11
CECILY
They heard the shouting before they reached the town square. It rose above the market din in sharp, angry tones, tinged with fear. Cecily slowed instinctively, but Finn’s hand brushed her arm to keep her moving.
At the edge of the crowd, they saw soldiers. Four of them stood near a wagon, their chain mail dull with grime, their cloaks stained from the road. One held a parchment and read from it in a flat voice, while another dragged a protesting man forward by the arm.
“We’ve naught left,” the man was protesting. “Ye took the grain last month—”
The soldier struck him hard enough to snap his head sideways. The sound cracked through the air with sudden finality.
Cecily and Finn both flinched.
The reading continued as if nothing had happened.
“By order of the Crown,” the man droned, “all who hold land are to give grain, carts, and able men fer the king’s war.”
No one was arguing now.
Cecily’s hands went cold, and she couldn’t quite get a full breath.
“Keep your eyes down,” Finn muttered. “And stop shaking.”
They edged back, but one soldier had already noticed them. He looked straight at Finn, at his height, his shoulders, the strength he could not hide.
“You there,” the soldier said. “How old are ye?”
Finn hesitated only a heartbeat. “Eighteen years.”
“That’ll do,” the man said, stepping forward.
Hands closed around Finn’s arms.
“Finn!” Cecily cried.
He tried to twist away, but the guards held him fast. Another soldier shoved him forward.
“No!” Cecily lunged, but a spear shaft slammed down in front of her, barring her way.
“Back,” a soldier barked. “Unless ye want trouble too.”
“He’s not…” she began wildly. “You can’t—”
“Can,” the man said, already turning away. “And will.”
A soldier pushed Finn toward the wagon where other young men stood. Some were stunned, some shouted, some were already bound with rope at their wrists.
He looked back at her once. His face was tight, his eyes sharp with warning. He shook his head as if to say, “No, don’t fight them.”
Then the wagon lurched forward, and he was gone.
The crowd closed in behind them. Sound rushed back all at once: bartering, carts creaking over stone. It was as if nothing had happened.
Cecily stood frozen. Her breath came fast, her hands shaking.
She forced herself to move. A woman passing in the opposite direction glanced at her and looked quickly away, the kind of look people gave beggars and drunks.
She didn’t blame her. She could feel the mud-stiffened hem of her market dress slapping against her legs, the borrowed boots squelching with each step, strands of pale blond hair plastered to her face.
She had been dragged through the road, more or less. She felt like it.
She didn’t know what to do, so she kept moving. She walked until the press of people thinned, then crouched beside the stone wall of a tannery. The stink of rot and lye clung to the air. Her stomach churned, but she swallowed it down and waited, listening and watching.
A woman passed.
“Where are they taking the young men?” Cecily asked her, keeping her voice low.
The woman looked at her sharply. “Ye don’t know?”
Cecily shook her head.
“They’re headed for Scotland, where the fightin’ be. They’re roundin’ ’em up outside the town,” the woman said at last. “Field beyond the blacksmith’s yard. Best stay clear of it.”
Cecily had to find Finn. At a distance, she followed the wagon that held other conscripted men until she saw a rough enclosure past the blacksmith. Men were sitting in the dirt, wrists bound with rope, their heads lowered. Soldiers paced lazily, looking bored, talking among themselves.
Soon she spotted Finn. He sat near the far edge. She hid and waited for night.
∞∞∞
When darkness had fallen, and only moonlight was available to guide her, Cecily watched as a guard wandered toward the hedge line. He stopped, turned his back, and relieved himself openly against the brush.
Heat rushed to Cecily’s face. She looked away, shocked and repulsed, her upbringing screaming at her to run.
Instead, she continued to wait.
When the guard moved off, she slipped toward a nearby supply cart.
Her numb fingers fumbled under the canvas, finally closing around the hilt of a small knife.
She crept to the fence, finding Finn in the dark.
As she reached through the slats, the dull blade snagged on the thick rope.
For a terrible second, it wouldn’t cut. Then a shout went up nearby.
With a final, desperate slice, the rope snapped.
“Go,” she hissed, and he scrambled under the fence.
They ran.
A voice shouted. Boots pounded behind them. Cecily’s breath burned, her skirts tangling as she fled into the dark. Finn pulled her along when she stumbled in her heavy boots.
They did not stop until the sounds fell away and the night swallowed them whole.
When they finally collapsed beneath the trees, Finn turned to her, breathing hard.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
She met his gaze. “They were going to take you to Scotland. I couldn’t leave you.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he touched her hand once, quickly. “I wouldn’t have left you either.”
The moment she saw the town glowing behind them, she knew they were no longer merely lost.
They were now hunted.