Chapter 23 #2
She paused in that most awkward position for several moments, listening, listening. Then she bent her elbows, lowering the seat above her, and leaned into the wooden frame of the underside of the carriage, sliding down into a crouch.
She stepped from the axle slowly, hiding behind the spokes of the iron-rimmed wheel, and looked about her.
The camp was quiet, one man on guard beyond the carriage’s tongue, perhaps ten paces; one to the rear, the same distance.
But the bulk of the camp lay between her and the road and the wood beyond, the soldiers seeming to stretch in either direction as far as she could see in the night.
She heard muffled steps directly behind her and Sybilla slowly, slowly turned her head.
Four massive hooves were just coming to a quiet stop, and then she heard Octavian’s gentle breath.
Sybilla did not stop to think of the likelihood that she would be immediately detained upon coming out of the carriage and daring to mount Octavian in that instant. She did not think of the arrows that might chase her and her faithful mount, likely find them both.
Octavian had come for her, and she would go with him. Right...
Now!
She scurried from beneath the carriage and stood aright, keeping an eye on the soldier to the fore of the carriage, obviously picking at his nose and examining his findings.
She reached up for her horse’s mane and heaved herself up with a mighty effort, the blanket tangled in her wrist chains making her mounting all the more awkward.
Octavian moved away from the carriage in a strange, sidestepping, backward manner, and then in an instant, reared back on his haunches and leapt into the darkness away from the camp and the road.
The soldier to the rear of the carriage swung around, just as his fellow guard called out, “What was that?”
The soldier chuckled as he saw the moonlit rump disappear in a blink into the shadows of the landscape. “I think it was your wild horse, mate. Missed your chance. Right behind you, it was.”
The other guard cursed crossly and then set to digging in his ear with his pinky.
Someone shook Julian’s shoulder roughly, as if they thought him to be asleep. Of course, Julian had not so much as closed his eyes since stretching out on the hard ground, his hands and ankles once more bound.
“Yes?” Julian asked, rising up on one elbow and looking over his shoulder where a soldier was bent on one knee. The sun would rise within the hour; already the sky was lightening above the wood. “What is it?”
“Sybilla Foxe has escaped,” the man said darkly.
Julian dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment, letting the realization sink in fully. “Did anyone see her? Try to stop her?”
“No, milord. No one saw a thing. We’re not even certain how she quit the carriage—it remains quite locked.”
“Good. If no one tried to stop her, that means no one is dead. The last thing she needs following her is a charge of murder.”
In that moment, Julian and the young soldier were joined by the king’s man who had arrested him and Sybilla in Fallstowe’s hall. He didn’t appear particularly cheerful.
“If you think to follow her lead and escape before gaining London and your just punishment, I hate to disappoint you,” the brazen one threatened. “As it is, you’ll be taking her place in the carriage to forestall any attempt at flight.”
“Because that conveyance is so obviously effective at containing prisoners?” Julian scoffed at the man. “Very well. I accept.”
The man looked confused for a moment, but covered his uncertainty quickly. “I’ll be sending men back to Fallstowe. She shan’t escape for long.”
“A piece of advice, soldier,” Julian offered. “Your men will not intercept Sybilla Foxe at Fallstowe. But if they would happen to cross paths with her, I would suggest that they not try to apprehend her in any way, lest they long for a hasty death.”
“She’s but one woman, alone, afoot without even her shoes,” the man sneered.
Julian knew a pang of concern at the information that Sybilla was barefoot, but he did not dwell on it.
“She’s not afoot,” Julian said casually, and then lay back down on the ground, making a show of adjusting his arms to comfort his head. “And she shall beat us all to London. If I were you, I would not be anticipating the humiliation that awaits you at having your prisoner arrive before you.”
“Bollocks, you say,” the envoy scoffed from behind him.
Julian shrugged and closed his eyes.
The man said nothing for several moments. Julian feigned disinterest, but his body was rigid with impatience.
“Rally the men. Break camp at once for London. No time to lose—we ride in a quarter hour. Ready a group of men to return to the Castle Fallstowe, on the watch for the prisoner.”
Then Julian felt the toe of the envoy’s boot nudge him roughly between the shoulder blades.
“If this is some ploy to distract me, to try to buy your little lady traitor some time to further her escape, you would do well to keep in mind that your daughter is alone at Fallstowe, and I have rein to do as I see fit with interferers.”
Julian did not so much as flinch. Come a bit closer, old chap . . .
He sensed the man crouching behind him now, heard his smug voice close to his head.
“Do you hear me, Griffin? You lead no one any longer. I am in charge.”
In a blink, Julian had rolled over, swinging up his arms until the chain suspended between his wrists looped around the odious man’s neck.
Then he quickly rolled back again, yanking the envoy from his feet, across Julian’s body, where Julian held the man on the ground in front of him, his mouth directly over the envoy’s ear while the man gasped and kicked and clawed at the chain biting into his windpipe.
“You hear me,” Julian said in a low voice.
“And hear me well: should you even so much as whisper an allusion to the fact that I have a daughter again, I will beat you to death. Chains or no chains, soldiers or no soldiers. I will kill you with my bare hands. That is my solemn vow.” He pulled the chain tighter with a little grunt.
“And if you dare to touch me again as if you possess some authority over me, I will dismember whatever appendage has offended me and feed it to the king’s hounds while you watch.
Morsel by bloody morsel, you cowardly piece of dung. ”
Several of the envoy’s soldiers approached now, some of them reaching for their swords.
“This is a man-to-man conversation,” Julian warned them. “I have not yet been relieved of my duties, and so I outrank this piece of filth I am defending myself from. Stand down. That’s an order!” To the envoy still in his clutches, Julian asked, “Do you understand me?”
The envoy gave a jerky nod.
Julian drew his knees up beneath him and gained his feet awkwardly, dragging the envoy aright with him before quickly releasing the chain from around the man’s neck and stepping away.
The envoy whipped around, his hands still at his bruised throat. “I’ll kill you for that,” he croaked, his eyes wild.
Julian stared back at him, opened his hands slightly to let the chain dangle in a wide arc. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The envoy hesitated. “Lock him in the carriage,” the man shouted hoarsely, and a pair of soldiers reluctantly moved toward Julian. “And keep a closer eye on this one!”
Julian did not resist as the men indicated that he should move toward the reinforced wagon that had until recently interned Sybilla Foxe. In fact he went willingly.
Like the envoy he had just chastised, Julian wished to gain London before Sybilla Foxe did.