‘Because they’re stupid,’ he replied shortly. Then he turned away, satisfied that she was going to survive.
‘Hurry up and eat,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Then you need to change and bathe. Your clothes stink.’
She lifted one sleeve to her nose and sniffed cautiously. He was right. Her clothes reeked of stale woodsmoke and roasted meat, overlaid by the sour smell of vomit and spilled wine.
‘Ugh,’ she murmured. She finished the toast and milk. Feeling a little better, she collected fresh clothes and a towel from her bedroom and made her way to the bathhouse behind the cabin. She looked hopefully at the little stove that was used to heat bath and shower water, but it was unlit. It was going to be a cold shower bath this morning, she thought miserably.
Eating and bathing, albeit in cold water, did a lot to improve her condition. But she was still a long way from feeling better. Her head still pounded and she was sweating heavily. Plus her arms and legs ached, for some unknown reason, and her jaw was sore as well.
Must have slept tensed up, she thought, as she made her way back to the cabin, where Will was waiting impatiently on the porch.
‘Archery practice,’ he said briefly, pointing to the path that led to their archery range. Maddie groaned. The thought of concentrating on a target while she heaved back against the fifty-pound pull of her recurve bow was not a pleasant one. Then she shrugged mentally. She hadn’t really expected Will to give her an easy day, just because she was feeling poorly.
She shot dreadfully. Her hands trembled as she tried to nock the arrows to the string, and she found it almost impossible to focus her vision and maintain a good sighting picture. She released prematurely, snatching at the bowstring as she did so, trying to will her shot into the centre without using any of the technique she had learned to make it happen.
Arrows glanced off the edge of the target, flying at random angles into the trees. After fifty shots, she hadn’t managed to hit the centre of the target once. Her arrows bristled accusingly at the very edge of the target. Only three of them had managed to get into the circle outside the centre. Will snorted in disgust.
‘I think you need a task that requires a little less skill,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
He led the way back to the small open space before the cabin. Off to one side was a large stack of logs and an axe.
‘Those logs are too wide for our stove,’ he told her. ‘Split them into smaller pieces.’
She stowed her bow and quiver, now short half a dozen arrows that she hadn’t been able to find. She knew she’d spend the next few nights making replacements. Then she made her way back to the yard. Will was sitting in a canvas chair on the porch, reading reports sent in by Gilan. She paused as she came level with him. Idly, she noticed that there was no sign of the leather folder.
‘How did you know I was gone last night?’ she asked.
He glanced up from the report he was studying.
‘If you plan to sneak out,’ he told her in a cold voice, ‘try to remember not to take your cloak.’
Her mouth opened in a soundless O. She remembered taking the cloak off its peg as she left the cabin. It was second nature to don it whenever she left the cabin.
‘Sneaking out was foolish and disobedient,’ Will continued. ‘Taking your cloak was just plain stupid. I don’t know which I found more disappointing.’
She hung her head in shame. She hated it when he was like this – cold and dispassionate. In the time she had been with him, she had felt him warming a little to her, becoming more encouraging as she strived to learn the skills a Ranger needed. Now, it seemed, she was back where they had started, all because of one foolish incident.
She guessed that was all it took to destroy trust.
‘Those logs aren’t going to split themselves,’ Will said, looking back to his report.
She trudged across to the woodpile and began to split logs. It seemed her throbbing head was splitting along with them. But she continued doggedly, fighting the waves of nausea that assailed her, groaning softly as the impact of the axe resounded through her body with each blow. Will watched her from under lowered brows. He nodded once as he saw her fighting the pain and the nausea to keep going. She had discarded her cloak and her jerkin. Her linen shirt was dark with sweat.
After forty minutes, he called a halt. She lowered the axe and sank gratefully onto the tree stump she was using as a chopping block.
‘All right,’ he said briskly. ‘One quick pass through the obstacle course and you can take a break – after you’ve done your laundry, that is.’
She looked at him in horror. The obstacle course was a fitness training area Will had built. It included, among other things, high log walls that one had to scale and drop down the other side, narrow logs over pits filled with mud, and worse, rope swings across the stream and a net set thirty centimetres from the ground under which she would have to crawl. And it was all done against a timer, so that ‘one quick pass’ was a misnomer. If she didn’t finish before the timer ran out, she would have to do it all again.
The thought of it made her ill. The reality, when she came to it, was even worse. She fell from the narrow log across the mud pit and had to crawl out of the vile-smelling, glutinous mud, her clothes now heavy with it. Consequently, she was short on the rope swing and fell into the waist-deep water. The sand in the timer had long run out before she finished, and Will gestured wordlessly to the start once more. She staggered back to it and began again. She didn’t notice that, this time, he turned the sandglass on its side to stop the grains trickling through from top to bottom.
She lurched and floundered through the course and finally staggered up to him, covering the last ten metres on her hands and knees after she fell, seeing with relief that there were a few grains remaining in the upper half of the sandglass. She slumped full length on the ground.
‘Up,’ Will said briefly and she groaned as she dragged herself to her feet.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she asked piteously.
He regarded her for several seconds before he answered. ‘I’m not doing this to you, Maddie. The wine is. Bear it in mind.’
She stood, exhausted, hands on her hips, head hanging low. ‘I’m never going to drink wine again,’ she said.
He continued to study her. ‘Let’s hope not.’ Then he turned towards the cabin, gesturing for her to follow. She trudged behind him, head aching, stomach roiling once more. The dreadful taste was back in her mouth.
As they stepped up into the cabin, she became aware of a familiar smell. Familiar, but now strangely attractive. It was the rich aroma of fresh coffee. While she had completed the course, Will had returned to the cabin and brewed a pot. He sat her down now and poured a cup, placing it before her.
‘I don’t drink coffee,’ she said automatically. But the enticing smell was filling her nostrils and she wondered if maybe she was mistaken. Will added milk and several spoonfuls of dark honey, stirred it and handed it to her.
‘Drink it,’ he ordered and she wondered briefly if this was a further part of her punishment. Then she sipped at the hot, sweet drink, feeling it course through her weary body, easing her throbbing head, revitalising her, refreshing her with its wonderful, restorative aroma and rich taste. She sipped again, deeper this time, then put her head back and sighed appreciatively.
‘Maybe I could get used to this,’ she said.
Will raised one eyebrow. ‘There might be hope for you yet,’ he said.
SOMEHOW, MADDIE GOT through the rest of that gruelling day.
She showered again in the wash house. This time, she had time to light the little stove so that the water was hot when it cascaded down on her. She gasped and spluttered as she tipped the bucket to send water gushing down on her. But the hot water on the back of her neck helped to dispel that dreadful, pounding headache.
By the time she towelled off and dressed in fresh clothes, it was only a dull remainder of its former self.
Will watc
hed her as she walked back from the wash house. He felt that perhaps she had learned her lesson. Hangovers had a way of teaching people that drinking alcohol was not a good idea. After working her so hard in the morning with the log splitting and the obstacle course and the archery practice, he relented somewhat and gave her an easier afternoon. He set her to the task of doing their laundry – she had gone through two changes of clothes that day and her discarded garments were stained with sweat, and worse. She also had to repair the rip in the knee of her tights and wash away the dried blood there. Then he introduced her to the Courier’s code – based on a grid of letters – and set her several exercises to do.
The figures on the page blurred in and out of focus a little, and the headache surged again as she concentrated on them. But all in all, it was preferable to the violent exertions of the morning.
Maddie finished a set of code exercises and handed them to him. He went through them quickly, made a few corrections, then grunted. She was a little disappointed. Normally when she did well on an assignment – and she felt she had done well on this one – he would mutter a few words of praise.
But not today.
I’ve lost his trust, she thought miserably, and she wondered if they would ever attain the level of warmth that had been beginning to develop between them. Probably not, she thought glumly.
They had one bout of contention that afternoon. The sun had sunk below the trees and Maddie lit the three oil lamps that provided light to the cabin. As she adjusted the wick on the final one, Will spoke.
‘There’s one thing,’ he said. ‘I want the names of your companions last night.’
She looked up fearfully. His face was grim and determined. But she couldn’t comply with his order.
‘I . . . I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if you punish me, but I won’t betray my friends.’
He studied her grimly for several seconds, then he nodded slowly.
‘Well, I applaud your loyalty to your friends, if not your wisdom,’ he said. ‘But I assume it wasn’t you who procured that cask of wine last night?’
She shook her head. She felt she could go that far without betraying the others. But she wasn’t going to tell him who had brought the cask to the party.
‘Whoever did should be punished,’ he said and she shook her head once more.
‘I’m not going to tattle on them,’ she said.
‘Hmmm,’ he said grimly. In truth, he didn’t need her to tell him the names. It would take him less than half an hour to find them. The faces of the three were imprinted on his memory. He would know them when he saw them, and he would report them to their parents. They needed to be disciplined, just as Maddie had been.
But he was pleased that she hadn’t tried to curry favour with him by informing on them. The loyalty might be misguided, but her refusal showed a strength of character.
‘You have to realise, Maddie, that as Rangers we need to maintain a certain sense of . . . aloofness from people.’
She cocked her head. ‘Aloofness?’ she queried.
‘There’s a mystique about the Rangers,’ he told her. ‘And we need to maintain it. You need the respect of those around you. It’s fine to have friends, but let’s say one day you need to discipline one of those kids who was with you last night. Or order them to do something. You need them to think of you as Maddie, the Ranger, and obey you immediately, without thinking. They can’t see you as Maddie, the silly girl who fell down drunk with them one night.’
She considered this. ‘You’re saying I can’t have friends?’
He started to say no, then reconsidered. ‘In a way, yes, I am. You can be friendly with them, but you can’t let them become too familiar with you. It’s one of the sacrifices we make as Rangers. Our friends tend to be other Rangers.’
‘But my mother and father are your friends,’ she pointed out and he nodded, accepting the point.
‘Our friendship was forged through a lot of dangerous times. We had to depend on each other and trust each other. My life was often in your father’s hands. And your mother’s,’ he added. ‘That’s a better basis for friendship than sneaking around drinking stolen wine behind the stables.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said. She could see his point. She enjoyed the prestige and respect she had earned as a Ranger’s apprentice. She had seen how people looked up to her. And she could see how a stupid escapade like the night before could destroy that respect.
‘It’s time to grow up, Maddie,’ he said.
‘I suppose it is,’ she replied.
She went to bed early that evening, shortly after they had finished a simple meat of grilled beef strips and boiled, buttered potatoes. Will also prepared a salad of some bitter green leaves, lacing it with a light, astringent dressing.
It was all simple, nourishing food, calculated to drive away the last remnants of her terrible hangover. As she finished and took her platter to the kitchen basin, Will gestured to the coffee pot.
‘Like a cup?’ he asked.
She hesitated, then remembered the wonderful sense of relief that she felt from that milky, sweet coffee earlier in the day. ‘Why not?’ she said.
He turned away to hide a slight smile as he poured a cup for her, then added milk and honey.
She drained the cup, marvelling at the way the liquid eased the last remaining vestiges of her headache. Then she yawned.
‘I think I’ll turn in.’
He nodded. He had turned his chair toward the open fire and he was staring into the twisting, writhing flames.
‘Night,’ he said.
She made her way to her room, yawning continuously. Her bed had never felt so welcoming.
It was well after midnight when she woke. The moon had slid across from one side of the cabin to the other, its light now slanting through the window in the opposite direction from where it had been when she fell asleep.
She wondered what had woken her. Something had intruded on her sleep, she was sure. She lay still, holding her breath for a few seconds. Then she heard it. The low murmur of voices.
She sat up, quietly laying the blankets to one side. One part of her mind registered the fact that the dull headache was finally gone. She looked at the gap under her bedroom door. There was no slit of light showing there. The lamps were obviously out in the living room, although she could make out a dull flicker thrown by the dying coals in the fire.
She turned her head and listened keenly. There it was again. Voices. Or, more correctly, one voice, pitched low and almost inaudible. If it hadn’t been for the silence of the early morning, she might never have heard it.
She rose and made her way to the door, easing it open. The hinges were well greased and made no sound – Rangers liked it that way. She smiled at how quietly she could move now. After months of training with Will, she had learned to step lightly, avoiding obstacles and learning where the floorboards that might give off a warning creak were to be found.
She stepped silently into the living room, then frowned as she saw that the front door to the cabin was open.
That was unusual. Will always made sure the door was locked from the inside when he retired for the night. Moving back into her bedroom, she reached to where her scabbard hung from a peg and silently drew her saxe from it. Then she made her way to the front door, avoiding the three loose floorboards that were set to create a loud screech of wood on wood and warn of any intruder.
The murmuring voice could be heard more clearly now. It seemed to be coming from the end of the porch – the spot Sable usually occupied. Maddie glanced cautiously around the open door, ready to recoil instantly if anyone was looking in her direction, careful not to touch the door itself. The bottom of the door dragged against the floorboards of the cabin. Originally, she had thought of this as sloppy workmanship, until Will explained that it was another alarm device, in case someone tried to enter. Unlike the interior doors, this one was designed to be noisy. To open the door silently, one had to lift it on its hinges
.
Which was obviously what Will had done. She could see him sitting, with his back to her, on the edge of the porch. Sable was sitting beside him, leaning her warm body against his, her tail moving in slow sweeps on the porch floorboards as Will talked to her, pouring out his troubles.
‘. . . I miss her so much, girl. I wake up in the morning and think she’ll be there. Or walk into a room and expect to see her. Then I remember that she’s gone, and my heart wants to break all over again.’
He’s talking about Alyss, Maddie realised. Suddenly she felt like an intruder, listening in to Will’s private thoughts. She wanted to turn away and creep back to bed. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Curiosity got the better of her.
‘She was everything to me, girl. Everything.’
Sable’s tail swirled in a sympathetic thump against the boards. Will put his arm around her, pulling her closer to him, burying his face in the thick fur of her ruff.
‘Oh god how I miss her. It’s like there’s a huge hole in my life. But I can’t cry for her. I’ve never cried for her and that hurts so much. Why can’t I cry, Sable?’
Again, Sable twitched her heavy tail in understanding. Will fell silent for a minute or so.
‘Pauline says the pain will gradually grow less. It’ll be easier to bear. But when will that happen? It seems to be just as fresh, just as deep, every day that passes.’
Maddie, embarrassed by her eavesdropping, turned to move away. But Will’s next words stopped her.
‘Thank heavens for Maddie. At least she gives me something to take my mind away from the pain and the grief. She’s the one bright spot in my life.’
Me, she thought. I’m a bright spot in his life?
‘If she gets past this current nonsense and settles down, she could be an excellent Ranger. She’s smart. She thinks fast and she’s an excellent shot already – particularly with that sling of hers. She could open the way for a whole lot of girls to follow her into the Corps. It’s a shame I’ve only got her for one year.’
Maddie shook her head in wonder. She had no idea that Will thought of her so highly. He had certainly given her no sign of it.