A Song for Arbonne. Guy Gavriel Kay

      Her mouth dry and her heart pounding, Aelis looked over and saw that Ariane’s frightened, snorting horse was firmly in the grasp of two of their attackers. All six of Urté’s corans were down and disarmed, but none seemed to have been critically injured yet.

      ‘It is you we want,’ the leader in front of them said, as if answering her thought. ‘If you come gently the others will not be further hurt. You have my word.’

      ‘Gently?’ Aelis snapped, with all the hauteur she could manage. ‘Is this a setting for gentleness? And how highly should I value the word of a man who has done this?’

      They were halfway to the arch, among the elms. To her right, across the lake, Talair was clearly visible. Behind her, if she turned, she could probably still see Miraval. They had been attacked within sight of both castles.

      ‘You don’t really have a great deal of choice, do you?’ the man before her said, taking a few steps forward. He was of middling height, clad in brown, with a midwinter carnival mask, unsettlingly incongruous in such a place as this, covering most of his face.

      ‘Do you know what my husband will do to you?’ Aelis said grimly. ‘And my father in Barbentain? Have you any idea?’

      ‘I do, actually,’ the masked man said. Beside him, the one she had wounded was still clutching his shoulder; there was blood on his hand. ‘And it has rather a lot to do with money, my lady. Rather a lot of money, actually.’

      ‘You are a very great fool!’ Aelis snapped. They had surrounded her horse now, but no one, as yet, had reached for the reins. There seemed to be about fifteen of them—an extraordinary number for an outlaw band, so near the two castles. ‘Do you expect to live to spend anything they give you? Don’t you know how you will be pursued?’

      ‘These are indeed worrisome matters,’ the man in front of her said, not sounding greatly worried. ‘I don’t expect you to have given them much thought. I have.’ His voice sharpened. ‘I do expect you to co-operate, though, or people will start being hurt, and I’m afraid that might include the girl. I don’t have unlimited time, Lady Aelis, or patience. Drop the bow!’

      There was a crack of command in the last sentence that actually made Aelis jump. She looked over at Ariane; the girl was big-eyed, trembling with fear. Riquier lay face down on the grass. He seemed to be unconscious, but there was no blade wound she could see.

      ‘The others will not be hurt?’ she said.

      ‘I said that. I don’t like repeating myself.’ The voice was muffled by the festive mask, but the arrogance came through clearly.

      Aelis dropped her bow. Without another word the leader turned and nodded his head. From behind the arch, having been hidden by its massive shape, another man stepped out leading two horses. The leader swung himself up on a big grey, and beside him the wounded man awkwardly mounted a black mare. No one else moved. The others were clearly going to stay and deal with the corans.

      ‘What will you do with the girl?’ Aelis called out.

      The outlaw turned back. ‘I am done with questions,’ he said bluntly. ‘Will you come, or will you need to be trussed and carried like a heifer?’

      With deliberate slowness, Aelis moved her horse forward. When she was beside Ariane she stopped and said, very clearly, ‘Be gallant, bright one, they will not, they dare not do you any harm. With Rian’s grace I shall see you very soon.’

      She moved on, still slowly, sitting her horse with head high and shoulders straight as befitted her father’s daughter. The leader paid her no attention, he had already wheeled his mount and had begun to ride, not even glancing back. The wounded man fell in behind Aelis. The three of them went forward in a soft jingling of harness, passing under the Arch of the Ancients, through the cold shadow of it, and then out into sunlight again on the other side.

      THEY RODE THROUGH the young grasses, travelling almost due north. Behind them the shoreline of Lake Dierne fell away, curving to the east. On their left Urté’s vineyards stretched into the distance. Ahead of them was the forest. Aelis kept her silence and neither of the masked men spoke. As they approached the outlying pines and balsams of the wood Aelis saw a charcoal-burner’s cottage lying just off the lightly worn path. The door was open. There was no one in sight, nor were there any sounds in the morning light save their horses and the calling of birds.

      The leader stopped. He had not even looked at her since they had begun to ride, nor did he now. ‘Valery,’ he said, scanning the edges of the forest to either side, ‘keep watch for the next while, but find Garnoth first—he won’t be far away—and have him clean and bind your shoulder. There’s water in the stream.’

      ‘There is usually water in a stream,’ the wounded man said in a deep voice, his tone unexpectedly tart. The leader laughed; the sound carried in the stillness.

      ‘You have no one to blame for that wound but yourself,’ he said, ‘don’t take your grievances out on me.’ He swung down from his horse, and then he looked at Aelis for the first time. He motioned for her to dismount. Slowly she did. With an elaborately graceful gesture—almost a parody given where they were—he indicated the entrance to the cottage.

      Aelis looked around. They were quite alone, a long way from where anyone might chance to pass. The man Valery, masked in fur like a grey wolf, was already turning away to find Garnoth, whoever that was—probably the charcoal-burner. Her arrow was still in his shoulder.

      She walked forward and entered the hut. The outlaw leader followed and closed the door behind him. It shut with a loud click of the latch. There were windows on either side, open so that the breeze could enter. Aelis walked to the centre of the small, sparsely furnished room, noting that it had been recently swept clean. She turned around.

      Bertran de Talair, the younger son, the troubadour, removed the falcon mask he wore.

      ‘By all the holy names of Rian,’ he said, ‘I have never known a woman like you in my life. Aelis, you were magnificent.’

      With some difficulty she kept her expression stern, despite what seeing his face again, the flash of his quick, remembered smile, was suddenly doing to her. She forced herself to gaze coolly into the unnerving clarity of his blue eyes. She was not a kitchen girl, not a tavern wench in Tavernel, to swoon into his arms.

      ‘Your man is badly wounded,’ she said sharply. ‘I might have killed him. I sent specific word with Brette that I was going to shoot an arrow when you stopped us. That you should tell your men to wear chain mail under their clothing.’

      ‘And I told them,’ said Bertran de Talair with an easy shrug. He moved towards the table, discarding his mask, and Aelis saw belatedly that there was wine waiting for them. It was becoming more difficult by the moment, but she continued to fight the impulse to smile back at him, or even to laugh aloud.

      ‘I did tell them, truly,’ Bertran repeated, attending to the wine bottle. ‘Valery chose not to. He doesn’t like armour. Says it impedes his movement. He’ll never make a proper coran, my cousin Valery.’ He shook his head in mock sorrow and then glanced over his shoulder at her again. ‘Green becomes you, as the leaves the trees. I cannot believe you are here with me.’

      She seemed to be smiling, after all. She struggled to keep control of the subject though; there was a real issue here. She could easily have killed the man, Valery. ‘But you chose not to tell him why he ought to protect himself, correct? You didn’t tell him I planned to shoot. Even though you knew he would be the one standing beside you.’

      Smoothly he opened the bottle. He grinned at her. ‘Correct and correct. Why are all the de Barbentain so unfairly clever? It makes it terribly difficult for the rest of us, you know. I thought it might be a lesson for him—Valery should know by now that he ought to listen when I make a suggestion, and not ask for reasons.’

      ‘I might have killed him,’ Aelis said again.

      Bertran was pouring the