The High King's Tomb
Page 144
One of his accidental diversions had turned fortuitous when he ended up in the yard of a woodsman’s cot. Famished and freezing, he knocked on the door. A gruff, dirty fellow opened it, and Amberhill could only guess at the man’s thoughts as he took in a bedraggled, shivering nobleman on his step, holding the reins to a stallion of some breeding.
Amberhill pled for food and a place to rest for the night. He had been prepared for a pleasant day’s jaunt with other nobles through the countryside, not a seemingly endless journey through the wilds of Sacoridia.
Grudgingly the woodsman allowed that Amberhill could sleep in the loft above his pair of oxen, and provided him with a skin of flat ale and half a loaf of hard bread. Thankful for even this little, he pressed one of the plainshield’s gold coins into the woodsman’s calloused hand. That night Goss deigned to share shelter with the oxen pair, munched on fodder provided by the woodsman, and drank water fresh from the well. Up in the loft, Amberhill finished off the bread and ale, and buried himself under the hay to keep warm. He’d really gotten himself into it this time, haring off after Lady Estora’s captors when really he should have returned to the castle and let his cousin handle things.
But he couldn’t. He remembered Morry dying in his arms, and those words he’d spoken. Amberhill had forgotten honor, he’d been so beguiled by the currency he’d been offered. Everything was his fault. His weakness had left Morry dead and a woman who did not deserve to be terrorized in the clutches of cutthroats. Only in hindsight did he understand there was no such thing as an “honorable” abduction. There probably hadn’t even been a noble involved to begin with—none would have been in his right mind to order the abduction of Lady Estora. Greed had clouded Amberhill’s judgment. He should have listened to Morry.
Grief now drove him to avenge Morry, and to make right the wrong he committed against Lady Estora. Exhausted, he slept deeply through the night and well into morning. When he arose, he climbed down from the loft to discover the oxen and their harness gone and some gifts from the woodsman—food, another skin of ale, and a sack of grain for Goss, as well as a rough, but warm, woolen cloak.
“Thank the gods,” Amberhill said, throwing the cloak around his shoulders. The woodsman must have been pleased by the gold coin and thought to better supply Amberhill for his journey. Thankful for the kindness, the gentleman thief left a second gold coin on the woodsman’s doorstep.
Before he set off on another day of pursuit, he buckled on his swordbelt with rapier and parrying dagger. Concealed beneath his clothes, up sleeves and in his boots, were more weapons. He may not have been prepared for traveling cross country, but he was always ready to win a fight.
Amberhill retraced his steps and searched for the trail of his quarry. He was indeed a gentleman thief, not a wilderness tracker, but with patience, he found the trail. There were at least three sets of horse hooves. He believed there must be more in the party, but he could not tell for certain.
He clucked Goss into a jog, fearing his side trip allowed Lady Estora’s captors to establish a substantial lead. He knew Zachary must have sent out his own pursuers and that they were somewhere behind him, but he would not give up. This was personal.
By evening, Amberhill found the remains of a camp, the blackened fire ring cold. He could only surmise they had almost a day’s lead on him. Could be worse, he thought, and could be better. At least he found clear evidence of their passing.
The autumn days had grown short, and though Amberhill desired to go on, he reined himself in. Trying to track in the darkness, especially without the benefit of a bright moon, would plainly be stupid. He’d lose the trail, probably become lost altogether. He had no idea of where in the wilderness he was, and losing the trail would be disastrous in more ways than one.
He dismounted Goss with a sigh, giving in to common sense. He’d camp here this evening—in the cold without a fire, for he’d brought no flint with him—and continue his pursuit at dawn.
He saw to Goss’ needs, then huddled beneath the woodsman’s cloak in the deepening dark. Before the light dissipated entirely, he pulled the locket from his waistcoat pocket. He’d found it on Morry during a hasty search of his friend’s body and thought it too curious to leave behind. In his desperate dash through the woods, he’d forgotten all about it.
Engraved on the gold of the locket was a rose, and Amberhill guessed Morry had a secret love. He was stunned, for he thought he’d known everything about the older man, who seemed to revel in his bachelorhood. He’d been well-provided for by Amberhill’s grandfather and lived comfortably.
Amberhill hesitated to open the locket, thinking it invasive, then scolded himself. Morry was dead. What would he care?
Amberhill opened the locket. In one half he found a delicate braided curl of auburn hair. In the other half was a miniature portrait of his mother. His insides fluttered with pangs of grief for his mother, whom he still missed, though she died ten years past of a poor heart. He’d always thought that his father broke her heart from all his gambling and drinking, and she’d died desolate and starved for love.
As Amberhill gazed at the locket, he thought maybe it had not been so after all. He recalled those terrible days of his mother’s final suffering. He’d been seventeen, just entering his manhood. His father, as usual, had been absent, out somewhere mounting up debt. The one he remembered always being nearby, providing company and care for his mother at the end of her days, was Morry. Morry who had loved her. With this token in the palm of his hand, Amberhill realized she must have loved Morry in return.
Amberhill pled for food and a place to rest for the night. He had been prepared for a pleasant day’s jaunt with other nobles through the countryside, not a seemingly endless journey through the wilds of Sacoridia.
Grudgingly the woodsman allowed that Amberhill could sleep in the loft above his pair of oxen, and provided him with a skin of flat ale and half a loaf of hard bread. Thankful for even this little, he pressed one of the plainshield’s gold coins into the woodsman’s calloused hand. That night Goss deigned to share shelter with the oxen pair, munched on fodder provided by the woodsman, and drank water fresh from the well. Up in the loft, Amberhill finished off the bread and ale, and buried himself under the hay to keep warm. He’d really gotten himself into it this time, haring off after Lady Estora’s captors when really he should have returned to the castle and let his cousin handle things.
But he couldn’t. He remembered Morry dying in his arms, and those words he’d spoken. Amberhill had forgotten honor, he’d been so beguiled by the currency he’d been offered. Everything was his fault. His weakness had left Morry dead and a woman who did not deserve to be terrorized in the clutches of cutthroats. Only in hindsight did he understand there was no such thing as an “honorable” abduction. There probably hadn’t even been a noble involved to begin with—none would have been in his right mind to order the abduction of Lady Estora. Greed had clouded Amberhill’s judgment. He should have listened to Morry.
Grief now drove him to avenge Morry, and to make right the wrong he committed against Lady Estora. Exhausted, he slept deeply through the night and well into morning. When he arose, he climbed down from the loft to discover the oxen and their harness gone and some gifts from the woodsman—food, another skin of ale, and a sack of grain for Goss, as well as a rough, but warm, woolen cloak.
“Thank the gods,” Amberhill said, throwing the cloak around his shoulders. The woodsman must have been pleased by the gold coin and thought to better supply Amberhill for his journey. Thankful for the kindness, the gentleman thief left a second gold coin on the woodsman’s doorstep.
Before he set off on another day of pursuit, he buckled on his swordbelt with rapier and parrying dagger. Concealed beneath his clothes, up sleeves and in his boots, were more weapons. He may not have been prepared for traveling cross country, but he was always ready to win a fight.
Amberhill retraced his steps and searched for the trail of his quarry. He was indeed a gentleman thief, not a wilderness tracker, but with patience, he found the trail. There were at least three sets of horse hooves. He believed there must be more in the party, but he could not tell for certain.
He clucked Goss into a jog, fearing his side trip allowed Lady Estora’s captors to establish a substantial lead. He knew Zachary must have sent out his own pursuers and that they were somewhere behind him, but he would not give up. This was personal.
By evening, Amberhill found the remains of a camp, the blackened fire ring cold. He could only surmise they had almost a day’s lead on him. Could be worse, he thought, and could be better. At least he found clear evidence of their passing.
The autumn days had grown short, and though Amberhill desired to go on, he reined himself in. Trying to track in the darkness, especially without the benefit of a bright moon, would plainly be stupid. He’d lose the trail, probably become lost altogether. He had no idea of where in the wilderness he was, and losing the trail would be disastrous in more ways than one.
He dismounted Goss with a sigh, giving in to common sense. He’d camp here this evening—in the cold without a fire, for he’d brought no flint with him—and continue his pursuit at dawn.
He saw to Goss’ needs, then huddled beneath the woodsman’s cloak in the deepening dark. Before the light dissipated entirely, he pulled the locket from his waistcoat pocket. He’d found it on Morry during a hasty search of his friend’s body and thought it too curious to leave behind. In his desperate dash through the woods, he’d forgotten all about it.
Engraved on the gold of the locket was a rose, and Amberhill guessed Morry had a secret love. He was stunned, for he thought he’d known everything about the older man, who seemed to revel in his bachelorhood. He’d been well-provided for by Amberhill’s grandfather and lived comfortably.
Amberhill hesitated to open the locket, thinking it invasive, then scolded himself. Morry was dead. What would he care?
Amberhill opened the locket. In one half he found a delicate braided curl of auburn hair. In the other half was a miniature portrait of his mother. His insides fluttered with pangs of grief for his mother, whom he still missed, though she died ten years past of a poor heart. He’d always thought that his father broke her heart from all his gambling and drinking, and she’d died desolate and starved for love.
As Amberhill gazed at the locket, he thought maybe it had not been so after all. He recalled those terrible days of his mother’s final suffering. He’d been seventeen, just entering his manhood. His father, as usual, had been absent, out somewhere mounting up debt. The one he remembered always being nearby, providing company and care for his mother at the end of her days, was Morry. Morry who had loved her. With this token in the palm of his hand, Amberhill realized she must have loved Morry in return.
