The Snowy Tower (8 page)

Roana drew quite a few curious stares. She tried to slouch around the camp, muttering churlishly, but as soon as she stopped thinking about it, she resumed her usual regal bearing. Her imperious comments and her accent also gave her away. It was obvious to most of the rebels that the lad ‘Rowan’ was not quite what he appeared. Rumours spread, fuelled by the soldiers who had overheard the interchange between Roana and Lord Mortimer, that it was, indeed, the lad Rowan that the Sedah soldiers had been trying to capture, and that
he
was possibly really a
she
– and a princess at that.

Captain Malish and the other Sedah soldiers had been stripped of their armour and uniforms, and dressed in peasant rags. They were locked in a palisade of timber stakes, with sharply pointed ends, and closely guarded but otherwise well
treated. The rebels were furious with Lord Mortimer once they learned of his treachery, and there were muttered threats to punish him severely. Sam insisted that Lord Mortimer be treated like the other prisoners and kept closely guarded.

Lily treated the arrow wounds of the Sedah prisoners, bathing the wounds with boiled herb water and binding them with sticky spider web, much to the prisoners’ disgust.

Of Sniffer there had been no sign. He had vanished without trace. The skills of a tracker were handy for someone who wished to elude capture. George took it upon himself to guard the children, watching them closely. The children decided to keep their plans to rescue Prince Caspar a secret. Sam had offered them refuge in the forest with the rebels for as long as they needed it, but he was soon busy planning raiding parties out into the surrounding countryside, to harry Sedah soldiers.

The next day Aisha was much better, although still limping.

‘I think tomorrow morning we should be able to continue north,’ Lily decided. ‘We will need to be careful not to overdo it, but I think Aisha should be fine if we carry her on one of the horses for a couple of days.’

‘That is wonderful news,’ beamed Roana, playing with the amethyst locket she wore around her neck. Anxiety had been wearing her down.

‘I think we should slip away unnoticed, as though we were going hunting,’ Ethan suggested. ‘I think the adults would try to stop us, or send someone with us, if they knew what we were planning to do. They mean well, but I think we will attract less attention on our own.’

‘Good idea,’ Saxon agreed. ‘We’ll need to escape old George. He watches us like a hawk. I think he feels bad that he lost me once when my father asked him to keep an eye on me, so he doesn’t mean to lose us again.’

‘We can leave him a note so that he will not be anxious,’ Roana suggested.

The packs were carefully repacked with their clothes and supplies, and the water bottles filled. The children were loath to take food from the rebels, who already had so many mouths to feed, so the packs were unusually light. Charcoal was tucked up in her wicker basket, and Aisha’s wounds were carefully washed with steeped woundwort.

They were ready to creep off before dawn.

In Tira, Governor Lazlac had decided to implement his plan to destroy the queen’s rose garden – and start work on the new temple to Krad. His only disappointment was that the temple would not be ready in time for the wedding ceremony.

‘I want you to take up twenty of those stinking prisoners from the dungeons and set them to work clearing the temple site,’ Governor Lazlac ordered Lieutenant Foulash. He wondered idly what had happened to Captain Malish, who had still not returned from some mysterious foray into the countryside. He presumed he would be back any time now. ‘Choose the strongest and healthiest, I want the work to progress quickly. The stone arrives in a week, so I want the site ready to start building by then. Use the lash, or whatever it takes to get the job done.’

Lieutenant Foulash nodded his understanding and saluted. He toured the dungeons inspecting the prisoners. Most of them were in a pitiable state, starving and weak. Willem was one of the prisoners chosen to labour on the new temple. He was herded up the stairs with the others, all wearing leg chains to discourage them from escaping. They shuffled forth into the fresh air and sunshine, blinking in the harsh light, and were led
through the kitchen gardens to the site of the future temple of Krad.

The Garden of Sun and Moon was breathtakingly beautiful, surrounded by high stone walls and lush, velvet green lawns. The roses were in two large circular beds, one filled with white roses, the other with rich gold roses tinged with red. In the centre tinkled an ornate fountain.

A divine smell wafted towards the prisoners, nearly overcoming them with its richness.

‘It’s all going,’ barked Lieutenant Foulash. ‘We want a completely clean site, level and smooth by the end of the week. Put your backs into it, or you’ll feel the stroke of my whip on them.’

The head gardener, who was standing by to hand out shovels, hoes and picks, stood with tears in his eyes as he realised his life’s work would be destroyed in a matter of minutes. There must be something he could do.

‘The prisoners will need to dig up all the roots to ensure the ground is prepared properly for the foundations,’ suggested the gardener bravely. ‘I can dispose of the plants myself – they are very thorny.’

Lieutenant Foulash nodded impatiently. He left a number of soldiers on guard to supervise and returned to the palace.

‘Try to save the roots,’ whispered the gardener to each prisoner. ‘Leave plenty of soil around the roots, and we may be able to save them.’

Some of the prisoners could not be bothered and ripped the roses and hedges out carelessly, swearing as their skin was caught by vicious thorns. Crushed petals fell to the ground like tears. Other prisoners took Willem’s lead and dug carefully around the base of each plant, taking a large ball of soil with each one. The gardener whisked away the saved plants in a wheelbarrow to hide them in his shed, for replanting elsewhere.

Willem enjoyed the hard work, though his muscles screamed with unaccustomed usage. He relished the fresh air, the burning sunshine, the salty hot sweat that he had not felt in months, the smell of soil and crushed grass and rose petals. His skin cracked and blistered and rubbed raw, but he felt alive.

At lunchtime they were allowed to rest for ten minutes. A plump, severe-looking woman bustled into the garden at noon carrying a large basket and a bucket, which she hefted with ease.

‘Good day to you, Mistress Cookie,’ called the gardener cheerily.

Willem’s eyes darted to examine the woman when he heard her name. This was the mysterious
friend who had sent them real food in the dungeons and those wonderful coded notes about eggs and fish, telling him that his children were safe.

‘What delicious rations do you have for us today?’ asked the gardener.

‘Naught but bread and cheese for the likes of these folk,’ snorted Cookie derisively, but Willem thought he detected a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. Cookie did not leave the rations to be doled out by the prisoners, but handed out each portion herself. Willem noticed that she surreptitiously examined the face of each prisoner as she gave them food. She murmured a few words of comfort to each as she gave them two thick slabs of bread and a cup of water.

When it was Willem’s turn, he checked carefully around. The sentries were sitting sprawled in the shade, enjoying their own lunch and relaxing. Only one guard was closely supervising the prisoners’ meal, and he was watching those who already had their bread.

‘Mistress Cookie, thank you for
everything
,’ Willem whispered as he pretended to drink from his cup.

‘Willem of Kenley?’ Cookie asked quickly, leaning closer as she pretended to fumble with the
basket. Willem nodded slightly. ‘I thought so by that crooked eyebrow of yours, just like Ethan’s. Marnie sends her love. She is well. The children are safe and travelling to the north. Plans are afoot.’

Willem took his slabs of bread and cheese and sat down with the others, surrounded by the devastation of the destroyed garden. His back no longer ached. He could no longer feel his blisters or chafes. All he could feel was his heart singing.
Marnie and the children are safe. Plans are afoot!

He bit into his sandwich. Cookie had been very modest in her description. The bread was soft and fresh and slathered thickly in butter. The cheese was creamy and rich and sprinkled with pepper. It was the best sandwich he had ever tasted.

A few metres from the rebel camp, high in the branches of a gnarled old tree, perched a small man, dressed in black, spying on the bustle below. He watched anxiously, yet he could not see what he desperately hoped to find. There was no sign of four children, or of the wounded dog, or of the horses. Sniffer waited patiently, his eyes scanning the camp. His muscles cramped in the unnatural
position, but he did not move to stretch or relieve the ache. He was invisible in the shadow of the leaves.

Occasionally his nose twitched as he snuffled the air, processing the different scents.

They must be out hunting
, Sniffer thought. He saw big George the farrier, looking anxious, scurrying around the camp.
At least the big man is not with them today. That will make it easier to ambush them if they are on their own.

Sniffer waited all day. It was only at dusk, when the children had still not returned to the camp, that he became concerned. He watched the camp fires being lit, the rebels eating, laughing and talking, but still there was no sign of the children. Sniffer watched until the rebels curled up in their blankets and slept. He waited until the sentries did their rounds, then slipped away into the forest to sleep for a few hours. Before dawn he was trudging north.

In the early morning light, he found the trail – a set of five hoofprints clearly marked on the damp track. Sniffer sighed and set off on foot, following.

Master Drummond was working at his desk, sifting through correspondence, when Jed knocked on the door.

‘Here is the ale that you were expecting from the north,’ Jed called, heaving a heavy barrel onto a side table.

‘Thanks, Jed,’ replied Master Drummond. ‘Just leave it there.’

When Jed had gone, Albert Drummond rolled the barrel onto its side, and carefully removed the bung. The bung was one which Master Drummond had designed himself. It was cunningly crafted, with a hollow cavity just large enough to hold a small scroll of paper.

Master Drummond levered off the hidden lid and pulled out a scrap of paper wrapped in leather.

The paper read:

Master Drummond took a pencil and paper and carefully transposed the letters in a different order, adding in spaces where required, over a series of two lines.

He scanned the letters quickly, frowning, smiling, then frowning again. He checked the message again carefully, tapping his finger up and down from the top line to the bottom, and back again. It now read: