Page 73 of The Book of Lost Stories
She had not been alone more than a very few minutes when someone else approached.
‘Lady Crayling!’ Alys gasped, for although she had not been introduced to that notorious lady, she had been pointed out to Alys on several occasions.
‘Yes, it is me, you little fool. I do not know how you came to get yourself into this situation, but you need not look to me for help.’
‘Lady Crayling, I beg of you, in the name of your old friend Lydia Basset, help me to escape from here!’
‘I cannot. We are all sworn to keep the secrets of the Brethren for fear of the direst penalties if we do not. But this … no, I did not bargain for this,’ she muttered.
Roughly she began to wipe the blood and dirt from Alys’s face and hands, then held a horn beaker of water to her lips.
‘Thank you,’ Alys said quietly, when she had made her more comfortable.
The older woman looked at her and seemed to waver, but then her face hardened. ‘I can do no more. Drink deep fromthe cup when it is offered to you at the ceremony, and you will fear nothing, feel nothing.’
‘Lady Crayling, there is someone else here with me, in the stone coffin yonder.’
‘I know. It is a little servant girl Chase picked up. I told him it was rash to take someone local, that she would be missed, but we could not then let her go without her tattling of who had taken her.’
‘But she is a child – barely fourteen!’
‘I can do nothing for her; for either of you,’ she said harshly. ‘I am too far in now.’
She left, and Alys, feeling more alert even if chilled to the bone, considered her situation. The doorway opened on to a passage and there was no other exit from this chamber. Both her cousin and Lady Crayling had gone to the right on leaving, which presumably led to the cellars of the house.
She wondered if there was some other exit the other way, perhaps to the river, or if it merely led to the ceremonial chamber.
She shivered. She was getting stiffer and colder by the minute and, if she was going to act, had best get on with it.
The candle was out of her reach, but she studied the grotto walls nearest to the light until she found a broken edge of shell. Then she manoeuvred the rope that bound her hands behind her back until she could begin to rub it against the sharp edge.
The trouble was, her hands were now so cold she could barely feel whether it was rope or flesh that was fretted by the shell, but she kept on. It was her one hope. If she could get her hands free, she might yet find a way of escape.
What seemed like hours later – and her third bit of shell – shefinally felt the ropes begin to part and her hands come loose. It was exquisite agony to be able to stretch her arms in front of her, but she had barely time to savour it when there was the noise of a new arrival.
Whipping her hands behind her back and sinking to the floor, she slumped against the wall in a desolate pose, just as Nat flung open the door. ‘Here’s some unexpected company, Cousin. Make the most of it!’ he said, and a large body was thrown into the chamber, to lie lifeless on the floor.
27
No More Music
Drusilla woke to find herself lying on the cold stone floor of the chapel, with no idea of how she had got there. It was illuminated only by the weak light of the moon that shone through the narrow windows, lending a ghastly air to the ancient effigies of her husband’s illustrious forebears.
Sitting up, her head spinning, she thought that one of them moved.
Death or DishonourbyORLANDO BROWNE
The door slammed and the key was turned in the lock. Alys waited only until the sound of voices and footsteps had receded down the passageway before throwing off her loosened cords and running across to the prone figure, face down on the stone floor.
She did not need to see his face to know who he was, even in the half-dark. ‘Lord Rayven,’ she whispered incredulously, shaking him. ‘Lord Rayven!’
He did not stir, although he seemed to be breathing well enough. When she felt the back of his head, she found a large lump there, one that betokened a much severer blow than that which had knocked her out. She undid his bonds and managed to turn him partly on his side, discovering as she did so that he had not been searched, for he carried a duelling pistol in either coat pocket.
He seemed to have been in a mill, for his familiar aquiline face was now rather battered, but she thought she could guess who had finished it by creeping up behind and knocking him senseless.
Ripping off the frilled edging of her petticoat, she dabbled it in the remains of the beaker of water and gingerly dabbed at the bruise on Rayven’s head, then chafed his hands, but still he did not stir.
‘Heroic idiot!’ she muttered, brushing away the black curls from his forehead. ‘Howdidyou know I was here – and did you think to tell anyone else, before you rode to the rescue?’
