He took two steps, bent down, brushed off the covering of snow and picked up a coachman’s whip abandoned on the track.
A chill, deeper than white snow or black sea, inveigled his bones, and he scanned thereabouts.
Two sets of hoof imprints were rapidly being smothered. Footmarks deep in the snow. A…red glove.
Tristan swallowed back the fear, reached for the glove with trembling hand and brought it to his nose.
Lavender.
Had their carriage been prey to the footpads in these woods?
Whose blood was it?
All he knew was that the carriage had travelled on as beyond the gouge of snow, the wheel imprints continued.
He listened…
Solely a deep hush met his ears, not a sound as he stood within the watching trees. A terror arose, prickling his nape, and no longer was the snow a delicate layer of peace but a melancholic blanket of ill-omen.
He hobbled to Flint, hauled himself aloft and murmured low, “I know ’tis dangerous on this terrain, old boy, but I need you to gallop awhile. Hie!”
Flint snorted and did as Tristan had bid, his heavy greased hooves built for this landscape and this weather, his powerful gait rippling beneath Tristan’s thighs, the powdery snow thrown up in a blizzard around them.
The traces of the carriage wheels were rapidly fading and he could only hope they continued on the track, that Gwen would be at home in Penffordd Manor, unharmed and–
“Whoa,” he gritted out as the traces abruptly vanished and he snapped his head to one side, then the other. There, to the left, the traces had veered down a narrow trail, encased overhead by thick entwined branches.
An eerie, blue-tinged light swathed the way and they followed at a cautious walk, for he knew these woods. As lads, he and Rhys had scampered through them in laughter. As adults, they’d walked and admired the ancient trees.
This trail led to the woodcutter’s hut.
Thin branches scattered the ground where the too-large carriage had lumbered through and snapped them clean off.
It was so silent. So different to the raging terror he’d felt in the storm, for that had been cacophony and tempest and danger. This was worse. A silent assassin of fear that struck at his very soul.
Between the trees, the stone hut appeared.
To the side, their carriage stood abandoned, door swung open, horses nowhere to be seen.
In cautious hush, he dismounted beside a vast oak and slipped Flint’s reins over a stunted branch.
He surveyed the vicinity.
Firewood was stacked beneath a jutting roof to one side of the hut.
Tendrils of smoke rose from the chimney.
Footprints traipsed hither and thither in the snow outside.
Breathing deep, he lurched forward to another tree and spun his back to it.
Peered around. Nothing. Not a–
A crimson drop sullied the snow.
Another.
Leading towards the hut.
