He was blood-spattered but not wounded, so at least it wasn’t his blood.
I pointed toward the smoke curling between the shelters and sliding toward the north path.
“Another ten minutes and your retreat route becomes a chimney.”
Wulfric looked from the fire to the path, then turned, lifted the horn, and blew three short blasts.
Retreat.
The sound tore through the forest, and for half a heartbeat nothing happened. Then men began to emerge through the trees, not running, but falling back in groups because Wulfric had drilled them and because, somehow, they still trusted his voice enough to listen when every instinct must have been telling them to flee.
“Keep the lane open,” I shouted.
Godwin took up the call farther north, his voice booming between the trees.
“Move. Do not stop.”
A man stumbled and two others lifted him, while another turned back toward the clearing for a shield.
I caught his tunic. “No.”
“My father made it.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words hurt because I understood exactly why he wanted it.
“Go.”
He went and I heard Gilda scream. I found her near the eastern edge of the clearing, half carrying one of the refugee women while blood streamed down her arm.
“Put her down.”
“The woman cannot walk.”
“Then I’ll take her.”
I pulled the injured woman’s arm across my shoulders and shouted for help until Edwin appeared through the smoke.
“Take her north.”
Once he had the woman, I turned back to Gilda. The cut ran from below her shoulder almost to her elbow, deep enough to gape through the torn wool of her sleeve, as the sight of it sent something cold through my stomach.
“What happened?”
“Norman scum.”
“Very descriptive.”
“He had a sword.”
“Better.”
She swayed and I caught her before she fell. Wulfric appeared beside us, and for the briefest moment his eyes went to the blood on my hands before shifting to Gilda.
“Take her,” I said.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
