Chapter 3 #2
‘Clever bastard, aren’t you? Are you going to help me out?’
‘Not if you call me a bastard.’
Ash smirked. ‘I can call you a whoreson, if you’d prefer.’
The hunter vanished. Shit.
‘Wait!’ There was no response. ‘Sir?’
After a few moments, the hunter’s face reappeared. ‘What?’
Ash tried to hide his relief. ‘Were you going to leave me?’
‘I was considering it.’
‘I am sure the lady of the house wouldn’t appreciate you leaving me here to die.’
‘With the rumours that follow you? I would not be so sure of that.’
‘If the rumours are so dire then surely the threat of what I may do to you should you refuse me is enough to tempt your hand.’
‘Are you threatening me, my Lord?’
Ash glared. It did not have the intended effect.
‘Beat me black and blue, if it pleases you,’ the hunter said. ‘If you can get out of that hole. I shall wait.’
He folded his arms in a relaxed pose, shifting his weight onto one leg.
‘Are you going to help me out of here, or not?’ Ash demanded.
‘For if you do intend to leave me I’d rather you do it already, so I may rot here in peace.
Or you could shoot me with that’ – he glanced towards the bow – ‘to speed up proceedings, if you like. I shan’t tell anyone.
Although it would truly prove you are a bastard. ’
For a moment, Ash thought he really would shoot him. ‘Do not call me that.’
‘It would be easier to call you by your name, if you gave it to me.’
The man sighed. He slung the bow onto his back and got to his knees at the edge of the trap and reached down.
Ash wasn’t quite sure how he managed to scramble from the hole. The hunter was significantly smaller than him, but together – the man tugging at Ash’s arm as Ash struggled for purchase on the side of the pit – they heaved him out.
They both tumbled gracelessly onto the grass. When Ash looked up, it was into the face of a white, long-haired greyhound. It tilted its head to one side as it examined him. There was a neatly embroidered collar around its neck, and blood on its muzzle.
Ash stood. Beside him, the hunter did likewise. His red hair had slipped from his cap, and he pushed it back, leaving a streak of dirt along the side of his face.
‘I will hear nothing of this,’ Ash demanded. ‘Do you hear me? Nothing. I do not want word of this spreading.’
The hunter wore a sly smile. ‘Of course.’
‘And for God’s sake, do not tell Lady Agnes.’
The smile twitched. ‘I would not dare, my Lord.’
‘Now—’ Ash straightened his tunic as best he could, brushing leaves from his shoulders. ‘Show me the way out of this damned wood before I twist an ankle.’
They made their way back through the copse in silence. The trees quickly gave way once more to gorse, over which Ash could see the path and the rest of his retinue.
‘I shall leave you here, my Lord,’ the hunter said. ‘There are no traps in the fields, unless you stumble into a gorse bush. I will inform the staff that you are here.’
‘See that you do.’
Without bidding him farewell, Ash made his way towards the retinue. It wasn’t until he was back on his horse that he realised the hunter had never given him his name.
By the time Ash finally arrived at the gates of la Cleve Castle, his guilt had cleared, but his nerves had not.
The hunter had told him he would not inform the mistress of the keep of his fall, but how much could his word be trusted?
What if he told the rest of the household?
There would be hilarity once they were freed from their duties and given the privacy to gossip.
Despite the man’s reassurances that he would tell Lady Agnes of Ash’s imminent arrival, she was not at the gates when they entered.
He was greeted instead by her steward and housekeeper.
Trusting Michael to deal with their things, Ash allowed them to lead him indoors to a side room, set for greeting guests.
There was a fire roaring in the tiny hearth, a table set with wine and a plate of tarts.
Ash sat in the chair closest to the fire, staring at the flames as Litillwitte leaned against his knee.
He wondered if his host was keeping him waiting on purpose.
Finally, the door opened.
The figure standing in the doorway could only be Lady Agnes.
She was wearing a deep-green gown with sweeping sleeves.
Her hair – which was a vibrant red colour – was tied into a tightly woven braid that wrapped around her head like a crown.
Her features were thin and pointed. She watched him with the intensity of a fox.
When she stepped into the light of the fire, he could properly see her face and her sharp, brown eyes. There was a mark below her eye, almost like a little heart.
She seemed familiar, somehow. And then he realised – she resembled the man in the woods. He must have been her brother.
Ash suppressed a curse. Of course he had made a fool of himself and grievously insulted the brother of the woman he was here to marry.
‘Lord Ashwy?’ she asked, in a broad Scottish accent.
The use of his full name startled him. ‘Aye,’ he said. Then: ‘Yes. Lady Agnes?’
She gave him a tight smile. ‘Indeed. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Barden.’
His resolve faltered. She was so damned familiar. He found himself looking at the sharp angles of her face, the mark beneath her eye. The tone of her voice.
He stood. She raised her eyebrows at him but did not back away. There was a little patch of dirt just above her temple.
He didn’t think. He took a step closer, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into the light.
There was no mistaking her. Him. The hunter from the woods.
‘It was you. Wasn’t it?’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
Ash would not be made a fool. ‘You’ve the same mark beneath your eye,’ he said. ‘And you’ve mud on your face from where you fell.’
He reached out. The dirt came away beneath his fingers. Agnes swallowed heavily, saying nothing.
‘I thought at first perhaps a brother …’ Ash said. ‘But … no. That was you out there, wasn’t it? Dressed as a man?’
Finally she found her tongue.
‘You ought to more carefully watch your words, Lord Barden. I do not know—’
Ash was being made a fool again. He did not have patience for this.
‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘you do.’
She gave him a long, hard look. His prediction that she would refuse him seemed suddenly like it was going to come to pass: the match abruptly ended. She took a deep breath, never once taking her eyes from him.
‘I told you—’
‘Agnes!’
They both froze. In the open doorway stood a woman with her face stuck in a look of horror.
‘My God, Agnes— I will— I will fetch—’
‘Wait!’
Agnes shrugged off his grip and gave chase. But she was too late. The woman dashed away, the door shutting heavily behind her. Agnes flung it open, peered into the corridor, then sighed. She did not turn around.
‘I am going to find my sister.’
And then she left the room, shutting the door behind her.