The Silent Songbird (Hagenheim #7)(60)

Evangeline stayed near him, losing Nicola in the crowd. The reeve inquired of some people who were standing nearby, then turned to her. “They will not begin the singing contest for several more hours.” His brow creased as he put his hand on her shoulder, as if to make sure she didn’t go anywhere while he looked all around the big meadow area, now teeming with people. “I think you’ll be safe if you stay in the crowd and don’t leave this area.”

Evangeline nodded. But she swallowed, even as she noticed all the strangers—men, women, and children—jostling each other and her. Her stomach clenched as she remembered being dragged outside among all the servants who thought she’d tried to poison them.

But nothing was going to happen. Reeve Folsham would be nearby. Westley should be somewhere not too far. Evangeline stood for a moment, looking for an opening so she could see what the people were selling. She’d never been to a festival, or even a market fair, except when she went with Muriel on the second day of their trip to Glynval.

Evangeline moved toward the closest booth where a woman was selling buns. “Get them while they’re still hot,” she called. Evangeline had some coins in her purse, which was attached to her belt. She drew one out and gave it to the woman, who smiled and handed her a bun. “Enjoy it.”

She checked over her shoulder to make sure the reeve was still where she had left him. He was, so she moved to the next booth. A man was selling leather purses with a burn etching of flowering vines, and some had decorative stitching in the shape of animals. Hanging from his booth were also large saddlebags, as well as some thick leather vests and mantles—protective gear for hunters.

“My wife makes the designs.” The man pointed to the swirling vines burned into some of the bags.

Evangeline smiled and nodded. They were beautiful, but she had no need of a bag or leather armor. She moved on to the next booth. She continued looking around, occasionally seeing some other servant she recognized, but no one talked to her. She moved about without attracting much attention, and she soon felt at ease.

The next booth she came to was at the edge of a stand of trees. It was full of candles, some of them with bits of aromatic herbs or flowers—little stalks of lilac, lavender, and rosemary—pressed into the wax. Evangeline picked up the lavender one and sniffed—it smelled just like Westley’s shirts. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Suddenly someone stepped around her, pushing her aside with his body. Immediately hands came in front of her face, covering her mouth and nose, and her feet left the ground.

She tried to fight back, but her wrists were pinned behind her back and a rough hemp sack was yanked over her head. She was carried like a flour sack, her head lower than her body.

She tried to draw in a breath, but the dusty bag clung to her mouth, and the stale air inside it choked her. She could not draw in enough air to scream. Instead, she concentrated on just breathing in enough air so she would not faint.

Several people had hold of her. Was no one looking when these people grabbed her? Were these Lord Shiveley’s men? Was she being taken back to Berkhamsted Castle?

She kicked and writhed and fought, but it availed her nothing. They only walked faster, holding her waist so tight it hurt. Someone else must have had hold of her feet inside a narrow bag, preventing her from kicking out very far.

“What you got there?” A muffled voice came to her from somewhere nearby.

“A sow and her piglets,” said the gruff voice without slowing down.

Evangeline’s arms were burning and she could barely breathe. She felt herself fading, losing consciousness. She was being carried down some stone steps, then lowered to the ground. Someone snatched the bag off her head, ran up the steps, and slammed a heavy door shut.

Evangeline gulped in air, pushing herself up off the cold stone floor. It was quite dark, but there was just enough light for her to see buckets, two stools, and a few butter churns in the small open room. She was in the dairy, where they stored the milk and where she and Nicola had churned butter.

She rubbed her wrists, finding they were not tied together as she had assumed. Someone must have been holding them while they carried her.

She sat up and wriggled out of the rough hemp bag, pushing it off her legs and feet. She wiped her face with her hands, trying to get off the dust from the bag that still clung to her skin.

Why had Shiveley’s men thrown her in here? Why had they not slung her over a horse and rode her out of Glynval as quickly as possible?

She got to her feet. Her knees wobbled, but she ran up the stone steps, stumbling a bit as she reached the top. She grabbed the door handle, but it would not budge. She jerked and tugged, but it still would not open.

Evangeline stood on the tips of her toes to reach the tiny open space at the top of the heavy wooden door, the only source of light in the room. With her unusual height, she was just tall enough to see out. Some men were walking away, and one of them was John Underhill.

Was he planning to hurt Westley? Why had he attacked her? Perhaps because he knew she was a witness to what he had done to Westley, but it was strange that he had not hurt her. Would he come back and kill her? And was he now on his way to kill Westley?

Westley! She had to get to him, had to warn him.

“Hey, Eva, can you hear me?” Sabina’s taunting voice came from outside.

“Sabina, let me out of here.”

“How did you find yourself in there?” Sabina giggled.