“I mean, she’s a dear old thing,” said the lady-in-waiting. She carried a bottle in the crook of one arm and a couple of flagons emblazoned with rampant panthers in the opposite hand. “But she is so forgetful! Imagine concocting an elaborate plot like this and forgetting to inform the chief participants?”
It was about four o’clock in the morning, and the House had quieted down since the explosive events of the previous day. Nevertheless, Felix couldn’t help looking over his shoulder, terrified that someone would overhear Lady Dovetree’s complaints (justified as they might be). They progressed on their way unimpeded, however. Felix, the bandages on his wrist hidden beneath a flowing guardsman’s sleeve, bore with him a sack full of what he assumed were supplies for Lionheart and the imprisoned baron. Knowing the baroness, she’d probably stuffed it full of pastries and confections and neglected to add little extras like water.
But it wasn’t his plan. And it wasn’t his rebellion. In fact, it wasn’t his business at all, and Felix was dragon-eaten if he could figure out how he’d ended up stuffed into an ill-fitting Southlander uniform and following this strange girl (who was very pretty, if rather ill-tempered) through these silent halls.
“Aethelbald wants me to help,” he muttered, quietly enough that Lady Dovetree couldn’t hear above her grumbling. It wasn’t a reason that made a great deal of sense. But somehow, Felix knew that he would keep on this strange course until the end. He would do anything for the Prince of Farthestshore.
They met almost no one until they reached the Great Hall. Here, at the heart of all the dire doings, the House was alive and throbbing with fear. Barons whom Felix did not know whispered together, exhausted from many hours of hopelessness but unable to retire to their beds for rest. Guardsmen stood along the fringes, their commanding officers conferring with the barons, all equally at a loss.
When one of the guardsmen stopped Dovetree and questioned her, she said brusquely, “A message from the baroness to the duty guard of North Tower. She sends succor to them in thanks for their efforts.”
The guardsman looked rather longingly at the wine in Dovetree’s arm but let her pass, never so much as glancing at the sweating Felix, who kept his head down, hiding beneath his spiked helmet. They proceeded with a few more similar pauses across the Great Hall and at last to North Tower itself. Dovetree, her peevish mutterings now suppressed, moved with an assured stride that impressed Felix. One would never guess she was about treasonous doings that could easily get her hanged were she caught.
They climbed the stairs, which were dark and difficult to navigate, for none of the kings of the last many generations had thought to install lamp sconces in this particular stairwell. When they wound at last to the top, however, they found three guardsmen sitting in a pool of lamplight. Three chamber doors stood behind them, but it wasn’t difficult to pick out behind which Lionheart and his prisoner were ensconced. That door, the one on the far right, was battered and dented from all the attempts to break through.
“Greetings from Baroness Middlecrescent,” said Dovetree crisply as they stepped into the guardsmen’s vision. At the sight of an elegantly dressed lady-in-waiting, the guards quickly pulled themselves to their feet, standing at attention and surreptitiously tugging their armor straight. “My lady wishes to express her thanks for noble duty in the face of need.”
The guards exchanged looks at this. After all, sitting outside a locked door didn’t strike any of them as a particularly noble duty. But they had been up here in the silent dark, ineffective and frustrated, for several hours now while great men below plotted (equally ineffective and doubly frustrated). As Dovetree poured out and passed the wine their way, they took it gratefully enough and drank deeply.
“Keep up the fighting spirit, men,” said Dovetree, reclaiming the flagons. “Silent Lady grant you strength, and all that.”
“Silent Lady shield us,” they muttered in halfhearted response.
Dovetree turned and started back down the tower stairs. Felix, surprised, hurried after. He waited a few turns before reaching out in the dark and catching what he hoped was her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he whispered. “They didn’t fall asleep! What are we supposed to do?”
“We aren’t doing anything,” Dovetree replied, shaking him off. “I have fulfilled my part of the plan. Now you will fulfill yours. Don’t worry,” she added in a kindlier voice, “they’ll nod off any moment now. You’ll have your chance. Wait here.”
With this, she left, and Felix stood alone in the darkness, clutching the sack of supplies. His mouth was very dry, and sweat soaked his stolen garments, though it was not hot up here in the tower.
But he had only to wait a few moments before he heard a heavy thunk overhead, followed soon after by a thickened voice saying, “Lumé, mate, what are you . . .” This trailed off into another thunk swiftly followed by a third. Soon after, snoring.
Perhaps the baroness would prove a cunning conspirator after all.