The Fickle Winds of Autumn

21. An Act of Kindness

A pie-seller strolled past supporting a large tray of delicious-smelling goods. Pocket's nose and eyes followed the savoury aroma; its scent pulled him along a few steps - a few steps away from her and the boy.

It was now or never: "Courage!" her mind urged.

"Please," she whispered, her thin voice cracked and hoarse from dry exhaustion: "please help me. I'm not a slave - I owe these men nothing - they have captured me - I was a novicella at the nunnery at Corborough - I've been stolen."

The young man looked intently at her; the blue of his eyes shone into hers.

"Please! You've got to help me," Kira exhorted. "I won't last much longer like this. You can see the robes I'm wearing," and she held out the dirty ripped rags which draped across her body to him.

"Yes," he replied, "I noticed the cloth - and your skin is far too soft for you to be a farm girl."

"Please help me!" she urged him again. Her fervent desperation forced a new intensity to her voice, the acute need for secrecy momentarily forgotten.

Pocket turned suddenly and faced her once more.

"Here! What's you quelping about now? You miserable runt!" he said.

The anxious blood drained and prickled through her body.

She had been discovered - there was no point in trying to keep quiet any longer.

"Help! Please help me!" she shouted as loud as her fitful voice would allow her - to the boy, or anyone else in the market who might hear her.

Pocket started toward her and raised a threatening arm.

"You shut that mouth of yours! I knewed you was trouble the moment I laid eyes on yer!"

Her weary, deadened cheek hardly felt the bitter pain of the blow, but the force of the cruel strike dashed her to the ground; the sour taste of blood filled her mouth.

Pocket pushed the boy to the ground and loomed menacingly over her.

"I'll muzzle you good if you can't keep that trap of yours shut!" he snarled.

The hard, uneven cobbles of the market dug into her ribs and face; her ears rang in a dizzying buzz. She was too tired, too utterly without hope or energy to move; she lay in a pitiful crumpled heap. Pocket reached for the hungry cat-o'-nine-tails which hung from his thick belt near the weight of his keys. She took a deep breath and braced herself for the searing pain that was certain to follow.

Behind him, the boy sprang to his feet and barrelled hard and low into the angry slaver; Pocket's eyes bulged in shock; the dazed wind gasped out of his hanging mouth as he and the boy landed in a sprawling tangle near to her.

The heavy chains pinned Kira in place, but she tried to move - to kick, to hit, to do anything to help the boy - but her lethargic body did not have the strength or speed to assist in the frantic, punching grapple that writhed in the straw and filth of the market street next to her.

The boy's surprise attack seemed to have given him the upper hand; he bounded back up.

He would help her.

He would free her - now, while Pocket was still struggling on the ground.

Surely he must.

But her desperate heart sank, as the boy ran away from her, over towards the fountain.

What was he doing?

Was he just saving his own skin?

Why didn't he help her escape?