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“Then, I’ll go into the woods.” She twitched the reins and the horse obediently trotted.
Tilda considered herself an accomplished rider. She was capable of jumping low fences and walls, a shallow ditch, and even logs. She refused the company of a groom.
“I’ve ridden alone many times,” she shouted over her shoulder at the worried Sara and cross Jacob. “I’ll not be gone long.”
The road leading from the barbican and portcullis went over a bridge connecting the curtain walls with a hilltop plateau where many villagers lived in thatched cottages and barns. There was no moat on the cliff side as the height provided sufficient defences, but on the side of the barbican there was a ditch and moat. The mare followed the path downhill, a steep incline in places and she met wagons being dragged uphill by oxen. The sun beat down on the backs of the men walking alongside. They saluted her with their whips, and she acknowledged them with an upturned nose. She had no time for niceties. They knew their place.
The green meadow by the river provided some grazing for a flock of sheep and goats, but she suspected it flooded in the winter and was not suitable for cultivating. There were beehives, and she steered away from the buzzing, choosing to take the lane leading into the forest.
The pines dominated, springing up between the ancient oaks and elms. Probably planted to replace felled trees, they offered a constant canopy all year round, while the leafy trees provided colour. She stuck to the path. It wasn’t her intention to get lost and warrant a search party. That would not please her lord. She was determined to demonstrate independence outside of his bedchamber. She was no fool or weakling, and if she was to be his wife, then he had to accept she was entitled to freedoms.
She ducked under a low branch, slowly noticing the trees were huddled tighter together and the path was narrowing. The birds, which had sung gaily, were quiet, and the leaves rustled ceaselessly. A fallen pinecone rolled across the path, then another. There were probably squirrels. And hares, or rabbits, and wood pigeons. Deer, too.
A four-legged creature shot across the path and the spooked horse reared slightly. Tilda screamed. What had she seen? Too small for a stag, too large for a rabbit.
An arrow landed in the distance; its flint buried in the bark of an oak tree. She pulled her horse up and turned. Behind, robed in a hood, his face cast into a black shadow, was a horseman. He carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. The sword was sheathed, the dagger was not. He held it aloft in his hand for a few seconds, then slotted it into its scabbard.
“Matilda,” the familiar voice growled. “What are you doing here?”
Tilda sighed with relief. “My lord. You did give me a fright.”
He trotted forward, drawing back his hood to reveal the golden locks of hair and the startling blue eyes.
“You are alone?” He furrowed his eyebrows. “Where is the groom, a man-at-arms?”
She lifted her chin. “I have no need of such company.”
He drew his horse alongside hers and snatched the reins out of her hands. “You’ve never ridden in this forest, along these paths, and you expect me to agree to you being out alone?” He pressed his lips into a deep frown. “I shall take you onto my horse, over this saddle and give your arse a walloping.”
She giggled, then stopped abruptly. He looped his bow behind his back, reached over and plucked her from her saddle. She squawked but could not prevent him from tossing her face down over the shoulders of his horse.
“My lord, please.”
He lifted up the end of her skirts, and stuck his hand between her legs. The coarse fabric of her riding gown was yanked upward, and a gust of wind brushed against her stockings and bare thighs.
Her head dangled by his stirrup, consequently, her hair unravelled from its headdress and pins and cascaded down, the swaying ends nearly reached the ground. She thumped his leg with her fist. “This is unfair, sir. You never ordered me not to ride in the forest.”
There was a silence punctuated by the neighing of her horse. She peeked up at him. His arm was raised above her crumpled skirts and, for a second, his face flushed. He lowered his hand and smoothed down the gown.
“I did not.” He helped her up and she perched before him, balanced on the saddle, and reliant on the support of his embracing arm. “There shall be no confusion going forward. You will not ride here without my permission, or without a groom.”
She bit back a retort—she was not a child. His requirement remained unfair and harsh, and overly protective.
“Don’t pout,” he said. “It is unbecoming of your fair face.” He retrieved the reins of her horse and turned both steeds around.
She snorted. “I can ride myself.”
“I like you up here. I can ensure you stay on the path.”
She clung to the mane. “I wouldn’t have got lost. I was following the path, and would have taken it back without deviation.”
“And if you encountered a fork, how would you know which to take?” He ducked under the same branch she had nearly struck with her head.
“I can recall the correct one. There are trees, like the one we just passed, that are memorable. And there was a badger’s set—look, there are the marks of the paws.”
He guffawed. “It’s not a badger’s. Those are pigs.”
“Pigs?” She’d seen a pig in the forest; was that the creature that had run off?
