Free Linda Barlow by Fires of Destiny

listening to this exchange with an inscrutable expression on her exquisite face. "I'm certain you don't associate with such riffraff, Pris."
    Pris murmured agreement, averting her eyes. Alexandra had noticed, though, that the widow had taken a good hard look at the broken dagger. "How long has Ned been looking for me?" she asked her mother.
    "For the past few days. Very furtive he is, too, this Ned, appearing and disappearing like a demon."
    Alexandra remembered the fear Ned had exhibited in front of Roger near the ditch where Will had fallen. She hadn’t seen the lad since. "Mother, if he comes again today, will you ask him to wait for me? I'll be back by noon, I promise."
    "I would prefer that you had nothing further to do with a knife-wielding half-wit," Lady Douglas insisted, but when Alexandra gave her a pleading look, she relented. "Oh, very well. Though why you make friends with these waifs and ne'er-do-wells, I'll never understand."
    Alexandra stuck the broken dagger into her girdle and thanked her mother. Lucy Douglas could be a difficult woman at times, but Alexandra knew that although her tongue was sharp, there was little she would not do for her only child.
    * * *
    Ten minutes later Alexandra was outside, walking briskly along the flower-lined path that led through the hedgerows to the freedom of the moors. She had a pack slung over one shoulder filled with warm bread, fruit, cheese, meat pies, and homebrewed ale. This was her weekly offering for the ancient wisewoman, Merwynna. It was a pleasant day, with a breeze rolling through the heather. This was a nice change after what had been a gray and stormy summer, with rains so heavy that the harvest was threatened. But today the sky was so intensely blue it almost hurt her eyes to look at it.
    As she slipped through the hedges, she glanced back at the rectangular stone buildings that comprised her family home. Westmor Abbey was different in appearance from the imposing, if crumbling Whitcombe Castle. A former abbey, it stood in a grassy valley, and the construction was more modern than Whitcombe's. The grounds were replete with gardens, once tended by the monks who had lived there prior to Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries. The property had been presented to Alexandra's grandfather by the king, and her father, Sir Charles, had inherited it upon his father's death a year later. Alexandra had been but a babe when they had moved in. Westmor Abbey was the only home she had ever known.
    Shutting the gate carefully behind her, Alexandra struck out through the knee-deep moor grasses toward the woodland. The smell of the heather delighted her. She let out a spontaneous laugh and pulled her skirts halfway up her legs so she could feel the sensuous brush of wildflowers against her bare skin. She skipped for a few steps, feeling full of energy and joy. What a wonderful day to be alive!
    She tramped happily over several hills before coming back to the track that led into the woods. As the path dipped down into the trees, the blue sky vanished, obscured by the ancient forest's canopy of green. Unlike some woodlands, Westmor Forest did not begin gradually with a few scrubby trees; as soon as she crossed its boundaries, she entered a different world, a land of darkness, secrets, power. The paths were few and twisted, as if the forest tried to obliterate them as quickly as they were laid down. Branches caught at her clothes and long fingers of green brushed at her face.
    Few people knew the forest as well as Alexandra. From childhood she had explored its farthest reaches, aided by an excellent sense of direction and an almost mystical reverence for its gnarled old trees. She felt at peace here, and she believed that the forest knew her and accepted her as one of its own.
    After a lengthy trek, she entered an ancient grove of oaks whose trunks were thicker than Alexandra was tall. Beneath their boughs, the air was cool. Although the trees were well separated, their leaves