Elsie walked the path slowly, arms wrapped around herself. He’ll be fine, she told herself. Halvard was formidable, guarded by loyal men, capable of reading danger better than any soldier she had ever met.
But she felt it—an ache deep in her ribs, a whisper of dread not unlike the way a storm cloud can darken the heart before it covers the sky.
She shivered, not so much with the cold but with the thought that something terrible could happen to him at any point.
That was when she heard it—soft, trembling, but unmistakably human. A child’s sob.
Elsie turned sharply. Near the ivy-draped wall a small boy stood alone, his shoulders shaking. His clothes were simple, mud-spattered, and his cheeks streaked with tears as he stood there all alone.
“My dear?” she called gently, stepping toward him. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
He looked up, eyes wide and glistening. “M–me maither… she… she needs help, me lady. Please.”
Concern flooded her, Elsie’s heartbeat picking up as she looked around her, trying to locate the boy’s mother. “What’s happened to her?”
“She fell,” the boy said quickly. “Near the old path. She’s bleedin’. I cannae lift her.” He sniffed, wiping his face with a grubby sleeve. “We dinnae have anyone else. Please …”
Elsie’s heart twisted. She didn’t recognize him from the keep’s children or the village children, but fear often carved unfamiliar shapes into familiar faces.
“I’ll get the guards,” she said, turning back toward the gate.
“Nay!” His voice cracked, urgent. “They’ll be too slow. Please, please, come now. She’s going’ tae die.”
Elsie hesitated. She glanced at the curtain walls, where plenty of guards stood, watching the land. It would only take a few moments of their time.
But if the mother was as severely wounded as the child claimed, then they didn’t have any time, not even moments. Elsie couldn’t know if the child was explaining it well enough to her, if the mother was truly dying or if she simply had a wound that bled too much.
Or if the child didn’t realize just how severely wounded his mother was.
Halvard would have insisted she get help.
But Halvard is gone. And a woman might be dying.
“All right,” she said softly. “Show me.”
She followed the child out through the garden’s side gate, down a narrow path lined with gorse and bramble. The castle walls loomed behind her, but with every step they shrank, until she could no longer hear the faint clatter of kitchen pots or the distant voices of guards changing post. The morning fog pooled low across the ground, curling around her ankles like pale, ghostly fingers. She rubbed her arms bring some warmth back to them, her gaze flicking ahead to the boy who walked with stiff, hurried steps.
“Is it much farther?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. The silence pressed at her, oppressive, bringing to mind terrible thoughts that she didn’t want to consider.
“Where is your mother exactly? What’s her name? I may know her.”
Still nothing. The boy kept walking, his head down, his shoulders tight, and Elsie’s stomach plummeted as she realized something was terribly wrong.
She came to a sudden halt, refusing to follow the boy any longer.
“Boy,” she said firmly, voice trembling only slightly, “tell me where your mother is.”
The boy froze. Then slowly, too slowly, he turned to look at her. His eyes no longer wet with tears. There was no trembling lip, no fear for his mother’s life.
Just emptiness.
Elsie’s breath hitched. “What––”
Suddenly, there was a whisper of movement behind her. Elsie spun, her skirts sweeping the frosted path, her breath catching painfully in her throat. Hooded figures emerged from the brush—three, four, five, perhaps even more. Elsie lost count quickly as she spun around and around, trying to keep track of themall. Their cloaks were dark and unmarked, their faces shadowed, their footfalls silent as death sliding across stone.
“No… no!” Elsie stumbled back, her heart crashing in her chest. “Stay away!”
