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The newcomer turned her way and bowed. “My lady.” The King’s Man, Weaver. She’d have recognised him the sooner if he’d been wearing the king’s livery as normal. His hair was wet and tangled while his face was unshaven. At least he’d paused long enough to leave his horse outside, if not the smell of it.

“My lord husband. Weaver. Good evening.” Goddess forfend a lady should speak what was on her mind.

Tresilian raised his head then, with no hint of his usual smile.

“There is bad news?” As if there could be any other reason Weaver had trailed mud into the king’s presence.

Tresilian nodded. “Vasic’s army has crossed the river. The vanguard is camped two days’ march away.”

“So close? That’s worse than you feared.”

“It doesn’t leave us much time.” Tresilian drew a deep breath.

Alwenna knew her duty as chatelaine; now she had to prove herself competent. “There’s still a good surplus from last year’s harvest. Tomorrow, I must–”

“No.” Tresilian turned to face her fully. “You’re leaving tonight.”

“What?” Not once had he suggested such a measure might be necessary. “I see no reason to do that. My place is here, at your side.”

“Weaver will escort you to Father Garrad’s precinct on Vorrahan.” He pointed to a tiny island off the north-west coast.

“Would you exile me?” She meant it as a joke, but Tresilian didn’t smile.

He busied himself rolling up the map. “You’ll be out of harm’s way there.”

“Indeed? Am I to have no say in the decision?”

“We haven’t time to argue about this. Only the three of us in this room will know where you’ve gone.”

Alwenna glanced at Weaver; his gaze was fixed on the floor.

“Why such secrecy?” For a dizzying moment she could have sworn the ground shifted beneath her feet, but her husband was speaking as if nothing untoward had happened.

“… suspected Vasic has spies at court. It’s no coincidence he’s made his move when I’ve committed so many troops to trouble in the east.” Tresilian rubbed his forehead. “You’ll set off after dark. This weather should at least prevent anyone seeing you leave.”

“Surely this is unnecessary. It seems – so desperate.”

Tresilian took her hand in his. “No one will expect this. There are factions at court who support Vasic’s claim, and they will act once reinforcements are at hand. You would be their target – he needs you to legitimise his claim to the throne.”

“As did you.” She pulled her hand away.

Tresilian nodded. “As did I. But I’m thinking only of your safety, Alwenna.”

“How can I be safer outside the citadel walls?”

“We had an informant, but last night someone inside the citadel silenced him. I will not risk you. And it will not be a wasted journey: once at Vorrahan I would have you further our cause by seeking Brother Gwydion’s counsel. He is master seer there, and I will not have it said again that we slight the seers.”

That put a different complexion on it. “If that is the case, I must do as you wish.” The tension in Tresilian’s shoulders eased; he truly believed there was danger. That shook Alwenna more than she cared to admit. “Where are the servants? I’ll need to take Wynne with me, of course.” From the corner of her eye Alwenna noticed Weaver turn to the fire with a gesture that might have been impatience.

“The two of you will travel faster and attract less notice without her.”

Alwenna lowered her voice so only Tresilian would hear. “You would send me off on such a journey with none but Weaver? No guardsmen, no companion, no servants? Is that how you would show respect to the seers?”

“That way there will be none to betray you. I have complete trust in Weaver.”

“Then you have told him everything?”

“This is not the time. Tell no one as long as your condition can be hidden. No one.” Tresilian picked up a bundle of clothing from the table and handed it to her. “You will travel in these.”

Alwenna took the clothing from him, the homespun wool coarse beneath her fingertips. She caught a faint scent of herbs. It was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place it. “This is madness, Tresilian.”

“It’s necessary.” Tresilian returned to the table and gathered up the maps. “I must return to the council meeting. Be ready to leave in an hour’s time.”

Alwenna took half a step to the door. Was she to accept dismissal like a foolish child to the end of her days? “No. I will not go.”

Tresilian leaned his hands on the table, his head lowered. “Alwenna, we have no time to discuss this.”

By the fire, Weaver shifted. “Sire, if we are to leave in an hour I must–”

“Stay, Weaver.” Alwenna was sure Tresilian counted on his presence to prevent her making a scene. “I know I can be frank in front of you. There are few secrets between you and my husband, after all.”

Tresilian looked up sharply. Perhaps only one secret, then. How keen was he that she should not reveal it to Weaver?

“Husband, your family have long impressed upon me the importance of appropriate behaviour for my station. Imagine the outcry if it became common knowledge you had me smuggled out under cover of darkness like some wrongdoer?”

“Our whole purpose is to ensure it never will become common knowledge.” But he didn’t hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.

She dropped the bundle of clothing onto the table, sending a scroll skidding off and onto the floor. “You must have arranged all this in advance. Why wait until the very last minute to tell me?”

Tresilian glanced at Weaver. “We weren’t sure of Vasic’s plans. And I knew you would argue. Believe me, Alwenna, I do not do this gladly.”

And wasn’t that typical of Tresilian, putting off an unpleasant task in the hope he might somehow avoid it entirely? Would she have agreed to set off on this journey in relative comfort days ago, accompanied by whatever retinue her husband deemed appropriate? She knew the answer to that, and felt suddenly foolish for causing a fuss.

“At the very least I must have a senior servant to accompany me and ensure propriety. And that servant will be Wynne, or I will not fall in with this mad scheme of yours.”

Tresilian stooped and picked up the scroll she had knocked to the floor. “Weaver, can it be done?”

Weaver straightened up hastily. His colour was high, perhaps from standing over the fire so long. “Taking more than two horses outside the city walls would attract attention. Someone would need to ride pillion, and that would slow us down.”

“Can it be done?” This time it was not a question.

Weaver bowed his head. “Yes, sire, it can be done.”

“Then see to it.”

CHAPTER THREE

Alwenna followed Tresilian down the winding stairs to the foot of the tower, the hood of her woollen cloak scratching against her face. Behind her she could hear the pad of Wynne’s boots on the stairs. Weaver awaited them in the guardroom. Somehow he’d found time to change into dry clothing and shave off his beard. The two men exchanged words in low voices; it seemed the womenfolk were not to be privy to their business. No matter. Alwenna stored up her resentment rather than give voice to it. She’d learned long ago that anger was a stronger ally than fear.

Tresilian turned to her as if he had overheard her thoughts. “This parting won’t be for long.”

“You ought not tempt fate, husband.”

“I’ll take my chance with fate, as long as you are safe. Just think, you always wanted to cross the sea. Now you shall.” Tresilian reached out and pushed back her hood a fraction. Alwenna held herself aloof when he leaned in to press a hasty kiss to her lips.

“Take good care of her, Ranald. Goddess speed you all.”

Weaver led the way in silence across the slick cobbles of the inner ward to the gatehouse. Smoke from the torches in the keep hung in the still air, acrid, catching the back of Alwenna’s throat.

The guard at the citadel gate let Weaver pass with a respectful salute but he eyed Alwenna with undisguised curiosity as she and Wynne followed behind him. The rain had cleared and the moonlight was strong enough to cast their shadows before them; every step meant placing her foot in an uncertain pool of darkness. Each time they passed beneath a flambeau shadows sprang up alongside them, then sank away into the night. Wynne was a reassuring presence at her side.

They walked in silence through the narrow streets, boots scuffing on the cobbles. All decent folk were asleep at this hour. Somewhere in the distance cats yowled. A pebble clattered across the street behind them. Alwenna glanced over her shoulder, unable to shake off the unpleasant sensation of being watched. She turned back to catch Weaver’s attention, but he was already at her side.

Weaver took hold of her arm and steered her down a side alley. Her feet slithered in mud and she bumped against Wynne as Weaver pushed them into the shadow of a low building. A stable, if Alwenna’s nose were to be trusted.

“Our spy’s about to show his hand. Wait here.” Weaver strode back towards the street, shrugging his cloak back as three men spread out across the entrance.

“Ho, Weaver! What brings you out at this time of night? Last I heard you were south of the pass.”

With relief Alwenna recognised Stanton’s voice. He was another of the King’s Men: a favourite with the ladies at court, always ready with a smile and easy conversation. He couldn’t be the spy. Weaver, on the other hand: dour to the point of morose, withdrawn in company, did he deserve Tresilian’s trust?

“My business is no concern of yours, Stanton.”

The courtier took a step forward, still smiling. “Is your business so urgent you have no time for civility? Come now, I have a proposition for you. Let’s discuss it over a jug of ale.” He gestured towards the corner where Alwenna waited. “Bring your shy companions along. I might almost think you were trying to hide them from me.”

“Well I might; your looks have broken too many ladies’ hearts already.” Weaver set his hand on the pommel of his sword. “My gift is for breaking skulls.”

“Ever the commoner.” Stanton sighed. “We have you outnumbered three to one.”

“I’m able to count. And I’ll thank all three of you not to importune the ladies.”

“But what manner of lady would keep company with the likes of you? Step clear. It’s not too late for you to choose the victor’s side.”

Weaver remained motionless.

Was he considering the offer?

Stanton seemed to think so. “I can make it worth your while.”

Alwenna caught her breath. Impossible – Tresilian trusted Weaver. But he’d trusted Stanton, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

Weaver registered the gasp from behind him; maybe now someone else would be convinced of Stanton’s treachery.

“Enough talk. If you want them, come and get them.” He drew his sword, studying the opposition as they followed suit. Space was tight in the alley: they’d have to attack one at a time.

Stanton muttered a command and the youth on his right charged forward, sword raised for an overhead blow. Too reckless. It was easy for Weaver to deflect the blade point down and use the momentum of the blow to bring his sword around and open the lad’s throat beneath the ear. He stepped away to protect his eyes from the blood which spattered over his side as the youth toppled to the ground.

Weaver drew back, raising his sword to window guard: left elbow high, point forward at eye level, right side exposed, offering the next attacker an open target he couldn’t resist. The man approached more cautiously, but as he thrust for the ribs Weaver gathered the soldier’s sword, pushing it out to the side as he stepped forward and plunged his own blade into the man’s eye socket. Weaver drew back as his attacker fell, eyes already on Stanton. The courtier’s secret was out now. If he turned and ran he wouldn’t get another chance at the girl.

Stanton’s gaze flicked towards Alwenna. He raised his sword and stepped forward over the bodies of his fallen men, his approach measured. He was subtler than the other two, trained by the best swordsmen the Peninsula could offer, but he’d taken the bait. The bodies behind him would hamper his movement. Stanton hesitated.

Weaver assumed a high guard. “Come on, you pretty bastard. I’ve a bastard sword waiting for you.”

Stanton moved in to the bind, attempting to wind his blade over the top. Weaver countered by going strong, pushing the point of his sword past Stanton’s face. The courtier ducked back, horror dawning in his eyes a split second before, using his opponent’s sword as a fulcrum, Weaver doubled his own blade back to slash open Stanton’s face. Stanton crumpled to the ground and Weaver followed up, pushing him onto his back with his foot before he plunged his blade through the man’s throat.

Weaver straightened up and turned towards the women, sword still in his hand. “Open the door.”

Alwenna took a hasty step back and her hood slipped down. She gaped at him, wild-eyed. “What?”

“The barn door. Beside you.” She didn’t have what it took for this journey. How was he to get her all the way to Vorrahan? “Open it.” He stooped to clean his sword on Stanton’s cloak, then sheathed it before searching the courtier’s pockets.

Wynne hurried to the door and started tugging at the rusty bolt. “My lady, help me with this.”

Alwenna moved to Wynne’s side. “He just robbed Stanton.”

Weaver took hold of Stanton’s corpse by the legs and dragged it towards the stable. “He has no need of it now. Open the door. We must hide these bodies.”

The bolt jerked free and Alwenna pulled the door aside. Weaver hauled Stanton’s body feet-first into the shadows, the courtier’s head clunking over the uneven cobbles. He dropped him next to a pile of straw.

Alwenna backed out of the way as Weaver returned for the next corpse. “I can scarce believe it. He was always so well dressed, so courteous…”

“Vermin often have the finest pelts, my lady.” Weaver dragged the second body into the barn.

Outside in the alley she stared at the dead youth. “That’s Lord Ellard’s squire. His mother was so proud when he came to court.”

Weaver gave a noncommittal grunt as he unbuckled the youth’s knife belt and stowed it away inside his cloak.

Alwenna rounded on him. “He was only eighteen. Have you no compassion?”