The Emerald Swan Read online

Mi­ran­da re­tur­ned to the tab­le, but her ap­pe­ti­te had go­ne. "I'll just go and see if he's still in the kit­c­hen yard."

  Ga­reth nod­ded ami­ably and to­ok up his tan­kard aga­in.

  A pi­er­cing scre­am bro­ught him to his fe­et, knoc­king his tan­kard over, drop­ping his kni­fe to the tab­le. He was hal­f­way to the do­or to the kit­c­hen be­fo­re he re­ali­zed that the scre­am was not hu­man, and he was thro­ugh the do­or be­fo­re the ani­mal shri­eks we­re jo­ined by Mi­ran­da's no lon­ger me­lo­di­o­us to­nes. She was yel­ling, wor­d­les­sly, but at such an ex­t­re­me pitch of ra­ge and pa­in that the so­und went thro­ugh his he­ad li­ke a kni­fe.

  He ra­ced thro­ugh the kit­c­hen, pus­hing thro­ugh the cir­c­le of gaw­ping kit­c­hen folk crow­ding the do­or. In the yard, he stop­ped. Chip was scre­aming in high-pit­c­hed ter­ror, a bur­ning brand ti­ed to his ta­il. He was run­ning ro­und and ro­und in pa­nic­ked cir­c­les as Mi­ran­da tri­ed to cap­tu­re him amid a gro­up of la­ug­hing lo­uts pel­ting both the pet­ri­fi­ed ani­mal and the girl with sto­nes and lumps of hor­se dung.

  "Mi­ran­da, you won't catch him if you don't stop scre­aming!" Ga­reth ran for­ward, cat­c­hing her sho­ul­ders. "Spe­ak to him calmly."

  "But he's on fi­re," she cri­ed, te­ars po­uring down her che­eks, her fa­ce whi­te, her lips even whi­ter.

  Ga­reth swung si­de­ways, pic­ked up the buc­ket by the pump, and hur­led the con­tents over the scre­aming mon­key. Then in al­most the sa­me mo­ve­ment he tur­ned on the con­vul­sed lo­uts. He had his sword in one hand and with his ot­her he was un­buc­k­ling his belt be­fo­re an­yo­ne un­der­s­to­od what was hap­pe­ning. Then he was in the mid­dle of the gro­up of ruf­fi­ans, the flat of his sword swin­ging in one arc, his thick stud­ded belt in anot­her, and now the lads we­re scre­aming to ri­val the mon­key, ra­cing to es­ca­pe this de­vil of ven­ge­an­ce and the ago­ni­zing cuts of ste­el and le­at­her.

  They we­re go­ne in a squ­e­aling, ear­s­p­lit­ting scram­b­le li­ke so many stuck pigs and Ga­reth's arms slowly ce­ased the­ir win­d­mill ac­ti­on. He re­buc­k­led his sword belt, she­at­hed his we­apon, and ca­me over to Mi­ran­da, who, cal­mer now, had ma­na­ged to catch the sod­den Chip and re­mo­ved the brand from his ta­il. She was crad­ling him in her arms as she exa­mi­ned his sin­ged fur.

  She ra­ised her te­ar-sta­ined fa­ce to Ga­reth and her eyes we­re brightly ven­ge­ful as she sa­id with rin­ging tri­umph, "Oh, you re­al­ly thras­hed them! But I wish they hadn't es­ca­ped so so­on."

  Ga­reth, who co­uld gu­ess how much da­ma­ge he'd in­f­lic­ted in a ra­ge mo­re vi­olent than any he'd ex­pe­ri­en­ced in many a long ye­ar, tho­ught they had pro­bably es­ca­ped in the nick of ti­me. But he sa­id only, "How is he?"

  "J­ust a lit­tle char­red fur. He's mo­re ter­ri­fi­ed than an­y­t­hing. How co­uld they do such a thing?" Her eyes fil­led with te­ars aga­in. "I'm sorry I was stu­pid. I sho­uld ha­ve tho­ught to throw the wa­ter… but I co­uldn't think cle­arly."

  "No, that's hardly sur­p­ri­sing," he sa­id, re­ac­hing to brush a lock of ha­ir, sticky with te­ars, from her che­ek. "Bring him in­si­de now."

  The mon­key pus­hed his he­ad out of the shel­te­ring cur­ve of Mi­ran­da's arm and sur­ve­yed his res­cu­er with glit­te­ring eyes that Ga­reth wo­uld ha­ve sworn had te­ars in them. The mon­key chat­te­red softly, lif­ting one small scrawny hand to­ward the earl.

  "He's sa­ying thank you," Mi­ran­da in­ter­p­re­ted and Ga­reth, for all his skep­ti­cism, was in­c­li­ned to be­li­eve her. "He'll al­ways trust you. He'll be yo­ur fri­end fo­re­ver now," she sa­id.

  "How lucky can I get?" Ga­reth mur­mu­red and was re­war­ded with a wa­tery smi­le be­fo­re she re­tur­ned to so­ot­hing the still-qu­ive­ring Chip. Her he­ad was bent, her glo­wing ha­ir par­ting on her na­pe to swing be­hind her ears. Ga­reth, in a man­ner ra­pidly be­co­ming fa­mi­li­ar, put a hand on her sho­ul­der to ur­ge her in­si­de. Then he sto­od im­mo­bi­le, sta­ring down at the pa­le slen­der co­lumn of her ex­po­sed neck. His hand mo­ved from her up­per arm to her neck, his fin­gers tra­cing the tiny sil­very cres­cent mark tuc­ked up aga­inst her ha­ir­li­ne.

  "How did you get this?"

  "Get what?" She ra­ised her he­ad aga­inst the warm clasp of his fin­gers, twis­ting to lo­ok at him over her sho­ul­der.

  "This lit­tle cres­cent mark. It's a scar of so­me kind." He mo­ved her he­ad aro­und aga­in, ben­ding her neck so he co­uld lo­ok mo­re clo­sely. The blo­od was sud­denly ra­cing in his ve­ins.

  Mi­ran­da re­ac­hed be­hind her neck, trying to fe­el what he was tal­king abo­ut. "I don't know what it is. I've ne­ver se­en it… not ha­ving eyes in the back of my he­ad," she ad­ded with a tiny la­ugh that did not­hing to dis­gu­ise her sud­den une­ase. She co­uld fe­el his ten­si­on in the fin­gers on her neck and she be­gan to ha­ve the un­p­le­asant sen­sa­ti­on that, all un­k­no­wing, she had be­en car­rying so­me de­for­ming stig­ma aro­und with her all her li­fe.

  "You don't re­call ever cut­ting yo­ur neck, fal­ling per­haps?"

  "No." She sho­ok her he­ad. "Wha­te­ver it is must be a part of my skin. Is it very nas­ty-lo­oking?" She tri­ed to so­und in­dif­fe­rent, ca­su­al, but the­re was a re­si­du­al qu­iver to her vo­ice.

  "Not in the le­ast," he sa­id swiftly. "It's very tiny and hid­den by yo­ur ha­ir most of the ti­me." He to­ok his hand away and she ra­ised her he­ad, her ha­ir swin­ging back over her neck. "Co­me, let's be on our way."

  But he pa­used in the yard as she went ahe­ad of him back to the inn. It was ex­t­ra­or­di­nary. He knew now with ab­so­lu­te cer­ta­inty that the iti­ne­rant ac­ro­bat was very much mo­re than Ma­ude's lo­ok-ali­ke.

  Chapter Five

  Do­ver's town ga­ol was a glo­omy pla­ce even on a bright August mor­ning. Only a thin shaft of day­light pe­net­ra­ted the dark cell from a bar­red slit high up on the wall. Ma­ma Ger­t­ru­de eased her sub­s­tan­ti­al fra­me away from the slimy damp sto­ne wall at her back as the first spi­ke of light told her that the long cold night was fi­nal­ly over. She shi­ve­red, dra­wing her shawl clo­ser aro­und her sho­ul­ders, si­lently co­un­ting the hud­dled bo­di­es on the filthy straw co­ve­ring the mud flo­or. The chec­king com­for­ted her, al­t­ho­ugh she knew per­fectly well that no­ne of her com­pa­ni­ons wo­uld ha­ve mel­ted thro­ugh the thick sto­ne walls over­night.

  A stin­king open dra­in ran down the mid­dle of the cell, a wo­oden pa­il in the cor­ner ser­ved as com­mo­de. The­re we­re no ot­her ame­ni­ti­es, not a stick of fur­ni­tu­re.

  They we­re all the­re, ex­cept for Mi­ran­da. It wasn't the first ti­me the tro­upe had spent a night in ga­ol, pic­ked up for vag­rancy, or on sus­pi­ci­on of thi­eving. But on this oc­ca­si­on, it was Mi­ran­da's fa­ult. Mi­ran­da and her mon­key. As far as Ger­t­ru­de co­uld gat­her, the mis­sing pa­ir had ca­used a hue and cry in the town but had ma­na­ged so­me­how to eva­de the pur­su­it. As a re­sult, the­ir con­fe­de­ra­tes had be­en ro­un­ded up just as they we­re to ta­ke ship back to Ca­la­is and sho­ved in­to this re­eking ho­le as con­so­la­ti­on pri­ze for the ira­te ci­ti­zens of Do­ver.

  Bert co­ug­hed, haw­ked in­to the open dra­in, and sat up. "God's de­ath, how did we get in­to this?"

  "We'll be out so­on eno­ugh," Ger­t­ru­de sa­id. "They can't 'old us wit­ho­ut char­ges, and the­re's no char­ges they can lay agin any of us. Wha­te­ver Mi­ran­da was up to, we we­ren't the­re."

  "She wo­uldn't 'ave be­en thi­eving," Bert dec­la­red, strug­gling to his fe­et, his who­le body pro­tes­ting af­ter its ho­urs on the hard damp flo­or.

  " 'Co­ur­se not, but that's no
t go­in' to stop 'em char­ging 'er." This was from Ra­o­ul, the stron­g­man, who fle­xed his mighty bi­ceps and sto­od up, to­we­ring over the small gro­up. " They'll char­ge 'er an' find 'er gu­ilty wit­ho­ut the girl ever ope­nin' her mo­uth. In ca­ho­ots wi' the mon­key is what they'll say."

  Rob­bie whim­pe­red. "Will they hang M'ran­da?"

  " They'd 'ave to catch 'er first, lad­die," Ra­o­ul sa­id.

  "And Mi­ran­da's qu­ic­ker than an eel," Lu­ke put in with a to­uch of vi­ca­ri­o­us pri­de. He drew him­self up­right, his long skinny body stra­ig­h­te­ning li­ke a pi­ece of string. "If they ha­ven't ca­ught her by now, they won't. And if they had, we'd know abo­ut it."

  "Aye," Ra­o­ul ag­re­ed, re­li­eving him­self at the buc­ket. "But we're still in a pretty pic­k­le. They want to bring us afo­re the ma­gis­t­ra­te wi' a char­ge of vag­rancy, an' we'll all be whip­ped thro­ugh the town squ­are, an' co­unt our­sel­ves lucky to es­ca­pe slit no­ses."

  Rob­bie snuf­fled and mas­sa­ged his fo­ot, which was ac­hing un­be­arably.

  "It's the ble­edin' mon­key I bla­me," a vo­ice mut­te­red from a far cor­ner. "Sho­uld 'ave wrung its neck when the girl first pic­ked it up."

  Ger­t­ru­de la­ug­hed, a mas­si­ve bo­oming so­und in the small spa­ce, and her hu­ge flop­ping bo­som qu­ive­red li­ke an un­set jel­ly. "I'd li­ke to 'ave se­en you ta­ke it away from Mi­ran­da, Jebe­di­ah! You didn't see what she did to the or­gan grin­der what was mis­t­re­atin' it. Ra­iled at him li­ke a re­gu­lar fis­h­wi­fe, she did, then tip­ped up his bar­rel or­gan and threw a buc­ket of slops all over 'im when he co­me af­ter 'er."

  "Oh, aye, qu­ite a sight that was," Bert re­mi­nis­ced. "You don't want to get on the wrong si­de of our Mi­ran­da when 'er pity's ra­ised."

  "Well, I'll be glad to see the fight o' day, and no mis­ta­ke," Jebe­di­ah mut­te­red. "An' if it me­ans gi­vin' up the mon­key to the law, then you'll not 'ear a pe­ep out­ta me."

  The tur­n­key's he­avy fo­ot­fall bro­ught an end to the con­ver­sa­ti­on as the­ir he­ads tur­ned as one to­ward the mas­si­ve wo­oden do­or with its small bar­red in­sert.

  The nag lo­oked even sor­ri­er in the bright mor­ning light than he had the pre­vi­o­us eve­ning and Ga­reth had se­ri­o­us do­ubts how far he'd get with his do­ub­le lo­ad as well as the lug­ga­ge be­fo­re he was win­ded. Cer­ta­inly not the se­ven­ty-odd mi­les to Lon­don.

  The pil­li­on cloth was moth-eaten but Mi­ran­da had re­fu­sed the hor­se­ha­ir pad, com­p­la­ining that the bris­t­les stic­king thro­ugh the can­vas we­re li­ke por­cu­pi­ne's spi­kes. She now ba­lan­ced easily be­hind Ga­reth on the ani­mal's wit­hers as they ro­de out of the stab­le yard, but the­re was so­met­hing omi­no­us abo­ut her pre­sent pre­oc­cu­pa­ti­on.

  "I do ha­te be­ing che­ated," she sa­id even­tu­al­ly, as he tur­ned the hor­se away from the town up the ste­ep path le­ading to the cas­t­le and the clif­ftop.

  Ga­reth sig­hed. He'd be­en won­de­ring if that was be­hind her si­len­ce. The ow­ner of the li­very stab­le, a one-eyed ex-ma­ri­ner with a he­ad as bald as an egg, had bla­tantly over­c­har­ged his nob­le cus­to­mer for the nag and the pil­li­on cloth. Ga­reth had he­ard Mi­ran­da's sharply in­d­rawn bre­ath but he had had no in­te­rest in ar­gu­ing pen­ni­es with an un­sa­vory che­at. The man wo­uld ex­pect the we­althy gen­t­le­man to be­ar the cost wit­ho­ut de­mur. It was one of the un­s­po­ken so­ci­al ru­les of the­ir world.

  "It was a re­la­ti­vely small sum," Ga­reth po­in­ted out.

  "Not to ever­yo­ne," Mi­ran­da sa­id, so softly that it co­uld al­most ha­ve be­en to her­self.

  Ga­reth felt an ab­surd flash of dis­com­fi­tu­re. Wryly he ac­k­now­led­ged that Mi­ran­da's po­int of vi­ew wo­uld be vastly dif­fe­rent from his own.

  The nag stum­b­led over a lo­ose sto­ne on the ste­ep path le­ading up to the sprawl of Do­ver cas­t­le on the clif­ftop. In­s­tin­c­ti­vely, Ga­reth put one hand be­hind him to ste­ady Mi­ran­da.

  "I'm in no dan­ger of fal­ling, mi­lord," she sa­id. "Per­haps I sho­uld dis­mo­unt and walk up." The nag's bre­at­hing was gro­wing mo­re la­bo­red and wit­ho­ut wa­iting for his res­pon­se Mi­ran­da su­ited ac­ti­on to words. She jum­ped down and sprang ahe­ad of them up the path, kil­ting her skirt to free her le­at­her-clad legs. She ne­it­her wal­ked nor ran, Ga­reth tho­ught. It was mo­re of a dan­cing prog­ress. Chip had jum­ped from her arms and was pur­su­ing his own er­ra­tic path up­ward, le­aping from sto­ne to sto­ne, pa­using fre­qu­ently to exa­mi­ne so­me obj­ect that had ca­ught his eye.

  Wat­c­hing Mi­ran­da's qu­ic­k­sil­ver mo­ve­ments, the glow of her ha­ir as the wind swept it back from her fa­ce, the gra­ce and agi­lity of her slen­der fra­me, Ga­reth be­gan to qu­es­ti­on whet­her this de­cep­ti­on wo­uld work.

  Anyo­ne who had se­en and known Ma­ude wo­uld ne­ver be ta­ken in.

  If Mi­ran­da was to ta­ke Ma­ude's pla­ce with Henry, then Henry must ne­ver lay eyes upon Ma­ude du­ring his co­ur­t­s­hip vi­sit. It was for­tu­na­te that Ma­ude had ne­ver be­en to co­urt. Mi­ran­da must ma­ke Ma­ude's de­but be­fo­re Henry ar­ri­ved. Tho­se clo­se to the fa­mily who knew Ma­ude to be a wan, rec­lu­si­ve in­va­lid wo­uld so­me­how ha­ve to be per­su­aded of the tran­s­for­ma­ti­on. That wo­uld be Imo­gen's task. One she wo­uld un­do­ub­tedly be up to.

  Henry had sa­id to ex­pect him be­fo­re Mic­ha­el­mas, a me­re fi­ve we­eks away. Co­uld Mi­ran­da be pre­pa­red in such a short ti­me? But of co­ur­se she co­uld. She was born a d'Albard and such birth and li­ne­age wo­uld co­me easily to the fo­re. She se­emed adap­tab­le and had a sharp wit; she wo­uld ta­ke to the new li­fe li­ke a duck to wa­ter, he was cer­ta­in of it.

  He wat­c­hed her stri­de ahe­ad up the path. They we­re in the sha­dow of the cas­t­le walls now and he knew they wo­uld be un­der ob­ser­va­ti­on from the squ­are to­wers of the in­ner ba­iley. Not that a man on a win­ded nag wo­uld po­se much of a thre­at. The lord of Do­ver cas­t­le was an old ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce, and if he hadn't had Mi­ran­da in tow Ga­reth wo­uld ha­ve cla­imed hos­pi­ta­lity in the form of din­ner and the lo­an of a de­cent hor­se. But Mi­ran­da co­uldn't be easily ex­p­la­ined, not wit­ho­ut ris­king his sec­ret.

  She stop­ped at the he­ad of the path and sto­od sha­ding her eyes, ga­zing out at the vi­ew stret­c­hed be­low them. The town clus­te­ring aga­inst the cliffs, the pe­ace­ful wa­ters of Pa­ra­di­se Har­bor, the whi­te-flec­ked wa­ves of the sea be­yond.

  "I've ne­ver be­en to Lon­don," she sa­id as he ca­me up be­si­de her.

  It se­emed to co­me out of the blue but he un­der­s­to­od that she was lo­oking to­ward Fran­ce, twenty mi­les ac­ross the wa­ter to whe­re all the fa­mily she had ever known wo­uld so­on be lan­ding. He de­tec­ted a she­en of te­ars in her eyes as she lo­oked up at him. But Mi­ran­da was a d'Albard, not a strol­ling pla­yer an­y­mo­re, and she must le­ave the past be­hind.

  "Then it's ti­me you tas­ted the ple­asu­res of the met­ro­po­lis," he sa­id bra­cingly. "Co­me. The path is stra­ight now and this be­ast can carry us both." He le­aned down, of­fe­ring her a hand.

  Mi­ran­da to­ok it and set­tled be­hind him, whis­t­ling aga­in for Chip, who ap­pe­ared out of a tan­g­le of gor­se bus­hes, clut­c­hing a han­d­ful of le­aves and gib­be­ring with ple­asu­re.

  "You've fo­und yo­ur own din­ner, then," Mi­ran­da ob­ser­ved, re­ce­iving him in­to her arms as he le­aped up­ward. "Whe­re will we di­ne, mi­lord?" Her in­ter­rup­ted bre­ak­fast se­emed a long ti­me ago.

  "At the Arms of En­g­land in Roc­hes­ter," Ga­reth sa­id. " The­re's a li­very stab­le clo­se
by whe­re I sho­uld be ab­le to tra­de in this pat­he­tic ex­cu­se for hor­sef­lesh for so­met­hing a lit­tle mo­re ro­bust. It sho­uld ma­ke to­mor­row's ri­de rat­her mo­re com­for­tab­le, not to men­ti­on qu­ic­ker."

  "Tell me abo­ut yo­ur sis­ter. Why won't I li­ke her?"

  "You'll ha­ve to see for yo­ur­self," he sa­id. "But I warn you that her dis­po­si­ti­on will not be im­p­ro­ved by sight of that mon­key."

  "Chip will be­ha­ve," she as­su­red him. "Do­es she ha­ve a hus­band, yo­ur sis­ter?"

  "Lord Mi­les Du­fort."

  "Will I li­ke him?"

  He's inof­fen­si­ve eno­ugh. So­mew­hat hen­pec­ked." "Oh." Mi­ran­da che­wed her lip for a few mi­nu­tes. "Is yo­ur ho­use very grand? Is it a pa­la­ce?"

  He smi­led slightly. "On a small sca­le. But you will so­on le­arn yo­ur way aro­und it." "Do­es the qu­e­en ever vi­sit you?"

  "On oc­ca­si­on." "Will I me­et the qu­e­en?"

  "If you ta­ke my co­usin's pla­ce, most cer­ta­inly you will."

  "And yo­ur co­usin… will she li­ke me?" The­re was an­xi­ety in her vo­ice and she put her hand on his sho­ul­der. Her body was very clo­se to his back, not exactly pres­sed aga­inst him, but very clo­se ne­ver­t­he­less.

  “That’s hard for me to say," he rep­li­ed ne­ut­ral­ly, trying not to res­pond to the dis­t­rac­ting, si­nu­o­us lit­tle body at his back. "I know very lit­tle abo­ut the wor­kings of my co­usin's mind. I'm not re­al­ly very well ac­qu­a­in­ted with her."

  "And you don't know very much abo­ut me, eit­her," Mi­ran­da sa­id tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, with anot­her lit­tle wrig­gle aga­inst him. "But I co­uld tell you an­y­t­hing you wan­ted to know."

  "Per­haps la­ter," Ga­reth sa­id. "Is it ne­ces­sary for you to sit so clo­se to me? I find it rat­her hot."

  "His back slo­pes so I ke­ep rol­ling down the hill," she ex­p­la­ined, but ob­li­gingly hit­c­hed her­self bac­k­ward. "I'll try and hold myself he­re."