The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Kira slumped against the side of the wagon; her body ached from the days of constant walking and the lack of food; her exhausted frame was too weary to even sit down; and if she did manage to collapse onto the hard cobbles below, her fatigued legs lacked the strength or energy to stand her back up again - and she had seen how the slavers treated those who failed to get up and walk on their command.

No - better to remain standing and take advantage of the warming sun - perhaps it would dry her out a little and offer some comfort to her numbed, traumatised limbs.

Her legs and feet were raw and blistered and cut. The wounds had distressed her terribly and at first - the pain kept her awake through the long chill of the nights - but now she felt nothing; she shuddered, afraid that this oozing lack of sensation might be even worse.

A young man with earnest blue eyes was speaking to Pocket.

She strained to hear the conversation above the rowdy bustle of the market.

Perhaps he intended to buy one of the slaves?

He seemed to keep pointing in her direction.

Was it her he wanted?

If he bought her, would this be the end of her dreadful suffering? Or just the beginning of something far worse?

No-one had thought to pay her any heed in any of the other towns and villages she had trudged through - except for the alderman’s wife back in Ghenworth, who had noticed her boots and thought that they would do nicely for her daughter.

The boots had begun to pinch anyway - but at least they offered some protection from the sharp stinging stones which littered the roads - and they had helped prevent the leg-irons from cutting into her ankles.

Her jaded mind was emptied by fatigue and loss of hope; she was too tired to move or speak as the boy approached.

He did not have the predatory look of a buyer - and his plain clothing did not indicate that he was wealthy enough.

He took some ointment from the small flask on his belt and knelt to apply it to the festering sores which wept across her purple blotched and bloodied ankles.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a soft, calm voice, “this will help to heal you.”

The touch of his hand tingled with a subtle strangeness. Perhaps it was something in the ointment? Or perhaps it was simply the unfamiliarity of human contact and kindness after the cold cruelties of the leg irons - it was impossible to tell - she could barely sense his fingers through the blunt, insensible wounds.

He was the first person to show any sign of concern or sympathy toward her in the long days since her miserable capture.

Her shattered mind relaxed and reinvigorated - perhaps there was still goodness and charity in the world? Perhaps there was reason to hope and to strive?

She looked down at him as he worked.

He seemed kind - perhaps he would even help her escape?

But she could trust him? Could she ever trust anyone again?NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

But then what choice did she have, really?

She took a deep breath.

For the first time in what seemed like a terrible forever, her destiny seemed to be back in her own hands.

She must seize this opportunity or be condemned to a life of slavery.

If she ever wanted to escape from this horror and somehow get back to the safety of the convent, she would have to summon the energy and force herself to act.

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?

Pocket got up as the boy fumbled with something by the fountain.

Pocket cursed loudly and rubbed the dust from his eyes.

The chance to help her escape had vanished - the boy had let her down.

Pocket moved towards the boy; his young assailant gave the two wagon horses a huge slap on their hindquarters.

The startled beasts gave out a raucous whinnying cry and tore off across the market square, in a clattering thunder of hooves, they hurtled and crashed into stalls, chickens, pots and barrels as they careered off, leaving a trail of havoc and rolling turnips in their wake.

Kira tried to sit up, determined to see what was happening.

A pulse of hopeful adrenaline thudded through her.

For a brief instant, Pocket stood in stunned silence; he glared furiously at the boy and swore a bloody revenge, then charged after the horses at full pelt, yelling “Stop them horses!” at the top of his lungs.

Many of the townsfolk stood and laughed, seemingly more intent on enjoying this unexpected entertainment than helping, while several furious stall-holders tried to grab Pocket and shouted at him to pay for their damages.

The kind young man dashed back over and knelt beside her.

He had not abandoned her!

Her optimistic heart beat momentarily faster - surely this was it - she would be free!

But a troubled spike of doubt shot through her; the hopeful rosy pulse faltered and collapsed into a cold despair.

The boy would never be able to free her now - Pocket had the only key to her manacles - and Pocket had gone.

The boy’s kindness would not help, it would not get her out of this situation - he might heal her wounds, but she was still a slave and must accept her terrible fate.

The raw disappointment prickled through her.

The throbbing pain rang and growled across her cheek.

The boy pulled her up to a sitting position, then opened the palm of his hand.

A vivid wave of relief convulsed through Kira’s excited, grateful body - he was holding the keys!

“I grabbed them from his belt while we were wrestling on the ground,” the boy smiled.

He fumbled with the heavy lock; he tried one key, then another.

The acid adrenaline coursed through Kira’s racing heart.

The slavers could be back at any moment.

Her frantic eyes darted around the marketplace.

Why was this taking so long?

The young man tried a third key; it fitted; he struggled to turn it in the stiff, rusty mechanism.

Kira strained her agitated senses and tried to remember to breathe - the cruel slavers must return soon - wasn’t that the sound of their pounding, angry footsteps? Or just her own trembling pulse?

The lock clicked open; the cumbersome chain rattled to the cobbles.

The weight and irritating pressure dropped from her thankful legs.

Surely she would get away?

The young man hauled her up to her unsteady feet and tossed the keys to the nearest slave.

“Quickly! This way!” he said urgently, above the continuing tumult of the market.

His helpful strength squeezed at her arm tightly as he bustled her down a side street just off the main square.

Kira’s gashed legs stabbed and buckled and wobbled beneath her.

“Wait! I can’t run!” she pleaded.

“You have to - we can’t get caught here!” her benefactor exhorted.

She knew he was right.

Hadn’t she seen how cruel the slavers could be?

If she were recaptured now, she wouldn’t be sold, but more likely whipped to death as an example to keep the others cowed and in their place.

She winced and stumbled along behind her rescuer; stinging jabs of pain convulsed up through her throbbing legs; the days of malnourishment and mistreatment left them near lame.

She grimaced and gasped through the pain.

The boy pulled and dragged and carried her along the narrowing dark back streets.

An urgent determination compelled her forward - her desperation to escape, the terror of re-capture, the certainty of her punishment, all rattled through her frightened mind and forced her unwilling body onwards.

Her defiant, exhausted mind scrambled to think, to hang on to the boy, to propel her legs - oblivious to where they were, or where they were going; she must focus on one thing - to keep up with the boy - to move her raw, burning legs and feet and follow her young saviour to have any hope of freedom or life.

Her tormented legs screamed and distorted in anguish; she hobbled through the searing fingers of agony - the distress of running would be nothing compared to the horrors of being seized again.

She leant heavily on the young man and urged herself forward.

Her new-found companion dragged and assisted her along a twisting web of winding streets; further and deeper through the narrow, cobbled alleyways; past the ramshackle buildings which hemmed them in and blocked out the tight corners and the sunlight; past the angry shouting voices from the opened windows above; and the washing lines, and the stray chickens, and the muddy foetid puddles.

The caustic agony of her legs gnawed at her spirit; it jabbed deep into her energy and thoughts; hungry to catch up with her, to hunt her down and overcome her.

Her thick breath came in spasms.

She was certain they must have covered a good amount of ground.

Surely they were well away from the danger of the market area by now?

She slowed and glanced feverishly behind her.

There was no sign of anyone pursuing them.

The maddening palpitations of her heart urged her to ease her pace, urged her to stop.

Her tightening chest refused to allow her to suck down enough air; her face contorted and twisted in pain; she stumbled and almost collapsed onto the boy.

A little ahead of them, a wooden door opened out onto the alley from the back of a low, windowless building. A large burly figure stepped out and blocked their progress along the narrow passageway. He smiled and clinked a small leather purse in the palm of his hand.

“A very encouraging morning’s work, I should say, Dak,” he said loudly as he turned to his companion.

A second figure, bald with a beard, stooped to follow him out through the door.

The agonised blood froze in Kira’s pounding chest.

She grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged at him.

“Stop!” she hissed as loudly as she dared. “It’s them! It’s the slavers!”

She tried to edge away from the two hateful figures; her floundering body gasped for air; her heavy feet strained to halt the boy and pull him back.

Perhaps they hadn’t noticed her in the subdued light of the alley?

Perhaps the bag of coins had been too much of a distraction to them?

There was still a chance they could get away.

Her wounded, drained legs stumbled and scuffled on the cobbles.

Dak looked up from the money and peered straight ahead at her.

“’Ere Boss!” he shouted. “Ain’t that our slave girl with that boy?”

His deep, booming voice reverberated along the confined passageway.

The dark burly features of Borwick stared up directly at her; a burning look of surprise and fury glowered behind his eyes.

A cold spike of fear pierced through Kira’s horrified stomach.

A startled panic flooded her unravelling thoughts.

“Run!” she screamed.