“The pious pilgrims in this lot,” Tildy revealed, “can be counted upon one hand. I’d be surprised if any o’ this company came for holy purposes at all.”
Rose nodded. ‘Twas true. Most of them seemed to have ulterior reasons for going on pilgrimage. Guillot fled a cruel master. The scholars sought wives. Drogo and Fulk, Jacob and Lettie seemed to see the travel as a temporary reprieve from their spouses. Brigit looked for a husband. And Ivo and Odo appeared to have no other motive in mind but to sample to drunkenness the brews of every tavern between Stirling and St. Andrews. Even Rose herself couldn’t claim redemption as the impetus behind her journey.
As they continued along on their counterfeit pilgrimage, Tildy, like a hound unwilling to surrender a bone, gnawed away at Rose’s resolve.
“Well,” the old woman said in a huff, “I ween ‘tis God’s will that a woman birth bairns.” She sniffed. “I had three weans myself, but…” She wiped her sleeve across her nose. “All three were lost to me. So my husband bid me as he lay dyin’, ‘Tildy,’ he said, ‘find ye a guidman and make ye some more wee ones. They’ll bring ye joy and take care o’ ye in your wanin’ years.’”
“So ye’ve come on pilgrimage to find a husband?”
“Oh, lass, nae!” Tildy replied with a giggle. “Nae, I’ve come to St. Andrews to see if there’s a market for Highland wool there. My first man passed on a long while ago. I’ve been through four husbands since! And I gave each one a litter o’ bairns.” Pride shone in her eyes. “I’ve seven lads and five, nae, six lasses, and at last reckonin’, an even score o’ bairns from them.”
Rose bit her lip. She’d known that going to a nunnery meant she’d never have children, but she’d relegated that fact to the back of her mind. Tildy’s fond words were a stinging reminder.
They walked on mutely then, and the brilliance of the morning paled in Rose’s dismal regard. Each footfall now seemed like a step closer to her doom.
The terrain began to reflect Rose’s sense of impending gloom. The forest thickened almost imperceptibly as the stretches of sunlight dimmed and narrowed, and shadow widened to fill its place. Birches and willows and rowans crowded the path with darker and denser branches, leaning over the pilgrims with twisted limbs, like prying necromancers attempting to divine their secrets. Blossoms dwindled to an occasional clump of daisies lucky enough to find light, and even the sparrows deserted the deepening wood. A pervasive gravity weighed down the travelers, diminishing their chatter, for what few words they exchanged seemed swallowed up by the oppressive thicket. Eventually, the sun was almost entirely shut out by the trees, and Rose was thankful for the company of the pilgrims, pious or not. The path wound through the forest with almost calculated cunning, slithering and loitering and folding back upon itself until Rose was certain they would snake endlessly through the woods.
“There’s a clearin’ a wee bit ahead,” Father Peter announced with sudden gaiety in the silence, startling more than a few of them. “We’ll stop there.”
True to the priest’s word, a reprieve from the burdensome shadow at last appeared in the form of a large round depression in the break of trees where the ground was soft and grassy and flowers of every kind bloomed in profusion. The pilgrims laughed in relief as they stepped into the broad pool of light, and Rose’s heart calmed as she welcomed the embrace of the comforting sun once again. Even Wink stretched her wings as if to say she was quite through with darkness for a while.
The pilgrims dispersed with renewed confidence, sprawling in the sunken meadow, picking flowers, clucking like flocks of chickens. Tildy, who had been mincing along the trail in discomfort for the last mile, set off with Lettie to find a bush not too far from the circle of light where she could ease her needs.
Rose tried not to look at the dark outlaw who passed behind her, but the soft clink of his chains conjured up his visage. ‘Twas easier to displace him from her thoughts when they traveled well apart. Now, hearing his shackles, catching his scent, and, aye,
feeling
his presence, filled her senses and flooded her mind. She dared not lift her eyes to him.
Taking a fortifying breath, she marched to the midst of the meadow. The ground was spongy, almost like a living thing, and mushrooms made faerie circles throughout the glade. The place felt enchanted, yet the dark trees surrounding the lea appeared as if they might close over it at any moment, feasting upon the sunlight and the flowers and the pilgrims in one gulp. She shivered as she loosened Wink’s jesses.
“Mind ye stay close,” she murmured to the falcon, “for I’ve no wish to traipse through this eerie wood lookin’ for ye.”
The warning was hardly necessary. Wink never strayed far, and the tame creature always returned to Rose’s arm.
She smiled as the bird caught the breeze and soared in lazy upward circles, cocking her head this way and that, instinctively seeking prey with her one good eye. For a long while, Wink played in the sky, dipping and turning, fluttering, then gliding, widening her range until Rose thought it best to call the falcon back.
But just as she lifted her wrist to summon Wink, the bird paused in mid-air, flapping furiously to hold her position. Rose frowned. ‘Twas the bearing a falcon took just before it dove in for prey.
“Wink!” she shouted, but the bird ignored her.
Then, while Rose’s jaw dropped, the falcon plummeted like a stone toward the dense trees.
Rose instantly picked up her skirts and ran clumsily across the wet sod toward the spot Wink had disappeared. She must hurry if she didn’t wish to lose her pet. What the devil had possessed the bird? Wink had lost her eye when she was a fledgling. She couldn’t possibly have learned how to hunt. What had she spied to make her dive like that?
Rose tried not to think about the ominous trees as she loped toward the border of the meadow, tried not to imagine how much like a wall of hostile soldiers they looked. She squeezed between two oaks where there was no path and followed a straight line into the tangled wood. The way was rough and overgrown, but ‘twas the most direct path, and if she strayed from her course, she might lose her falcon. Branches slapped at her arms and caught at her hair. Gnarled roots rose to trip her. But she set her eye square ahead, silently cursing the willful bird who’d picked the most unfortunate time to plot rebellion.
To Rose’s relief, the thicket thinned in a moment, revealing a small but lush clearing. Wink had likely plunged onto the carpet of grass here. She spied a flicker of movement through the branches and stepped gingerly forward.
Then she beheld a most curious sight. At the far edge of the clearing, Simon the palmer knelt upon the ground with his dagger out and a small pile of wood splinters at his feet. She was about to call out to him to ask if he’d seen Wink when she noticed the parchment-pale cast of his skin and the frozen terror in his face.
She heard them before she saw them. Low growls rumbled like distant thunder, surrounding the spot where the palmer sat shivering.
Wolves.
Three of them.
Shaggy, gray, snarling beasts.
They growled and snapped their jaws. Saliva dripped from their fangs, and their hackles stood stiff upon their muscular shoulders. Horrified, she watched them creep boldly on enormous paws toward the trembling palmer.
What should she do? she wondered. There wasn’t time to fetch help, but the palmer could hardly hold off three hungry beasts with his single dagger, and Rose had no weapon with her to lend him aid.
‘Twas useless to call out for help. Not only would her cry never pierce the thick foliage, but ‘twould instantly alert the wolves to her presence.
She’d nearly decided to take that risk anyway, to burst loudly toward them out of the trees in the hopes that the commotion would startle them into fleeing.
But before she could move, she heard a familiar screech from a nearby elm. While Rose watched in astonishment and dread, Wink swooped down from the branches and dove directly toward the slavering beasts.
“Nae, Wink!” Rose cried, but ‘twas too late.
The falcon latched onto the back of one of the wolves, gripping hard with her talons and flapping her wings, pecking furiously at the animal’s skull.
The other two wolves, unnerved by this new enemy, retreated while their brother tossed his shaggy head, trying to loose the tenacious pest that plagued him. But Wink held fast, wildly beating the air, at last drawing blood with her curved beak.
At first, the wolf hunkered low to the ground and howled in misery, frightening his wary companions further into the deep wood. He whimpered piteously, pawing at his bedeviled head.
The falcon’s moment of triumph, however, was brief.
Without warning, the exasperated wolf fiercely whipped his head around, catching his small tormenter between his sharp teeth. With brutal vengeance, he snapped his huge jaws together.
“Nae!” The scream ripped painfully from Rose’s throat.
What happened next seemed to take an eternity, as if time slogged through thick treacle. Rose’s ears filled with numbing silence, and her heart sank to the pit of her stomach. She could draw no breath, for it had been torn from her along with the scream. Her limbs felt leaden as she broke from the trees and strove forward on impossibly sluggish feet. Behind her, someone shouted, but she paid no heed. All her attention was focused on her poor bird.
The wolf turned his bloodied head and speared her with narrowed eyes the color of mustard. But desperation drove her as she lumbered relentlessly forward. She must save her bird. She must snatch Wink from the wolf’s cruel maw.
She was almost there, almost. The wolf was but yards away. Just a dozen more dragging steps and…
She was suddenly yanked violently backward by her skirts. The impact bent her double, knocking the wind from her, jolting her from her strange lethargy.
“Stay!” came Blade’s fierce command.
Rose fought against his restraining grip, trying to break free. He didn’t understand. She had to get to her bird, had to rescue Wink.
But Blade thrust her aside, hurtling past her with a roar to face Wink’s attacker himself.
Blade had noticed the willful falcon when it first chose to rebel, diving out of the sky and deserting its mistress at the most inopportune time in the most inopportune place. He’d watched Rose follow the wayward creature into the forest.
Shaking his head, Blade had pursued them, palming the pair of speckled eggs he’d found for the bird’s supper. He had no choice but to go after Rose. After all, a falconer might wander for hours looking for a fugitive bird.
He’d arrived at the clearing just in time to hear Rose’s piercing cry of distress, to witness her bolting out of the trees.
Her scream had sent an icy frisson of lightning along his spine. He’d yelled at her in warning, but she’d been deaf to his cry, recklessly rushing toward the wolf that gripped her pet between its teeth.
Cold dread froze the breath in his chest. He knew nothing would stop Rose. She loved that bird beyond reason, beyond sense. She’d do anything to save it.
He’d bit out an oath, clenching his hands, cracking the forgotten eggs in his fist. Jesu, he needed to get to her before she reached the wolf. With a bellow, he raced forward, cursing the chain that hampered his pumping arms. A branch whipped at his face, and he knocked it aside, leaping over a fallen log in his haste to intercept Rose.
She was but a half dozen yards from the beast when Blade finally reached her. Clutching a handful of her flying skirts, he hauled back hard enough to snap her neck, commanding her to stay.
Of course, she paid him no heed. She batted at him with desperate fists and cried in protest until he finally coiled his hand in her surcoat and hurled her backward.
He didn’t stop to think. If he had, he would never have bolted forward in her stead to attack a pack of wild wolves. All he knew was that he had to save that damned falcon. The lass adored the crippled bird, and if she lost it…
With a snarl of rage, he lurched forward—unarmed except for the fury in his gaze and the vengeance in his heart.
Somehow, by God’s grace, he wasn’t killed.
His rampant savagery must have startled the wolves and taken the edge off of their appetites. For when Blade lunged to within a sword’s length from the leader of the pack, the beast recoiled, dropping the troublesome morsel from its jaws. Dominated, it slunk off after its brothers—its ears flat, its tail drooping.
Blade’s chest heaved like that of a warhorse primed for battle. His heart pummeled at his ribs, and unspent violence tingled along his arms.
He hastened toward the abandoned prey and felt Rose rush up behind him. He knelt before the creature that lay broken upon the grass. Its beak hung open in a soundless cry, and its breast pulsed rapidly. Its body bore the marks of the wolf’s teeth, a mangled wing, flecks of blood. And yet there remained a valiant, defiant clarity in the falcon’s eye that challenged death.
Still, as much as he prayed the bird might live, he feared ‘twas too far damaged. With utmost care, he scooped the small thing onto one palm, then turned to look at Rose.
His grim expression must have revealed his doubt.
What he perceived in her face was terrifying. ‘Twas far more than mere sorrow. Indeed, the despair in her eyes was so profound, it chilled him to the bone. For a long while she only stared at him—silent, hopeless. He couldn’t draw breath, so inconsolable was her gaze. He’d encountered a woman’s sadness before, but never had it pierced him so deeply, so utterly. While he returned her stare—unable to speak, unable to comfort her, unable to breathe—he watched her eyes fill with tears.
Rose felt numb. Time seemed to stop, and she saw the scene before her with the detachment of a dream. She knew she should look away, but her gaze was locked on the broken body speckled with blood, on the wing bent at an impossible angle, on the beak, parted in a silent scream. She sensed she should move forward, but her limbs felt weighted. She sensed she should weep, but her grief was too deep for tears.