Her thoughts tumbled, like the river over the rocks below. She couldn’t be certain of what she suspected of course, not until Piers confirmed it. But she was just certain enough now to not give up on him.
“A celebration is in order,” Alys said to Layla. She patted her thigh while she gained her feet, and the monkey camescampering, climbing her skirt in a blink to sit on her shoulder. She picked up her bag and untied the drawstring, holding the bag open by its edges.
“Go on,” she said to Layla, and shrugged her shoulder. “I know you don’t like it, but I can’t leave you behind and you’ll have a great treat once we’re through.”
Once Layla was safely—albeit resentfully—confined, Alys drew the strap across her body. She paused in thought for only an instant before seizing and then shrugging into Piers’s too-big pack. Then she left the rock shelter and began to climb the bank.
Alys knew she was taking a grave risk by following the road into Pilings, even though she didn’t let her shoes so much as touch the packed dirt. She skipped-ran along the fringe of trees in her haste, one arm around the warm lump that was Layla, to keep from offending the monkey too much with her hurried passage. But she had to find some way to be of use to Piers, to get him to trust her. Perhaps by gaining them some much-needed supplies, he would feel her more worthy as a traveling companion, and even a friend.
Alys wondered with a wry lift of her mouth if all wives struggled so to gain their husbands’ confidence.
He was rough, she admitted readily. Like a field dressed side of meat, rolled around in the dirt. Show him a bit of washing up though, expose his toughened hide to a generous warmth, and he could very possibly be quite delicious. Never in her life had she been responsible for another person’s wants or needs—not even her own, really, and Alys was determined to win this challenge. If she had to steal, she would steal. But she would not returnto the little camp by the river without the booty she set out for.
And besides, she was starving. She hadn’t eaten a morsel in two days; Layla, since the night before. She already knew that Piers’s bag was devoid of anything to eat. So unless he came back from his toilette with a feral chicken, they were all in desperate need of food.
As she hurried, looking around her all the time for sign of him or anyone else following her, she was also taking stock of her appearance. Both her fine cloak and the worn woolen gown beneath it were filthy from sleeping on the ground, full of bits of leaves and winter nettle. She held out one hand to inspect her fingers—disgusting. The creases of her knuckles and undersides of her nails were packed with black dirt. She turned her hand over and saw a thick layer of dried mud—likely from when she had thrown the clod of dirt at Piers. Should she wipe her hands on her skirt, ‘twould only serve to worsen her appearance. She frowned. She could see the dwellings just ahead through the last bend of trees. With the awkward burdens of Piers’s pack and her own bag, her cloak could only conceal a portion of her common skirt. Anyone happening upon her in the village would indeed take her for a thief or a—
“A beggar!” Alys said aloud with a grin. Of course! Should she scamper in to town, a clean and tidy woman walking along the road alone in a sable-lined cloak, it would only serve to raise suspicion and interest. She came to an abrupt halt.
Alys slid out of the pack and eased Layla’s confinement to the ground, then took off her cloak and hid it away in Piers’s pack. She looked fondly at her filthy palm once more before scrubbing the crumbly dirt all over hercheeks and forehead, while Layla chattered and writhed and fought within the bag on the side of the road.
“Fear not, noble Layla—your captivity will be short. A beggar, they will want to be rid of rather quickly.” She paused suddenly as another idea came into her head. She quickly jerked the tie out of her hair, wincing as several strands went with it, and then bent to the ground, swiping up a large handful of the forest floor. She raked the molding leaves and twigs through her hair, tangling and snarling her locks until they stood out from her face in crazy, dirty lumps.
“There! Amadbeggar, they will wish gone immediately!” She reclaimed Piers’s pack and hitched her sack over her head to seat the strap across her chest. “Sorry, girl. Ow! Don’t pinch!” She gave the bundled monkey a light pat through the bag and then she skittered around the curve of forest and breached Pilings behind the farthest row of cottages.
The settlement was largely quiet, save for the honking of some goose across the town and the sharp ringing sound of perhaps someone banging a spoon against the side of a pot. A dog barked twice, from a safe distance away, and then all was silent.
Alys stepped carefully along the narrow avenue of daubed wall and wood, her crunching footsteps making her wince. She pulled a face as she realized there was no rear window on the north wall of this particular cottage. She came to the corner of the house and slowly, slowly peered around it. The village center was straight ahead, and empty. She bolted across the twenty or so feet to duck behind the next cottage backing the wood. She reckoned in this manner, she could make her way around the entire town without being seen.
The rear of the next cottage was also devoid of anything useful, as was the one after. She was coming upon the far corner of her current cover, growing more cross with each impatient step, when she ran full body into the woman coming around the side of the house.
The woman, matronly and kind-faced, cried out and threw up her hands, dropping her shallow basket of kitchen scraps. Alys stepped back quickly, and then, remembering her ruse, dropped into a crouch.
“Halloo, halloo! Don’t ‘urt me, milady, I beg of ye!” Alys was rather proud of her put-on accent.
“Good gracious, child!” the woman gasped, and took in Alys’s appearance with a look of distrust. “Just who might you be, and what business have you sneaking about the backside of my house?”
“Only hopin’ fer some small scrap to eat, milady.” Alys bobbed her head and grinned like an idiot. It was quite difficult to keep from laughing outright at the woman’s horrified expression. “Would ye ‘ave mercy on a poor beggar?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you one of the wood people?”
Alys froze. She wasn’t certain if the village woman truly thought her to be one of the storied rebels who, according to legend, dwelt invisibly among the trees, or if the question was some sort of test, and so she didn’t know which answer would best help her mission.
“You can tell me if you are,” the woman continued. “I vow I shan’t turn you in.”
Alys nodded her head once quickly, and waited.
“Oh, you unfortunate thing!” The woman pressed a palm to her bosom. “I just knew they were in a poor state, no matter the rumors. Did they turn you out?”
Alys nodded again, completely baffled by the conversation she was participating in. The woman seemed convinced that Alys was a character from a fictional tale.
“They says I’s mad,” Alys whispered. “‘No food for you! Get out!’ they says.”
The woman pressed her lips together and shook her head. Then her face grew thoughtful. “You’re Ella’s girl, are you not? Your hair, it—”
Alys nodded again. The situation was growing more strange by the moment.
“I thought as much.” The matron smiled sympathetically. “You’d be what? Fourteen now? I haven’t seen you since you were just walking. I must say I’m not a bit surprised for the way they’ve treated you, the lawless heathens.”
