RIDING AWAY
The house was quiet. Her cousins hadn't returned yet, and Adair was in the gallery – she had heard his footsteps pass her room and peeked out, watching him go. Her only chance was now.
Clutching her drawstring handbag, into which she had packed some jewels – useful for trading, in a land where she had no local currency – and paper and a quill, along with a spare bread-roll, she hastened down the hallway to the stairs.
Nobody about. Good.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and looked about, glancing at the parlor, in case she was mistaken and Adair was there, able to see her leave.
I cannot risk anyone following.
She slipped out through the front door, closing it behind her. Then she crossed the courtyard swiftly to the stables, wincing as her heeled riding-shoes clopped across the cobbles, quite loud.
She reached the stables and stuck her head in, calling, low-voiced, for the headman there. “McLain? Can you saddle my horse? I'm going out?”
“Mistress? Och, aye. You'll take Raindrop again?”
“Yes,” she nodded, heart tight. She knew the horse, and also knew she wasn't suitable for cross-country distances, but she'd have to take her as far as the inn. It was safer to ride a horse she knew than risk being thrown.
Also, it would look odd if she requested a horse for long-distance riding, when she was going alone.
“Very good, milady.”
She could barely conceal her impatience as the fellow saddled and bridled her mount. She had to leave! Any moment now, Adair could appear at the front door, looking for her.
I can't take any chances.
“There you go, milady. Will you be out long? Only, I think the rain might arrive.”
“I won't be long,” she assured him. Then she led her horse to the mounting-block and alighted quickly into the saddle, clicking her tongue in encouragement as they headed through the gates.
Out in the woods, she could almost smell the rain. It was going to fall soon. The forest was green, mainly pine trees, and she was sure their boughs would keep off the worst of the rain.
Just in time.
She headed slowly down the pathway.
The woods were intensely silent, the only sounds the rustle of the wind and the muffled beat of hoofs on the ground below. She tried to find a sense of calm, knowing that at any moment somebody could spot her, or a shot could rattle through the trees, aimed for her heart.
“Stop it, Genevieve. You're being over-dramatic.”
She knew she wasn't, though. This was a deadly game she was caught up in, a world in which thrones and countries were at stake. People would kill to shape the future of either.
And I thought I could play games here – different games.
She sniffed. She really had been foolish. How could she have trusted Adair?
Overhead, a bird called, loud in the silence. She tensed, then relaxed.
Come now, Genevieve. It's a sparrow. You don't need to give yourself a fit for the sound of a sparrow chirping.
She rode onward.
She knew the track – it was simple. It headed south, straight down. About ten miles down the road, she knew, she would come across the inn. It wasn't too far – a few hours' ride. It had been two o'clock when she left, so she should reach the inn by nightfall.
“Good.”
That had been her other worry.
As she rode, it started to rain, drops rattling and whispering through the leaves overhead. Fortunately, few of them made it through the canopy down to them, and she and her horse remained mostly dry.
“I'll be glad to get inside.”
They rode on for an hour. Genevieve judged it to be just past three o'clock. At four, it would start to get dark. She was about halfway, she judged, and going slowly. They couldn't risk a faster ride, though – the ground was still damp underfoot, and the chance of slipping, especially on the shallow downward incline, was great.
She patted her horse's neck in encouragement. Her horse snorted back. They rode on through the intermittent rain.
An hour later, it started going dark. Genevieve shuddered. Always cold, the temperature was starting to drop rapidly. She heard something scuttle in the brush, and hoped it was just a bird.
Not much further now, she told herself firmly. Just another mile or two more. It's not late, only dark. You'll make it safely to the inn.
It occurred to her to wonder what her cousins were doing. They would have reached the manor by now, for certain.
They might have discovered she had gone. She bit her lip grimly, hoping they would wait a while, at least, before raising a cry.
If they sent someone out looking for her, then it was anybody's guess who would follow him. And in that case, it would be best if she was safely off the road, and booked into an inn under a false name before that happened.
“Wait, cousin,” she said grimly, as if she was talking to Arabella, or Francine. Don't send anybody yet. Not until I'm safely concealed somewhere.
The lantern outside the inn was a beacon in the darkness, shining coruscating light out on the road between the trees. She stared at it, letting the unexpected brightness draw her the way a water current drew leaves. She rode toward it.
“Milady!” a man called from the steps. She saw a stocky fellow she assumed to be the inn-keeper. Her heart soared.
“A room, sirrah! And supper, if you please.” She threw herself out of the saddle, dismounting rapidly. When she walked up to the foot of the steps, leading Raindrop, the fellow was staring at her as if he'd never seen a person before.
“What?” she asked.
“I'll see what I can do,” he said, turning away rapidly. “Brogan!” he yelled over his shoulder toward the stable-yard. “Come here and stable this horse.”
Genevieve handed the reins to a small boy who stared up at her silently, and then headed up the stairs behind the innkeeper.
As soon as she was in the quiet of her chamber, she toweled her hair dry with the flannel on the washstand, and settled on the hearth-rug, holding her hands to the blaze. She was shivering.
“I did it,” she whispered to the fireplace.
She had made it away safely.
As she warmed up, she found herself feeling more exhausted. Supper was definitely in order, if she could only summon the energy to go down.
The dining room in the inn was crowded, people sitting and standing everywhere it was conceivable. Taking a big breath, Genevieve shouldered her way through the crowd of farmers and laborers and found herself a seat on the bench by the big table. She winced at the rise and fall of noise and chatter all around her.
This doesn't feel safe.
The table where she sat was occupied by perhaps twelve other people – she didn't take the time to count. Farm-laborers, both men and women, they were chattering and laughing raucously, the ale freely circulating around the table.
“Och, lassie!” the man beside her said, bumping into her with his arm as he reached for the plate. She winced. The fellow opposite chuckled.
“Hey, you're a fidgety one, eh?” he laughed.
She looked down at her plate, her whole body tense. This situation was about to get even nastier. She could practically smell the iron tang of violence around these men.
“You don't talk, eh, lass?” the man next to her asked, squinting into her face. His hair was long and unkempt, his eyes shining.
She didn't answer. Had she done, she would have instantly given away both her breeding, and her foreign status, both of which would make her a target.
“Och, the lassie thinks she's tae good for us. Eh?” the man opposite spat.
Genevieve shrank back into the seat, wanting, very badly, to disappear. She gathered her skirts in her hand and was about to stand and leave when the innkeeper's wife came up.
“A plate of stew and some more bread...Och! Lass! What're ye doing here? Whist, Abel. Leave the lass alone! Come on, lass. You're not tae face their nonsense. Come with me.”
Genevieve felt weak with relief as the woman set the plate on the table, then turned to her, shepherding her away through the crowded room and to the stairs.
“You'll get yerself killed in there,” she said to Genevieve, a mild reprimand in her tone. “Now, get on with ye! The parlor's empty,” she said, gesturing to a room on her right, on the same floor.
“Thank you,” Genevieve whispered.
“I'll go and get ye yer dinner,” the woman said gruffly, turning away and leaving her in the parlor. Genevieve sat on the edge of the seat, hands locked together, still shivering in shock. Nothing entered her head save the immense feeling of relief at still being safe, and alive.
The innkeeper's wife returned with her supper – a similar stew, served with potatoes. She fell on it eagerly, ravening hunger filling her after the long, cold ride. It was surprisingly good. She washed it down with the boiled ale that had come along with it, winced at the taste, and leaned back in the seat, suddenly weary.
There was a noise in the hallway and she looked up, tense suddenly. There was a slight motion there, just the barest twitch of a shadow, and then all was still. She frowned at herself.
“You're getting jumpy, Genevieve,” she said to herself. It was unsurprising, given how much danger she'd been in for the past few days.
She rested for a few more minutes, and then stood, hurrying up the stairs to her chamber. Inside, she bolted the door and sat down on the bed, utterly exhausted. She was glad her riding-dress was not too difficult to take off, though some of the buttons – up between her shoulder-blades – were particularly hard to reach. She managed and slipped into bed in her under-shift, sure she would not find it easy to sleep.
As it happened, she must have dropped off fairly quickly, for she awoke next morning to a pale light falling through the window onto her face.
She got out of bed and dressed quickly. Her plan was to break her fast and then leave, before the day had properly begun. She could hear a low murmur from the dining room, and knew that it was already filling up with people. She judged it to be perhaps seven of the clock. Fighting with the last of the buttons, she donned her brown riding-dress and headed lightly down the stairs.
“Morning, lass,” the innkeeper's wife called out on her way through from the dining room. “Breakfast?”
“Yes, please,” Genevieve agreed. She went through into the parlor and was pleased to find some things already set out – a jug of frothy milk, some bread and butter. These were joined, a few minutes later, by hard-boiled eggs and cheese. She ate and drank hungrily, and while she did, she planned.
“I need to get thirty miles from here today.”
That would, she judged, be six hours' ride at least. It would take most of the day – especially given that she would have to rest her horse – but it was the closest she could risk being to her cousin's home without being apprehended.
She dabbed her lips with the napkin, set it beside her plate and went to pay her bills.
Passing the innkeeper a few silver links from a necklace in lieu of payment proved difficult, but – given the look of awe and covetousness that stretched his eyes the moment he saw them – not too difficult.
“Thank you,” she murmured on the way out.
The fellow was either too shocked to speak, or didn't hear her, for she got no reply. In any case, she hurried down to the stables.
On her way through the woods, she found her thoughts returning, again and again, to her cousin's home. She wondered what Arabella and Richard thought, finding her gone. She imagined their distress – she hadn't risked leaving a note or any indication of her plans – and blocked it from her mind.
“They'll recover from it. They barely know me, after all.”
She focused on the rolling rhythm of the ride, and the sound of the leaves, crunching underfoot. She couldn't afford any more sorrows.
The day wore on. She stopped at midday to drink by a spring and let Raindrop eat and rest, and took her supplies – the stale bread from the day before, combined with some bannocks filched from breakfast – and ate her lunch, scooping water from the cold stream to drink. They headed on.
I could get used to this.
For all the sorrow and the pain of having to leave, there was also some joy in this sort of life – a mighty freedom. She would never even have dared imagine it.
A bird called overhead and she rode out of the tree-line and into a clearing, heading downhill. She didn't know exactly where she was going – besides a half-remembered recollection of the journey up from Queensferry – but she did know that all she had to do was follow the road.
Night started to fall at four o'clock. She shivered, biting her lip as the day grew colder. The dusk, blue as sapphires, closed around them.
As she rode, Genevieve became aware of the fact that she was not, after all, quite alone.
Somebody was following them.