The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (26 page)

Shivering, Elspeth huddled beneath the rich velvet cloak. She was hungry, bone-weary,
and
dangerously near despair.
All
that she
had trusted
and
counted
on in this life seemed to have abandoned her,
and
now
her husband probably lay dead from her own
hands. Yet
the
taste of his mo
u
th lingered disturbingly
on
her lip
s.

She should move deeper into the
ancient
forest, clutch
ing the
silver
cross that
h
u
n
g
to her waist
beneath her thin linen chemise for whatever protection it might offer. The sheriff’s men would
come
after her, hunt her down in the forest like a wild
boar.
She
didn’t
want to die
at
the
end
of
a dozen lances.

She pulled
h
e
r
s
e
lf to
her feet, gritting
her teeth against
her
moan of
pain. Deeper, deeper into the woods was where safety
lay.
It was
her
only hope.

The
t
r
e
e
s
were thick, ancient, with no discernible path in
the
inky darkness. She c
o
u
l
d
rely
only on her instincts. They pulled
her
to
the left,
into
the very
heart
of
t
h
e
forest.
To
the left lay warmth and
safety,
she was
s
u
r
e
of it.
Forcing herself, she moved
onward,
deeper and deeper into Dunstan
Woods.

She lost track
of time. It might have been minutes
or
hours or
days that she wandered through the darkness where no light penetrated. All she could
do
was keep moving slowly onward, stopping
o
n
l
y
to
catch
her
breath
before
continuing. Whe
n
she
first
saw the dim light coming toward her
through
the thick mist, she stopped, fight
ing back the superstitious terror
that filled her weary
heart. She’d heard tales of goblins
luring people to their doom in the swamps with
faerie
lights.
What
sane,
God-fearing person would be
here
in the heart of the forest, welcoming
her? If
she had sense at all, she would
turn
and run
ba
c
k
the
way she had
come.

But she
no
longer
had
any sense.
She
no longer
cared if she
lived or
di
e
d.
She was too
weary to
continue. If that
light
signaled
death, then
she ready
was
for it. The fight
had left
her.

It was no
faerie light.
No
will-o’-the-wisp luring her
to
her doom.
It
was
simply a cottage; small, rough-hewn,
overgrown
with moss and
branches,
and the light spilled
out
into the
darkness like a
beacon.

“There
you
are,
my pretty,” a cracked, ancient voice said from
within. “I’d almost
despaired of
you
finding your
way
here.”
Silhouetted
in the doorway was a
broad,
bent-over
figure.

Once more her
superstitious terror threatened
to
overcome
reason.
“Who are you?”
she demanded, her voice deceptively
steady.

The
woman
stepped
back slightly,
and
Elspeth
could se
e
her
face.
It
was beautiful,
for all
that
it
was aged and seamed. Her
h
ai
r
hung to
her waist,
thick
and
gray and flowing;
her
clothes
were
soft
and shapeless; and her
eyes
were
bright
and
intelligent
and
curiously light in
her
narrow face.

“There’s
nothing
to
be
afraid
of,” she
said
in
that hoarse,
gentle
voice.
“I’ve
been waiting
a
long
time
.
For
a
while I
was afraid you were
too
strong for me.
I
rather think y
ou
would be
if you weren’t
so
weary.
What
have
they been
feeding
you up at the castle?”

It
was too
confusing. She didn’t bother
to think about how
the woman knew she
was from the
castle,
or how she’d happened
to
end
up
here. She simply
answered
the question. “Thin
gruel.”

The old
woman’s mouth curved in
a
mocking smile,
one
that
was eerily
familiar. “How
li
k
e
them,”
she
murmured
. “Come
in,
child,
and let me give
you
something
t
o
eat.
I’
v
e
a
pot
of
stew
on
the
hearth.
It s
h
o
u
l
d
put
some strength
back
into
you.”

Elspeth
followed
her
into
the tiny
hut. It was small, cramped, redolent of herbs
and
other
foreign smells
that
w
e
r
e
strangely
beguiling
.
For
the
first
time
since
she’d
been
informed
that
s
h
e
was now a married
woman
,
El
speth
felt
curiously
at peace.