.

not slippery. The water was cool and clean. She dangled her right hand in for some time, revelling in the chill but silky feel of the water on her flesh, then washed both hands and splashed her lower face gently to remove any surplus bacon grease from around her mouth.

      She stood up and was aware now that the sounds of the men had stopped, so they had moved back towards the clearing. She almost stumbled over her cloak hem as she made a little hurried leap towards the relatively dry track with its carpet of fallen leaves. She would be missed. She must hurry. She knew, instinctively, that Master Richard Allard would be angered that she had not woken Mary and had moved alone out of sight of her escort.

      To her surprise she discovered there were several well-marked tracks leading away from the stream bed that she had not noticed before. She stood for a moment, uncertain as to which one to follow back to the clearing. She had been so certain that the way was unmistakable that she had taken no particular note of her surroundings and the varieties of certain of the trees in passing.

      Finally she decided the wider track must be the correct one; in any case, she could not end up far from the clearing and she was in hailing distance of the others so she set off along that one.

      When she heard sounds of movement ahead she thought she had followed the right path and was now close to the clearing. Either the men had returned or Mary had begun to gather up the remains of the meal and the utensils they had used. She was about to call to her when she stopped still suddenly and listened intently.

      She could hear muttering, heavy breathing and scrabbling sounds that seemed unmistakable. There were people struggling together ahead of her, fighting. She knew those sounds only too well for wrestling and fighting with the broad sword and dagger were necessary lessons in Ned’s military training, undertaken with expert advice from Simpkin Cooper and her own father as tutors. She had watched them often in the courtyard at Rushton.

      She remained, for moments, stock still, uncertain how to proceed. These combatants could not be members of her escort. Simpkin Cooper and Wat Glazier were friends and utterly trustworthy. Neither man would fight with the other or attack Master Allard for any reason whatever. She went a trifle cold as it occurred to her that someone might have discovered Mary alone in the clearing and accosted her.

      A sense of the enormity of her guilt suffused her. How stupidly crass she had been to leave Mary alone—and yet Mary had been within call of the members of the escort, as she was. Mary Scroggins was perfectly capable of defending herself if necessary, she would not stand by tamely and allow a strange man to approach her without giving tongue.

      No, this could not be Mary, nor did Anne think it could be the two men-at-arms. Someone else was in the spinney. She had branched off further from the clearing than she had expected to be and was obviously on the wrong path. She was suddenly frightened. Anne was rarely frightened. Life at Rushton had never allowed her to be.

      She had been terrified once when out hawking with her father and a boar had suddenly broken cover and rushed straight at her, but she had been aware of the nearness of her father and had trusted him to come to her rescue which he had done immediately. He had launched his merlin at the creature to frighten it and then rushed it on horseback so that it turned at bay, then, squealing ferociously, run into the undergrowth.

      Now she felt totally unguarded and uncertain what to do. The noise of conflict grew louder and more desperate, and even over that Anne could hear the sound of her own frantic fast breathing. She could turn and run, but if she did, would the combatants hear her, cease their fighting and turn on her, or should she stay where she was, quiet, and await the outcome of the conflict?

      Suddenly the decision was taken out of her hands when the two men burst on to the track in front of where she stood petrified. They were grappling close, panting hard for mastery and she caught glimpses of sunlight on dagger blades as each struggled to get one crippling or fatal blow at the other. Anne gave a gasp of horror when she saw one of the men was Richard Allard.

      That one gasp betrayed her, for Richard’s assailant turned to look at her—an erroneous decision, as Richard struck a sudden blow at his arm. He sprang away, clasping it as bright blood dripped to the floor of the forest track. Anne gave a sharp scream of dismay.

      She was so startled that she was taken totally by surprise when she was suddenly seized by the stranger and drawn across his thick, muscular body to face his antagonist. Blood from the arm wound dripped on to her cloak. She tried to struggle free but his strong arm held her fast and the other hand lifted his own dagger to her throat. She was effectively held hostage.

      She could smell the male sweat of exertion and the sharper, unmistakable musky stink of fear. She stopped struggling then and remained very still in his grasp, looking steadfastly at Richard Allard who stood back a little distance, chest heaving, mouth stretched in the distinctive attitude of utter hatred and the trained warrior’s determination to kill. Anne drew in a hard breath and swallowed.

      Her captor grated hoarsely, “Drop your weapon, Allard, or I shall undoubtedly kill this woman. I noticed before in our acquaintance you have a somewhat foolishly gallant attitude to women, even peasant women, that prevents you from harming them or allowing harm to come to them.” His tone was sneering.

      Neither man moved. Anne found the dagger was so close she dared not swallow again. The utter shock of events caused her to remain unnaturally calm. She knew she must not scream or cry out to Richard for assistance. She could not imagine what had caused these two men to engage in so desperate a fight or how they had encountered each other here in this wood. Obviously they were old enemies and knew each other’s worth in the art of killing.

      A deadly numbness assailed her. One of these two would not come out of this alive, she knew, and she prayed silently that it would not be Richard Allard. He must deal with his assailant and she must do nothing now to endanger him further. Her eyes widened in abject terror as she ascertained that Richard had been wounded. She could see ominous markings upon his jerkin and his left sleeve. An ugly scratch marred his right cheek. They had been so close in this struggle it was a miracle that both still remained on their feet. She continued to remain passively still, looked coolly at her protector and waited for him to determine the next step in this game.

      It came so swiftly that she had no time to cry out. There was a sudden flash of light as Richard Allard’s dagger flew from his hand unerringly and buried itself in her captor’s shoulder. He gave a harsh scream and let her fall forward on to her face.

      She lay still for moments, scarcely able to breathe; when at least she managed to scramble upright, Richard Allard had sprung once again at the stranger who was now supine on the track with Allard’s body full across him. Anne stood back on very wobbly legs as Richard stood up. His back was to her but with trembling lips she saw him retrieve his dagger, stoop to wipe it on the grass and turn to face her.