Slowly, the door creaked open. With no candles in this room, she could not see their faces, and she had to pray they could not see hers either.
“Who’s there?” Fitzroy demanded.
Gwynnie launched herself through the window. She jumped at the lead guttering and clamped on tight with her hands, feeling her legs swinging out in the air.
“Stop!” Renard bellowed.
Without looking back, Gwynnie scrambled down the guttering as quickly as she could. She was no great climber, and the pipe was slippery in the rain, causing her to nearly lose her grip. What hair had escaped her coif was now plastered to her cheeks in the rain.
“Step back,” Renard ordered Fitzroy from far above her.
Gwynnie glanced up. It was so dark, she couldn’t see Renard’s face, though she saw him lift something out of the window, ready to be thrown as a missile.
Gwynnie’s feet slipped on the wall as a heavy box was flung through the air. It thudded against the wall, smashing into pieces as she dropped to the floor. Landing on her back, Gwynnie grunted, feeling the pain ricochet up her spine.
“Get her!” Fitzroy cried in panic from the window above.
“Shh! Do you want the whole palace to hear?”
As they disappeared from the window, Gwynnie scrambled to her feet. The pain in her back was so strong that she could not stand easily. She took a deep breath before heading down a lane, away from the front towers of the palace.
In the conduit of the inner courtyard, where there had once been grass, the puddles now swamped her ankles, the icy water making her toes numb. If she continued this way, and Renard and Fitzroy caught up with her, then the sound of her splashing through the flood would draw them nearer.
Backing up, she looked for another way around the courtyard. In the darkness, all she could make out was the faint outline of the fountain in the middle of the square, which was now overflowing because of the rain.
“This way!” Renard’s voice called behind her. Clearly, he had found his way outside already and was not far behind.
With no time left to make a decision, Gwynnie ran across the courtyard. Her heavy footfall betrayed her position and when she reached the distant corner, she glanced back to see two shadowy figures appear on the other side, heading in her direction.
Knowing she couldn’t outrun them forever, Gwynnie changed her plan. She headed toward the back of the palace and the servants’ quarters. Darting past discarded carts and empty crates left out by the kitchens, she found the nearest door and pushed. She was in luck. It had been left open. She stumbled in, kicked the door shut behind her, and ran down the corridor. She knew this part of the castle, from spending two weeks pretending to work here with Emlyn, and rather than avoiding the kitchens, she ran straight towards them.
The two lofted rooms were largely empty, apart from two cooks who sat on a bench close to the vast fire. One grasped a flagon of mead in one hand whilst stifling a yawn with the other, while the other counted things off on his fingers.
Even though no one was preparing food at this time of night, the scent of cooked meat and spices still hung in the air. Clouds of cinnamon and nutmeg tickled Gwynnie’s nose, urging her to sneeze as she neared the cooks, one of whom she knew to be called Samuel.
“Two peacocks, three pheasants, venison, and one boar … is that enough?”
“It will have to be. The king will make do.”
“Aye, and the king is one to make do, is he?” the first cook, Samuel, asked with a deep laugh.
Gwynnie approached and dropped down on the bench beside Samuel.
“Gwynnie, you well, lass?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her. “You look as if you have seen death itself.”
Gwynnie flinched at the words and forced a smile. “Oh, I’m just basking in this lovely warm weather we’ve been having,” she said wryly, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the two men.
“Here, have this, lass. You need it more than I.” Samuel shrugged off a grey woollen cloak and passed it to her.
Gwynnie eagerly pulled the cloak around her own damp shoulders and took off her coif so that her hair would dry faster.
“Now, how many was that again?” Samuel turned to the second cook, ready to count out their planned feast for the morrow once more.
Just then a short stocky figure appeared in the doorway. Gwynnie might not have been able to see Renard clearly before, but the silhouette had been enough to tell her she was looking at the same man now. The greying hair and pointed beard revealed his age, though the litheness of his figure suggested a younger man. His dark eyes darted over the three of them by the fire. When his eyes landed on Gwynnie, she ducked her head, praying he had seen so little of her that he would not recognise her now.
“Strange place for you to be, Master, at this time of night,” Samuel said, standing from the bench. “Is the king in need of something?”
“No.” Renard took a step forward. “I am looking for someone.”
A shadow flickered behind him and Gwynnie glanced up, realising that it was Fitzroy, skulking in the shadows.
“Who?” Samuel asked.
“A woman.” Renard glanced at Gwynnie then turned away, as if dismissing her as a possibility.
“If you’re looking for company for the night, Master, you’re in the wrong part of the palace,” Samuel said with a grin. “You’ll find no lasses here are willing to share your bed.”
The second cook laughed, as did Gwynnie, trying to appear at ease.
Renard nodded and retreated. His hands curled around the belt at his waist, revealing short, stubby fingers. Briefly, he laid a hand on the wooden grip of a dagger, then he released it and stepped through the doorway once more. When a door closed in the distance, Gwynnie sighed in relief.
“Saw you, did he? Tried to take you to his bed?” Samuel resumed his seat and leaned toward Gwynnie, nudging her with his shoulder. “That’s why you ran in here as if hounds were at your heels. Take my advice, Gwynnie, don’t get caught by men like him. Bad things can happen in places like this when there’s no one watching.”
“I know. Thank you, Samuel,” she said softly, glad that Samuel merely thought Renard was preying on her and did not know the truth. “I shall go find my mother.”
“Aye, the safest place for you, I’ll bet.” Samuel encouraged her to keep the cloak with a wave of his hand. “Go, lass, but avoid going outside again. That man will be waiting for a lass on her own.”
She tapped his shoulder comfortingly and walked calmly through the kitchens. The moment she was out of the door, she stumbled down the corridor, repeatedly glancing over her shoulder just in case Renard or Fitzroy reappeared. She did as Samuel had suggested and stayed inside the palace. She trailed through the corridors. At this time of night, most of the servants were in bed and the corridors were dark, with no candles to light the way. She navigated by trailing her hands along the stone walls toward the spiral staircase that led up into the rafters and the servants’ quarters.
