were firm. “I will not return. No one can make me return.”
Blade’s eyes smoldered like banked coals. “No one will.”
If Rose had known the forest would be as busy as St. Andrews on market day, she would never have considered sneaking into the trees to answer nature’s call. Luckily, when the foot traffic began, she’d already taken care of her business.
First, Jacob passed by her hiding spot, then Lettie. A moment later, the timid French lad traipsed past in the opposite direction. Finally, he’d come skulking by. Blade. The dark outlaw.
Fortunately, no one seemed to see her standing frozen behind the clump of bushes. Blade was preoccupied with spying on the apprentice, who was preoccupied with stuffing a sack into the hollow of a tree. When the lad walked past again, Blade had nabbed him. What ensued was a fascinating exchange between the two.
Apparently, Rose wasn’t the only one using the pilgrimage as a means of escape to St. Andrews.
“I have to give the silver back,” Guillot told Blade. “I cannot go home to Calais with the stain of thievery on my soul. But I will not return to my master.”
Rose agreed. She wouldn’t return to her abuser either. But she thought the lad deserved to keep the coin as payment for the beatings.
“Ye can’t leave the silver here,” Blade said.
“I mean to send a missive to him, telling him where it is hidden.”
“It may not be here when he arrives,” Blade said plainly. “And if ‘tis gone, not only will he bemoan the loss o’ his silver, but he’ll also know when and where ye passed this way.”
“He might follow me,” Guillot realized, his eyes darting fearfully. “He might find me.” He pressed a bony fist into his palm. “What shall I do?”
“Take it with ye until we reach St. Andrews. There ye can find a priest to see it safely returned.”
The boy nodded.
Then Blade glanced about the dark woods, and a brief shudder betrayed his emotions. “Ye’d best retrieve your sack now. There’s no tellin’ what manner o’ men lurk in these woods.”
No sooner had he spoken than three such men emerged from behind a huge joined pair of gnarled oaks in the deep shadows. Quick as lightning, Blade curved an arm around the apprentice, pulling the lad behind him to protect him from the filthy fiends who approached.
Rose stifled a gasp. The men—if they could be called that—seemed made out of the leaves and dirt of the woods. Mud coated their faces and stained their garments, and oak leaves stuck out from their sleeves and hats. The only things not besmirched with camouflaging dirt were the vicious daggers they held before them.
“Aye.” The first man’s voice was coarse, like a rusty hinge. “Ye’d best retrieve yer sack now, young lad.”
“So’s we can take it back to its rightful owner,” the second sneered.
The third man, who not only looked like a tree, but had the same gargantuan proportions, mindlessly grinned. “Right, so’s we can take it back.”
Before they even finished giggling, Blade drew a dagger.
Rose’s heart lurched. She’d never seen a real fight, only tournaments, where the blades were blunted, knights were rarely injured, and men exchanged insults with harmless glee.
This battle would be real. Blood would be spilled. Blade was not only outnumbered, but shackled. No matter how good a fight he put up, the three thieves would surely defeat him.
She had to do something.
She sprang forward. At least, that was her intent. Actually, since her skirts snagged on the bushes, ‘twas more of a lunge and then a topple. By the time she managed to disentangle herself and scramble upright, cursing all the while, the fight was already well engaged.
Rose was astonished by Blade’s skill, his speed, his ferocity. Despite his shackles, he slashed with the dagger in bold arcs, forcing the thieves away. He yelled at Guillot to get back, and the boy wasted no time scurrying off, Rose hoped, to get help.
Blade’s dagger
Blade’s eyes smoldered like banked coals. “No one will.”
If Rose had known the forest would be as busy as St. Andrews on market day, she would never have considered sneaking into the trees to answer nature’s call. Luckily, when the foot traffic began, she’d already taken care of her business.
First, Jacob passed by her hiding spot, then Lettie. A moment later, the timid French lad traipsed past in the opposite direction. Finally, he’d come skulking by. Blade. The dark outlaw.
Fortunately, no one seemed to see her standing frozen behind the clump of bushes. Blade was preoccupied with spying on the apprentice, who was preoccupied with stuffing a sack into the hollow of a tree. When the lad walked past again, Blade had nabbed him. What ensued was a fascinating exchange between the two.
Apparently, Rose wasn’t the only one using the pilgrimage as a means of escape to St. Andrews.
“I have to give the silver back,” Guillot told Blade. “I cannot go home to Calais with the stain of thievery on my soul. But I will not return to my master.”
Rose agreed. She wouldn’t return to her abuser either. But she thought the lad deserved to keep the coin as payment for the beatings.
“Ye can’t leave the silver here,” Blade said.
“I mean to send a missive to him, telling him where it is hidden.”
“It may not be here when he arrives,” Blade said plainly. “And if ‘tis gone, not only will he bemoan the loss o’ his silver, but he’ll also know when and where ye passed this way.”
“He might follow me,” Guillot realized, his eyes darting fearfully. “He might find me.” He pressed a bony fist into his palm. “What shall I do?”
“Take it with ye until we reach St. Andrews. There ye can find a priest to see it safely returned.”
The boy nodded.
Then Blade glanced about the dark woods, and a brief shudder betrayed his emotions. “Ye’d best retrieve your sack now. There’s no tellin’ what manner o’ men lurk in these woods.”
No sooner had he spoken than three such men emerged from behind a huge joined pair of gnarled oaks in the deep shadows. Quick as lightning, Blade curved an arm around the apprentice, pulling the lad behind him to protect him from the filthy fiends who approached.
Rose stifled a gasp. The men—if they could be called that—seemed made out of the leaves and dirt of the woods. Mud coated their faces and stained their garments, and oak leaves stuck out from their sleeves and hats. The only things not besmirched with camouflaging dirt were the vicious daggers they held before them.
“Aye.” The first man’s voice was coarse, like a rusty hinge. “Ye’d best retrieve yer sack now, young lad.”
“So’s we can take it back to its rightful owner,” the second sneered.
The third man, who not only looked like a tree, but had the same gargantuan proportions, mindlessly grinned. “Right, so’s we can take it back.”
Before they even finished giggling, Blade drew a dagger.
Rose’s heart lurched. She’d never seen a real fight, only tournaments, where the blades were blunted, knights were rarely injured, and men exchanged insults with harmless glee.
This battle would be real. Blood would be spilled. Blade was not only outnumbered, but shackled. No matter how good a fight he put up, the three thieves would surely defeat him.
She had to do something.
She sprang forward. At least, that was her intent. Actually, since her skirts snagged on the bushes, ‘twas more of a lunge and then a topple. By the time she managed to disentangle herself and scramble upright, cursing all the while, the fight was already well engaged.
Rose was astonished by Blade’s skill, his speed, his ferocity. Despite his shackles, he slashed with the dagger in bold arcs, forcing the thieves away. He yelled at Guillot to get back, and the boy wasted no time scurrying off, Rose hoped, to get help.
Blade’s dagger
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