The Maid's War(63)

From his vantage across the dry moat, he could see the back tower of the castle with its strange hat-like roof. There was a window on the upper floor facing him, and he had a compelling feeling that it was where Genette was being held. It was the farthest point from the main doors and the gardens. The tower was quite high, and there was no way to scale it.

Alensson rubbed his mouth. Why had the moat been drained? The grounds were obviously well watered, so it couldn’t have been done out of necessity. He ventured as close to the edge as he dared, not wanting to be seen, and squinted down at the soft earth mixed with rocks at the bottom of the moat. It was dry, but newly so—he could see how high the water level used to be. It appeared as though the water source feeding the moat had been dammed and diverted by the many aqueducts in Brugia. Perhaps the moat had been left to dry out deliberately to prevent Genette from leaping out of the tower window and swimming away. He tapped his lip, confident of his assessment. The earth would be softest at the bottom.

He spent the remainder of the day skulking around the woods, studying the castle, and looking for weaknesses. It was small enough that even if he managed to overcome a guard and take his uniform, he’d probably get noticed as a stranger. He wished he could insinuate himself into the ranks of the castle guards as he’d originally planned, but time was not a luxury he had. He fumed with frustration, trying to determine how he could get Genette out before the ship from Ceredigion arrived with the treasure.

As the daylight faded to dusk, he began to settle down for the night, knowing he would soon run out of light. He’d found her—he was certain of it in his heart—and he would not leave until he figured out how to free her. The guards became more infrequent and the air was cool but not frigid. He’d spent some time gathering brush and leaves for another layer of warmth. Once he was settled, he pulled out a meat pie he’d purchased earlier and saved for his supper. Sitting with his back against the tree, he wolfed down the salty pie and then licked his fingers, savoring the juices.

He stared up at the tower. How could he get her free? His mind worked over the possibilities. Could he use the sword’s magic? Would it help him fight off the guards? It was a dangerous idea, but one that appealed to him. Then the sword and scabbard would be taken away, and they’d be of service to no one—or worse, they’d be in the enemy’s possession.

The night sounds settled over him—buzzing mosquitos, crickets and bulrushes, crackling leaves and twigs. Then he stood and began pacing, both to keep his body warm and to stir his thoughts. The moon hadn’t come up yet, and it was dark enough he wouldn’t be seen by a guard. He needed to be patient. The area was guarded, and he might be wrong about which turret she was in. He saw no sign of light coming from it. Maybe it was empty? Or maybe it was made to appear empty. He stalked this way and that, wondering what he should do.

He stared at the upper window. Could he toss a pebble that high? Some small stone to make a noise? If he could determine whether she was indeed up there, it would help him plan their escape. He gathered a handful of rocks from the edge of the moat and crept to a spot that was just across from the tower.

Pulling his arm back, he hurled the first pebble at the tower window. When he missed it completely, he shook his head and cursed himself. Then he readied the next one, stepped back, and threw it as hard as he could. He knew there were shepherd boys with slings who would have been able to break the window from this distance. His second attempt struck the tower, but it was way too low. The stone clattered down the wall and then bounced several times, making a terrible racket. He swore under his breath.

After six more attempts, he returned to his little nest to prepare to sleep. He lay awake for a long time, staring at the castle, willing his mind to conjure up a plan to free her. He fell asleep during the middle of his silent prayer.



A noise in the woods snapped Alensson awake. He sat up, the twigs and leaves crackling as he shifted. Several guards with torches were making their way through the thick expanse of woods with a pair of hounds.

Alensson’s heart began to hammer with fear and he cursed himself for being thickheaded. Yes, no one had bothered searching the woods during the day, but it made sense that the guards would add it to their pattern at night.

“I’m a fool,” he muttered to himself. They were still a good distance away, but he could not stay where he was, and he suspected the dogs probably already had a scent. Breaking free of his cover, he scattered the leaves he’d gathered as quietly as he could. If he climbed a tree, they’d have him pinned down within the hour. His instincts told him to go deeper.