Flight of the Earls by Michael K. Reynolds Page B

tails of his coat lifting up.
    The door closed behind him and the lantern went with him, leaving her in darkness. She probed her way to the door, and by the time she found the handle and opened it, he was gone from the hallway as well. Too tired to protest, she retreated back inside and lay down on the bed, fearful to know the condition of the linen.
    For Clare, who had shared a bed with her siblings her entire life, this lonely room offered a touch of luxury. And before she could enjoy her independence, her eyes closed and she was gone. Her dreams replayed the past week’s events to her, albeit in raw and distorted fashion. Rather than the pictures of tranquil retreat she usually enjoyed in her sleep, these were fraught with worry and hopelessness.
    She woke sometime later with a start, her face flushed and her body sweaty.
    Clare was not alone.

Chapter 8
    A Tale of the Woods

    Clare’s eyes opened to the moist blackness of the room and her heart pulsated. So much so she feared the pounding in her chest could be heard. She lay still in terror and listened with all her flesh.
    There was the sound of snoring and labored breathing near her bed. She strained her eyes, hoping they would adapt in the darkness.
    Should she risk moving? What could she use as a weapon?
    Raising her head inch by inch, Clare pressed up from the bed with her arms. A creak and then a groan sounded from the old mattress.
    She froze again. Waited. Listened. If only the room wasn’t so dark.
    Sliding from under the blanket, she pivoted until her feet touched the ground. Pause. Then she rose as silently as possible, but the bed betrayed her with a squeak ripping at her tattered nerves.
    The snoring stopped. A shadow moved and Clare let out a yelp as her body propelled toward the direction of the door. But her legs got caught in a mass on the floor and she tumbled to the ground. Arms reached out to grab her. She began to scream and a hand covered her mouth.
    â€œClare. Clare. It’s me.”
    She recognized the voice instantly and the terror waned.
    Suddenly, light filled the room and Clare saw she was in her brother’s arms. Pierce held a lantern in his outstretched arm, his tired eyes filled with concern.
    Clare’s panic shifted toward rage. “What? How did you—?”
    â€œThe little man in the suit,” Seamus said. “He brought us here.”
    â€œPence?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œPence. The boy. That’s his name. He actually found you?”
    â€œFound us, he did,” Seamus said. “And he tried to shake us for five pence. Says you told him it was fair bounty. I paid him well with a twist of his ear.”
    â€œYou didn’t?”
    â€œI did. And I would have done the other ear if the boy hadn’t turned and run.”
    Clare sighed as she climbed to her feet and embraced Seamus. “Well, I suppose it’s good to see your faces. I thought them for lost.”
    A pounding noise interrupted them.
    They exchanged perplexed looks. “Who is it?” Clare asked.
    No answer. A key turned in the lock and the handle of the door turned. The door cracked open to the splashing light of a lantern. Soon the bulbous nose of the innkeeper emerged, followed by the man himself.
    â€œWhat’s the racket in here all about?”
    Pierce stepped forward between the man and Clare. “What manners are there in barging into a lady’s room without permission?”
    The innkeeper raised his lantern toward Clare and then glared toward the boys.
    Clare was grateful she had slept in her clothes. “This, sir, is my brother and his friend.”
    â€œYes. Certainly they are. But regardless, it will cost you another two pence each for your . . . relations.”
    Before her brother could protest, Clare grabbed her purse, pulled out four coins, and handed it to the man. “Very well. Now would you be kind enough to let us be?”
    Stubby fingers reached out to grab the coins.