Chapter 18
Ipull hard on the reins, but the mare does not slow. Panic has taken hold of her, lending her a speed I would not have believed possible in such an old body.
The world blurs.
Trees, light, shadow, and I twist in the saddle, just enough to look back.
Tassilo lies on the ground.
Relief and terror crash into me at once. He is moving. Thank God, he is moving. Arrows still cut through the air, dark flashes against the green, though none seem aimed at me now. Or perhaps I am simply outrunning them.
The mare stumbles suddenly over a root, and my heart lurches. I pitch forward, barely keeping my seat, my fingers burning as I cling to the reins. I have to stop. I have to get down, turn back, do something-
Another sharp whistle splits the air.
Chamomile screams.
The sound tears out of her, raw and panicked, as an arrow buries itself in her flank.
She surges sideways, wild now, no longer following the path but plunging straight toward the thick brush.
Branches claw at me. I scream, sick with fear, my body jolted and thrown with every frantic stride.
I am slipping, seconds from being crushed beneath her hooves.
“Fastrada!”
The sound of my name cuts through the chaos.
Out of the woods, a black stallion explodes into view, thundering toward me at impossible speed. I barely have time to register the rider before he is beside me. Lord Ashford. The Broker?
He reaches for me without hesitation. An arm wraps firmly around my waist, iron-strong, and with one decisive pull, he wrenches me from the saddle. The world tilts violently, and then I am pressed against him, seated sideways in front of him, my legs dangling as his horse surges forward.
Chamomile disappears behind us, her screams fading into the forest.
Ashford turns the stallion back toward the path, riding hard. I cling to his arm, shaking, my breath coming in broken gasps.
“We need to go back,” I manage. “Tassilo—he’s been hit.”
“My men are already on their way,” Ashford says, his voice calm, cutting clean through the noise of hooves and pounding blood. “They’ll recover him and take him back to the estate. You’re not safe here.”
I want to argue. I can’t find the strength.
The forest thins at last. When we clear the tree line and the world opens into light and space, Ashford slows the horse. Only then do I realize how violently I am trembling. My hands will not stop shaking.
He reins in fully and turns his head to look at me.
“Are you hurt?”
Concern shines in his eyes as he assesses me. I taste blood and glance down at my hands. Scratches and deep red lines mark them where branches tore into my skin. I can only imagine what my face looks like.
“I think I’m all right,” I say, my voice shaking. “My horse was hit, though.”
“My men will find the mare. Don’t fret.” His voice is calm, and somehow the panic raging in my chest begins to ease. “Let’s sit down over there so I can tend to your injuries.”
He guides the stallion toward a row of birch trees and dismounts with easy grace. I hadn’t realized how tall he was—or perhaps I have simply never stood this close to him before.
He strokes the stallion’s neck, feeds it an apple, then turns back to me.
“Will you allow me to guide you down?”
I nod, offering a small smile.
His hands settle at my waist, firm and sure, and he lowers me to the ground as though I weigh nothing at all. I sway just a fraction, the adrenaline still flooding my body has turned my bones to liquid.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, laughing weakly. “I truly am all right.”
We sit on a fallen tree trunk. Ashford rummages through his saddlebag and produces clean cloth, a small bottle of clear liquid, and a piece of gingerbread.
I laugh. “What in the devil do you carry in that bag?”
He flinches. It is slight, but I notice it.
“This isn’t my first hunt gone wrong, m’lady,” he says curtly. “The alcohol is to clean your wounds. The cloth to dry them. The gingerbread is for your nerves. Trust me, you’ll be grateful once the shock wears off.”
“All right, Doctor Ashford,” I say. “I’ll gladly accept the gingerbread.”
I hold out my hand. He looks straight into my eyes as he carefully places the gingerbread in my palm.
Up close, I notice absurd things. His unruly, wind-tossed hair. The faint lines at the corners of his mouth. That his eyes are two different colors. One is dark brown, while the other looks more greenish. It is almost comical that my mind clings to such details now, as though they might anchor me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize you were so close to the hunt until I heard you scream.”
“And why would you?” I reply, too quickly. “I am not your responsibility.”
The words come out harsher than I intend.
“Perhaps not,” he says more gently. “But your father would still be disappointed in me if he knew I was nearby and you nearly died.”
He uncorks the bottle with his teeth, wets the cloth, and moves closer.
“This will sting. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
“I’m ready,” I say, though my throat tightens.
He starts at my hairline, where a branch has left a deep cut. When the alcohol touches my skin, the pain flares white-hot, and I gasp, tears burning behind my eyes.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I am almost done. You are doing well; these wounds will heal nicely. Close your eyes, cry if you need to. But you will be fine, I promise.”
His voice is deep and soothing, as if he is speaking directly into my mind. I obey, breathing through the pain.
“That’s the last of it, Your Majesty,” he says, suddenly jumping up and quickly stepping back.
I open my eyes to see him fastening the saddlebag to his horse once more.
“What were you doing in the woods?” he asks, his back to me.
“Following the huntsman’s map,” I say. “I met Tassilo along the path.”
His jaw tightens.
“Did you see who was shooting?”
“No,” I admit. “Only the arrows.”
He nods once, grim, and pops a piece of gingerbread into his mouth.
“You like gingerbread?” I ask, a small smile curving my lips.
“Of course,” he says, licking his fingers clean as he checks the stallion’s reins. “Why does that surprise you?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “I just never imagined you eating sweet things.”
He arches a brow.
“Pray tell—why would you be imagining anything about me at all?”
Heat floods my cheeks.
“No, I didn’t mean—I mean, I don’t generally imagine things about you. Why would I? We barely know each other—”
He makes a noise that suspiciously sounds like a laugh. I can’t see his face, though, so who knows what’s going through his mind.
“I’m only teasing, Your Majesty,” he says evenly. “I understood what you meant. And yes—I do love gingerbread. A terrible habit, perhaps, but one small indulgence I allow myself now and again.”
“They say gingerbread is the Devil’s indulgence,” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Far too much pleasure for something so unnecessary.”
Ashford scoffs.
“I imagine the Devil has far more important matters to attend to than tempting people with gingerbread. If he concerned himself with every small joy, he’d never get any real work done.”
He helps me back into the saddle, then mounts behind me. He sits close enough that I can feel his warmth through my clothes. It should be uncomfortable, a position way too intimate between two people who barely know each other. But I feel safe.
We ride in silence for a while. Then I glance back.
“It’s strange. I don’t remember where the King’s guards went.”
He tilts his head.
“There were guards with you?”
“Yes. Charles never lets me go anywhere without them. They were some distance behind—but I remember seeing them shortly before the attack.”
Ashford hums.
“I will be speaking with your father about this and see what I can find out and where the guards went.”
“You think they were involved?” I ask, incredulous.
“Maybe. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be returning to court this instance,” he says earnestly. “But I am sure the King is already worried and wondering where you are. News of the altercation surely has reached the hunting party by now.”
I look up at him. His brow is furrowed, his lip caught between his teeth in thought.
“I trust you to know what’s best,” I say softly. “You do seem to have a knack for saving me at the last moment.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, almost rueful.
“Then I’d best not disappoint you now,” he says, urging the stallion forward.
To our right, the forest stands silent—as though it has already swallowed what it took.
* * *
The rest of the ride passes in silence. I doze off more than once, exhaustion finally overtaking me—both from the early morning and the fear that has been tugging at my heart since the first arrow sliced through the air.
I wake to someone shouting my name.
“Fastrada! What happened? Unhand her at once!”
Charles’s voice booms across the clearing, his baritone vibrating painfully in my ears. I open my eyes and see him striding toward us, still dressed in his hunting gear, boots splattered with mud.
“I heard her crying out in the forest and found her on her panicked mare,” Ashford says evenly. “She appears unharmed, aside from some lacerations to her face and hands.”
“You!” Charles snarls, pointing a finger at Ashford. “If you have harmed her in any way, I swear to God I will—”
Ashford clicks his tongue in mild disapproval. I feel him stiffen behind me.
“I suggest you help your wife down from the horse and see that she is examined by a physician, Your Majesty,” he replies, his tone almost bored. “Has the duke been returned to the estate? What is his condition?”
Charles gestures sharply to two of his men, who step forward to help me dismount. Once my feet are on solid ground, Charles takes my hand, gripping it tightly.
“I am so sorry, love, that you were made to endure this,” he says. “I was not informed of the ambush until I returned to the estate. Are you all right?”
I look up at him. Concern wars with anger in his expression, and I cannot help but wonder why any of it seems directed at me.
“I am shaken,” I say carefully, “but not gravely injured. How is Tassilo?”
Charles straightens. His grip on my hand tightens, almost painfully.
“He was found by Lord Ashford’s men and brought to the infirmary,” he says. “He sustained severe wounds to the abdomen, but the physician managed to stop the bleeding. Whether he recovers will depend on whether infection sets in.”
His speech is clipped. He draws a deep breath before each new sentence, as though the effort of speaking costs him more than he wishes to admit.
“I would like a word with the duke,” Ashford says from behind us.
I turn slightly, but his gaze is fixed on Charles. He does not look at me, not once, as though I have already been set aside, a burden delivered and dismissed.
Charles nods. “Of course. Aynhard will take you to him. Though I must warn you, we have already questioned him. He did not see the shooter.”
Ashford inclines his head in a brief bow and walks away across the courtyard, never once turning back.
That night, I fall asleep quickly.
* * *
Wake up.
My eyes open as if on command.
Charles is beside me, snoring loudly into his pillow.
Did I imagine that voice?
I look around the room, and the fire is still burning, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
My eyes fall upon a folded piece of parchment on my bedside table. A paper that surely hadn’t been there before.
I open it, and a piece of gingerbread falls onto my lap.
If you ever find yourself in danger, call for me. I will answer. Malric.