immediately began catching on the thick undergrowth. This side of the wood was darker, the trees bunched together more closely, than the area around the old tower. Switha moved with fleet assurance, leaving the trail to pick a path between the trees.
Jane moved with more care. The layers of leaf mold under her feet were springy. The aromas of
impend-ing spring, damp earth, wood rot, and moss filled the air. In sheltered spots she saw the beginnings of ferns and fungi, and maybe violets. The wind was still, but the birds overhead were raucously noisy. The place was dark, but it soon lost its air of mystery for Jane. She began to enjoy the walk despite the trouble with her voluminous layers of clothing.
She had no way of guessing how far they'd strayed from their starting point when the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the earth echoed off to the left.
A horse! Her first thought was of outlaws, her first instinct to climb a tree and hide.
Ahead of her, Switha stopped. She tilted her head to listen for a moment before turning to look at Jane.
She seemed rather pleased with herself.
Jane whispered a nervous "What?"
"Sir Daffyd's been quartering this part of the woods with his men all day. But I doubt he'll find any outlaws here today."
Jane relaxed, glad to know the unseen rider was a soldier, not a criminal. She got the impression the peasant woman wasn't exactly in favor of the man-hunt. She supposed the arrogant Sir Daffyd was unpopular with the locals. He was a king's man after all.
"I think the lad should find what he seeks," Switha said, apparently reading Jane's thoughts. "Then he'll go away and leave us alone." She pointed to where a clearing appeared through a gap in the trees. She set off once more, and Jane followed.
The horseman was waiting on the other side of the small clearing. His gold head was bared to the sun, his sword drawn and resting on the high saddle front. Sir Daffyd glared down his aquiline nose at them from the back of a deep-chested gray warhorse. He sat still as a statue, cape thrown back, muscular body poised in the center of a sunbeam. The sight of Daffyd ap Bleddyn against a backdrop of mistletoe-draped oak and clear blue sky was riveting. He seemed to Jane the living personification of ancient war.
Switha continued toward the knight. Jane hesitat-ed at the edge of the clearing, half tempted to run from this theoretical protector of the people. He looked anything but benign. Stephan armored, with sword in hand, looked a bit like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. Sir Daffyd looked as though he meant business.
But she was also half tempted to move forward. The dangerous figure of the horseman was oddly compelling. )ane found herself waiting, one foot in the wood, one in the clearing, biting her lip while indecision and the half-recalled memory of a dream froze her in place.
Sir Daffyd solved her dilemma by spurring the big gray forward. He stopped briefly to speak to Switha, curt words in the Saxon woman's own lan-guage. From the look of pained concentration on the woman's face, Jane assumed the man spoke Saxon with a particularly garbled accent. The woman eventually bobbed her head in understand-ing, pointing at Jane.
Sir Daffyd moved the horse closer. When she could feel its warm breath on her shoulder, he jumped out of the saddle to stand before her. Loom. He was shorter than Stephan, but not by much. He was a looming sort of guy. His sword dis-appeared into its sheath with a dangerous snick. She noticed his eyes were hazel, highlighted with green. They looked her up and down with chilling contempt.
"What?" he demanded. "Did your husband beat you?"
"What?" Jane asked in her turn.
He pointed to her cheek.
She had almost forgotten her bruised and swollen face. She touched the swollen eye while reminding the knight sternly, "I'm a widow. I fell down some stairs." He didn't look as though he believed her. Not that how she'd injured herself was any business of
Jane moved with more care. The layers of leaf mold under her feet were springy. The aromas of
impend-ing spring, damp earth, wood rot, and moss filled the air. In sheltered spots she saw the beginnings of ferns and fungi, and maybe violets. The wind was still, but the birds overhead were raucously noisy. The place was dark, but it soon lost its air of mystery for Jane. She began to enjoy the walk despite the trouble with her voluminous layers of clothing.
She had no way of guessing how far they'd strayed from their starting point when the unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the earth echoed off to the left.
A horse! Her first thought was of outlaws, her first instinct to climb a tree and hide.
Ahead of her, Switha stopped. She tilted her head to listen for a moment before turning to look at Jane.
She seemed rather pleased with herself.
Jane whispered a nervous "What?"
"Sir Daffyd's been quartering this part of the woods with his men all day. But I doubt he'll find any outlaws here today."
Jane relaxed, glad to know the unseen rider was a soldier, not a criminal. She got the impression the peasant woman wasn't exactly in favor of the man-hunt. She supposed the arrogant Sir Daffyd was unpopular with the locals. He was a king's man after all.
"I think the lad should find what he seeks," Switha said, apparently reading Jane's thoughts. "Then he'll go away and leave us alone." She pointed to where a clearing appeared through a gap in the trees. She set off once more, and Jane followed.
The horseman was waiting on the other side of the small clearing. His gold head was bared to the sun, his sword drawn and resting on the high saddle front. Sir Daffyd glared down his aquiline nose at them from the back of a deep-chested gray warhorse. He sat still as a statue, cape thrown back, muscular body poised in the center of a sunbeam. The sight of Daffyd ap Bleddyn against a backdrop of mistletoe-draped oak and clear blue sky was riveting. He seemed to Jane the living personification of ancient war.
Switha continued toward the knight. Jane hesitat-ed at the edge of the clearing, half tempted to run from this theoretical protector of the people. He looked anything but benign. Stephan armored, with sword in hand, looked a bit like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes. Sir Daffyd looked as though he meant business.
But she was also half tempted to move forward. The dangerous figure of the horseman was oddly compelling. )ane found herself waiting, one foot in the wood, one in the clearing, biting her lip while indecision and the half-recalled memory of a dream froze her in place.
Sir Daffyd solved her dilemma by spurring the big gray forward. He stopped briefly to speak to Switha, curt words in the Saxon woman's own lan-guage. From the look of pained concentration on the woman's face, Jane assumed the man spoke Saxon with a particularly garbled accent. The woman eventually bobbed her head in understand-ing, pointing at Jane.
Sir Daffyd moved the horse closer. When she could feel its warm breath on her shoulder, he jumped out of the saddle to stand before her. Loom. He was shorter than Stephan, but not by much. He was a looming sort of guy. His sword dis-appeared into its sheath with a dangerous snick. She noticed his eyes were hazel, highlighted with green. They looked her up and down with chilling contempt.
"What?" he demanded. "Did your husband beat you?"
"What?" Jane asked in her turn.
He pointed to her cheek.
She had almost forgotten her bruised and swollen face. She touched the swollen eye while reminding the knight sternly, "I'm a widow. I fell down some stairs." He didn't look as though he believed her. Not that how she'd injured herself was any business of
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