The Witch Queen's Secret by Anna Elliott
Present day …
NOW WATER—from the morning’s sleeting rain—was dripping off the branches overhead and down the back of Dera’s neck. She pushed off from the tree trunk, and wished she dared stamp her feet to keep warm; her toes felt like they were getting jabbed all over with pins.
She’d gotten herself into this—the whole plan had been her idea. Though Lady Isolde had wanted to come in Dera’s place. She’d said there was too much danger—that she couldn’t ask Dera to take such a risk.
“That’s good, coming from you,” Dera had said. By that time, she’d been feeling like they had a loaded catapult aimed straight at them and held back by nothing more than a hair, and she’d been fairly dancing with the need to get out and on her way. “Aren’t you the one that stood up in front of Lord Marche and the whole King’s Council and said they could burn you if only they’d let me go free?”
“But that was—” Lady Isolde stopped. “You’ve got Jory, Dera. You can’t risk leaving him without his mother.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not going to let Lord Marche’s men stroll in here and kill him, either—or cart him off to be sold for some Saxon lord’s slave.” Just saying the words made Dera flash hot, then cold, and bitter bile rise in her throat. But she said, “And that’s what’ll happen if you’re the one to go out there tonight. Think. What if Lord Marche is there, one of the men attacking tonight? He’s not like to recognize me—not in the dark, and when he’s probably had a hundred whores since last we met. But you—he’d know you, all right. And so would his men. If you were the one to go, and Marche or anyone else recognized you—”
“All right.” Lady Isolde still looked pale, and a bit shaky, but she let out her breath and moved her head in a nod. “I don’t like it—but you’re right. Just … be careful, Dera. Please.”
The last Dera had seen of her, Lady Isolde had still been sitting by the traitor Bevan’s body, still holding his hand and touching his forehead whenever he groaned. Which Dera would probably be glad about, if she ever made it through the night alive. Just now, though, with the icy water working its way down her spine and her lips and nose long since gone numb, she was thinking Bevan was having a lot easier time of it than he deserved.
The owl called again, sending her heart slamming so hard into her ribs Dera wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them creak. She locked her hands tight against her middle, and made herself go over the steps of the plan.
Lord Marche’s men were camped on the shore of Llyn Dinas. Lady Isolde had Seen enough of the area where their wounded man had been shot with the arrow to be—almost—sure. Which meant they’d be coming towards Dinas Emrys up the mountain track from the river Glaslyn—the same track the merchants and traders used.
So here Dera was. Hiding in the bushes, turning her fingers and toes into icicles, at the top of the mountain track that led through the trees and rocky ground to the river valley below.
And then she heard it: from far down below, a clatter of stone on stone, and then a muttered curse—like someone had tripped over a rock or pebble and lost their footing.
She’d thought her heart had been beating hard before, but now it felt like it was trying to jump out of her chest. Dera shut her eyes and tried to breathe, like she had before—but this time it didn’t help. She could hear more of them, now—and closer. Heavy, booted footsteps and an occasional grunt or rustle of branches coming up the path. They’d be on her in a moment.
She took another breath, and, before she could completely lose her nerve, smashed her way through the scrub of bushes and dry brush between her and the sound of the men.
“Lud’s hairy ass!”
It would have been funny, if she’d been in the mood for a laugh. The first man stopped up short, swearing as she emerged onto the path, and the next four in line plowed straight into him like a children’s game of skittles. The first man in line, though, grabbed hold of her wrist and hauled her towards him, bending down so close she could smell the stink of onions on his breath.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
This was the part of the plan she’d been going over and over again in her head, practicing what she was going to say until she knew it by heart. But practicing on her own was one thing. Now she was standing here in the dark and freezing cold, with the man’s fingers digging into her skin and the rest of his companions all coming up to stare at her, as well. And there must have been fifty or more of them, all armed and helmeted, stinking of sweat and ale and wet leather. She didn’t see Lord Marche anywhere among them—and surely he’d have been at the front if he was here—but that was about the only good thing she could make out about this all.
Dera swallowed, forced her mouth to open—but no sound came out. She felt like a giant hand was wrapped around her chest and starting to squeeze.
“Well?” The man’s voice was a growl in her ear. “Answer me! Unless you want me to slit your throat.”
He’d do it, too. He’d got his knife out and was holding it just under her chin. Dera could feel the point pricking her, and a hot drip of blood starting to trickle down her skin.
And all of a sudden—maybe it was the blood, or the thought of Jory asleep in the fortress above them—or just one of those miracles of the Christians—all of a sudden all the fear was burned straight out of her by a flame of pure anger that started under her breastbone and spread until even the tips of her fingers felt warm. If she could have grabbed the knife away from this man and stabbed him in the guts with it, she would have done it.
Dera took a deep breath and then said the words she’d been practicing. “Don’t hurt me—please. I’ve got news of Bevan.”
It was fury, not fear, that made her voice shake—but the man holding her didn’t know that, and it must have made for a good effect, because his hold on her relaxed a bit.
“Bevan’s dead.” He shook her a bit, but not as hard as before.
“Not yet. He will be, but he’s not dead yet. He made it up to Dinas Emrys—and then he squealed like a piglet about what you’ve got planned.”
That sent up a rumble of muttered curses from among the ring of men listening, and the man holding Dera—he must be the leader—swore under his breath then shook her again. “So where do you come in, eh?”
Dera clenched her teeth before she could say that if he wanted to get her talking, he could do better than shaking and jerking around like he’d a pair of weasels in his drawers.
Jory. Imagine she was trying to beg food for Jory, and they’d neither of them eaten in days. She’d plenty of practice with that, these last two years.
“I heard him talking—to Lady Isolde and that captain of King Madoc’s guard.” She hoped she’d got enough of a whine into her voice. “And I saw what happened afterward—could hardly miss it, with all the shouting and fighting and carrying on. Gwion and the rest of his men rounded up the traitors—and now they’re up there, just waiting for you all to come and hand yourselves to ’em like rats walking into a trap.”
Dera spoke quickly. Lies sounded better told in a rush—she’d learned that, too. If she spoke fast enough and didn’t give people a chance to think, they hardly ever noticed her story had as many holes as her traveling cloak.
It was too dark now to see much of the man’s face—but he didn’t ask her just how Gwion had worked out which among his men where the traitors. He just scowled—she could see that well enough—and said, “So you came on here.”
“Well, I thought you’d be grateful, like.” Dera let up on the whine and tried a smile—the one she gave when she was trying to get a man to pay her to be kind to him for a night. “For the warning, you know?” She held out her free hand—the one the man wasn’t holding—and rubbed the fingers together.
“Oh, did you, now?” The man bent his head and peered into her face, his teeth bared, and Dera tried again not to gag at the stench of his breath. “Let me tell you, me and my men have just dealt wit
h a whole village full of women of your kind. You want me to tell you what I did to the eyes of the girl who—”
“For the Dagda’s sake, Glaw,” came a voice—a whispered hiss—from somewhere in the back of the group. “Just cut her throat and let’s get on!”
“Not so fast.” The man holding Dera—Glaw, she guessed his name must be—answered before her heart could give more than four or five panicked thumps. Which she supposed she could thank him for. “She could be a spy. Iuan—Devlin.” Two of the crowd of men snapped to attention as they were addressed. “Get out and scout the fortress. See if what she says is true.” He tightened his grip on Dera’s arm and dragged her backwards, away from the cleared path and towards the trees. “Until they’re back, we all of us stay right here.”
* * *
NOW WATER—from the morning’s sleeting rain—was dripping off the branches overhead and down the back of Dera’s neck. She pushed off from the tree trunk, and wished she dared stamp her feet to keep warm; her toes felt like they were getting jabbed all over with pins.
She’d gotten herself into this—the whole plan had been her idea. Though Lady Isolde had wanted to come in Dera’s place. She’d said there was too much danger—that she couldn’t ask Dera to take such a risk.
“That’s good, coming from you,” Dera had said. By that time, she’d been feeling like they had a loaded catapult aimed straight at them and held back by nothing more than a hair, and she’d been fairly dancing with the need to get out and on her way. “Aren’t you the one that stood up in front of Lord Marche and the whole King’s Council and said they could burn you if only they’d let me go free?”
“But that was—” Lady Isolde stopped. “You’ve got Jory, Dera. You can’t risk leaving him without his mother.”
“Maybe not. But I’m not going to let Lord Marche’s men stroll in here and kill him, either—or cart him off to be sold for some Saxon lord’s slave.” Just saying the words made Dera flash hot, then cold, and bitter bile rise in her throat. But she said, “And that’s what’ll happen if you’re the one to go out there tonight. Think. What if Lord Marche is there, one of the men attacking tonight? He’s not like to recognize me—not in the dark, and when he’s probably had a hundred whores since last we met. But you—he’d know you, all right. And so would his men. If you were the one to go, and Marche or anyone else recognized you—”
“All right.” Lady Isolde still looked pale, and a bit shaky, but she let out her breath and moved her head in a nod. “I don’t like it—but you’re right. Just … be careful, Dera. Please.”
The last Dera had seen of her, Lady Isolde had still been sitting by the traitor Bevan’s body, still holding his hand and touching his forehead whenever he groaned. Which Dera would probably be glad about, if she ever made it through the night alive. Just now, though, with the icy water working its way down her spine and her lips and nose long since gone numb, she was thinking Bevan was having a lot easier time of it than he deserved.
The owl called again, sending her heart slamming so hard into her ribs Dera wouldn’t have been surprised to hear them creak. She locked her hands tight against her middle, and made herself go over the steps of the plan.
Lord Marche’s men were camped on the shore of Llyn Dinas. Lady Isolde had Seen enough of the area where their wounded man had been shot with the arrow to be—almost—sure. Which meant they’d be coming towards Dinas Emrys up the mountain track from the river Glaslyn—the same track the merchants and traders used.
So here Dera was. Hiding in the bushes, turning her fingers and toes into icicles, at the top of the mountain track that led through the trees and rocky ground to the river valley below.
And then she heard it: from far down below, a clatter of stone on stone, and then a muttered curse—like someone had tripped over a rock or pebble and lost their footing.
She’d thought her heart had been beating hard before, but now it felt like it was trying to jump out of her chest. Dera shut her eyes and tried to breathe, like she had before—but this time it didn’t help. She could hear more of them, now—and closer. Heavy, booted footsteps and an occasional grunt or rustle of branches coming up the path. They’d be on her in a moment.
She took another breath, and, before she could completely lose her nerve, smashed her way through the scrub of bushes and dry brush between her and the sound of the men.
“Lud’s hairy ass!”
It would have been funny, if she’d been in the mood for a laugh. The first man stopped up short, swearing as she emerged onto the path, and the next four in line plowed straight into him like a children’s game of skittles. The first man in line, though, grabbed hold of her wrist and hauled her towards him, bending down so close she could smell the stink of onions on his breath.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
This was the part of the plan she’d been going over and over again in her head, practicing what she was going to say until she knew it by heart. But practicing on her own was one thing. Now she was standing here in the dark and freezing cold, with the man’s fingers digging into her skin and the rest of his companions all coming up to stare at her, as well. And there must have been fifty or more of them, all armed and helmeted, stinking of sweat and ale and wet leather. She didn’t see Lord Marche anywhere among them—and surely he’d have been at the front if he was here—but that was about the only good thing she could make out about this all.
Dera swallowed, forced her mouth to open—but no sound came out. She felt like a giant hand was wrapped around her chest and starting to squeeze.
“Well?” The man’s voice was a growl in her ear. “Answer me! Unless you want me to slit your throat.”
He’d do it, too. He’d got his knife out and was holding it just under her chin. Dera could feel the point pricking her, and a hot drip of blood starting to trickle down her skin.
And all of a sudden—maybe it was the blood, or the thought of Jory asleep in the fortress above them—or just one of those miracles of the Christians—all of a sudden all the fear was burned straight out of her by a flame of pure anger that started under her breastbone and spread until even the tips of her fingers felt warm. If she could have grabbed the knife away from this man and stabbed him in the guts with it, she would have done it.
Dera took a deep breath and then said the words she’d been practicing. “Don’t hurt me—please. I’ve got news of Bevan.”
It was fury, not fear, that made her voice shake—but the man holding her didn’t know that, and it must have made for a good effect, because his hold on her relaxed a bit.
“Bevan’s dead.” He shook her a bit, but not as hard as before.
“Not yet. He will be, but he’s not dead yet. He made it up to Dinas Emrys—and then he squealed like a piglet about what you’ve got planned.”
That sent up a rumble of muttered curses from among the ring of men listening, and the man holding Dera—he must be the leader—swore under his breath then shook her again. “So where do you come in, eh?”
Dera clenched her teeth before she could say that if he wanted to get her talking, he could do better than shaking and jerking around like he’d a pair of weasels in his drawers.
Jory. Imagine she was trying to beg food for Jory, and they’d neither of them eaten in days. She’d plenty of practice with that, these last two years.
“I heard him talking—to Lady Isolde and that captain of King Madoc’s guard.” She hoped she’d got enough of a whine into her voice. “And I saw what happened afterward—could hardly miss it, with all the shouting and fighting and carrying on. Gwion and the rest of his men rounded up the traitors—and now they’re up there, just waiting for you all to come and hand yourselves to ’em like rats walking into a trap.”
Dera spoke quickly. Lies sounded better told in a rush—she’d learned that, too. If she spoke fast enough and didn’t give people a chance to think, they hardly ever noticed her story had as many holes as her traveling cloak.
It was too dark now to see much of the man’s face—but he didn’t ask her just how Gwion had worked out which among his men where the traitors. He just scowled—she could see that well enough—and said, “So you came on here.”
“Well, I thought you’d be grateful, like.” Dera let up on the whine and tried a smile—the one she gave when she was trying to get a man to pay her to be kind to him for a night. “For the warning, you know?” She held out her free hand—the one the man wasn’t holding—and rubbed the fingers together.
“Oh, did you, now?” The man bent his head and peered into her face, his teeth bared, and Dera tried again not to gag at the stench of his breath. “Let me tell you, me and my men have just dealt wit
“For the Dagda’s sake, Glaw,” came a voice—a whispered hiss—from somewhere in the back of the group. “Just cut her throat and let’s get on!”
“Not so fast.” The man holding Dera—Glaw, she guessed his name must be—answered before her heart could give more than four or five panicked thumps. Which she supposed she could thank him for. “She could be a spy. Iuan—Devlin.” Two of the crowd of men snapped to attention as they were addressed. “Get out and scout the fortress. See if what she says is true.” He tightened his grip on Dera’s arm and dragged her backwards, away from the cleared path and towards the trees. “Until they’re back, we all of us stay right here.”
* * *