Free The Stolen Princess by Anne Gracíe

demanded.
    â€œWho?” Mrs. Barrow frowned. “Nobody’s taken your boy anywhere, don’t you fret. He’ll turn up when his stomach reminds him. Boys always do.”
    Callie searched the woman’s broad, ruddy face for lies, but could see nothing but placid honesty. “Nicky isn’t the sort of boy to run off.”
    â€œWell, I’ve been working down here since just after sunup.” Mrs. Barrow nodded at a bowl of apples on the sideboard. “Someone took some apples. And the outside door was unbolted when I came down. He’ll be in the stables. That’s where boys usually go.”
    Callie shook her head. “Nicky never goes near the stables. He doesn’t like horses. Someone must have taken him.”
    â€œWho? There’s nobody here except us. The dog would have barked if there were strangers about.”
    â€œThe dog!” Callie exclaimed. “Yes, the dog was with him last night. Where’s the dog?”
    Mrs. Barrow seized a folded pad of cloth and with much banging and clattering pulled two loaves of fresh-baked bread from the oven. “Outside, where dogs ought to be. Mr. Gabe will bring her in, but I don’t like dogs in my kitchen!”
    With a deft flick of her wrist she turned the loaves onto a wire rack. Steam rose from the toasty crusts and the room filled with the delicious fragrance. “There, that should fetch him in. Never knowed man or boy able to resist the smell of fresh-baked bread!”
    But Callie wasn’t reassured. “Where is Mr. Renfrew?”
    â€œGone out for ’is mornin’ ride, Barrow reckons. Trojan and his saddle are gone.”
    â€œAha! So he must have—”
    â€œMaster Gabe rides out every morning, rain or shine, he does. And sometimes at night. Helps chase away his demons, Barrow reckons. Not a good sleeper anymore, the young master. The war, you see. Hard on young men, it is. After nigh on eight years of war and living in tents in furrin parts, it’s not easy for a man to settle down to a peaceable English life, Barrow reckons. Our Harry is the same. Restless. Always off and doing.”
    But Callie wasn’t listening. Through the windows that looked away to the sea, she could see a rider coming fast toward the house, a rider on a big, black horse. A dirty bundle was bunched in front of the rider. A limp, child-sized bundle with dirty bare feet.
    â€œNicky!” She ran to the door and flung it open. Mrs. Barrow followed, and Barrow ran from nearby outbuildings.
    â€œHere, Barrow, you take him in! It might be a broken nose—”
    â€œBroken nose!” Callie was horrified. She couldn’t see Nicky’s face for the blood-soaked white handkerchief covering it.
    â€œâ€”or not, but there’s rather a lot of blood.” Mr. Renfrew handed the bundle down to Barrow, then dismounted.
    â€œNicky! Nicky!” Callie tried to reach her child but Mr. Renfrew grabbed her by the arm.
    â€œNicky’s perfectly all right,” he told her.
    â€œHow can you say that? There’s blood everywhere!” Callie struggled. “Let me go! I must go to him!”
    â€œThat boy is not Nicky!”
    Callie froze, staring at him wide-eyed.
    He said in a firm voice, “Nicky is perfectly all right.”
    She looked wildly around. “Then where is he?”
    â€œHe’s back at the cliffs, minding your portmanteau.”
    â€œMinding my portmanteau?” she echoed stupidly.
    â€œYes, I had to leave him there with it.” He brushed mud from his shirt and only succeeded in smearing it more. “Otherwise the portmanteau could have been stolen. It’s damp and looks rather the worse for wear after its fall down the cliff, and it’s rather muddy. But otherwise intact.”
    She stared at him, unable to believe her ears. “You mean you left my child out in the middle of nowhere, on his own, to guard a portmanteau