“And a bounty on our heads if you kill him.”
“We were already threatening to kill him—”
“Only to get him to help us with the stag, I wouldn’t have let you actually do it. The lord wants him alive.”
There was more hesitance and murmurs between them, then Wulfric hissed at me. “Give it to me.”
“Help me escape,” I said.
“Give it to me and we’ll let you go.”
“No we can’t,” said Simon. “We can’t go back without him.”
“Put the bow down and let’s talk,” I said.
“Give it to me!”
“Put the bow down!” both Simon and I yelled at the same time.
Wulfric flinched, growled, and with a jerk of his wrist, let the arrow fly once again into the treeline. He threw the bow on the ground and conceded the floor to Simon, who stepped forward, unsure how to proceed. The childishness of the men was more apparent than ever and I realized the reason I could communicate with them so easily was because their language and vocabulary was more stunted than any of the others at the manor. They were working hands, nothing more. Simon had his imaginary talisman of a promised landholding and that was it. Their eyes could not unwiden after seeing this collar, something that afforded them an opportunity larger than they would know what to do with.
“Let me go and I’ll give you the collar,” I said. “And the dog. Honestly she’s probably worth more. Just let me go and you’ll never hear from me again.”
“We can’t let you go.” Simon shook his head and looked at the ground, thinking. After a moment, he looked up and spoke methodically. “The lord arrives today with a caravan. It’ll drop him off, then continue to London this evening.” He looked at Wulfric, then at me. “We’ll be helping them unload their goods—we can smuggle you on board one of the wagons. But no one can know it was us that helped you. No one.”
The idea of freedom was so sudden and intimidating with its momentum. Just last night I had been lost in the sounds of my cell, lulled, really, by my environs. Now I was fully jolted out of the trance. Seeing Matilda, holding her collar—it brought a semblance of reality—ofmyreality—to this one. I felt the metal clasp, the tightly wound polyester and leather, the fake diamond studs, all factory stamped and sealed. It felt like I was dipping my hand back into where I had come from, and a very sentient part of me wanted to get back there.
I rolled the ragged sleeve of my shirt up to my shoulder, then put my arm through the collar, pushing it all the way up to my armpit, fastened it tight, then covered it. “You’ll get this once I’m on the wagon. No one will know you helped me, I promise.”
“Give it to us now,” said Wulfric.
“No. When I’m on the wagon.”
“Then swear to God,” said Simon. There was a break of silence after he said this. The way he said it, the way his voice teemed with expectation, it wasn’t how I had ever heard someone say it before—I swear to God, so flippant and tossed like a coin, not like this. I didn’t know how to react.
“Sure,” I said.
“No, swear it,” he said. Unmoored earnestness blazed behind his eyes.
“OK, I swear it. I swear to God I will give you this collar once I’m on the wagon.”
Simon stared me down. Wulfric watched both of us, wary, but calmed. I was reminded of how much this was a world I simply wasn’t a part of. Perhaps we shared the same value sets at our core, about honesty and word as bond, but in terms of whatever bedrock of life experience informed our decision-making, we couldn’t be further divergent. I had the upper hand.
There were more people at the manor than usual, and a buzz was in the air when we returned. Our little hunting party split up. Wulfric went to chop wood, Simon went to the stables, Matilda had tagged along and was giddily examined by other servants. But instead of having me help cook or clean to aid with the preparations, I was taken and put back in my cell. For the first time in two months, the guards locked the door behind me. And I was shackled. That had never happened before.
“Why?”
They wouldn’t answer me.
Something wasn’t right. I stood there in iron shackles, chained to the wall while the house rumbled with activity around me. For the first time, I smelled the wretchedly sweet stink of my cell. There had been a sudden change, a decision made, and I was on the outside of it. I began to panic. I twisted my wrists but the shackles were heavy and tight. They hadn’t used these back when I was first captured, why did they have me in them now? I triedto push against the door but I couldn’t reach. I had been in these people’s good graces, but now things were set further back than they had ever been. I fought the urge to yell for help. I had no one to call for.
Smells of cooking slipped through cracks in the wall, mixed unpleasantly with my cell. They grew stronger as the afternoon settled into an evening that lit long lines of orange across the walls. Smoke laced with flavors of meat and herbs slipped inside, almost tauntingly. I paced. I felt for the reassurance of the dog collar under my shirt with my chin.
“George,” said a voice. It was Simon.
Through a slim gap in the doorframe he pressed his face and saw me in the darkening cell. I showed him my bound hands.
“What’s going on?” I said. I tried to remain calm.
