Guinevere's Gift by Nancy McKenzie

Author:Nancy McKenzie
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780375849411
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2008-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

By the Garden Door

Marcus huddled under the bower in the queen's garden as the rain slashed down. He was blue with cold. It had taken him half the day to make his way unseen from the outskirts of the forest to the grounds of Pellinore's castle. The place was crawling with troops. He'd been only thirty feet away, hiding in the branches of an oak, when Sir Darric and his men had ridden in. Half of them had gone on to the stables and the barracks, but the other half Sir Darric had stationed in the hills.

The presence of so many armed men had slowed his progress considerably—that and the weight of the canvas sack he carried slung over his shoulder. It grew heavier with each step, and it stank like a week-old corpse. He half expected to see a cloud of vultures trailing along behind him.

He had reached the castle outskirts at lamplighting but had not been able to find a way inside. As a lieutenant in the house guard, he was himself largely responsible for the vigilance of the sentries that now made his own entry so difficult. On the other hand, if anyone knew the castle's weaknesses, he did. So here he was at nightfall in the queen's garden, bedraggled with wet, sheltering under a bower, and waiting for the old porter inside the door to desert his post for his wineskin, as he usually did several times a night. It was a habit neither he nor Regis had been able to break. The old man could not be dismissed, for King Pellinore loved him, so he was put on the door to the women's quarters, where he would be least in the way.

Marcus could see the telltale flicker of candlelight through the narrow window beside the door and knew that Old Cam was still there. When the light disappeared, he would force the door and slip upstairs. He would have to leave his wretched bundle behind, but that was no hardship. He could hide it here in the garden until it was needed.

He had just finished burying it under a hedge when he heard footsteps, running footsteps, soft on the wet grass and coming closer. The torch by the door smoked and spat in the rain, shedding little light. Someone ran by him in the darkness. He had the impression of swift boots and a flowing mantle. He moved forward, dagger in hand. A shadow swept across the torchlight. A soft knock sounded on the door. Aghast, he watched the door swing open without a single password given and a slim figure dart inside to safety. He caught a fleeting glimpse of white-gold hair and soft doeskin boots.

The queen's ward! He had reached the door when recognition struck, and in his astonishment, he almost let it close in his face. Had the girl been out all this time? Doing what? He thrust his dagger blade across the threshold just in time.

“Saints be praised!” a woman's voice cried softly.

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