Which is why he found himself one of eighteen men hiding at the edge of a forest, north side of the road, a short distance east of the village.

He was exhausted, weak, light-headed. And deeply afraid. He knew who was coming now but had no good idea what to do. Awareness of danger was in him like a thrumming. Probably part of the light-headedness, he thought.

Someone had given him a stave as a weapon. It had been useful to lean on as they walked, off the road, moving through the trees. He struggled to keep up on uneven ground.

Rogier had had a place he’d wanted them to get to. Thierry wasn’t sure how so many Jacquards had materialized at the edge of the village so quickly, but they had. And then moved quietly, quickly, in a disciplined single file through the trees.

And now they were here, hidden, watching the road, which was quite close.

A man had burst through the door of The Harvest, made his way straight to the bar. He’d glanced at Thierry, waited for Rogier’s nod, and said, low and fast, “Gaspard and I saw a carriage coming west. Good-sized, well-made. Might be a woman’s. Crest of a red flower in a gold circle on the door? I don’t know that one. They have horsemen guarding. I think six? Maybe eight.”

Red flower in a gold circle. The man reporting didn’t know it. Thierry Villar did. Everything had suddenly become even more complex, and he was not thinking at all clearly.

Rogier’s brows had knit together, a thick, straight black line, as he thought. Then, “Very well. Let’s go. We’ll weigh things when we see them coming. Guards mean money.” He glanced at Thierry. “You going upstairs? Or want to be part of this?”

“Eight men on horses?” Thierry said.

“Maybe,” the man who’d entered said. “Maybe not. We moved off before they got close, wanted to get here first.”

“We’ll look,” Rogier said. “You want to be a part of this, poet?” he repeated.

“I’ll come,” Thierry said. He coughed. “I’m tired and hurting, not dying.”

He hoped. He also knew who this was.

—

Silvy felt exposed and afraid, stopped on the road as they were. She looked and saw that their guards were stringing arrows to bows. Medor was speaking commands. It was interesting, she had thought earlier, that the queen’s men were taking orders from a serjeant of Orane. Instructions had clearly been given before they’d set out. She wasn’t thinking about that now. She wasn’t really thinking at all. She was staring towards the place Medor had indicated: the woods on their right, north side of the road, up ahead of them.

—

“Fucker has stopped them too far away,” Rogier rasped.