Beau had dropped them, Rowan ran her hands over themâyew bow with ramâs-horn tips, flint-tipped elf-bolts in their leather quiverâthe gifts of the aelfe seemed to have once more survived intact. Slinging the weapons of an outlaw over her shoulders again, Rowan started limping upslope.
Running after her, Etty called, âRowan, where are you going?â
âI dropped my dagger.â
âWhere?â
âWhen I grabbed Doveâs mane.â
âBut where?â
Rowan could not see what more explanation was necessary: She meant to return to the deer trail atop the ridge, locate Doveâs hoofprints, then backtrack, searching for the dagger.
Rook understood. âSit down,â he told Rowan. âIâll find it.â
âI go find Dove,â said Beau.
This made sense in one way, for the pony was more likely to let Beau approach her than anyone else. But it lacked sense in another way, for there was danger in the forest, and while Beau had a bow, she had not yet mastered it; her arrows missed more often than they hit, so how was she to defend herself? Etty declared, âNo, Iâll go.â
Beauâs black eyes flashed. My pony. âI go.â
It was a serious matter, that of the missing pony, and not only because Beau loved Dove. Loose in Sherwood Forest with saddle and bridle, Dove could be taken by any stray peasant or outlaw or thief who could catch her. Or, even worse, her reins might catch on a tree, any part of her harness might become tangled so that she could not move, and she might starve if she were not found.
âWeâll both go,â Etty offered.
âAnd leave Rowan alone?â
âFor the love of toads,â Rowan said, âI can be left alone.â
Rook told her, âSit down.â
âWait. Sit on this.â Beau twirled the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it to Rowan. âI go find Dove.â
Etty said, âNo, Beau, listen. Youââ
âI go now.â
âIâll go with you.â
âNo, stay with Rowan!â Voices were heightening.
âWeâre back where we started,â said Rowan, still standing, holding the heavy, wet cloak, her legs aching.
Rook said, âRowan, sit down. Etty, Beau, you stay with her. Iâll go for Dove.â
âYou crazy?â Beau cried. âYou go search the dagger.â
Rowan said, âI can find my own nitwit dagger.â With Tykell at her side, she started limping off again. Stumbling, she put a hand on Tyâs back for support.
Three voices cried after her.
âRowan!â
âRowan, wait!â
âRowan, youââ
âWhatâs going on?â called a fourth, plaintive voice.
Rowan turned. They all turned.
There stood Lionel, all seven feet of him, blinking and bewildered, leading Dove like a big dog at his side.
Â
With nightfall, the rain started again. A hemlock grove provided shelter of a sort, but with no dry wood to be found, the Rowan Hood band lit no fire. Huddled with the others, soaking wet, Rowan shivered. Yet this night her heart felt warm. Her belly ached, empty, for there had been nothing but greens to eat, but for tonight her heart felt full.
âDove,â Lionel was telling the pony, âdespite appearances, this grass is my supper, not yours.â
âIt isnât grass,â Etty told him. âItâs cresses.â
âDove,â said Lionel, and even in the dark Rowan knew his eyes had gone owlish round, âas you canât graze, you are supposed to browse on the hemlock boughs. By morning I may be doing likewise.â
âSacre bleu, that I like to see,â said Beau amid muffled laughter. âLionel, he browse twice as high as Dove.â
They joked in defiance of hunger, cold, rain. The way they always did when things got hard, Lady bless them. As they went on with their laughing talk, Rowan grew aware of a small silver embrace on the third finger
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