Heir

Chapter 4, Scene 4

The trade caravan from Rockisle was taking their midday break. They had left the city, headed southwest – parallel to the coast – along the road to Highcastle. They would likely reach the capital by this time tomorrow. Now they had stopped to cook the midday meal and to rest the horses. Pulling off the road, the wagons formed a semicircle in a wide, grassy meadow.

Tildy did what she could to help the other two women traveling with the caravan to prepare some gruel that they had brought along for the journey. There were about half a dozen men from the merchants’ guild traveling in the caravan. Two of them had brought their wives along. There were another five or six men – sellswords hired on to protect the caravan – who traveled with them. The steely-eyed man Tildy had seen talking with Geraint was among these. After all of these people had eaten, the gruel was watered down further and fed to the prisoners in the last two wagons of the caravan. There were easily a dozen or so men in each of these two wagons. While they were being fed, Tildy took the opportunity to stretch her legs.

She wandered into a nearby grove to relieve herself, well away from the bustle of activity around the caravan. Amidst the quiet of these small woods she was startled by the sound of a twig snapping. Tildy quickly looked over each shoulder, studying the trees and bushes for any sign of movement. She saw nothing that alarmed her, but couldn’t help feeling like she was being watched. She finished her business quickly and then made her way back towards the caravan. As she pushed through a small clump of brush that blocked her path, another twig snapped close by. Her heart was racing and her breathing was quick and shallow now. She ran the short distance to the edge of the grove and back to the caravan.

Tildy had to walk past the wagons where the prisoners were held. As she did so, she found herself torn between eyeing them warily and glancing back over her shoulder to see if anyone emerged from the grove behind her. In the midst of this, one captive caught her eye.

“Excuse me, Young Miss.” He called out when their eyes met. She paused to hear him out, but her mind was still back in the grove, wondering if someone had been following her. The prisoner held out a wooden cup through the cage bars of the wagon.

“Begging your pardon, but would you be so kind as to fetch us some water to wash down that gruel with?” He pleaded. She hesitated, uncertain of what she should do, aware that the eyes of every prisoner in the wagon were on her now. She glanced around. The merchants and mercenaries were busy preparing to begin moving again, but there were plenty of them within earshot if she had to call for help. She took one faltering step towards the prison wagon.

“I know you’re afraid of us.” He said. His words were sincere and soothing, even if his voice was a bit gruff. “But we talked it over, and we all agreed that there’s no point in misbehaving towards anyone willing to show us a little kindness.”

“Very well.” She said, fetching a nearby water pitcher. “I’ll fill it once for each of you. That’s all.”

“Many thanks, Milady.” The prisoner said, showing far more honor to her than her lowly station commanded. He held out the cup as far as he could, and she stood at a distance and filled it, being careful to keep out of reach of the men. He passed it first to one of his companions, whom downed the water and then returned it to be filled again.

“What’s your name, Miss.” The prisoner who had addressed her asked. He looked to be about ten years her senior, dirty and unshaven, with a deep sadness in his blue eyes.

“I’m Tildy.”

“I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund, journeyman of the tailor’s guild, a cobbler by trade.” He introduced himself. “Where are you headed, Tildy?”

“Same as you, I imagine.” Tildy answered as she filled the cup again.

“I don’t know where I’m going.” Sigurd explained. “I know this road leads to Highcastle. Whether that’s where I’ll end up, or if this caravan will take me further, I know not.”

“I am headed to Darkmoor.”

“Ah, and what is waiting for you in Darkmoor, may I ask?” Sigurd smiled. “A handsome young man, perhaps?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Tildy smiled while she poured more water. “But the young man in question is my son.”

“Indeed?” Sigurd seemed genuinely pleased. “There is no joy like coming home to your child.”

“Do you have children?” Tildy asked.

“Yes, two of them, a boy and a girl.” Sigurd’s voice betrayed pride mixed with deep sadness. It occurred to Tildy that his current situation meant it was unlikely that Sigurd would ever see his children for a very long while. There was no doubt he was deeply aware of that.

“Well, I’m sure they love you very much.” Tildy tried hard to think of something consoling to say, but that was the best she could come up with. She had just finished filling the cup for the last time and was getting ready to excuse herself. Sigurd’s eyes shifted to look past her to the small grove she had come from just a few minutes ago.

“It seems you have a shadow, Miss Tildy.” He said quietly as he nodded in the direction of the woods. Tildy glanced over her shoulder and saw the steely-eyed man exiting the grove, trying to look innocuous but unable to hide his frequent glancing looks in her direction. She felt her heart leap in her chest.

“You had best be careful of him.” Sigurd whispered. “I know that look in his eyes – I’ve seen it in the mirror – and it means blood.”

*****