch, down!” he called. “Orm, down!” He smacked the biggest dog with his stick and grabbed the iron-studded leather collar. “Ursa, down!” In no time at all, he quieted the dogs and then confronted me.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded.
I had nothing to say to that, but I suppose he already guessed. He took one look at the bundle clutched to my chest and said, “Running away, eh? They’ll whip you raw for that, you know.” I must have appeared such a pitiful sight just then that he softened somewhat and added, “If they ever found out.”
“Please,” I said, “don’t tell them. Don’t tell anyone.”
He frowned and looked me over. “If I do that for you,” he said, “what will you do for me?”
A cold finger descended down the length of my spine. Give him money? I had none. My virtue? I was fleeing to protect it. Food? He was fed from the table. I had nothing. I waited for his reply, fearing it.
But his answer surprised me. “You work in the cookhouse, yes?”
I nodded warily.
“You can get me beer,” he said.
“I can,” I told him. I would find a way.
“Then this is how it will be,” he decided, and told me that if I would bring him beer of an evening, he would not tell anyone that I had tried to run away.
This simple bargain would gain him a small pleasure and save me a fearsome beating. I accepted at once. “Done,” I said. “You have my word and I’ll take yours.”
He led me back to the villa then, the dogs trailing behind, still snuffling and crowding, but no longer raising an unholy racket. He made to push me through the door, but pausing, put his face close to mine and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow with a fresh jar. And I mean fresh, girl—I don’t want last night’s dregs, and I don’t want it sittin’ around half-a-day. You understand?”
“I understand.”
He pushed me through the door and closed it; I lifted the beam back into place and dragged myself to the cookhouse in a welter of emotions: devastated, appalled that my escape was so easily thwarted, relief that I had escaped a mauling or worse, deeply fearful that my failure meant I would face Cunomor again, yet immensely grateful for the mercy shown me by the kennel keeper. In this raddled state, I crept into the empty room—where else was I to go? No one had shown me where to find another bed—and curled up in a warm corner near the oven.
Sleep was a long time coming, but as my eyes closed on the day, I glimpsed the form of my next escape and knew exactly how I would do it.
I was still asleep when Lydia, mistress of the kitchen, found me in my corner the next morning when she came in to kindle the oven and cooking fires. I came awake with a start and sat up. “Did you spend the night here, girl?” she asked.
“My name is Aurelia,” I told her, stifling a yawn. “And, yes—I slept here. I did not know where else to go.”
She regarded me as if trying to decide how to pluck a grouse. “I’ll find you a place,” she said at last. “Now, get you up and fetch me some water from the well.” She handed me a big copper basin and pointed out the back door. “We’ll make porridge for any who show themselves in the light of day.”
I stood, pulling my cloak around me, and she fumbled with the fire. I took the basin and went out into the yard behind the cookhouse to the well in the far corner near the wall. The day was bright, but brisk, and I imagined what it would be like on the road had I made good my escape. The season was on the change and the days were already growing shorter; they would not be getting any warmer. If I was to flee, it would have to be soon.
This was in my mind as I lowered the leather bucket, pulled it up, and tipped water into the basin, then staggered back to the cookhouse trying not to spill it all on the way. Lydia took the basin from me and poured most of it into a large iron pot that she put on the fire; while she mixed the milled oats and barley and herbs, she gave me a knife and set me to the task of cutting up little cubes of salt pork. “They like the meaty porridge best,” she told me, trying to be friendly.
Her back was turned and I replied to what I thought she’d said. “I suppose most everyone likes eating porridge.”
Lydia stopped stirring and turned to me. “You didn’t hear what I said, did you?” It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
I shook my head and tapped my right ear. “I’m part deaf.”
She merely nodded and went back to her work. “Did your master beat you?” She raised her voice this time in recognition of my defect. “Is that why?”
Who knows the why of anything? I wondered—but merely replied, “No, I was born with it.”
“Never mind,” she said with some measure of motherly kindness. “These things happen. It can’t be helped. I’ll try to remember to speak so you can hear me.”
I thanked her and continued with my chore—cutting the slab of pork belly into cubes—and every now and then I took one of the cubes and dropped it into an empty jar I placed under the board. Before the morning porridge was boiling in the pot, my new escape plan was already in motion.