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His gloomy face lit up and he helped her up into the saddle. For a second, she thought of taking the reins and charging off, but the horse was huge, and she’d never keep it under control. That gave her an idea—Geoffrey liked to ride unwieldy horses and had suffered as a consequence. Would he dare give chase again, and with a weak leg?
A few hundred yards on, the trees thinned out. She shifted closer to the edge of the saddle, ready to slip off.
“Listen. I hear water again. I still haven’t made my toilet.” She plucked at his sleeve.
Geoffrey took the reins in one hand, freeing her legs, and lifted off his hood to listen. The moment was now or never.
She jumped down onto soft ground, picked up the skirt of the long robe, and bolted into the undergrowth. The horse neighed. Geoffrey shouted, and as she expected, he followed her. At first, she thought she’d made a terrible mistake. Her robe snagged on the twigs and thorns, nearly dragging her down, and her slippers sank into the mud. However, the same obstacles hindered Geoffrey. While she had the advantage of small size and flexibility, Geoffrey on horseback had very few.
She heard a stream of curses. Risking a glance back, she was surprised to find the gap between them had opened up. Her indigo robe merged with the gloom, and she drew up the hood, shrouding herself.
“Dammit,” he yelled. “Come back. Come back. You can’t leave me.” There was a sob at the end of his wail.
Should she turn back? She hid behind a tree trunk, panting. The darkness enveloped her, the cold morning too. She couldn’t see Geoffrey, only hear his frantic cries. It was then she realised she was hopelessly lost and had no idea where the path lay, or how to reach another. She crouched, hugged her knees, and prayed that Gervais had discovered her gone. But what if he was so busy tidying up his precious castle that he failed to notice her missing? Worst, he might believe she had left with any one of their guests, using their departure as a shield, for though she had declared her love for him, she had not given him all that he desired.
She’d not submitted to his hunt; she wasn’t his prize yet.
Emboldened by a bizarre notion, and drawing off the robe, she stood tall and naked. Her scent must fill the air and her pale flesh stand out brightly. Now the real game was afoot. For if Geoffrey was to win her back, he would have to find her, too, and she seriously hoped he wouldn’t and that Gervais did, and soon. The younger knight had a substantial head start.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gervais sniffed and frowned. No trace of her as yet. He twitched the reins and rode on further into the forest. Beneath his horse’s hooves were the deep tracks of another’s. It was his only clue. The prints were fresh, perhaps only an hour or so. Though many of his guests had departed, not one of them was likely to choose this route when the road was easier to follow.
He urged his horse forward, and focused on the darkest spots between the trees. His ears pricked up to the sounds of moving animals: the squirrels and rabbits, song thrushes and blackbirds. The odd coo of a dove. What he wanted to hear wasn’t there.
It was time to abandon his ride, tie him to a fallen tree, and move on foot, where he could be nimble, and cut corners since the forest path followed the driest high ground, while he could dash down into the ravines and gorges that patterned the forest. The bubbling of a brook told him he was close to one such place. Free of his horse, Gervais trod his own path down the side of the hill and hoped that Geoffrey had allowed Matilda some respite by the water.
The hairs on his neck stood on end, and his muscles thickened around his thighs. He drew breath into his lungs, and enriched it, giving it the power to extent him for longer. He started to run, weaving between stumps and trees, jumping over obstacles as nimbly as a prancing deer.
He stilled, dropped down onto one knee and watched the dark shadow move. The outline of the creature took form, and he recognised it. Approaching, he took the reins of the horse, and patted his neck. He checked the side saddles and found a half-eaten loaf and the flask. There was a purse filled with coin, a hunting knife, and a rolled mat for sleeping upon. Stuck to the horse blanket under the saddle was a tuft of purple, a few threads of velvet brush, and he plucked it off and held it to his nose. The only evidence of Matilda—her scent.
“There, there,” he said softly to the sweating horse. “So Geoffrey has given up on you, too. Well then, go find my horse, and you can wait together.” He struck the stallion’s rump, and the horse spirited itself away.
Now he had her fresh in his nostrils, he had the means to find her. He shook off the limitations of human senses and allowed the Zalim to takeover fully. He armed himself with a bow, ready to fell Geoffrey. He trusted his aim, and knew if he had to, he could send an arrow straight past her, and into the flesh of her abductor. He felt no pity for the man, only vengeful anger.
With the wind blowing into his face, he halted. The sound was weak and carried on the breeze—sobbing. Hunched, Gervais crept forward, using the tree trunks for coverage. He came to a grassy opening, and in the middle, on his knees, was the pathetic young knight, lost and cursing among his tears.
“Tilda,” he called. “Come back. I mean you no harm.”
“What have you done with her?” Gervais barked.
The boy leapt to his feet and drew his sword. There was a wildness in his eyes that Gervais recognised, having seen it in other volatile young men. A different wildness to that of a beast. While a beast had black hungry pits for its eyes, Geoffrey’s were pained and hollow. However, the knight was still a threat and not to be taken lightly. Gervais drew his blade, too.
Face to face, they circled each other, keeping track of the glints of metal that moved around with them.
“She’s out there.” Geoffrey pointed with his sword. “Because of you. She’s scared of you, and ran off.”
Gervais glared at the red-faced youth. “You lie. She ran away from you. You took her, not I.”
“She’ll learn I am worthy of her.” Geoffrey straightened his back.
“Prove it.” Gervais slid forward on one foot, his sword arm raised and threatening.
Geoffrey quickly parried the thrust and hopped back on his heel. Back and forth, they thrust and parried, and Gervais tried out several well-known moves, deducing how much the knight knew. Apparently sufficient to impress his father, but not a war-weary soldier like Gervais. There were plenty of weaknesses to exploit.
Although the bigger, older man, Gervais was a dancer compared to the crippled Geoffrey, and that was where he struck. With the flat of his blade, he whacked the lame leg right where the bone had snapped. Geoffrey screamed and fell backwards, clutching his leg.
“Get up,” Gervais said harshly. “You’re no longer a boy.”
