Welshman as he ambled by, “I would have given the signal myself, milord, and saved ye the bother.”
“No bother,” the outlaw replied smoothly, reslinging his bow, his eyes still locked fast to Servanne’s. He took up the fallen reins and gave way to a faint, wry smile as he led her horse forward again.
Servanne’s heart was still pounding against her breastbone, her senses still recovering from the shock of the outlaw’s twisted sense of humour. They were recovering from something else as well, an oddity she had not noticed earlier in the excitement of the ambush.
The wolf’s head shot with his left hand!
Confirming the startling discovery, she saw that he wore his sword slung on his right hip—giving ready access for the left hand—and wore his quiver of arrows tilted to the left shoulder.
A child of Satan! Bastard spawn of the Devil himself! Everyone knew a left-handed man was born with the curse of Lucifer on his soul—as if she had needed any further proof of his perfidiousness!
“Not much farther to camp now, my lady,” he was saying. “From the smell of it, I would guess we are having fresh venison in honour of your presence.”
Servanne smelled nothing except an admission of blatant guilt from a boastful poacher: another crime to add to his growing list. A man’s life was forfeit if he was caught killing one of the king’s deer. He was first blinded, then tortured over a slow fire until his skin blistered and fell off in great black flakes. He was then hung, drawn, and quartered by way of an example to others. A fitting demise for such a barbarian as this wolf, she mused.
“You may be assured, sirrah,” she declared evenly, “I would rather waste away to a shell of skin and bone than defile the king’s law by eating his royal due. You and your men may well choke on your treasonous repast if you so choose, but Mistress Bidwell and myself should die first.”
Biddy gave a ram’s snort of approval; the outlaw scoffed derisively. “Another sight mine eyes would ransom kingdoms to see: a dimpled cheek without the sheen of sweet grease upon it; a slender hand not first into the pot of roasted pheasant; a dainty belly not groaning with complaint after being stuffed to the chin with capon, pasties, and pies.”
An unsubtle and prolonged rumble of agreement stirred in Servanne’s stomach, reminding her she had not eaten since early morning, and that an unsatisfying meal of black bread and sour ale.
“And then there are the sweetmeats,” contributed a voice from the staggered band of outlaws. “Our own good wife Mab prepares some of the tastiest creations that have ever crossed these lips. What say you, lads?” The question was aimed generally over his shoulder. “Has Mab any equal this side of the Channel?”
“Bless the stars that found her for us,” came a jovial reply. “Or mayhap just bless Gil Golden for bringing her out of Lincoln with our last purchase of arrowheads!”
A round of solid backslapping sent Servanne’s gaze across to the man who had perfunctorily shot an arrow into Sir Roger de Chesnai’s thigh. He had a smooth, aquiline profile that suggested a far easier life lay behind than the one ahead. His shoulders were square and straight, if a little sparse of bulk; his legs were long and agile enough to swallow the wooded miles without visible effort. Copper-coloured locks capped his head like woolen fleece, cropped short beneath the jaunty green felt hat he wore slouched forward over his brow. His eyes were a blend of greens and golds and spicy brown flecks, and a webbing of fine lines at the corners intimated a man of easy nature and good humour. The long, ragged scar that distorted his left cheek implied it was not always so. The disfigurement in no way detracted from his handsomeness, but it did confirm the fact he was a branded thief, and would have as easily aimed for Sir Roger’s heart as his thigh.
Servanne was distracted from further observations by a sudden burst of sound and activity from the woods up ahead. From high, high up in the boughs of a tree came a swoosh of air and a curled knot of flying hair and shrieking laughter. Detatching itself from the swinging vine with a whoop, the tiny figure splayed arms and legs wide, his clothes pocketing the wind to break the impact of his body slamming into that of the Black Wolf of