Sorcha yanked hard on the palfrey’s reins and kicked the little horse hard. The mare broke into a gallop, and Leah’s frightened horse was close behind. Their hooves pounded the ground, their breathing nearly as loud as the thunder of Sorcha’s heart in her ears.
Another arrow sliced through the air, landing in the gnarled bark of an ancient tree.
Oh, God!
“Run, you devil!” Sorcha said as her game little mare stretched her legs, extending muscles that bunched again and again. Tears blurred Sorcha’s eyes.
Over the whistle of the wind she heard men’s shouts and knew her little horse would soon give out. The palfrey had been ridden hard already, and against fresh horses, she would be no match. Still Sorcha urged the mare forward, glancing over her shoulder for only a second. Leah was right behind her, and Bjorn, hunched over McBannon’s shoulders, brought up the rear. Blood stained his tunic and drizzled down his arm.
Farther behind were riders. She only saw glimpses of them through the trees, but it was enough to drive a stake of fear into her heart.
“Get off the road!” Bjorn yelled as McBannon raced beside them. “Take to the forest and follow me.”
Her heart clattering as fast as the horses’ hooves, Sorcha watched McBannon disappear into the forest. Leah followed and Sorcha gave chase, though she felt her little horse falter. “Come on, girl,” she said as she heard the voices grow louder behind her.
McBannon’s rump was only a flash through the trees, and Leah’s bay seemed to melt into the woods, but her white horse would be visible, a bright target.
“We got ’em now!” The harsh voice rumbled through the forest, and Sorcha knew she couldn’t outrun the bastards.
“Think,” she told herself as Leah’s horse jumped over a fallen tree. Her own horse, a few strides behind, gathered for the leap, sprang wildly, and Sorcha held her breath as hooves grazed the old log and the mare stumbled on the far side only to regain her footing.
“That’s it! Good. Good.” She heard another arrow sizzle through the air over her head and ducked low on the mare. The horse was breathing hard, her strides no longer fleet, and it wouldn’t be long before she was overtaken. The thought of the cutthroats behind her chilled Sorcha’s blood, and she knew she had no choice but to try and hide; lead her pursuers away from Bjorn and Leah, and hope to win this battle with her wits. She didn’t think they were far from Tullia’s cottage by the stream, and by sheer instinct she turned her little mare in the direction of the rising sun.
Chancing a glance over her shoulder, she saw the horsemen follow her, peeling off from the trail that led them to Bjorn and Leah. “Come on,” she yelled at the horse, her voice rising on the wind. “Run!” Slapping the reins against the tired mare’s sides, she hugged low against her shoulders, urging her up a hill that the poor beast could barely climb.
Again an arrow hissed by her ear, and another landed in the mare’s hip. With a scream, the horse went down on her knees only to scramble to her feet. “You can do it!” Sorcha whispered, though by now the palfrey’s breath was whistling and her legs were unsure. Twice she stumbled, and the horses behind her, galloping through the trees, came closer. The huntsmen were not always in sight, for the forest was a shield, but their hooves echoed through the canyons, and the riders’ shouts sent shivers down Sorcha’s spine.
At the top of the hill, the mare gave out. Sorcha tried to encourage the beast over the ridge and down a steep embankment, but the white horse refused. “You’ve done well,” she said, patting the mare’s quivering shoulder. Voices, muffled and savage, floated through the trees. Sorcha had no choice. She hopped off the horse and slapped the animal hard with the reins. The little horse broke into a run, cantering atop the ridge. Sorcha scrambled down the other side of the hill, into the shadows of trees, and prayed that the men chasing her would follow the horse for a while before they realized that she was no longer astride.
She still had the knife Bjorn had given her, and she clutched it in her fingers. “Please let them be safe,” she said, thinking of Bjorn with a horrid arrow lodged in his shoulder and Leah frightened out of her wits. Even her mare was injured and might not survive the wound of the arrow that had found her white coat. “Godspeed,” Sorcha whispered as her boots slid over the mud and rocks.
Far in the distance she heard men shouting and she realized that her attackers, whoever they were, had discovered the riderless mare. Now it was only a matter of time before they doubled back and found her. She scrambled down the hillside, her tunic ripping on the thorns of berry vines, her ankle twisting as she tried to keep her balance.
In the canyon, the forest was darker still, providing her with more shadows to hide within. She heard the lapping of a creek and stumbled through the brambles and ferns until she spied the sliver of cool water cutting through the forest floor. Her muscles ached, her head pounded, and she had to spit the metallic taste of fear from her mouth. She fell onto the bank and drank huge gulps of the water, splashing some of the cool liquid over her face and arms. Though the day was cold, with winter winds rushing through the gorge, she was sweating from her wild ride and race down the hillside. But she could not pause too long. The men who were chasing her did not seem inclined to give up, and it was only a matter of time before they found her.
She followed the stream, keeping her boots in the water, making sure that she left no footprints as she started upstream. She wasn’t certain where she was going or who the murderers were who were attacking her, but she knew she had to keep running. Eventually, God willing, she’d find the road to Prydd.
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Hagan’s temper turned white-hot at the news.
“Just what I said, m’lord.” Ona, the silly girl who had been Sorcha’s maid, wrung her hands. Looking for all the world as if she expected to be beaten, she kept her eyes downcast and bit her lip. “She wasn’t in her bed this mornin’, and I talked with Nellie, the girl who’s with her sister, and Lady Leah’s missin’, too.”
“Anyone else?” Hagan asked, a tic leaping near his eye.
“It looks as if the stableboy, Bjorn, has taken flight as well.” Darton, his skin drawn taut over his features, strode into the room. “And several horses are missing. The horse from Prydd, a white palfrey, and Anne’s courser.”
“What?” Anne had been hurrying down the stairs.
“It looks as if the savior of Prydd has escaped,” Darton said.
“How’d they get out?” Hagan asked. “The guards were to be doubled.”
“ ’Twas that twit Nolan at the gate. Bjorn claimed that he was going to let the horses graze.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“Two pages, but it was dark yet, just before dawn, and Nolan wasn’t quite sure …”
As Hagan listened to his brother, his teeth ground together. Sorcha had given him her word that she would wait until after the revels and the messenger had returned. True, the revels were now over and Frederick had walked back through the gates, but the wench hadn’t waited until he’d decided how to approach her brother.