“Oh,” Alys gasped, and then gulped as the little contents of her stomach inched up—or down, rather—her throat. “Just hanging around. It’s so comfortable, I simply can’t understand why you went to the trouble to hide it.”
The old man gave a snort. “Pert tongue on you, missy.Have you had enough, or shall I leave you to your own entertainment?”
“What do you think?” she asked coldly.
The old man straightened, crossed his arms over his leather tunic, and frowned. “I think that, despite your maid’s clothing, I’ve snared me a lady.”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Alys rushed. He must be looking for coin, and coin Alys would gladly and gratefully pay him for cutting her down. “I am Lady Alys Foxe of Fallstowe Castle, and my family will reward you generously for your aid.”
“Is that so?” the old man said mildly. “Well then, that bein’ the case”—he gave her an exaggerated bow, one arm crossing over his middle—“I’ll be happy to leave you to rot in hell,milady.” He turned and began walking away.
“Wait!” Alys screamed, the rope beginning to twist slowly so that she was forced to whip her head side to side to keep sight of him. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“To me own warm home,” the old man called back to her.
“No! Come back! You must cut me down!”
“Sod off!” he shouted merrily.
“Please!” Alys screamed. “Please, I was searching the wood for help when I got caught in your snare—there’s a man very ill, he’ll die if no one comes for him!” Alys could not imagine what it was about her that had offended the old man so. He’d seemed ornery but sane until she’d acknowledged that she was of the nobility.
Of course!
“He’s only a commoner and has nothing!” she shouted as loudly as she could, the old man having already disappeared into the blackness between the trees. “A poor dairy farmer! Please, you must help us!”
Only silence answered her, and she began to panic. Asob bubbled at her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Please come back!” she keened.
After several moments, Alys decided that the old man really had walked away into the woods, leaving her—and Piers—to die. Anger replaced her fear.
“You son of a bitch!”she screamed, her throat feeling as though it was shredding with cold and strain and thirst. She punched the air near her hips in a fit of rage. “I would have had that branch in my grasp if not for you!Damnyou! Damn, damn,damnyou!”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to choke down the burning bile again. She gagged. Another deep breath, and then she arched her back once more.
“Aghh!” she cried as she began to swing. She pulled harder, her arc increasing, her fury pushing her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and the wind kissed them away.
Higher. Higher. Almost. Her fingernails scraped bark. She whizzed back into the night, steeling herself for the next push. She reached her arms until her back screamed, burned, threatened to tear—
Her fingers latched around the whip-thin branch and the slender stick began to slide through her hands like a rod of fire as momentum threatened to rip it from her hold.
“No!” she screamed. The smooth bark felt as slippery as a moss covered river rock in her grip. The outsides of her palms jammed against the base of two twigs forming out of the branch and her slide stopped. She bobbed between the rope and the limber branch. Her arms were over her head, stretched as far as they could without coming loose from her torso, one ankle still bound, her other left flailing toward the ground, which looked considerably farther away than she’d originally thought.
She tried kicking the snare free, but the knot was biting into her flesh. She couldn’t get enough leverage.
And now the tiny twigs keeping her hold were folding, bending onto the branch, and Alys felt her palms sliding minutely. In another moment, she would fly back over the ground.
“No!” she screamed again, as she began to hurl toward the earth.
But this time, she fell feet first. The branch ripped from her hands and she crumpled to the ground. The leaves beneath her face and palms felt so good, smelled so good. The universe was solid once more, even if her head and stomach were still swimming.
Alys raised her face perhaps two inches to look across the small clearing. She saw the head of a crude stone hatchet sunk into the dirt. She turned her face the other way and there stood the old man as well as two other, younger, men, staring at her, all three with their arms crossed over their chests.
Alys tried to crawl to the base of the young tree, dragging her skirts from the knot and down to cover her legs. She nearly made it before she began to vomit.
Alys was not coming back.
Even in his state of near delirium—which he knew could be the only explanation for what he was seeing and hearing—Piers recognized Alys’s vulnerability. She knew nothing of survival, had no supplies, knew not that each step she took south carried her farther and farther from the road she sought. It had to be freezing because it was still snowing, and it was sometime during the night because it was still dark.
She was likely dead already.
