Aelis tendered her a reproving glance. She had duties here—the duties of a duchess towards the girl-woman who had been sent to her as a lady-in-waiting for fostering and to learn the manners proper to a court. Which was not, Aelis thought, going to happen in Miraval. She had considered writing her aunt at Malmont and saying as much, but had so far refrained, for selfish reasons as much as any others: Ariane’s brightness, since she had arrived last fall, had been a source of genuine pleasure, one of the very few Aelis had. Not counting certain songs. Even the birds above the lake are singing of my love …
‘Not all men are made for gallantry or the forms of courtliness,’ she said to her cousin, keeping her voice low. ‘Riquier is loyal and competent, and the remark about the wine is uncalled for—you’ve seen him in the hall yourself.’
‘Indeed I have,’ Ariane said ambiguously. Aelis raised her eyebrows, but had neither time nor inclination to pursue the matter.
Riquier cantered his horse past them again and swung off the path, angling through the roadside grass and then between the flanking trees towards the arch. The two women followed, with corans on either side and behind.
They never reached it.
There was a crackling sound, a surge and rustle of leaves. Six men plummeted from branches overhead and all six of Urté’s corans were pulled from their horses to tumble on the ground. Other men sprang instantly from hiding in the tall grass and raced over to help in the attack. Ariane screamed. Aelis reared her horse and a masked assailant rushing towards her scrambled hastily back. She saw two other men emerge from the trees to stand in front of them all, not joining in the fight. They too were masked; they were all masked. Riquier was down, she saw, two men standing over him. She wheeled her horse, creating room for herself, and grappled at her saddle for the small crossbow she always carried.
She was her father’s daughter, and had been taught by him, and in his prime Guibor de Barbentain was said to have been the best archer in his own country. Aelis steadied her horse with her knees, aimed quickly but with care and fired. One of the two men in the road before her cried out and staggered back, clutching at the arrow in his shoulder.
Aelis wheeled swiftly. There were four men around her now trying to seize the horse’s reins. She reared her stallion again and it kicked out, scattering them. She fumbled in the quiver for a second arrow.
‘Hold!’ the other man between the trees cried then. ‘Hold, Lady Aelis. If you harm another of my men we will begin killing your corans. Besides, there is the girl. Put down your bow.’
Her mouth dry and her heart pounding, Aelis looked over and saw that Ariane’s frightened, snorting horse was firmly in the grasp of two of their attackers. All six of Urté’s corans were down and disarmed, but none seemed to have been critically injured yet.
‘It is you we want,’ the leader in front of them said, as if answering her thought. ‘If you come gently the others will not be further hurt. You have my word.’
‘Gently?’ Aelis snapped, with all the hauteur she could manage. ‘Is this a setting for gentleness? And how highly should I value the word of a man who has done this?’
They were halfway to the arch, among the elms. To her right, across the lake, Talair was clearly visible. Behind her, if she turned, she could probably still see Miraval. They had been attacked within sight of both castles.
‘You don’t really have a great deal of choice, do you?’ the man before her said, taking a few steps forward. He was of middling height, clad in brown, with a midwinter carnival mask, unsettlingly incongruous in such a place as this, covering most of his face.
‘Do you know what my husband will do to you?’ Aelis said grimly. ‘And my father in Barbentain? Have you any idea?’
‘I do, actually,’ the masked man said. Beside him, the one she had wounded was still clutching his shoulder; there was blood on his hand. ‘And it has rather a lot to do with money, my lady. Rather a lot of money, actually.’
‘You are a very great fool!’ Aelis snapped. They had surrounded her horse now, but no one, as yet, had reached for the reins. There seemed to be about fifteen of them—an extraordinary number for an outlaw band, so near the two castles. ‘Do you expect to live to spend anything they give you? Don’t you know how you will be pursued?’
‘These are indeed worrisome matters,’ the man in front of her said, not sounding greatly worried. ‘I don’t expect you to have given them much thought. I have.’ His voice sharpened. ‘I do expect you to co-operate, though, or people will start being hurt, and I’m afraid that might include the girl. I don’t have unlimited time, Lady Aelis, or patience. Drop the bow!’
There was a crack of command in the last sentence that actually made Aelis jump. She looked over at Ariane; the girl was big-eyed, trembling with fear. Riquier lay face down on the grass. He seemed to be unconscious, but there was no blade wound she could see.
‘The others will not be hurt?’ she said.
‘I said that. I don’t like repeating myself.’ The voice was muffled by the festive mask, but the arrogance came through clearly.
Aelis dropped her bow. Without another word the leader turned and nodded his head. From behind the arch, having been hidden by its massive shape, another man stepped out leading two horses. The leader swung himself up on a big grey, and beside him the wounded man awkwardly mounted a black mare. No one else moved. The others were clearly going to stay and deal with the corans.
‘What will you do with the girl?’ Aelis called out.
The outlaw turned back. ‘I am done with questions,’ he said bluntly. ‘Will you come, or will you need to be trussed and carried like a heifer?’
With deliberate slowness, Aelis moved her horse forward. When she was beside Ariane she stopped and said, very clearly, ‘Be gallant, bright one, they will not, they dare not do you any harm. With Rian’s grace I shall see you very soon.’
She moved on, still slowly, sitting her horse with head high and shoulders straight as befitted her father’s daughter. The leader paid her no attention, he had already wheeled his mount and had begun to ride, not even glancing back. The wounded man fell in behind Aelis. The three of them went forward in a soft jingling of harness, passing under the Arch of the Ancients, through the cold shadow of it, and then out into sunlight again on the other side.
THEY RODE THROUGH the young grasses, travelling almost due north. Behind them the shoreline of Lake Dierne fell away, curving to the east. On their left Urté’s vineyards stretched into the distance. Ahead of them was the forest. Aelis kept her silence and neither of the masked men spoke. As they approached the outlying pines and balsams of the wood Aelis saw a charcoal-burner’s cottage lying just off the lightly worn path. The door was open. There was no one in sight, nor were there any sounds in the morning light save their horses and the calling of birds.
The leader stopped. He had not even looked at her since they had begun to ride, nor did he now. ‘Valery,’ he said, scanning the edges of the forest to either side, ‘keep watch for the next while, but find Garnoth first—he won’t be far away—and have him clean and bind your shoulder. There’s water in the stream.’
‘There is usually water in a stream,’ the wounded man said in a deep voice, his tone unexpectedly tart. The leader laughed; the sound carried in the stillness.
‘You have no one to blame for that
