was leaving. Two days and nights’ worth of not knowing what was going on was two days and nights more than his patience could be expected to tolerate. He had only offered to stay behind now because he knew the Wolf would have expected it of him. He was the only one small enough, agile enough, clever enough to outwit any would-be hunters long enough to buy Eduard the time he needed to hie the princess out of immediate danger.
Still, it was too long for them to be on their own in this accursed, foul, damp country. They would need his, Sparrow’s, uncanny knack of knowing exactly where he was going—even if he had never passed that way before—if they were going to steal the Pearl safely away.
On the other hand, it was possible the king would be in no great hurry to have her back. He had done his worst already (and with this thought, Sparrow’s face flushed a venomous red). He might not consider a blind princess worth the effort of retrieving. Why … he might even want her to be stolen away, hoping she might fall victim to the cold and rain, thereby relieving him of the burden and guilt of having her expire while in his care!
Had Eduard considered this?
Not that Sparrow would have ever sanctioned leaving her behind, but had Eduard considered if Eleanor died while in his care, the king could protest his own innocence, deny his own culpability, and blame whatever fate befell the Pearl squarely on the heads of William the Marshal and Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?
“God save us all, lads,” Sparrow said to the clutch of squirrels. “It seems we are swivved either way, should they catch us now.”
Deciding not to wait for any more bells, Sparrow slung his arblaster over his shoulder and made preparations to leave his perch. He was about to leap to another branch when he was drawn back against the trunk by the faint but unmistakable braying of dogs. A large pack of them, he guessed, followed by an even larger pack of galloping hooves.
He swung his bow around again and nocked a quarrel to the string. He drew half a dozen more from his quiver and jabbed their tips into the soft bark of the tree, ready and waiting to be quickly snatched up, loaded, and fired when the troop came into view.
He did not have long to wait. The sound of the hounds drew beads of sweat across his brow but he steadfastly ignored the memories and the itching of the scars brought on by youthful encounters with the salivating beasts. He closed one eye and sighted carefully along the shaft of the arrow as he drew back on the string … and chose his target.
The soldiers rode two abreast, their lances festooned with the standards and pennons of the king. At least a score, mayhap more, comprised the double column of bobbing conical helms and flapping red mantles. All were fully armoured and bristling with business. A toady, hook-nosed hunchback was in the lead, bristling somewhat more than the others in his newly assumed position of authority.
It ended as ignobly as it had begun as Sparrow’s bolt caught Gisbourne’s seneschal high in the chest. A second bolt sent the man beside Gallworm slewing off his saddle with a scream of agony; a third and fourth jerked back on their reins as they felt the punch of steel through armour and bullhide. Their horses reared and skidded back in the mud, causing those behind to scatter and buckle into one another in a sudden crush of screaming horseflesh and shouting men.
Sparrow snatched up the last two bolts and loosed them randomly into the fray, then slung his bow over his shoulder and moved nimbly to another tree farther along the road, one with an equally clear vantage over the scene below.
Several of the soldiers had drawn their swords and were bracing themselves, wild-eyed, for the expected ambush to erupt from the bushes. Sparrow picked off three more as easily as skewering melons off a wall, then moved again, careful to keep a thick shield of pine boughs between him and the searching eyes. Some of the mercenaries carried crossbows and fired bolts into the trees, but Sparrow struck and moved, struck and moved, never remaining in one place long enough to present a target.
It was sheer misfortune—or utter stupidity—that made him stop and draw one last bead on the retreating crush of