‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘your master gave his word of honour that you would not seek to escape, in exchange for not being imprisoned. Why do you think you are free to move about as you please? Did he not tell you?’
‘No,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘He did not.’
‘Well, he did. His word is more binding than any rope or guard. So, servant Kate, forget your woes and thoughts of home for a while. It is a beautiful morning. Don’t spoil it with glum looks and dark thoughts.’
Rosalind was woken by the noise, and the absence of noise. Jay was a fine fellow but snored abominably. Only the fact that she was so tired had permitted any sleep, and only when the dull, snuffling rumble punctuated by high whistles and snorts stopped was she disturbed. That and the sunlight on the thin cover of the tent, the sound of people bashing pots and pans, the singing and loud conversation. The birds making an extraordinary din. All of these, finally, made her roll over and open her eyes.
No; still not a dream. She groaned and rolled over again. The place next to her was empty, and in the place of Jay was an earthenware pot, evidently for her. She touched it; it was warm and she slowly levered herself up. Leaves. In boiled water. Tea! she thought. No again. Mint. Quite foul. She would have preferred a cup of hot chocolate. Cadbury’s. With a spoonful of sugar and a lot of milk. With Rice Krispies, sitting at the little table in the kitchen, her mother in attendance, her brother late for work, her father hiding behind the Daily Express, in his shirt and braces, smelling of soap and Brylcreem.
Why had she ever felt so bad about that scene, wanted something different? Was it her fault? Had she been granted some wish like you read about in books? The ones where you ask for immortality, then get older and older. Or huge wealth, and starve to death because everything you touch turns to gold. Had she made a wish and not constructed it carefully, not read the small print? All she’d ever asked for was a life that was a little more interesting. But this was too much; as she had walked to the tent last night, Catherine had told her everything that had happened, about fights and captives and ceremonies. She hadn’t known how to respond, she was too befuddled and exhausted. Instead, she’d told her to leave her alone till morning and had laid her head on the ground hoping it would go away. It hadn’t.
She put down the mint tea — she appreciated the gesture, if not the taste — and reluctantly stirred herself, getting onto her hands and knees and crawling out of the tent. There, sitting on the ground a few feet away, were Jay and Kate.
‘Do you know what this fool has done?’ Kate snapped as she came towards them.
‘And good morning to you, too,’ she replied. ‘Of course I don’t know. Jay! What’s the matter? You look as though you’re about to cry.’
Jay was indeed fighting back the tears. ‘What have you said to him?’ Rosalind demanded, rounding on Kate.
‘He has given his word that we will not try to escape.’
‘So?’
‘He had no right to pledge me.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to keep your voice down?’ Rosalind said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not as if he meant it.’
‘Of course he meant it. He had to mean it. If I escape, his life will be forfeit.’
‘So both of you go.’
‘And live with the dishonour of being an oath breaker?’
‘Well... yes. I mean, there are worse things, surely?’
‘Stupid girl.’
‘I am not,’ Rosalind responded stoutly. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. Don’t you dare.’
The two women glared at each other.
‘She’s right,’ Jay mumbled into the gap.
‘Oh, shut up, Jay,’ Rosalind said. ‘Keep out of it.’
‘She’s right,’ Kate added. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble already.’
Jay subsided into an outnumbered silence, and the two faced each other again.
‘What’s so terrible? Don’t give me that Lady of Willdon nonsense. You may be terribly grand here, but not where I come from. Not here either, at the moment, as far as I can see. I couldn’t care less. In fact, I’ve had enough of all of you.’
‘Everything depends on your honour. Don’t you understand that?’
Rosalind shook her head. ‘Your husband was murdered, I understand. Either you or Pamarchon was responsible. Each of you would cheerfully kill the other but you get upset over a promise? Are you totally mad?’
‘Let me explain,’ Jay said. ‘You see, it all goes back to the first Level of the Story...’
‘I don’t care about the Story,’ Rosalind interrupted. ‘I do not care. I care so little it almost hurts. Dear God, you people! Constantly referring everything back to a set of fairy tales. No wonder you all live in little huts with muddy roads and no central heating. I want a hot bath and some toast. Is there a story for that? No. So I can’t have it. I want white sliced bread with butter on it and some strawberry jam, and a proper cup of tea, and all I get is people telling me what’s done and not done, and what the Story says and doesn’t say. Can’t you grow up?’
She stopped, leaving Jay open-mouthed; Kate seemed shocked into silence.
‘Look,’ Rosalind began once more in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I know it’s important for you, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. All I see is that you are stuck here, presumably in considerable danger, and you won’t do anything about it. And I am stuck here as well and I want to go home. And I can’t. And all you worry about is what is proper. You’re worse than my mother.’
Stifling her own tears as best she could, Rosalind strode off.
Had she been a little more self-aware, she would have noticed that the first thing she had thought of when she woke up was Pamarchon. When she got into an argument, in the back of her mind, she had thought that Pamarchon would understand. When she felt desperate, the person she thought of turning to for help was not Jay, or Kate, but the outlaw who had confessed his love the night before. Pamarchon. Tall and handsome, with kind eyes and elegant, gracious step. Whose gentle laughter at her dreadful dancing had been so kindly, whose sincerity she did not doubt. She remembered when he had touched her cheek in the forest, as though it was the first time she had been alive; her excitement when he held her as they danced, her distress as he had walked off and left her. She remembered the giddy feeling as he said how much he loved Lady Rosalind...
She stumbled into the woods, not wishing anyone to see her tears and confusion, sensible enough to get out of hearing distance before she collapsed onto a dead tree trunk and began to cry her eyes out, until her chest hurt with sobbing.
What now? In her mind, she thought someone — well, preferably Pamarchon — should come along, see her and ask what the problem was. Sympathy, understanding. That’s what happened in all the books she had read. She stopped sniffling and looked around. No one. If this really did have something to do with Professor Lytten’s story, she wished he’d got around to the bits about people falling in love.
She could either sit here, feeling sorry for herself, with a lump of bark sticking into her rear, or she could stand up, dry her eyes and do something. Rosalind watched a beetle trying to drag a piece of twig around. What was the point of that? But it kept on going, poor beast, with a dogged determination that made her feel slightly ashamed. It may not have had much in its head, that beetle, but it knew what it wanted.
She stood up, dusted herself down and marched back into the camp.
Pamarchon was deep in conversation with Antros when his guest of the previous evening walked in. He smiled at the sight.
‘Would you mind waiting, my... boy? I will only be a very short while.’
‘I do mind waiting. In fact, I will not. I have something to say to you, and it will not wait. Please ask your friend to leave.’