Shadow Rider. Kathrynn Dennis

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      By late afternoon, the dull gray sky had darkened. They’d stopped to rest deep in the woods, where the frozen trees and thickets offered cover from the worst of the biting wind and from their enemies.

      Sybilla stood beside Regalo, her teeth clattering, rattling like pebbles in a box. She rubbed the colt’s neck with her bare hands, attempting to warm him. He stood quietly with his head down, his foggy breath blowing from his nostrils. Guy fed Bacchus, while Simon picked the snow-pack from the great horse’s hooves, and Addy stood quietly with her eyes closed.

      A youthful voice pierced the air. “Ho there! I’ve found ye!”

      Etienne emerged, jogging from his hiding spot in the woods. Breathless and pink cheeked, he handed Guy the pouch.

      Without so much as a word to Etienne, Guy shook the contents into his gloved hand. Sybilla craned her neck to see.

      A string of prayer beads spilled out. The shiny black beads, obsidian mayhap, were as dark and glittering as Regalo’s eyes. A delicate wooden cross, covered with mother-of-pearl roses, dangled at the end of a leather cord. Guy squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and his fingers closed over the beads. Grief flooded over his face and he mouthed the words thank you to Etienne, before he turned away.

      Sybilla lowered her eyes. God’s breath! There was no emerald in his pouch. Had she known the contents were so dear, she never would have ripped the little bag from his possession and hurled it across the darkened stall.

      Simon patted Etienne on the shoulder and smiled.

      Etienne stroked Addy’s neck reassuringly, but his gaze roamed the woods as if he wasn’t sure he was entirely safe. He’d always been a superstitious lad. He shivered, no doubt as much from fear as from the cold. A Separate, Joan the hayman’s wife, had died not far from here, months ago. Poor Joan had been blamed when Will Talbot’s cow birthed a one-eyed calf. Drunken Will, as he was known, had blubbered to the sheriff that Joan helped with the birthing. She’d been arrested, tried, and branded within an hour. ’Twas the beating that ended her life. Her naked body had been dragged into the woods and left unburied, as an example to anyone who defied the law. ’Twas said the dead woman’s ghost still wandered in the woods, looking for her grave.

      The thought of dying here, alone, exposed, and unable to fend off the wolves, made Sybilla tremble.

      Guy spoke softly. “Time to leave. Hamon will send more men to search.” He offered her his hand.

      On impulse, Sybilla reached out, glad for the comfort of his touch. Suddenly, she halted. She scanned the wooded cove for Regalo. He was never far, but now the little colt stood not fifty feet away, like a hound pointing at a rabbit hole.

      His ears pricked forward. He kept his sad eyes focused on the thicket in front of him. He turned his head when Sybilla called his name, but otherwise, he did not move.

      Sybilla walked slowly toward him. Beneath the twisted, frozen branches of the thicket, where the wind whirled close to the ground, she caught a glimpse of a human form, or part of one, leg jutting from the snow.

      Her heart almost stopped.

      She covered her mouth with her hands and stepped back, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight—a woman’s leg, the frozen flesh marred by wolves, the bare foot missing most of the toes. Though she could not see the woman’s face, tufts of familiar coppery-red hair poked through the snow.

      A gust of wind broke through the trees and snaked around Sybilla. She fought back a scream, her body shaking.

      She wanted to run, to flee as fast as her feet would go to take her to—to where? She was safe nowhere. Not in Cornbury, not anymore, and mayhap not in the neighboring villages, or further. The bishop’s law applied to all of England and news of her near arrest and of Regalo’s strange markings would travel like fire over dried grass.

      She felt Guy’s arm wrap around her. He pulled her close, his warmth and strength enveloping her like a blanket. “Come away from here, Mistress Corbuc,” he whispered.

      Sybilla’s heart beat hard, so hard she could hear it thumping in her chest. She motioned to the snowy corpse. “’Tis Joan the hayman’s wife. I heard her screaming when they branded her. She was my friend. If I am not careful, there lies my fate.”

      Not waiting for his response, she pulled away from him, turned and bolted toward Bacchus. “I must not be arrested.”

      Guy mounted Bacchus and pulled her up to sit behind him, Etienne mounted Addy.

      Simon glanced at Guy. “Let the boy come?”

      Guy nodded and spurred Bacchus onward, toward a path that lead out of the cove and back into the woods. “The ground is frozen solid and Hamon’s men are sure to follow, else I’d bury the hayman’s wife for you, Mistress Corbuc. But know this, you’ve no one to fear. Not while you are with me.”

      No one but a greedy sheriff, a superstitious priest, and Lord Hamon, a ruthless overlord who’d have put my head upon a pike before he’d call me daughter.