Chapter Three

      Constance hated travelling. The weather made matters worse. Despite having no eagerness to be in Robert’s company she would wish away the journey to Hamestan in exchange for a soft mattress and no more early rising to be on the road in fog that dampened every layer of clothing. The long hours in the saddle made her leg ache and the company that had been inflicted on her made each day seem twice as long. She would have preferred to ride faster but Rollo, the escort Robert de Coudray had sent, had insisted on travelling at a stately pace since they had entered the Cheshire forest.

      She let her mind wander; counting the shafts of sunlight that peeked through the trees, casting shadows across the narrow road. Her companions were equally silent. After almost two weeks in each other’s company they had reached the stage where light conversation was neither necessary nor welcome. Constance wondered which of them would be reporting her conduct back to Robert. Rollo, probably, though it could equally be the guards in black who rode with Constance’s strongbox and possessions strapped to their panniers, or the grey-cowled monk who never strayed far from her side.

      ‘Can we rest for a while?’ she asked.

      ‘Not until we’re through the forest. This country is crawling with rogues who would slit your throat as soon as fart,’ Rollo grunted. His eyes roved up and down Constance’s body, lingering on her knee-length tunic that revealed hose-clad calves. ‘Or more if they see through your disguise.’

      Constance scowled, not prepared to have the same argument again. Her choice of clothing had already raised eyebrows, but she insisted nevertheless. Skirts were too cumbersome for long rides and her thick winter cloak and hood would attract much less attention from any thieves waiting in the woods than the finery of a well-dressed lady. With her hair tightly coiled at her neck and concealed under a woollen cowl she looked more like an unassuming page than a woman.

      ‘If you’re right we should move faster, especially if we want to reach the inn before sunset,’ she said. Rollo hacked up spittle and slapped his horse’s rear, increasing from a walk to a trot. Constance resisted the urge to break into a gallop and leave him behind, knowing it would lead to even more disapproval.

      ‘Are there really men living wild here?’ she asked the monk.

      He nodded solemnly. ‘Everywhere.’

      ‘Murderers, thieves and exiles. They had to crawl somewhere when our lords took their lands,’ Rollo added. ‘We’ll be at the bridge soon, then we can breathe easier.’

      Constance eyed the deep forest nervously, half-expecting to see a figure lying in wait behind every tree. She fingered the dagger at her waist for reassurance and increased the pace a little.

      The rough road followed the path of a stream that widened until the river was in full flow with snow melt. She searched for signs of familiarity in the rising hills, but there were none. Of course she had been in no condition to observe the scenery last time she had travelled this path. Insensible with pain in her back and head, bleeding and bruised, she had been borne on a litter to the convent in Brockley. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory and she almost turned the mare’s head to flee until she remembered her promise to Hugh. Continuing to Hamestan was the only way to secure her future and serve retribution on Robert.

      As they neared the crossing Rollo swore. A cart had lost a wheel, spilling its load of logs across the bridge while the ragged hooded driver tried unsuccessfully to right it using a thick log as a lever. Rollo dismounted and began to bellow at the old man, presumably believing that would clear the obstruction.

      ‘We should help him clear the path,’ Constance said. ‘That will be quicker.’ And kinder, she did not say aloud.

      She climbed down, pulling her stick from the pannier at her saddle, and began to walk forward. The monk dismounted and walked towards the bridge, leaving only the two guards mounted.

      It was then the ambush occurred.

      The cart driver swung upright with the log he was holding, catching Rollo under the chin. He went down like a felled tree. As Rollo hit the ground another man clambered from beneath the bridge, short sword in one hand and a heavy cudgel in the other. He was long limbed and lean, dressed in a rough brown tunic with a leather jerkin on top of that. A hood was pulled low, casting a shadow over his face.

      ‘Now!’ he cried.

      The monk dropped to his knees in front of Constance.

      ‘Run, child,’ he said urgently, before he began to pray loudly.

      Knowing she would get no true aid from him, Constance turned around in time to see a further three men also armed with swords and wooden staffs bursting from amid the trees. They hurled themselves at the mounted guards who kicked out, trying to beat their attackers off while they struggled to draw their swords. The cart driver who had felled Rollo had turned his attention to the monk. He was not as old or frail as Constance had first imagined. The monk offered no resistance when the man began roping his hands behind his back and only increased the volume of his prayers.

      The air filled with cries of anger and exertion. The guards were pulled from their mounts, but had succeeded in drawing their weapons and began to return the blows they were dealt.

      Stomach knotting, Constance staggered back against her horse. Running was futile. She was too slow and where would she go anyway? She crouched on the ground, trying to make herself as unobtrusive as possible against the mare’s legs.

      The man from beneath the bridge had been kneeling beside Rollo. Seemingly satisfied that the bodyguard was no threat, he cleared the ground in a handful of strides. The guards would be no match when the odds were four against two.

      But four against three...

      As the hooded man passed her, Constance hurled her stick at his legs. It caught him a blow on the ankles