Thierry said nothing. He had no idea what would be a good thing here, or how to achieve it even if he knew. The man who’d brought word to the inn said, “We can charge them! We’re two to one, at least.”

“They have bows and crossbows, you son of a dung heap,” Rogier said. He was angry. Then, “All right. We’ll go through the woods, get closer, fucking quiet as you can. If we’re near enough and not where they expect us, we can be on top of them before they loose their arrows. Let’s go.”

They went. Again, Thierry did what he could to keep up amid the trees and roots. He stumbled, almost fell. Exhaustion and fear.

—

“They are here,” said Medor.

“How do you know?” one of the queen’s men said. “I see nothing.”

“We aren’t supposed to see them. I can feel it. They’ll be moving this way, in the trees. They’ll have seen our bows, will want to be closer before they charge. But they will charge, I think.” He pointed. “Right about there.”

And almost as soon as he spoke the words, the Jacquards burst from the woods, screaming.

From the outlaws’ point of view, the problem was that closer was not that much closer, because the forest angled back from the road where Medor had stopped the carriage. So the Jacquards were exposed, running across scrub grass and wildflowers. Some carried swords or axes, some had clubs, Silvy saw.

But they were running into arrows. Readied and aimed, because Medor Colle had told the guards where to look.

Seven outlaws fell. Silvy counted them, including the big man leading the charge, wounded in his thigh. He struggled to his knees as she watched, tried to stand, couldn’t. He was shouting something.

Arrows, she thought, made such a difference in a thing like this.

A thing like this.

As if she knew anything! What was a thing like this? It was a feral outlaw band wanting to kill or capture them. There were four women in the carriage, only one of them worth a ransom. She knew what that meant for the rest of them. She slipped her knife from where it hung down inside her clothing. She knew how to use it, a little. Tavern life.

Didn’t have to.

Their guards were very good. Medor Colle was more than that, when he drew his blade and advanced. She watched him. Grace, she thought, in the dealing of death. Something bitter about that. Another volley of arrows had taken three more of the outlaws.

Two of the Jacquards, seeing the others fall, turned to flee back to the woods. They, too, were killed by arrows before they got there—or wounded. She didn’t know which.