FINDING A NEW WAY
Morning dawned gently. Amabel felt the light touch her eyelids. She was curled up on the ground, a covering of leaves pulled over her. Huddled in her cloak, she was warmer than she had been. Still, everything hurt.
She sat up.
Blinking in the wan sunlight, she looked out through the trees. She was still heading southeast – she had checked that when the night fell. She had been walking for two days now. And she was sure she was getting closer.
The ground was less moist here. The trees more established.
This was the edge of the marshland. She was certain of it.
I will find the road today.
Amabel stretched out a hand, reaching out. She had gathered some edible plants the previous day – the long stems and roots of the marshmallow plant, which Aunt Aili said were good for sore throats and aching stomachs. She reached out to chew one, pulling a face. They were starchy and not unpleasant-tasting, though. And they restored strength.
“Up we get,” Amabel said, feeling more positive. Having a full stomach – or at least not an empty one – tended to do that. She gathered the last of the roots and stepped forward. Heading southeast.
As she walked, Amabel found herself singing.
“Two lads, they went to market-o...”
The rhythm of the song bore her forward. She walked in pace with it and the notes and cadence made her feel strong.
“A-and then they came down back again...”
She looked ahead. The trees were wide-spaced.
She blinked. It did not seem possible. She was at the end of the woods?
Heart pounding, Amabel quickened her pace.
She stopped. Her whole body collapsed with relief. She was standing under an oak tree, looking down a long expanse of land. The land was solid ground, a plain that stretched toward the hills, grasses wavering. And in the distance, she could see the road.
She wanted to weep. She wanted to dance. To give thanks.
She dropped to her knees, saying prayers to everyone and everything she could think of. Then, laughing and crying, she collapsed.
She lay for a few minutes, until she felt herself grow cold.
I have to keep going.
If she stayed still too long, she would freeze. Here in the open, the wind was ice-cold. And she could not afford to be seen.
Hugging her cloak tightly around her, looking straight ahead, she headed for the road.
As she did, she saw the swallows.
Free and unbound, they swooped low overhead, dancing over land.
She smiled.
Lifting her arms to the heavens in wordless thanks, she felt tears lave her face. Then she walked on, arms at her sides.
Toward the road.
“...and the lads went on to the ma-arket once more...” she sang, voice high and wavering.
In the distance, she saw something.
It was a speck. A tiny fleck of movement. It was coming down the road. Faster and faster, it came.
A man? A coach?
As it drew closer, she could see it was a horseman. She was only fifty paces from the road. Soon, he would be close enough to see her.
She wanted to run for cover, but she had no reserve left. She considered lying down, but to lie in the cold in her wet clothes was to court fevers. And she was not sure she could stand again.
She covered her hair with her cloak, hoping it was a suitable disguise. Then she carried on walking.
“...and the farmer did agree with them! The fa-a-mer did say aye!”
She sang, her voice her guide through the weariness and pain. She was almost unconscious. But she kept walking.
The speck wavered, grew on the horizon. Resolved itself into a horseman. A horseman who wore a long dark tunic and a green cloak. A horseman with short-cropped black hair and dark eyes.
“Amabel?”
On the back of his chestnut hunting-horse, Broderick stared at the plain.
He could hear something. A voice. High, thin and sweet. It reminded him of something. Suddenly, he was in a church, exchanging vows. In the corridor, listening to two women. In the bedchamber, smiling as his wife sang and brushed long, pale hair.
Amabel?
He paused. Squinting, he looked out at the figure. It was a woman – tall and slender, cloaked and capped. She was walking closer and singing.
“...and... so... the lads... went... on... a-ahead... and laughing, they did say...”
He stared. He knew the voice. As she came closer, he saw the oval face, hollow-cheeked and weary, saw the long, slender figure.
“Amabel!” He screamed it, joy transfusing him with energy. Then he rode forward.
Amabel stopped moving. She heard someone shouting. Through the pounding ache in her head, she could not discern the words. It was her name.
“Amabel!”
She stopped. She stared. The horseman was coming straight for her.
He had veered from the road and launched his horse toward her. He was riding fast and dangerously. He wore a long green cloak that billowed with the wind.
“Broderick!”
She shouted it before her mind could even believe it. But it was him. She knew it was.
“Broderick!”
“Amabel.”
He halted suddenly. Before the horse had properly stopped, he threw himself from the saddle. He ran to her.
He threw his arms around her even as she threw herself into his arms.
He was laughing, crying, kissing her.
“Amabel. Amabel! My dear. My dear wife...”
Amabel laughed. “Broderick! You're here! You found me.”
They stood together, laughing and crying and kissing and tracing hands over each other's wounds, the dirt on their brows, their aching limbs.
Then Amabel stepped back.
“Broderick.” She was swaying and knew she was about to collapse.
“Yes?” Instantly concerned, he took her hand.
She shook her head. “Do not concern yourself about me. Not for the moment. Alina. We need to... find Alina.”
She leaned over. The message and the meeting had taken all her strength.
Broderick bent to hold her. He lifted her up and, carefully, lifted her into the saddle, waiting until she gripped the pommel.
“Alina?” His eyes, looking into hers, were wide with care. “Where is she? Is she here?”
“Alina is... in danger. She's been kidnapped!”