Cristina knelt among the tree roots and gathered some
ferns for her nosegays. She worked quickly for the men who
escorted her, three woodcutters, were almost finished their
task.
Little light remained to guide them along the road
to the village. Mist enveloped the land. It curled from
the nearby stream, entwined low–hanging branches, and
obscured the men who bundled twigs nearby.
As she rose, the ground beneath her knees
trembled. Her heart in her throat, she stared ahead
between the trees for those who must be coming straight
toward her.
Horsemen.
""Cristina," one of the woodcutters
called. ""Beware!""
She stepped deeper into the protective shadows. A
phalanx of horses burst into view, tearing the web of mist
by the stream.
The lead horse, huge, towering, black as night,
churned the ground a scant five feet before her, its rider
oblivious to her presence in the shelter of the trees. The
ferns fell from her fingers. The beat of hooves stole her
breath.
More horsemen coalesced from the mist behind the
leader.
His black mantle flew like two wings from his
shoulders. She knew him by the heavy gold torque about his
neck, the black and gold caparison on his horse.
Ravenswood's lord––Durand de Marle.
She maintained her place, struck to stone by the
massive horses, the wind that tore at her gown.
"Did you see him?" One of the men asked her.
"Who?"
"Why, the king."
"Nay, I did not see him," she whispered.
The horsemen were spirits riding the wind as they
burst through the fog. They were close enough to touch, a
king among them, but she had seen only him.
They thundered past, shaking the earth, filling the
air with the scents of horses, men, leather, and steel.
The mist swirled in and he was gone.