I Wolf
*
Bowland Forest, England, November
1703
1
‘How much further, Jack?’
‘Three more miles before we see the lighted windows of
Whitewell Village, squire.’
‘And none too soon it’ll be, lad. This cursed mist has frozen
me through to the bone.’
Conrad DeLacy lowered the brim of his hat and drew in his
cape against the drizzle. Not even the
devil himself will be afoot on a night such as this. The great Suffolk mare
that carried him stepped out solidly, head down to the rain.
‘My thoughts are such that we should have stayed the night
in Clithero, lad.’
‘Aye, it would have suited better, squire, though now the moon
is up, it will not take long for the wet to break.’
Where the forest opened, moonlight flooded in; ancient trees
stood silent and black-shouldered. DeLacy’s eyes tricked with the
shadows and from out of them, grotesque, leering shapes rose to walk alongside
him.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, Jack and your sword to hand.'
Strapped diagonally to the mare’s left flank, the silver
cage of DeLacy’s sabre nuzzled against his hip; the black, double-handed hilt
of a claidheamh mòr, the
Great Sword. Lifted by his father from the battlefields of
Killiecrankie, the blade had been lavishly inlaid with silver, the steel sharp enough for it to clip a rose from the bower without so much as dislodging
a single, trembling droplet of dew…
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