since setting foot back in England. Roger felt for his sword, wishing he had a lance to hand. He’d ended more lives with his preferred weapon than he cared to count.
‘We can’t fight them,’ Thomas whimpered.
He was right. Three men against two was not good odds. Roger stared around him. The road was crossing the highest point as it circumnavigated the forest and night would soon be upon them. Taking the easier road had been a mistake after all. In the distance beyond the forest, Roger could see lights coming from different villages and a large cluster that must be the town where both roads joined.
‘We’ll cut through the forest and try to reach the other road,’ Roger decided, wishing he had taken that route in the first place. Cross-country in the near darkness was risky, but better than riding straight into trouble. ‘If we can reach one of those settlements, we may be able to hide.’
A shout echoed in the silence of the hills. One of the prospective ambushers pointed towards them. Roger cursed his stupidity. He’d been so intent on watching the men ahead he had given no thought to their own visibility; on the hilltop they would have been in clear view. Already the horsemen were riding towards them.
Roger plunged through the trees away from the path. Thomas followed. They rode fast into the darkness, pushing their horses as hard as the forest would allow. For the first time since returning to England, Roger was thankful it was early spring. A few months more and the undergrowth would have grown up, making it impossible to ride quickly.
A quick glance behind reassured Roger they had not been followed, but he had not accounted for being intercepted ahead. One horseman appeared seemingly from nowhere to their right. His head was down and he rode directly at them, his cloak obscuring his face.
Roger swung around in the saddle, reaching for his sword, but before he could draw it something punched him in the back of his right shoulder, sharp and cold and forcing the breath from him. He had been stabbed in the leg once during a brawl over a whore in a French inn and the sensation was familiar. There was no real pain yet, but he knew from experience that would follow shortly. He looked down to discover the barb of an arrow protruding from below his collarbone close to his armpit.
Arrows! Roger hadn’t anticipated that! He gave a laugh that ended as a grunt as pain began to spread through him like ripples across a pond when a rock was hurled into the depths.
They were in real danger now. The bowman was fumbling behind in his quiver, but on horseback and amongst trees he was struggling.
‘Give me your sword,’ Roger barked at Thomas.
The boy passed his weapon, but the strength was already going from Roger’s arm. He took the sword in his left hand and wheeled around, slashing behind him blindly. He felt the sword make contact. The bowman gave an unearthly, wordless gurgle. Roger looked and saw to his disgust that he had caught the rider full in the throat. The man fell forward over the horse’s neck. Roger retched and leaned across to slap the horse with the flat of the blade. It whinnied in fear and pain and galloped away with its rider still in the saddle. He dug his heels into his own mount’s flanks.
‘Come on,’ he grunted at Thomas, riding in the opposite direction the horse had taken. There was no time to think where they were heading now, but he rode towards what he hoped was the smaller of the villages. The other two men would not be far behind, but he hoped they would follow their comrade in confusion.
Roger’s head was spinning and his arm felt like ice by the time they reached the depths of the woods. His fingers refused to grip the reins and he knew he was becoming drowsy. He bit his lip, the small pain sharpening his senses as the greater one dulled it. Instinctively Roger reached for the arrow, but stopped. Without examining the shape of the tip he did not know whether to pull back or forward. At the moment there was little blood, but he had seen what happened when such wounds were treated. Now was not the time to deal with his injury. He did not think they had been followed so finding refuge was the priority.
He heard splashing and realised they had reached a shallow river and were halfway into the water. On the furthest bank, the trees began to thin. A single light flickered in the darkness, so briefly that he thought he had imagined it.
‘Can you find your home? Will it be safe refuge?’
‘I think so. I hope so,’ Thomas answered.
‘Get me there,’ Roger ordered. They were his last words as he slumped forward in the saddle. He dimly saw Thomas dismount and take both reins. Roger closed his eyes. His last thought was that if he died tonight he would at least be spared from making the decision to return to Yorkshire and face his family.
* * *
The chickens were safely shut away for the night. Any fox that hoped to help himself would find he was out of luck. Lucy Carew picked up the lantern from the ground and made her way round the side of the brewing shed towards the door of the inn, swinging the light back and forth to light the path.
She dropped the bar across the door. Shivering as a draught blew through the rip in the linen window covering, Lucy hung her cloak beside the door. The fire was almost spent. She gave the solitary log a vigorous prod with the poker and sank on to the stool beside the hearth. The rain had eased, but the earlier downpour had meant no passing customers had called since mid-afternoon. Lucy took her cap off and let her hair fall loose from its plait.
A hammering on the door made her jump. She was halfway to her feet when she caught herself and sat back down. She badly needed the money that customers would pay for their drinks, but her head ached and several tasks remained before she could retire to bed.
Apart from the lantern and the glow from the fire, the inn was in darkness. If she sat quietly they would leave. She felt a pang of sympathy for whoever was about in the bad weather, but not enough to rouse herself and let them in.
The hammering grew louder and more insistent. It was not going to cease.
A male voice bellowed, ‘I know someone is there. I saw your light.’
Lucy pushed herself from the stool. Clutching the poker behind her, she eased up the latch and pulled the door open a crack. It was pushed open with unexpected violence from outside, causing her to spring out of the way with a gasp of alarm.
Two men pushed their way inside. One had his arm slung around the other’s shoulder and was being supported. He staggered as he walked, moaning softly, and his tangled black hair obscured his face. The second man’s head was bowed under the strain of bearing his companion who was taller and broader.
Lucy gritted her teeth.
‘I don’t want drunks at this time of night.’
‘He isn’t drunk, he’s hurt,’ the supporting man wheezed. He raised his head and Lucy gave a cry of surprise at the face she had not seen since he declared his intention to fight with King Edward’s army in France.
‘Thomas? Is it really you?’
Lucy started forward, but her brother drew a short sword from beneath his cloak and brandished it. Lucy gave a squeak of alarm at the sight of her younger brother with such a fierce expression which ill suited his kind face. Thomas was an amiable dolt and to see him acting so fiercely was disconcerting. She clutched the poker firmly in her hand and retreated to the bottom of the staircase.
The man she had taken for a drunk now raised his head, which had been lolling to one side. He gave a wolfish grin beneath his thick beard, but it was his eyes that transfixed Lucy. Brown as walnuts and studying her with such intensity that a sensation stirred inside her she had not felt in longer than she could remember. She felt a blush begin deep between her breasts that was only prevented from spreading by the dawning realisation that her admirer’s gaze was so intense because he was struggling to focus.
‘What happened?’
‘Ambush,’ the injured man slurred. ‘Don’t fear, little dove. We won’t hurt you. If you do what we ask.’
‘Are you alone?’ Thomas raised his sword again and stepped towards Lucy,