Through a Dark Mist by Marsha Canham Read Free Book Online

prepares some of the tastiest creations that have ever crossed these lips. What say you, lads?” The question was aimed generally over his shoulder. “Has Mab any equal this side of the Channel?”
    “Bless the stars that found her for us,” came a jovial reply. “Or mayhap just bless Gil Golden for bringing her out of Lincoln with our last purchase of arrowheads!”
    A round of solid backslapping sent Servanne’s gaze across to the man who had perfunctorily shot an arrow into Sir Roger de Chesnai’s thigh. He had a smooth, aquiline profile that suggested a far easier life lay behind than the one ahead. His shoulders were square and straight, if a little sparse of bulk; his legs were long and agile enough to swallow the wooded miles without visible effort. Copper-coloured locks capped his head like woolen fleece, cropped short beneath the jaunty green felt hat he wore slouched forward over his brow. His eyes were a blend of greens and golds and spicy brown flecks, and a webbing of fine lines at the corners intimated a man of easy nature and good humour. The long, ragged scar that distorted his left cheek implied it was not always so. The disfigurement in no way detracted from his handsomeness, but it did confirm the fact he was a branded thief, and would have as easily aimed for Sir Roger’s heart as his thigh.
    Servanne was distracted from further observations by a sudden burst of sound and activity from the woods up ahead. From high, high up in the boughs of a tree came a swoosh of air and a curled knot of flying hair and shrieking laughter. Detatching itself from the swinging vine with a whoop, the tiny figure splayed arms and legs wide, his clothes pocketing the wind to break the impact of his body slamming into that of the Black Wolf of Lincoln. As it was, the outlaw was jolted back off his feet and required several paces to reclaim his balance. Servanne’s horse balked indignantly; Biddy muttered an oath which earned stares and grins from the nearby foresters.
    “Sparrow!” spat the Wolf with a not altogether feigned grimace of displeasure. “By Christ’s pricking thorns, one of these days I will step out of the way and let you sail clear on past into perdition!”
    The squirming bundle disentangled itself from the torso of the outlaw and sprang onto the ground beside him. The man … dwarf … child … was barely tall enough to see the top of the Wolf’s belt. Thin as a reed, as tanned as a roasted nut, he … or she … had huge, shining black eyes that seemed at once too large for the round, elfin face, and far too knowledgeable for such a mischievous grin.
    Servanne blinked, and blinked again. She had heard fables of such creatures living in the forests; wood elves who were several centuries old, kept young and childlike through pagan rites and rituals. She had never truly believed in such tales of magic and witchcraft, of course. Magic was only for the eyes and ears of the superstitious, and as for witches and warlocks …
    She found herself staring at the outlaw leader again, her mouth as dry as parched wheat.
    “So so so.” Sparrow’s voice was as delicately pitched as a woman’s. “So this was to be the Dragon’s new plaything. There is not much to her, is there? But then I suppose such a child would be a welcome change from being clamped between the iron thighs of Nicolaa de la Haye. You sent our demands on ahead?”
    “We accomplished what we set out to do,” the Wolf responded. “And you? You found the sheriff?”
    “He was waiting at the fens, just as you predicted,” Sparrow nodded, grinning. “He and most of the guard from Lincoln Castle. Slutching fools! Another half league into the forest and they might have upset our plans.”
    “They might have tried,” the outlaw replied lightly. “But I am inclined to think a few well spent arrows would have had De la Haye and his men bolting for cover regardless if it had been Richard’s intended bride, Berengaria, he had been sent to