*
“You are surprised,” the old woman said when Bartholomew passed her a piece of the bread Father Ignatius had brought from Haynesdale keep. He was startled by her words, because her eyes were milky and he had assumed her to be blind. She grinned at him when he did not immediately reply, and he realized she was more perceptive than most.
“And how did you guess as much?” he asked, his tone light.
She gestured. “I smell it.”
“Indeed?” He could not help but smile and was glad she could not see his expression. He did not wish to offend her, however whimsical she might be.
“When a reaction is anticipated, the subtlety of it can be felt or even smelled.” She smiled. “You may trust me on this. I hope that you never have the opportunity to learn that I am right.” She seemed to watch him. “So, tell me, sir, what surprises you?”
“That there are so many hidden in the forest,” Bartholomew acknowledged, for that was the most obvious confession. “And that you have evaded detection for two years.” He smiled. “That you have chickens. Are there not foxes in these woods?”
The old woman cackled, sounding much like one of her brood. “My son has made them a pen. They return to it each night and are hoisted high into the trees. It is some trouble, but we have eggs this way, and on occasion a fine stew.”
“Ingenious,” he acknowledged and she smiled.
She tapped him on the arm. “You are also surprised that we follow a woman.”
He was startled that she had overheard his question. “I wondered whether I merely imagined it. Anna is most decisive.”
“And yet you think it would be a marvel for so many to let a woman command them, even the smith’s daughter.”
“Even?”
She smiled. “Where have you been, sir, that you do not know the place that the smith holds in the hearts of the occupants of every village? His gift is akin to sorcery, and he must labor long to master it. A smith is always held in high regard, and his words carry great weight.”
Bartholomew considered this and found it easy to believe. “That makes good sense. I have never lived in a village, so would not have thought of it.”
“Never lived in a village? Only in a castle?”
“In a few of them.”
She leaned closer. “Where else?”
“A monastery,” he said, just to watch her reaction.
She giggled with glee. “Or you are one filled with surprises. I am glad that Anna saw fit to bring you here. Did she tell you that she was the daughter of the smith?”
“Aye, she did, and the Percy is her brother.”
The woman nodded. “And she still carries the crossbow?”
“Not exactly.” Bartholomew laid the weapon across his knees. “I hold it hostage until our wager is completed.”
The woman reached out and he guided her fingers to the hilt of the crossbow so that she could not injure herself inadvertently. She stroked the wood with reverent fingertips. “And where would a woman of the woods win such a fine weapon?”
“You must know that it was her father’s.”
“She told you as much, did she?” The old woman raised her brows. “And yet, and yet, how curious that a smith should own such a fine crossbow. One would expect him to leave a hammer and forge to his children, or some fine metalwork of his own crafting. Not a crossbow.” She arched a brow, and Bartholomew did wonder.
“Any man may learn to use a bow,” he countered easily. “Although it is a noble weapon, its use is not proscribed to noblemen.”
She had a good laugh at that, shaking a finger at him in her merriment. Bartholomew had an uncanny sense that she was trying to tell him something.
Was Anna not the smith’s daughter?
Then why would she have told him that she was?
