Bill hung his head, his hand stroking the Moll's velvety nose. "I don't want to risk your life, I really don't. But I can't just go on and pretend I am who my father wants me to be."

His head came up, the grey-blue eyes blazing. "It's wrong, plain wrong."

He was a decent man. Born to the Others, yet he cared about creation. He would set free the mice the family cat caught, would nurse sparrows with broken wings and throw back any fish he caught. That was what had drawn her to him in the first place.

Rosy realised he would never betray her. Not willingly. But he might become their tool of destruction. And that would destroy him. She couldn't allow that.

But if she left him behind now, what would they do to him? Would that be any better?

The horse pricked its ears the same time as Bill tensed and narrowed his eyes.

"Hells bells. I knew it. Men. And dogs. Can you find your way to the brook?"

Icy fear lanced into her chest. "Brook? I'm not from here, you know that."

Bill swung onto the horse behind her. "Move. It's not far, it'll hide our tracks from the hounds."

She knew she should throw him off but found herself incapable of doing the necessary. Instead, she said, "I'll find my way."

"No, you don't. You just told me. Move, I said."

A dog barked, and instinct took over. Rosy dug her heels into the horse's flanks, and the mare trotted away, the soft clop-clopping of her hooves swallowed by the cover of moss and leaves.

But if their pursuers had hounds it wasn't sound they needed to worry about.

"Why would they chase me now that I've left the town?"

Bill's voice spoke the answer into her ear. "I fear somebody saw you without that wretched coif and told the hunters. It doesn't matter why, you have been seen and that is what counts. But first they'll need to gather, and the hounds have to pick up your scent. That'll buy us time. And they'll be on foot."

The drumbeat of her heart sounded overly loud in her head. "They'll track me into the garden. And through that gate. Bill, they will realise that you . . . That we . . ."

His arms encircled her from behind and loosely settled on her waist. "Then it is decided. I'll come with you. And spare me your arguments, my mind is made up. If you hadn't come here, I would have gone to Avebury."

Molls was cantering along the narrow bridleway, and while the trees tried their best, the two riders had to keep ducking to avoid the branches. Eventually, the constant whipping became too much.

"Hoh, slow down, will you?"

Rosy pulled at the rains, and the mare came to a stop. No words were needed. They both listened for the telltale sounds of the hunt.

Water burbled on their left. So deep in the forest, the air was still moist and fresh, untainted by towns, people and all those things the Others called civilisation.

"The birds are still singing," Bill said.

Rosy slid off the horse. "The hunters aren't here. Yet. What do you want us to do?"

He jumped to the ground beside her. "I wasn't talking about my father's minions. No matter how quiet I try to be, I always stir things and the birds will fly away. With you around, they just twitter along. You're a true marvel."

His sweet smile was lovely to behold, but chirping sparrows would not help them with their predicament.

"Bill . . . "

"Yes, yes, let's go." He grabbed the reins of the mare and led her towards the brook and into the water.

"She'll want to drink."

"Don't worry, I won't let her."

Rosy bunched her skirts, cursed under her breath and wished not for the first time she had followed her instincts and worn men's trousers. With those curves of hers in the wrong places, most leg wear did not fit. Keeper Colin's would have, but those she had not dared to take.

With a splash, she landed in the chilly water and trailed Moll's broad chestnut back.

For a while, there were no sounds other than the rhythmic sloshing of feet and hooves, and the occasional snort from an annoyed Moll, who kept trying to sneak a drink. Rosy's feet were getting numb, and the pebbles bit into the flimsy soles of her feet. Again and again, she slipped on the algae-covered stones until she had to bite back the swear words that were clustering on her tongue.

A clearing came into view on their left. Rosy squinted and noticed a narrow path that led away from it.

"Bill? Shouldn't we get out here?"

"No, this track leads to a ruined village. I want those men to think this is where we have gone. Not much farther now, bear with me."

Rosy stopped and strained her ears. Water gurgled around her feet, the other two splashed away from her, but somewhere behind them, she thought she heard noises.

"Bill, make haste, I think they're coming."

"Oh, I'm sure they are."

Horse and man disappeared around a bend in the brook, and Rosy waded after them, balancing with numb feet over a row of rough stones.

One of them wobbled and, this time, she did slip, and dropped her skirts. "Oh, rot it all!"

Muffled laughter came from in front of her and fury flushed into her cheeks until they were as hot as her feet were cold. Her hems were dripping wet and awkward, making progress even more cumbersome.

Rosy kept swearing under her breath as she struggled through the water. Perhaps she should call herself fortunate. There hadn't been a lot of rain recently; otherwise, the brook would have been impossible to navigate. Still, it was hard enough as it was and becoming harder with every single step she took.

Just as she thought she could go on no further, Bill shouted, "That's it!"

Molls' powerful muscles bunched as the mare clambered up a steep incline. Rosy dropped her dripping skirts and followed on all fours.

The next time, she WOULD take Keeper Colin's trousers. Not that she needed a next time.

Her lungs on fire, her feet two blocks of ice and her leg muscles burning, Rosy stumbled down the flatter side of the incline— and nearly ran into the back of her horse.

To her not insignificant chagrin, her two travel companions appeared unperturbed and did not even breathe hard as they looked her way.

Molls snorted.

A grin tugged at the corners of Bill's mouth.

Rosy raised a finger. "If you say as much as one word—one word— about my appearance, I put a hex on you, I swear."

Bill laughed. "You, already have, Mistress Coldron. You did the first time we met."

He reached out and stroked her cheek, then grabbed a strand of silvery hair that had once again escaped from her coif and ran her locks through his fingers. His touch caused a delicious tingle that zinged through her body and pooled below her navel.

"We have no time for this," she said as she shoved her hair back into its confines. "Where are we?"

All she could see was trees surrounding them, with spiky undergrowth—hawthorn, mistletoe— barring their path. The forest was their ally, but its very thickness could prove their downfall.

"Look over there." Bill pointed at a massive oak tree; twisted and gnarled it was guarding their path.

Path? More like a forest track made by animals. Almost invisible but still it was there. Bill urged on the horse and spoke over his shoulder.

"It'll broaden, it leads to a charcoal hearth. Only a little bit, and we can ride again. Come on."

Rosy gathered her sodden skirts and hurried behind.

"Won't they think of that?"

"Eventually. I hope my little ruse with the water will throw them off our tracks for long enough. I really hope so, because to be honest, I can't think of anything else."

They both stopped at the same time. Stood and listened.

Something was in the forest with them. Like a festering wound, an alien presence penetrated the green, accompanied by the barking of hounds, the tromping of feet and the metally clank of weapons. Rosy's aching feet started walking again all by themselves. Bill clucked his tongue at the mare, and they were on their way once more.

"They're getting close, we lost too much time in that brook."

"Yes, but if it works it will buy us the time we need to ride away," Bill said grimly.

"You could still stay here, say I bewitched you." Her words were burning in her chest, but that might have been them hurrying along now as fast as the low-hanging branches would allow.

Bill said nothing. Instead, he urged on the horse to pass through the scratchy screen of pine needles, and suddenly they found themselves in a clearing.

He grunted. "Good, we can ride again from here. Get your legs over her, lass."

Her arms stung, her thighs were on fire from that march through the brook, but somehow Rosy managed to pull herself on Molls' back. Bill mounted behind her. Once more they listened. Heard the voices, the noise of the dogs, the crackling, the thumping of many booted feet coming closer. Then the menace stopped.

Only for a moment.

A howl of triumph sounded behind them, and the hunt pressed on. The barking seemed closer already. Much closer.

Rosy kicked the horse into a canter.

"It didn't work," Bill said behind her, his arms holding her tight. "And no, I won't leave you. Ever."

Molls thundered over the clearing, the horse's mane was lashing Rosy's face. If the beast now hit a rabbit hole, all would be lost.

Rosy realised they would never escape this way. The mare was carrying two, and even if the hunters were on foot, the dogs were too fast, would catch up soon.

A miracle was what they needed.

That— or magic.

It was all up to her now.

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You might have wondered about the ships up top, but of course it is the music I was after - "Moxica and the horse" from Vangelis's music for the film 1492. This chapter is dedicated to bruha78, thank you for reading and voting on my stories!