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It was no good. After Alwenna cried out – still apparently asleep – Weaver had to step in. Even in this out-of-the-way place they couldn’t afford to attract anyone’s attention. Why in the name of the Goddess had he agreed to this madness?

He set a hand cautiously on her shoulder but she struck out wildly at him, landing a resounding slap against his face. He ducked back, cursing, but the contact had broken her free of the nightmare and she sat up abruptly, chest heaving as if she had been running hard.

She stared at him, her eyes wide in horror. “Did I just hit you? I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry…”

“I’ll live.” There was no need for her to look so stricken.

“I didn’t mean– It was–”

“Another of your nightmares.”

She rubbed her eyes with both hands and pushed her hair back from her face in a frustrated gesture. “Yes. No. It’s not– I’m not normally like this.”

Goddess, no. She wasn’t about to discuss her sleeping habits with him. What was he supposed to say: how she must miss her husband? Maybe she guessed what he was thinking, because she seemed to gather her composure.

“I’ve been dreaming about things that happened years ago. Things I’ve not thought about in an age.”

And none of them happy things, to judge by her expression. In another place, another time, Weaver might have offered sympathy, or even a shoulder to cry on. But this was his king’s wife.

Weaver sat back on his heels, trying to summon words of reassurance, but he was never obliged to utter them as he heard footsteps hurrying through the forest towards their camp. He spun around, drawing his dagger.

Wynne appeared through the trees, gasping for breath. “Goddess spare us, there’s half a dozen men camped just down the hill. I saw their fire through the trees. I think they could be following us.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Seven men, seven horses. Weaver could see them all from his hiding place among the scrubby trees. And Wynne had been right. One of the horses was the same distinctive grey Weaver had seen the night the raiders passed by. Was this coincidence? Or had the raiders returned to the farm and picked up their trail? More to the point, how was he meant to deal with this? Given a handful of men under his command, he could have ambushed this party. Single-handed, his options were limited.

He might make his way down to where the horses were tethered and release them. But the waning moon that gave him enough light to study the camp would be enough to reveal him. And where would that leave the Lady Alwenna? He might manage to remove the sentry, unseen by the others who were slouched about the fire, passing around a jug. But the sentry was in full view. If any one of them should glance up at the wrong moment…

No. His best option was to skulk away into the night with the two women, as if they were common thieves. His only option.

The women had already saddled the horses when he returned to their camp, blankets bundled up and tied in place. He could tell them how to find Vorrahan, set them on their way and double back to deal with the raiding party. If he succeeded, he’d be able to catch them up using one of the raiders’ horses. If not, well, they’d be several hours down the road towards their destination before any pursuit, and he’d cut down at least some of their pursuers. And if he failed entirely he’d be spared the need to explain his actions to Tresilian. That idea was craven and foolhardy, and he knew it.

Alwenna watched him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“Wynne’s right. It’s the same group of riders we saw the other night.”

“So, you think we should leave now?” Her voice was tight.

“That’s right.” What else could they do? He couldn’t abandon them on the road.

Alwenna twisted the trailing end of her belt between her fingers. “Wynne and I were talking. And we thought – if we
are
being followed by these men – we ought to split up. One of us could lay a false trail.”

“My lady, I would gladly do that if I could leave others to guard you. But I have to see you safely to Vorrahan.”

Alwenna nodded, glancing towards Wynne. “We guessed you’d say that. But… it needn’t be you.” Her voice tightened, as if she spoke with difficulty.

“It’s out of the question. If anyone is to take that risk–”

“Begging your pardon, Weaver, but a woman can blunder about the forest on a horse just as well as any man.” Wynne had been standing with her arms folded, but now she stepped forward. “You know this country. Tell me what path to take and I’ll do it, while you spirit my lady away. Give me directions and I can catch up with you further down the road. You know it makes sense.”

Alwenna’s fingers clenched about the ornate point on her belt. Both women looked to him for an answer. He had an uneasy feeling each wanted to hear something different.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t ask it of you – it’s too risky. We don’t even know if it’ll work.”

Wynne snorted disapproval. “We can be sure they’ll find our campsite come morning and then cast about till they find our tracks. How long after that before they overtake us?”

“We don’t even know for certain they’re following us.”

“So let me set a clear trail for them and we’ll find out. Would you be half so reluctant if I were a man?”

Weaver shook his head. “It’s my job. I swore to the king–”

“Yes, yes. We know all about that. Alwenna’s as dear to me as if she’d been my own. Her life has been my life these past twelve years and there is nothing I won’t do to protect her. Nothing.”

“I can’t ask it of you,” Weaver repeated.

“You don’t need to ask it of me because I’ll do it anyway. Only tell me the best route to take, and let’s stop wasting time.”

Alwenna stepped forward. “Please, Wynne, reconsider. I fear for you if you do this.”

“No, my lady. My mind’s made up. You’ll see one day how it is – you’ll find there’s nothing you won’t give up for the sake of your own.”

The two women embraced, with an intensity that left Weaver feeling he was intruding. A breeze picked up, stirring the trees, breaking the silence of the forest.

Wynne turned away and mounted the horse – albeit stiffly. “Well, Weaver, which way should I go? Give me the best chance of making this work.”

She gave him no choice – and she was right. His misgivings had no place here. There was nothing for him to do but help her decide the best route.

After Wynne was set on her way Weaver delayed only to tie strips of blanket about his horse’s hooves, to make their tracks harder to follow. He had one more strip to add when the horse snorted and raised its head. Alwenna stood at the horse’s shoulder, holding the reins. She ducked down and peered beneath the horse’s neck to see what it had detected. A moment later she reached over and shook Weaver’s shoulder. Weaver twisted round. A man stood at the edge of the clearing, swaying slightly as he drained his bladder against a tree. A liquor jug dangled from his free hand. He hadn’t noticed them at all, but if he glanced their way he could scarcely fail to see them. One shout from him and his six companions would be upon them. Even if they were all as drunk as this specimen, Weaver didn’t care to take those odds.

The last strip of blanket still in his hand, Weaver left Alwenna holding the horse as he crept through the trees at the edge of the tiny clearing. The man was preoccupied in refastening his clothing and unaware of Weaver’s approach until the very last minute. His jaw dropped open in surprise. Before he could utter a sound Weaver grabbed him by the throat and shoved the piece of blanket into his mouth. The drunk struggled, flailing his free hand, seemingly reluctant to damage the liquor jug. Weaver tightened his grip about his neck and crammed the cloth as far down the man’s throat as he could. The man’s chest convulsed as he fought for air he couldn’t take in, but it was as soundless as Weaver could have hoped for. His feet scuffled on the ground, then he went limp and the jug dropped to the ground with a hollow thud. A small amount of liquor spilled out and seeped into the forest floor.

Weaver dragged the body over to the narrow gill and rolled it down the side. It came to rest face down in the tiny stream. With luck, the man’s companions might believe he’d simply lost his footing. Weaver tossed the liquor jug after him and returned to the horse, wrapping the strip of blanket about its hoof and tying it up as he had done the others. The cloth was damp with the dead man’s saliva. Alwenna held the horse’s reins in silence until Weaver straightened up and took them from her. She stepped back half a pace, although she said nothing.

Weaver wasted no time in leading the horse away between the trees, its hoofbeats muffled effectively by the strips of blanket. Alwenna ghosted along at his side as they pushed through overgrown paths a mounted rider wouldn’t take. They didn’t speak, not even when he paused to pull a low branch aside so Alwenna might pass more easily. If she blamed him for Wynne’s decision she didn’t say so. If she held him in disgust for throttling the drunken soldier she didn’t say so, either. It didn’t make for a companionable silence.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Alwenna was growing used to the sounds of the forest now. Small creatures scuffled in the undergrowth, scurrying away as they passed. Birds took off from branches high above them with a clatter of wings. So many things relished the cover of the trees but she found it oppressive, especially by day. Being unable to see more than a few yards in any direction troubled her; she wanted to push the trees back, clear the canopy that masked the sky. It didn’t help that her view forward was obscured by Weaver’s back as she rode pillion behind him. They were far off the beaten track now, riding at a walk along a narrow path used mainly by foresters as they went about their duties – and by others like them who wished to come and go with as few witnesses as possible.

In front of her Weaver tensed. “Riders approaching. Get that hood up.”

“Could it be Wynne?” Alwenna flipped the hood over her head, tugging it down so it hid her face. What if it was the raiding party?

Weaver took his reins in one hand and halted the horse, setting his right hand on his sword hilt. The first of the oncoming horses came into view: a quality animal, it carried not an ounce of fat. These were no peasant foresters. The horse’s rider was tall, of lean build. Behind him plodded a string of pack ponies. A wide-brimmed hat sheltered his bearded face, while his hair was oiled and dragged tightly back in thin plaits, bleached russet by sunlight. A freemerchant. He didn’t appear startled to meet them at all – instead he smiled.

He reined in his horse. “Well met, fellow travellers. May your roads be clear and the Hunter watch over your fires.” His right hand moved to his left shoulder, palm downwards in the stylised gesture of greeting the freemerchants used, and he inclined his head briefly.

Weaver mirrored the gesture. “And so may your road be blessed, traveller.”

The freemerchant nodded, studying Weaver for a moment before his gaze moved on to Alwenna.

“Sister, you are welcome among us.” Again that gesture.

She responded in kind. She’d been taught the formal greeting long ago, but this was the first time she’d needed to use it. Freemerchants came and went at court, but their business had never involved her.

“You will always find welcome with us, sister. I am Nicholl. I give you my name that you may call on me when the need arises.” Was that a hint of pity she saw in his eyes? Perhaps she imagined it. His attention returned to Weaver.

“Well met, Ranald Weaver. Much water has flowed to the sea since my father gave you his name. What news of the road?”

If Weaver was startled to hear the stranger use his name he didn’t show it. They had met before, perhaps. But what an odd way to phrase it. Then again, she’d heard many strange tales of the freemerchants.

“The road is quiet, but you will find trouble as you approach Highkell. Reivers in the Stanton lands have strayed west in recent days.”

“The Stanton lands? Have it as you will.” The freemerchant made a moue of… disgust? Simple disagreement? “We live ever in changing times. I thank you for your warning. The road we travelled was tranquil.”

“You may meet one of our party on the road: a woman on a bay horse.”

“If she is in need of assistance she will not be denied it.” Nicholl’s eyes flicked to Alwenna once more before he took up his reins and urged his horse forward. “May the Hunter watch over you.” His horse pressed past them in the narrow space between the trees and with a creaking of harness the string of ponies followed him. Behind them were several more men of varying ages, all with the same russet hair, then three women. Scarves wrapped about their heads hid their hair but Alwenna guessed it to be oiled back as the men’s had been, for the air was heavy with the scent of the aromatic oil they used. A memory stirred, too elusive for her to pin down. She’d met that scent somewhere recently, somewhere unexpected. It was a scent she connected with the market, but she hadn’t been there in recent weeks.

Weaver waited until the caravan had vanished from sight among the trees before nudging his horse forward. “We should press on.”

“A coincidence to meet someone who knows you out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve never met him before in my life.” Weaver took up his reins and kicked his horse forward.

“But he recognised you. He knew your name.”

“A lucky guess, nothing more. More like he recognised you.”

“Dressed like this? That would be a very lucky guess indeed.”

“The freemerchants do a lively enough trade in rumour. Depend upon it I told him nothing he didn’t already know.”

“But how could he guess your name like that? Is it true what they say: that they have a sixth sense?”

“People say a great many things. Would you believe them all?”

“It was a perfectly reasonable question. You clearly know more of the freemerchants than I do – would it be so difficult to give a straight answer?”

“Apologies, my lady. It is not the truth that matters in this case. It suits the freemerchants to let common folk believe they could curse the ground out from beneath them if they dared cross them. It ensures the ignorant treat them with – if not respect – at least caution.”