Chapter Seven #2
Abruptly, Bram seized her hand and dragged her down to the ground with him, so that they were mostly hidden by the stone wall.
“What—?”
“Stay low.” He raised one finger for silence.
She frowned, straining to hear whatever had captured his attention.
At first, she heard nothing beyond the ordinary sounds of the morning.
Birds called to one another high in the canopy, leaves whispered softly in the breeze, and somewhere deeper in the trees a squirrel rustled through the undergrowth.
She looked back at Bram, wondering if perhaps he’d imagined something.
Every muscle in his body had gone still.
His head remained slightly tilted, his eyes fixed on the thin woods through which they’d just walked, as though he were listening to something only he could hear.
For a long moment, she watched him, utterly still and focused. She wanted to tell him there was nothing there, that he was safe. But the absolute certainty in his posture gave her pause, a prickle of unease that silenced the words in her throat.
And then she thought she did hear something.
It was so faint she almost mistook it for the wind, a dull, rhythmic vibration that seemed to come and go before resolving itself into a steady cadence.
Whatever made and brought the noise was still a considerable distance away, yet fairly quickly she thought she understood what she was hearing—horses.
Soon enough she was sure of the sound and could distinguish more than one horse.
Bram shifted lower behind the wall, never taking his eyes from the trees.
Without looking at her, he pressed lightly against her arm, urging her to lower herself as well.
Anna eased down until only the top of her head rose above the weathered stones, her pulse quickening as the sounds continued to grow.
A hopeful idea occurred to her. It had to be a guided trail ride, tourists exploring the countryside on horseback. She’d seen advertisements for things like that. Relief washed over her, so potent it was dizzying. They would have phones. They could explain where she was. They could call for help.
She stole a glance at Bram. He remained motionless beside her, his attention fixed entirely on the trees, and she decided against calling out—she had no desire to frighten him by suddenly revealing their hiding place.
She would wait until they came close, and he could see that they were not a militia chasing him.
Surely they would understand that the man with her needed medical attention—perhaps psychiatric help as well—and they would know what to do.
Her pulse quickened with cautious optimism as the sounds grew steadily louder. At last, movement flickered between the trunks. She leaned forward ever so slightly, eager for the first glimpse of another person.
A horse stepped into view, and Anna frowned, squinting, not quite sure what she was seeing except that the rider wasn’t dressed for a casual morning trail ride.
Sunlight flashed on steel—not a buckle, but thousands of tiny rings covering him from shoulder to knee.
A filthy, sleeveless shirt hung over the armor.
He wore a pointed steel helmet with a metal strip guarding his nose, and a massive shield banged against his leg as he rode.
He carried a spear in one hand while a sword swung at his hip.
Another rider followed, and then more.
Anna was frozen with bewilderment.
No two men were dressed exactly alike. One wore a faded russet sleeveless outer garment over what clearly now looked like chain mail, another a dark wool cloak thrown back across his shoulders.
Several wore no helmets, but all seemed to have weapons, whether carried in hand or attached to their person.
Taken as a whole, they presented an unmistakable picture, one Anna had seen only in museum displays, in theaters, or as grainy black and white etchings from college textbooks.
Every one of them looked as though they’d ridden straight out of the pages of a history book of the Middle Ages.
“I don’t und—”
“Hush,” whispered Bram with some urgency.
“But why are—” she tried again, keeping her voice very low.
“Keep, lass,” he commanded, tugging her hand to make her sink even lower behind the wall.
Anna thought his caution was overblown. The group of riders, which included one creaky and lumbering wagon, she noticed, and eighteen men that she counted, was yet about twenty yards away, walking their horses along the fringe of the trees in which she and Bram hunkered down.
Her earlier hope vanished completely, replaced by a cold, dumbstruck anxiety as the bizarre parade moved across her line of sight.
Unease heightened and hope dwindled yet more as the party paused, directly in front of them, just beyond the edge of the trees.
Bram growled something low and unintelligible, which she surmised was some grumbling about the party stopping right there.
She sank into the cool grass, her back against the wall, the dampness barely registering. Her mind raced, frantically trying to connect the pieces. Museum Street. Ryan’s hand on her arm. The wind. The forest, a man in shackles, distant campfires... and now this.
An armed company straight out of a history book, standing twenty yards away.
Anna lifted her hand to still the trembling of her lips, as she began to wonder if, in fact, she was the one who was untethered to reality, and not Bram.
Heat gathered behind her eyes and before she knew it, tears blurred her vision.
Slowly, she shook her head back and forth, wanting to refuse and refute this information but unable at the moment to do so.
So lost was she in her meltdown of fright that she was only vaguely aware that the party remained where they’d stopped, and that people were speaking—the words muted but maybe familiar, and yet wrong somehow. She was unable to focus enough to know for sure.
A small whimper escaped her—how could she not have known she’d lost her mind before this moment?
A hand clamped over hers, the one lying idly on the bag in her lap. Anna stared at Bram’s hand as it covered hers. He didn’t pull or try to move her, but simply folded his hand around hers and squeezed, while he crouched next to her on one knee, facing the opposite direction.
Mutely, frozen, Anna stared at the contrast between their hands.
His hand was broad across the knuckles, the skin roughened and thickened in the way of a man who’d spent his life working with his hands.
Dirt lingered beneath his nails, and his skin bore tiny, fresh cuts, possibly gotten somewhere along their trek yesterday or this morning.
Yet his thumb moved once across the back of her hand with surprising gentleness.