Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Twenty-One - Strings

The silence was never absolute, Meg discovered, during the long course of that afternoon. Some sounds she could identify: the scruff and scrape of palm-leaf husks, or the flap of a rope against a wall, one which had once been hung with washing but which now dangled free, to be caught occasionally by an errant shift of wind.

She realised, too, how rare it had been for her to experience solitude in her life. Not just being alone – that was different. That was voluntary, with company never more than a shout or any other act of will away. But out here, isolated, this was to be wholly set part - the kind of rarefied solitude which was sought and embraced by both visionaries and holy men.

But of these, Meg was neither. She found it oppressive, and at regular intervals would leave her vantage point on the roof to roam the village streets, as much to relieve cramping limbs as anything. It was on one of these jaunts, as dusk mantled the closing day, that she startled an animal. Like a dog in appearance – but long in the body and scrawny, with large ears - it was nosing about the communal oven, no doubt drawn by the lingering taint of food. Startled, the creature jolted, and then slunk away. But later, once Meg was back on the roof, she knew that it was prowling the streets below, looking for food. More than once, she caught a glimpse of not one but two pairs of eyes, gleaming in the dark.

She had some sympathy; her own last meal, those few dates in the middle of the day, had left her far from satisfied. At least water was to be had in the well. Meg wondered if she should make a dash for the well before trying to sleep; even with these creatures roaming around, she would need another drink before morning.

While pondering this, Meg became aware of another sound; it was one that didn't belong out here, not at this time of night. She went to the edge of the roof, craning to see, and could just catch a glimpse through a gap of a rider entering the village. One who bore a torch. But she didn't have a clear enough view to identify the man. Was it the Saracen? Having thought better of letting her roam free, had he returned to re-secure her bonds? Then he must think again.

The familiarity of her rooftop gave Meg a scrap of confidence. From its security, as the intruder began walking the streets she watched the flickering path of the torch. It lit the walls and arches in its path with leaping demons, while whoever bore it scoured the village seeking her.

And when the intruder passed directly beneath her hiding-place, Meg recognised the demon in the flesh who had come for her. The torch continued in its flickering path, accompanied by the bearer's grumbling monologue....

"....did I come all this way just to surround myself with more incompetent buffoons? A clue....no. Did I really want to ride out here in the middle of the night, just to...."

As Vaisey disappeared around the next corner, Meg hugged her knees tightly in against her. The sound of the sheriff's voice, and all her meagre plans suddenly seemed to be so many follies...it was inevitable that Vaisey would find her. She might as well just sit here and wait – soon enough, failing to find her at ground level, he would think to check the rooftops. The certainty of defeat seemed to seep into her bones with the same persistence as the desert cold, numbing, debilitating. 

Guy warned me. This has been his lot, for years.

He had urged her so many times to flee, believing his own future beyond hope. Until the end, when he'd said that they should both run. By then, Meg had been so focussed on their plans to defeat the sheriff that she had given this no heed. Now, the memory warmed her; she wanted to bask in it, to allow herself the liberty of imagining what a life far from Nottingham, far from the sheriff, could have been like for them. 

More, she wanted to pretend that the possibility still existed.

Perhaps it did, but only if they won. And they would not win if she sat here, cowering on a roof, waiting timidly for the sheriff to find her.

I have time.

The torch was wavering its way to the eastern side of the village. Meg tried to recall the layout of the streets: the location of the house in which she'd been detained, wondering if she could find it again, in the dark, without stumbling into Vaisey. While she was considering this, something caught her attention: riders, several of them, approaching the village.

Panic propelled Meg to her feet. Whoever these men were – whether strangers, or Vaisey's co-conspirators – their presence would ensure her capture. She had only a short window of time, one that was closing rapidly as the hoofbeats drummed closer. Grabbing up a handful of tinder – palm husks she'd shredded for the pyre - on feet powered by fear she raced down the steps and flitted into the alley. Without pausing, she let her memory guide her through the twists and turns that, save for tripping over a broken urn - and here she paused, snatching up the sharpest shard – led her unerringly to the dwelling where she'd spent the previous night. Grabbing the thin blanket left there, she wrapped the tinder in it and darted back outside, heading for the point at which Vaisey had ridden into the village.

She found his horse.

Meg tried to still her racing pulse, to listen for the riders. But it wasn't the sound of approaching horses that made her clutch convulsively at the horse's mane. It was the sudden burst of light as, his torch held aloft, Vaisey came around the corner.

"My dear, you are becoming quite charmingly predictable," drawled the sheriff.

And eyes glinting like the tip of his extended sword, Vaisey stalked towards her.