“Good morrow,” he replied, though his tone did not suggest it. My concern dissipated a little; he had an accent, which was not common in our small kingdom. He was unlikely to recognize me.
I looked at him: black hair, dark eyes. He wore the rough hand-spun cloth of a peasant and had a longsword—indistinct, with little markings—at his waist. The clothing of a commoner. Still, I steeled myself: His boots were fine enough that he might have stolen themand his undecorated sword, though not fashionable, looked to be well used and worn.
He took us in, in turn: the woman with the bird and the cottontail. “You caught a rabbit here.” He paused, extending a finger toward Lucy. “With that?”
“She caught the rabbit,” I corrected. On my arm, in her plumed hood, Lucy looked like a decorated warrior in miniature.
“You trained her?”
I nodded, but was suddenly wary that he might want the bird. “She answers only to me.”
“Rabbits are plentiful here?”
I said: “Rabbits are plentiful by their nature.” But game wasnotplentiful in these woods and certainly not on the wrong side of the stream.
He glanced down at my skirts, which were still tied in a knot. “You’re familiar with these woods.” A statement intended as a question.
I was not accustomed to being interrogated. “Nature is free for any to explore.”
“Not when it’s not your land.”
I lifted my chin to stare at him. His eyes were unreadable. “This isn’t anyone’s land. And I did not know that there was anyone appointed as guardian of the woods.”
The man scowled. “If you caught that rabbit on that side of the river”—he pointed—“it’s king’s land.”
“Well, quite fortunate for me the rabbit was on this side of the stream.”
“This side,” he repeated, looking down pointedly at my hem, which was wet.
But I didn’t respond because I had caught sight of what was happening on the road far behind him.
Ahead through the trees, a carriage was stuck in the mud. Four horses strained to pull the rig forward. My heart quickened and gut tightened, for though its body was small, the coach’s windows wereglass, and the doors had a golden coat of arms. The equipage was unmistakably royal.
The byway that passes my home is well traveled. But I had heard the whispers in recent weeks and knew the carriage was not likely to move past our gate. When it reached our iron arches, it would turn off the well-worn path and head up our overgrown drive, stopping in the gravel at the front entrance.
And I—Lady of the Dead Rabbit, Lady of the Mud—was meant to throw open the door and welcome its passengers. (Surely I was not a quarter of a mile away from my hall, covered in sludge, trading insults with a stranger.) But more than keeping up with expectations, it was, if the rumors were true, of the utmost importance that I be home to receive the carriage and welcome the message it bore. Our futures—the women of the slender wrists and the heavy roof—might depend on it.
“I must be going.” I tried to keep the urgency from my voice.
“You’re unaccompanied,” the man observed. “What are you doing out here alone?”
In the distance, a footman had gotten out of the carriage and was inspecting the wheel. I gathered myself, returning my gaze to the stranger’s. “I would think that’s self-evident.” I needed to hurry and if the man was going to rob me, or worse, he would have done it already. “I’ve been alone in the woods plenty of times without incident.”
“Arrogance is a dangerous companion.”
I ran out of patience. “Sir, the candidate for dangerous companion is yourself. If you’d step aside, I must be along.”
He cocked his head and stared at me. “Don’t let me get in your way.”
When I was a few paces along, he called out again: “You shouldn’t be alone in the woods.”
I couldn’t tell if the words were a threat or a warning. The world loved a woman alone in the woods. Whatever happened to these women—outcomes we lamented—there was also a sense of relief. They had ignored the warnings. The path they chose, neither well trodden nor well lit, allowed us to emotionally divest. These women broke the rules. Issuedan invitation. Created an opening for unkindness. Our own daughters, sisters, mothers—studious rule-followers, virtuous listeners—would be fine.
Up ahead, the footman was sliding branches beneath the wheel. Despite the golden insignias on the side of the carriage, there was no retinue, no guards surrounding the rig—an indication that only a messenger would be riding inside. But messages could be life-changing. Especially if they bore an invitation to a royal ball.
I crept along the hillside, further muddying myself, until I was far enough along to stay out of sight. Climbing up through the vines, I slipped across the road and through a concealed hole in the laurel hedge, the rabbit knocking against my hip bone.
It went without saying: My daughters were never allowed in the woods.
