‘Girls, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.’ Isobelle breathed the words, her blue eyes shining with more than just pleasure. ‘I didn’t know I needed you, but … oh, it’s so good to have you here!’
‘Oh, wait,’ cried Hilde. ‘We brought snacks!’
By the time they all got moving again, Gwen’s heart felt a ton or two lighter. True, the girls had begun as Isobelle’s friends, not hers, but despite a somewhat rocky start with Sylvie, where she and Gwen each thought the other was trying to betray Isobelle, they had come to be as dear to her as sisters. Like Isobelle, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed them since they’d gone to ‘winter over’ at Sylvie’s estate.
Isobelle had elected to stay riding Princess Buttercup, tactfully saying she wanted the fresh air – the truth was, none of the other girls would have been able to command the spoiled little creature. Gwen had eyed the carriage with some longing, for she’d spent far too much time on horseback over the past few weeks, but ultimately decided the jostling of the carriage would be even worse against the parts of her anatomy already sore from the saddle.
The carriage trundled along behind them, and Gwen heard snatches of sound on the breeze – the girls were singing, chanting really, some repetitive song that kept counting down cups of tea.
At her side, Buttercup turned at a right angle to their path and got several steps off into a field before Isobellepersuaded the mare that the road was the safer option. Isobelle had to croon lovingly and stroke Buttercup’s ears for a time before she turned with perfect responsiveness – and, after a backward glance at Gwen that dripped with equine smugness, she tossed her pretty mane and broke into a canter again.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever hated a horse before,’ Gwen commented to Achilles, as he fell into step behind the mare. He snorted his agreement, which at least made her feel somewhat seen.
It was turning out to be an absolutely glorious day. The air was brisk and chill, but the sun was bright, and it warmed her dark cloak. The sleety rain that had plagued them earlier had fled. Buttercup had been as subdued as Isobelle in all that damp and cold, but now she pranced as merrily as anyone could ask.
Achilles was muttering to himself around the bit of his bridle, discontented at having to follow in the fickle mare’s wake. Gwen let him seethe. She drew in a long, slow breath of the crisp, wintry air and caught the faint tang of salt on the breeze.
They were almost there.
‘Gwen?’ Isobelle’s voice brought her instantly on alert. Cautious, curious – tense.
Gwen pulled Achilles up beside her. Around the bend in the road ahead, a group of people had come into view. There were half a dozen of them, clad like any of the othertravellers they’d encountered on their rounds, only they were clustered around some object concealed by their bodies.
Achilles snorted and pawed at the earth, impatient for the action he sensed was approaching; Gwen could not help but agree. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point in me telling you to stay here,’ she muttered, as her eyes scanned the group, their weapons, her own focus narrowing.
Isobelle sniffed. ‘Don’t be any more foolish than you can help.’
‘Come on.’
The object the men were clustered around was a woman. Gwen could hear her protests as she rode up, telling the brigands – for that was certainly what they were, rifling through her pack and offering up jeering threats – to leave her be. The men fell back at the sound of approaching hoofbeats, bracing themselves as Gwen swung herself out of the saddle and drew her sword with a scrape of steel.
‘Off with you,’ she growled in the voice she’d learned over the last few months – her knight’s voice, as she thought of it, decisive and cutting. ‘Return the lady’s property, and be on your way.’
The nominal leader of the group, a tallish, beefy sort with a mud-brown beard and small, pouchy eyes, eyed Gwen and then sneered. Gwen preferred to travel indresses – Olivia had made her a few divided riding habits that let her ride astride, and the looseness of the skirts were much more comfortable than restrictive trousers. Her armour was packed away in the carriage with the girls, half a league behind them – she wore only a chainmail vest over her dress.
‘What a brave little lady,’ the man said, the words prompting a light ripple of laughter among the other men. ‘Got your daddy’s sword, eh?’
Gwen cocked her head, her sword held low, ready. ‘The sword is my own, gentlemen. Now, will you do as I’ve asked and be on your way? Or shall we have a little exercise first?’
She knew she was showing off – Isobelle was right on her heels, sliding down from Buttercup (who promptly bolted some distance off across a field, to stand watching them all nervously). Six against one was hardly a sure thing, even if none of these men were trained in the use of the weapons that hung at their belts. And if any of themwereskilled …
‘Trust me,’ called Isobelle breathlessly, ‘you really ought to take her up on her offer – and go now.’
Gwen flicked her braid back over her shoulder and blew a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Perhaps a trial by one-on-one combat?’ she proposed cheerfully, hoping desperately her voice sounded light and airy. She’d rather not have all six men come at her at once.
‘Or we just take that pretty sword of yours, and your pretty horse, and maybe those pretty dresses, too.’ The bandit leader grinned unpleasantly.
One of the other men was frowning thoughtfully at Gwen, his expression a notable exception among the sea of grins and leers. He was younger than the others, his beard merely a wispy patch of chestnut. ‘Um … Matto, we might …’
The bandit leader drew his sword, and most of the others followed suit. Gwen fought the urge to take a step back, until she saw one of them knock down the girl they’d been accosting. She landed with a thump and a harsh breath in the dirt, and Gwen felt that all-too-familiar heat of fury rising in her blood.
She took a step forward. ‘Exercise it is, then.’
The bandit leader gave a snarl, and was about to rush at Gwen when the young one plucked at his sleeve. ‘Matto, look at ’er.’
The bandit leader shrugged his arm off and shot him a dark look. ‘Fancy ’er, do you?’
The young one gulped. ‘No, but … don’t she look familiar? She ain’t got all the armour on, but …’
