Page 27 of Blood of the Thistle

Bram knew not what to make of any of it. Her frantic words tumbled into a silence broken only by the wind. She was not merely lost; she was unraveling. He let the quiet stretch for a moment longer before turning away. “We need to move,” he said, continuing along the path. He heard her footsteps following, and when she offered no further bewildering declarations, he allowed himself to hope the worst of it had passed.

The woodland gradually thinned until the trees stood farther and farther apart, each one casting its own lonely patch of shade instead of joining the next. Before long there remained only a handful of wind-bent oaks scattered across the hillside, beyond which the country opened completely.

Bram stopped at the edge of the meadow.

The ground rolled northward, a broad expanse of waist-high grass offering no cover until a belt of woodland a mile distant. To the east, marshy ground would slow them to a crawl. To the west, an exposed ridge offered a longer, more dangerous path. There was no good way. Only the direct way.

“We’ll have to cross,” he said at last.

Anna followed his gaze over the thistle-covered meadow. “It’s so... big.”

“Aye,” he answered distractedly, “and verra poor ground for a man who wishes nae to be seen.”

Knowing it was unavoidable, he stepped into the meadow first, choosing the straightest course toward the distant trees. Anastasia fell into place directly behind him, wordlessly keeping pace with his swift gait, moving as quickly as the uneven ground allowed. He paid no mind to the golden grass brushing against his legs or the warmth of the morning sun. His gaze swung constantly in every direction, sweeping first toward the ridge to the west, then the marsh beyond the east, before returning again to the open ground ahead. Every few moments he glanced behind them as well, unwilling to trust that the land they had just crossed remained empty.

They had covered perhaps a quarter of the meadow when he stopped so abruptly that Anastasia nearly crashed into him, her gaze more idle than his, having been watching her fingers skim over the top of the grass as she moved.

“God’s wounds,” he muttered, squinting toward a ridgeline just west of the trees from where they’d come.

She turned at once. “What?”

Bram cursed again, this time more foully, his eyes had fixed nearly half a mile away, where three mounted figures had just appeared against the morning sky. For a heartbeat they were little more than dark silhouettes, but then sunlight flashed upon steel.

“Scouts,” he said quietly, guessing they might be attached to the party they’d noticed last evening. Three riders alone would not ordinarily have troubled him—had he steel in hand and a sturdy mount beneath him. Three riders ranging well ahead of a larger force troubled him greatly while he was without a weapon or even shoes, and certainly had no steed. “Shite,” he grumbled and ducked into the tall grass, yanking Anastasia down with him.

It was a futile gesture. He knew they were already seen—two dark figures in a sea of grass, as obvious as a hawk against a clear blue sky.

Crouched next to him, Anastasia remarked, “You just naturally assume everyone you meet means to cause you harm.”

“Aye, and so they do,” he replied, watching as the trio nudged their steeds down from the ridge, their progress slow until they reached the base and the grass, where they gave the horse their legs, aiming straight for them.

“Run,” he commanded, and giving her no time to question, he seized her hand and pulled her after him. His eyes fixed on the distant trees, which suddenly seemed impossibly far.

The meadow, which had seemed merely broad a moment before, now appeared endless. Grass and flowering thistle whipped against his bare shins and calves as he lengthened his stride, all the while forcing himself not to outpace Anastasia. She stumbled once on uneven ground, and he tightened his grip, hauling her upright before she could fall, never breaking stride.

Behind them came the unmistakable drumming of hooves. The scouts were no longer only searching but were clearly hunting now.

Bram dared a glance over his shoulder. The riders had spread slightly, no longer riding nose to tail but fanning across the meadow to deny any chance of escape. They’d closed the distance with alarming speed, the powerful horses devouring the ground far faster than any two people on foot could hope to manage.

He turned back toward the trees, measuring the distance with the practiced eye of a man long accustomed to judging both terrain and time. Even if they reached the woodland, they would gain little from it. The horsemen would be upon them before they found cover enough to disappear, and if they entered the trees exhausted, Bram would be at a greater disadvantage in the fight he fully expected to come.

Considering it his best option, Bram slowed and then stopped, the tree line still a hundred yards or more ahead of them.

Anastasia paused as well, breathless, and looked at him in confusion. “Bram—what?”

He released her hand and spared her only a fleeting glance—very sorry for the confused terror that brightened her bonny eyes—and turned to face the riders.

“Get behind me, Anastasia,” he said, a wee bit breathless himself, “and dinna let any get behind ye.” He opened his hand and allowed the empty cuff and length of chain to fall free, the iron swinging heavily from his wrist. It was a miserable excuse for a weapon, but it was the only one the English had left him.

The three riders did not immediately charge. Instead, they slowed their mounts to a steady canter, spreading farther apart as they approached, each perhaps twenty feet from the next. One carried his slender sword upright in his right hand, another rested a hand upon the hilt of his own blade, while the youngest—little more than a lad, Bram judged—kept glancing between him and Anna with an uncertainty that suggested this was no seasoned warrior.

All the better, thought Bram. At least one had yet to learn that a desperate man was often the most dangerous.

The oldest of the three—Bram judged him as a sergeant or man-at-arms leading the patrol—assessed Bram first, his skinny gaze roving over the shackle, his ragged clothes, and his bare feet, likely judging him for what he was, an escaped prisoner. No doubt the man almost immediately weighed duty and danger against the potential reward.

The second, perhaps a man in his late twenties, gave all his attention to Anastasia, his gaze lecherous. He smiled slowly as he ogled her, in such a way as to make Bram’s blood run cold. While the sergeant likely saw reward, this one saw opportunity.

Bram was fairly certain he heard the man say, “A pretty prize.”