Crossing Over - Anna Kendall [20]
“Be turned off now, most likely. Master had promised me to Cap’n Conyers when he made shore.”
“Where will ye go?”
“Where will she go?”
“My cousin at an inn at—”
“My father, who might take ye on—”
“The Frances Ormund—”
“The wreck—”
“My sister’s husband, he farms near Garraghan—”
“The Frances Ormund—”
I sat up straight, trying to see in the gloom who had mentioned Garraghan. Cat Starling’s father farmed at Garraghan. But in the dimness of the loft I could not tell which man had spoken, and even if I knew, what good would it do me? Cat Starling could not help me, even if the man took me to her, which he would not do. And the man “promised to Cap’n Conyers” was now bereft of his future master and his expected livelihood, thanks to Hartah and his wreckers.
I lay down again, beset by thoughts of Hartah, of Aunt Jo, of the sailor Bat who did not know he was dead, of what I did know—that I had murdered. But exhaustion wrung my body, and eventually I slept—only to wake to the man next to me shaking my shoulder and others cursing in the darkness.
“What? What?” Dazed, I put up my hand to shield my face from Hartah’s blow.
“Ye cried out in yer sleep,” the man said, disgusted. “Get away from me, boy, I need my rest! Go!”
Others also yelled at me. Go, go, go—from my aunt, from Mistress Conyers, now from these men. There was no one on this Earth—or that other—who wanted me nearby. I groped for the ladder until I found it, and lowered myself over the edge of the loft. The men, grumbling, settled back onto the hay. At the top of the ladder I whispered to the man who’d woken me, “What did I say?”
“‘Bat.’ Ye were afraid of a bat. Now go and let me sleep!”
Bat. I had cried out the dead sailor’s name, perhaps in some dream. Never before had I called out at night; Hartah would have beaten me for disturbing him. Did my sleeping mind feel more freedom now that Hartah was dead? Or did more things haunt my dreams since the wreck? What else might I call out another time—and who might hear me?
I made my way to the bottom of the ladder. During the night the clouds had cleared and a nearly full moon shone through the open stable door. The air was cold and sharp, the silence broken only by the restless stamping of horses. I curled up in a corner, on a pile of not-too-clean straw, but no more sleep came.
At dawn a man entered the stable from the inn and stood over me. “Are you Roger Kilbourne?”
“Yes.”
He thrust a hunk of bread and meat at me. “Then eat breakfast. We start for court shortly. Faugh, lad, you smell! Wash at the well or you don’t ride with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I did as he told me and hurried back to the stable yard. The courier had just finished saddling his horse. “At least you’ll ride light, lad. There’s naught to you but bones and eyes. Here, put this on. You can’t go to court in those bloody and torn clothes, what ails you?”
It was a tunic of green wool, clean and whole, and I guessed it was his own. He was just as thin as I, but four or five inches shorter. The tunic was too short but fit everywhere else. Almost overcome by this simple kindness, I stammered, “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m not ‘sir,’ I’m a courier. My name is Christopher Beale—call me Kit. By damn, you know nothing of court life, do you?”
“No, sir . . . Kit.”
“Then the skies alone know what will happen to you there. Come on.”
He swung easily onto the saddle, then reached down a hand to me. The truth was that I had never before ridden a horse. But I sensed that I would now have to do many things I had never before done, so I grasped his hand and half climbed, was half pulled up behind him. I almost gasped; we were so high.
Kit twisted in the saddle to look at me. “You’ve never ridden pillion before?”
“N-no.” The height was dizzying; I clutched