Free Wolf Bride by Elizabeth Moss Page A

discussion, not if he wished to keep her safe. ‘Get back to the litter and take Mary with you. Hugh will guard you.’
    He spurred the horse up towards the road; the younger man ran alongside. ‘You did right to raise the alarm, Hugh. This is dangerous country. We cannot trust they will respect the law.’
    Hugh looked back at the two women following them hurriedly up the slope. ‘And the ladies?’
    ‘Escort them to the litter, and have it drawn between the trees for safety. Guard them with your life. The rest of us must be ready to defend this slope. You must pray God none of those men break through to you.’
    ‘Aye, my lord.’
    Reaching the track where he had left his men, Wolf gave orders for them to find vantage points among the trees and hold their positions in twos and threes. Then he shielded his eyes against the sun and looked south-west to where the swirling dust-cloud proclaimed riders approaching.
    He narrowed his eyes. Hugh was right. Ten or twelve men, their mounts low northern ponies rather than well-bred horseflesh, and growing nearer every moment.
    He glanced up and down the track, which stood sunlit and empty in both directions. They were not far from the northern moors here. These could be some of the moorland bandits who made a name for themselves by attacking travellers and murdering them for their possessions. If so, the ruffians would soon discover they had picked a difficult target.
    ‘Where do you want me, my lord?’ It was Sir John Tyrell, his sword out and gleaming in the sun. His face was flushed. ‘I know I’m no seasoned campaigner like yourself, but I can still fight.’
    ‘Your daughter is below in the litter, sir, guarded by Hugh Beaufort. I’m sure she would welcome your stout defence.’
    ‘No, no,’ Tyrell objected. ‘I’ll stand with you here.’
    ‘Sir, your daughter needs you more. If any of these ruffians should break through our ranks . . .’
    Tyrell looked grimly at the approaching dust-cloud. ‘Very well, I’ll be with Hugh below. They will not reach Eloise alive.’
    When Sir John had gone, Wolf called out a few last commands to his unseen men, then drew back into the shadows himself.
    He waited just within the line of the trees, dagger in one hand, sword in the other. There was no time to dwell on what might have happened if these ruffians had fallen on them unseen. Thanks to Hugh’s sharp eyes, they had the advantage of forewarning. When the riders reached the north road, they would find the track deserted, but men with swords and crossbows hidden amongst the trees, ready to defend themselves.
    Less than a moment later, the first rider lurched out of the fields, cleared a gap in the hedgerow, and turned towards their hiding place. He was a big man, clad in a leather jerkin and coarse shirt, an ancient battered helmet pulled low across his forehead. His pony was squat and broad-flanked, and it gave a high whinny as he dragged its head about, his sharp gaze searching the road and woods for his victims.
    Nearly a dozen men poured after their leader through the gap in the hedgerow, swords already drawn, some with pikes and axes, helmeted and with leather instead of armour.
    A poor defence against a crossbow, Wolf thought, but waited another moment until all the men were on the road before lifting his hand.
    ‘Fire!’
    As soon as he gave the order, a series of hisses were followed by the thwack of arrows finding their mark, sending five of the unarmoured riders into the dust.
    ‘Again!’
    Their attackers were in confusion, horses wheeling about, foam on their mouths from the hard ride, some rearing up and striking at the air with their hooves, while the leader yelled hoarse instructions to his men.
    ‘Attack, you cowards, attack! Follow me, they’re in the woods!’
    The leader and four of the remaining horsemen spurred their mounts past Wolf’s position. They left the road, crashing through the trees to the left of his men, just wide enough to avoid