Free Bourn’s Edge by Barbara Davies Page A

tall stranger in a russet-coloured tunic and breeches and a cloak of forest green. A scabbarded sword hung at his right hip. Stranger than his quasi-medieval clothing was the fact that no one else seemed aware of him or the horses whose reins he held.
    Cassie turned to ask Reverend Wright who the man was, but he was stroking his beard, deep in conversation with a parishioner.
    “Only you can see or hear me,” came the stranger’s voice, deep and full of amusement. He gestured, his hand tracing some symbol in the air.
    She couldn’t move. “Help!” she cried out, or tried to; no sound emerged.
    “Hush.” He led the two horses to her side. “Be easy.” He brushed her cheek with slender fingers. “Don’t be afraid. You’re the Queen’s prisoner now, and none dare hurt you for fear of retribution.”
    The Queen?
    Gripping Cassie around the waist, and with no apparent sign of effort, he lifted her into one of the saddles. After arranging her limbs, hair, and clothing to his satisfaction, he tied her wrists to the saddle’s pommel and stood back to assess the result. Then he mounted the other horse and reached for her horse’s reins. And all the while, members of the congregation came and went, oblivious to what was happening right under their noses.
    Unable to do anything else, Cassie committed the stranger’s details to memory. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing a pale, clean-shaven face. The blackness of his hair and the slight tilt to his eyes reminded her of Tarian. In fact, now she came to think of it, he could have stepped straight out of one of Tarian’s paintings.
    A click of his tongue urged his horse into motion. Her mount followed his, and they trotted up the High Street, past the garage. Two trainer-clad feet poked out from under Cassie’s car, which now sported a new bumper. Mike must work on Sundays . She tried to shout out to the mechanic, but as before no sound emerged.
    Whatever her abductor had done to paralyse her was selective. She could still breathe and blink her eyelids, for example, and her heart was beating steadily. Which was odd, come to think of it. She should be terrified out of her wits, yet she felt calm.
    He looked back at Cassie, before facing front once more. They rode past Tarian’s house up the hill towards the forest. When the stile came into view, he dug his heels in and headed straight for it. Her mount picked up speed too and she was thankful her hands were bound to the pommel or she would have fallen off. Then she was airborne, and if she could have she would have held her breath. It seemed to take forever before her horse’s hooves had cleared the battered wooden stile, but it was probably mere seconds before the jarring landing. Once more he checked that she was all right before proceeding on at a trot.
    They had gone only a little way along the public footpath when he slowed the horses to a walk and branched off, taking the game trail she had taken previously. Gloom descended as the trees closed in on either side and the sounds of the forest faded. Twigs tried to scratch her face and branches threatened to sweep her from her saddle, but she was unable to hunch down to avoid them. He gestured and muttered something, and after that it was almost as though the branches were bending away from her to allow her free passage.
    A loud caw from the forest canopy above startled her. The man with the ponytail shaded his eyes and looked up then waved a gloved hand at a large crow, as if in greeting.
    One more impossibility , thought Cassie.
    At last, they emerged into a sun-dappled clearing. A massive oak tree took pride of place on one side, and eight feet from it stood an imposing ash tree. He guided his horse towards the gap between the trees, and a strange sensation like the buzzing of bees or the prickle of electricity crawled over her, growing stronger the closer they got. As her horse passed between the trees, the sensation vanished. So did Bourn