My Lady Jane(84)

“I’m not sure that’s the best course,” he said. “My skills are somewhat limited, thanks to my daily horse diversion, and I haven’t— In a while— I mean—”

Jane blushed bright red. “Anyway, we’re married. And do you think anyone would really pay you for that?”

G blinked a few times before it hit him. She meant—ah—consummation. And that no one would pay him for it sounded something like an insult, but there was no time for offended feelings now. “Oh, ah, I don’t— Rather, I haven’t—”

“Never mind that.” Jane waved the topic away. “Don’t do whatever you were thinking about doing. Just clean some tables or scrub the floor. Taverns always have dirty floors, don’t they? What with the sloshing ale and the vomiting.”

Jane seemed rather overcritical of taverns in general.

“I see. I can do that.” He started down the hill, but she stopped him. Probably good. He was wearing only the cloak, he realized.

“Wait! I’m going with you.”

“But you’re about to change,” he pointed out.

“I’ll go as a ferret. In your boot.”

“Jane,” he protested. “This could be dangerous. We don’t know what to expect in there. I won’t be able to concentrate if I’m worrying about you.”

“But—”

“Please. Stay here and stay safe.”

She frowned and looked like she was about to protest, but then with a flash of light, her clothes fell to the ground and she was a ferret.

G took the clothes and dressed. They were still warm from the heat of her body, and still smelled of her faint perfume. He was tempted to take a moment to breathe it in, but Jane-the-ferret was edging toward his boot. “No, darling. Stay here. I’ll come right back. I promise.”

She stopped, let out a long ferret sigh, and deflated until she was lying flat on the ground. She looked unbearably bored.

“Consider taking a nap,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”

The inside of the tavern was well lit and filled with men and women in plain but sturdy clothes, most covered with some kind of fur, as though everyone worked with animals. They didn’t have the look of farmers. An odd stink rode under the scents of roasted meat and bread, but the food made his stomach grumble loudly. It was all he could do to keep from launching himself onto the nearest plate.

Conversation died as everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.

“Ah, hello.” He gathered his courage. This was just like reading poetry, but subtract poems and add people casually placing hunting knives and daggers on their tables. One of the women was filing her fingernails into sharp points, like claws.

Just like reading poetry.

G regathered his courage and strode to the far end of the room, toward the bar. He had to squeeze in between two burly men with tear-shaped scars on their faces. They all smelled vaguely like wet dog. A young man at the end of the bar leaned forward and smirked at him in a decidedly unpleasant manner.

The bartender eyed him. “What do you want?”

“I—” G had never needed to admit to not having money before. “I don’t suppose you have any work that needs doing around here?”

“Work?” This fellow clearly had not so much brain as ear wax.

“I could clean the tables or scrub the floor.”

The bartender pointed to a haggard-looking serving wench, who scowled at him. “Nell here does that.”

“Or I could peel potatoes. Or carrots. Or onions. Or any root vegetable, really.” G had never peeled anything before, but how hard could it be?

“We have someone who does that, too,” the man said. “Why don’t you push off. This isn’t the place for you.”

G would have suggested yet more menial tasks he’d never attempted, but at that moment, he put together the hints: the wet-dog smell; the fur on everyone’s clothes; the defensive/protective behavior when he, a stranger, entered.

That, and they were eating beef.

Cow.

Possibly that village’s only cow.

All at once, he knew. This was the Pack.

“Er, yes, perhaps I should be pushing off, as you suggest—” he started to say.

“Rat!” Someone near the door lurched from his chair, making it topple over behind him. “There’s a rat!”

It couldn’t be Jane, he thought. He’d told her to stay put.

“It’s not a rat, you daft idiot,” cried another. “It’s a squirrel!”

“It’s some kind of weasel!”

Bollocks. It was his wife.

“It’s dinner, that’s what it is.” That was the man directly to G’s right. “And he’s a spy. Asking all those questions about vegetables.”

“She’s clearly a ferret!” G yelled as he lunged toward the dear little creature dashing about on the floor. But Jane was too far away and everyone was suddenly moving, weapons in hand as they rushed toward G. He tried to dart to one side, but the man who wanted to eat Jane for supper threw out his arm and caught G in the throat. G immediately dropped and gagged.

Over the thunder of footfalls on hardwood and shouts of “Get the rat!” Gifford heard the most terrifying sound of all: a loud shriek, followed by silence.