Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [9]
The door wasn’t locked. If it had been, she would have managed to ease through that narrow window. She eased out into a dim narrow corridor like a dark shadow. Beneath her feet was a rough wooden floor, not packed earth, and overhead was a low ceiling of whitewashed beams. There were no furnishings in the corridor. She tried to remember being brought into the household. She pictured it in her mind and took a left turn when the corridor forked.
She heard men talking—surely they were guards—and pressed her back against the wall. It was rough and she gasped with the pain in her back. How many were there? The boards creaked beneath her feet.
“What was that?”
“What? You’re hearing yourself eat, you fool, naught else.”
“I’d best go see. You know Thrasco.”
Laren forgot the pain in her back. She was as still as a stone. She saw the shadow of a man. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He took a step toward her, then paused, listening.
Another man called out, “You see, I told you there was naught. Be quiet and drink. Or give the ale to me. No one is there, no one is ever there.”
There was a grunt, followed by a deep belch. Another man laughed.
She slowly let out her breath. She waited and waited still longer. Then she walked as quietly as she could, skimming against the wall, always going left when she had a choice. She heard many voices now, even Thrasco’s, if she wasn’t mistaken. If it was Thrasco, it had to be the dining quarters, the gluttonous heathen.
Finally she reached a narrow door. She turned the iron handle, and eased out into a foul-smelling alley. She smelled fetid water and wondered how Thrasco could have such a clean house and such filth at his doorstep. It didn’t matter, she’d managed to escape. She nearly yelled with relief. She did let out a huge pent-up breath, jerking at the pain it brought her. She stopped a moment, just standing there, trying to gain control again. Her back burned and throbbed. She thought she felt damp stickiness and wondered if some of the slashes were bleeding again.
She was nearly free. It didn’t matter. Her back would heal, only not here, not in Thrasco’s house, not in Kiev. She would get Taby and they would travel north to Chernigov, a town just on the east bank of the Dnieper—she’d heard a slave speak of it. Surely it was not more than three days’ walk from here. She would steal them clothes; she would become a widow, Taby her child. She would survive, and she would see that Taby survived. It was her first opportunity to escape and she intended to succeed. In the past she would never have managed to get this far. She supposed she had the beating to thank. Thrasco would never imagine that anyone would try to escape with a back in shreds.
Suddenly she heard men’s voices. They were speaking quietly, from just down the way, to her right. They were sneaking toward her. They were thieves. Or they were Thrasco’s men. It didn’t matter. She closed her eyes a moment, wondering if every god of every country were against her, then she shrank back into the blackness, knowing she was trapped against the house. She couldn’t run, she couldn’t move, else she would run into the men. She wouldn’t go back into Thrasco’s house.
They were silent now, but she could hear their soft footfalls. There were two of them. No