Page 24 of Veil of Winter

“Sit and rest,” Ysabeau said to her mistress.

“You are as tired as I am, and more so, since you were riding alone. Come. We will sit together.” They huddled next to each other on a short stack of furs. Not exactly the image of a spoiled princess. And then he remembered the way she had lain against his chest and slept.

He hurried over to Sir Oswalt to help with the horses, as much to force away the feelings his thoughts were evoking as to assist his friend. The horses had to be taken care of, after all. They would not survive this journey without them.

His cheeks and nose tingled sharply as they thawed in the relative warmth of the shelter, which was surprisingly well built. By the time they finished tending the horses, he was nearly warm, but his growling stomach was poignantly aware that they hadn’t eaten much all day.

He went through the saddlebags where they had stored some provisions—cheese and bread, nuts and dried fruit—and Ysabeau was already elbow-deep in her own bag of provisions they had retrieved from the old woman’s cottage. No doubt they were all famished.

Just then he heard a voice, deep and booming, over the sound of the wind outside the door.

Gerard leapt to grab his sword from where it stood leaning against the wall, as did Sir Oswalt.

Probably only someone else who had gotten caught in the storm—but it could also be King Claude and his men.

The door flew open so violently it hit the wall. Snow swirled inside, along with a man holding the longest knife Gerard had ever seen.

“Who dares steal my furs?” The man roared like a bear. Indeed, he looked like one, with his long beard and his fur clothing. Even his head was covered by a fur hat. He would have looked even more like a bear if not for the ice encrusting his mustache.

Before anyone could answer him, he lunged toward Sir Oswalt, who was closest to the door.

“Stop!” Gerard was at Sir Oswalt’s side in a moment, holding his sword at the ready.

The man ceased his advancement just as a wolfish dog stepped in front of him and growled, baring its teeth. The man fastened his eyes on Gerard, then shouted something that sounded like German. He didn’t know what he had said, but it definitely was not friendly.

Gerard did not wish to fight this man or his dog, but when the stakes were life or death, he was willing.

***

Elyce had never seen so much anger on a man’s face before. He planted his feet wide apart—as wide as he could, for he was rather short—and yelled, in German, “Myfurs!Myhouse! Get out. Get out, or my wolf will tear your face off.”

The wolf started barking, as if he knew he was being spoken about. But this was no friendly bark, nor even a hunting dog’s bark. This was half snarl, half howl, a warning and a promise of violence.

Elyce’s heart was in her throat. She could barely breathe. Would they be mauled by this wolf?

“We mean you no harm,” Sir Gerard said in German, though it was clear from his heavy English accent that this was not his native tongue. However, his tone was firm and he held his ground, his sword in a defensive position.

The man made a contemptuous sound and said, “Get out of here, you foreigner. Get out, I say.”

Elyce quickly repeated what Sir Gerard had said. “We mean you no harm. We just need shelter.”

He turned and gave Elyce his attention. “No women. No women in my house.”

Elyce had stood to her feet when the man came inside, and now Ysabeau was holding on to her, probably from fear and to help Elyce stay upright.

“We will not take anything that is yours,” Elyce said.

“I do not want you here. Get your horses and go.”

The man led in a horse loaded with furs. Elyce looked closer and realized they were not just furs, but dead animals that had not yet been skinned.

Ysabeau’s grip tightened on Elyce’s arm, her eyes wide and her lips trembling.

“What did he say?” Sir Gerard asked. “His accent is so thick I cannot understand him.”

“He wants us to go, and he doesn’t want women in his house.”

“Plotting against me, eh?” the man said.