Free The Lascar's Dagger by Glenda Larke Page A

she might also be crazed and dangerous. Instead, Mathilda revelled in the thought that she was about to have a real adventure at last.
    The woman was terrified. She was closer to the shrine than the dogs, but they were bred to run and eager to reach her. Fixing her gaze on the shrine archway ahead, she flew across the yard. The first of the hounds nipped at her heels. She was crying, tears streaking dirt on her cheeks. The hound grabbed the back of her skirt, its teeth ripping through the cloth as she lunged away. She made one last desperate leap for the shade of the oak, as if even its shadow could save her.
    Her feet hit the yellow carpet of autumn leaves. A mere breath behind her, the leading hound wailed in pain.
    Startled, the woman looked over her shoulder. The animal skidded to a halt, the leaves banking up under its feet. It yelped. The hounds behind tried to bypass it, but the moment they trod on the fallen leaves, they lost all interest in their quarry. They leapt and twisted and howled. Then, as one, they tore away, tails down, in abject distress.
    The woman halted by the shrine entrance, staring back at them, her face a picture of amazement. She’d not expected this.
    This is better than any theatrical
, Mathilda thought, jumping to her feet and clapping her hands in her own excitement.
    Roused by the hounds’ fervid barking, the men from the tavern poured across the road. Not just the owners of the fellhounds, but Ryce and the royal guards as well.
    The woman took one look and dived into the shrine. She raced past Mathilda and brushed Marsh Bedstraw aside as the shrine-keeper emerged from her dwelling, mouth agape. Her headlong dash took her through the covered area to the base of the trunk. She laid her hands on the rough bark and said in a firm, clear voice, “I, Sorrel Redwing, beg sanctuary from the guardians of oak and field, from Va above. Should my plea be answered, I pledge service to Va from this moment forth.”
    Turning to press her back to the trunk, she placed the flat of her palms to the tree on either side and fixed her gaze on the main entrance. Fear blazed in her eyes, and she shrank back as if she could disappear into the bark. Her chest rose and fell like bellows and she dug her fingers into the oak so ferociously Mathilda winced.
    “Va, in the name of oak and field, save me. Save me and I am yours,” Sorrel said.
    Marsh Bedstraw laid a warning hand on Mathilda’s elbow. “Say nothing. This is in the hands of the Way of the Oak.”
    Mathilda looked towards the men now at the door. Two of them stepped inside, and once they were no longer backlit by the sunlight, she recognised one as the leader of the hunters. What had Sergeant Horntail said his name was? Ermine. Hilmard Ermine. Behind the landsman, Ryce and Horntail came running up.
    “Are you all right, Thilda?” Ryce asked, his face a ludicrous mix of remorse and alarm.
    “Of course I am,” she said.
    Hilmard Ermine concentrated on the shrine-keeper, apparently not noticing his quarry against the tree. “We’re looking for a runaway, a criminal. She committed the foul murder of her husband, my brother, and then fled his home. We’ve had the hounds after her half the night, nearly caught her several times, but lost her an hour ago. We know she entered the shrine just now.”
    “Rest assured,” Marsh Bedstraw said, inclining her head in polite deference, her voice low and husky and calm, “no one of black heart is ever sheltered by the shrine, or by Va. Search if it please ye, and if y’find the person y’seek, she has no place here.”
    Mathilda turned to look at the woman to see how she reacted, but there was no one there. She stared at the trunk, her mouth gaping. There was no way Sorrel Redwing could have moved without drawing attention to her presence. Marsh Bedstraw’s hold on her arm tightened. Mathilda shook her off, torn between scolding the shrine-keeper for daring to lay a hand on a member of the royal family, and