Through a Dark Mist by Marsha Canham Read Free Book Online Page A

meet.”
    “The sheriff should know by now to leave such matters to his wife. The Bawd Nicolaa would have stayed and fought us with pleasure.”
    “The rest of our men? They made it back without incident?”
    “Bah! Old Noddypeak did not even know we had him in bowshot. Mind, he kept scritching and scratching at the back of his neck”—Sparrow gave an imitation of the sheriff scratching nervously—“and shaking off the waterfalls of sweat he leaked”—lie shook himself all over, like a dog emerging from a pond—“so I suspect he was not entirely without grand expectations.”
    “A pity we had to disappoint him.”
    “Aye,” Sparrow sighed. “The lads had him sighted on their arrow tips every blink of the way.”
    “They will have him again, when the timing better suits our needs. Right now, Onfroi de la Haye is of more use to us alive than dead.”
    “Aye, my lord,” the little man said, “So you keep telling us.”
    “So it shall be,” the Wolf insisted. “The Sheriff of Lincoln is a fool, a weak incompetent puppet; one whose every move we can predict and anticipate with laughable ease. Put someone else in his stead—his sweet wife, for example—and we would see her quenching her thirst for blood in ways we have not even thought of yet.”
    “No shy blanchflower, our Bawd,” the gnome agreed.
    “And if anyone other than myself makes a target of her brass-tipped breasts”—the tall, copper-haired outlaw stepped quietly forward—“they will have me to answer to.”
    Sparrow looked up and, although Servanne could not swear to it, she thought the bold little elf edged a cautious inch closer to the protective bulk of the Black Wolf. “I am not forgetting, Gil of the Golden Eyes. Not wanting to feel the sting of your arrows either. She’s yours, all yours, and welcome to her. God’s teeth, but we are touchy about it, are we not? Not enough Norman blood shed to wet your arrows? Ho! Still most a quiver full, I see. And a string as slack as Lack Jack’s back.”
    Gil Golden smiled slowly, ominously. “Easily enough remedied. A daub of sparrow blood should turn the trick.”
    “You would have to catch me first, you great lumbering hulk!”
    Quick as a wink, the tiny man darted forward, planted a flying kick on Gil’s shin and vanished behind a solid wall of alder bushes. His tinkling laughter, first in the alders, then beside them, then far above in an arching tangle of hawthorns indicated with what unsettling swiftness he could move, and also why he bore the name Sparrow. Moreover, before the cursing outlaw could finish hopping a circle on his uninjured leg, an arrow no longer than a man’s palm zipped through the air and carried away Gil’s prized green felt hat.
    “That cuts it!” Gil swore. “The wretched puck is going to pay dearly for it this time.”
    “Are ye already forgetting what happened the last time?” roared Robert the Welshman. “It were not only yer hat what got a hole in it, but yer breeks and butt as well!”
    Gil’s eyes narrowed. “My thanks for reminding me. When I catch him, I will pin both his ears back for the leather he owes me.”
    The other foresters guffawed openly and began fishing in belts and sleeves for copper coins.
    “A denier says Gil Golden wins this round,” the Welshman wagered, doffing his cap and dropping the coin into the crown. A score or more coins clinked good-naturedly into the pot, some with an “aye” attached, some with a “nay.” Even the two captive ladies found smiles wanting to come to their lips as they watched the agile huntsman stalk into the woods in pursuit of his diminutive quarry. Servanne caught hers just in time when she realized the icy-gray eyes of the outlaw leader were observing her.
    “It appears, Biddy,” she murmured brusquely, “these children have no grasp of the seriousness of their crimes.”
    The Wolf moved closer, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight. “You should be thankful, my lady, we are still