Page 71 of Never Love a Lord
She placed her useless boots and the leg chain on the opposite bench and then took up the rotting blanket, again winding it around the chain—this time between her wrists—to dampen the sound. She returned to the seat she had so recently vacated and carefully, slowly, pulled it up.
It creaked at first, and Sybilla froze for several moments, waiting for any sign from beyond the carriage that the sound had been heard. But nothing else stirred, and so she lifted the bench farther.
The square of ground below was marginally brighter than the carriage’s interior, and Sybilla leaned her head down, listening for the telltale sounds of a soldier on patrol. She heard nothing. She held the seat aloft and swung her right leg into the narrow opening, reaching with her toes, lowering herself until her left buttock rested on the bench frame. Still, she could not reach the axle with her foot.
She lifted her right leg slightly, adjusting her bottom until she sat rather uneasily on the hard bite of wood. If she slid too fast and missed the axle, she would tumble to the ground conspicuously, the bench seat crashing closed behind her and marking her as a dead woman. The chain between her wrists was not long enough to afford bracing one hand to either side of the opening.
She tried with all her might to bring to mind the image of the axle she’d seen earlier in the day, to gauge how far away from her toes it could be. No more than two feet.
She had no choice.
Sybilla braced as much weight as she dared on the edge of the bench seat in her hands, clenched her buttocks, and slid. It seemed she was going to the ground before her feet struck the wooden axle at an angle, and she quickly bent her knees, turned her feet to cross the cylindrical beam and pushed at the seat above her head just as it was to slam shut on her fingers.
She paused in that most awkward position for several moments, listening, listening. Then she bent her elbows, lowering the seat above her, and leaned into the wooden frame of the underside of the carriage, sliding down into a crouch.
She stepped from the axle slowly, hiding behind the spokes of the iron-rimmed wheel, and looked about her. The camp was quiet, one man on guard beyond the carriage’s tongue, perhaps ten paces; one to the rear, the same distance. But the bulk of the camp lay between her and the road and the wood beyond, the soldiers seeming to stretch in either direction as far as she could see in the night.
She heard muffled steps directly behind her and Sybilla slowly, slowly turned her head.
Four massive hooves were just coming to a quiet stop, and then she heard Octavian’s gentle breath.
Sybilla did not stop to think of the likelihood that she would be immediately detained upon coming out of the carriage and daring to mount Octavian in that instant. She did not think of the arrows that might chase her and her faithful mount, likely find them both.
Octavian had come for her, and she would go with him. Right...
Now!
She scurried from beneath the carriage and stood aright, keeping an eye on the soldier to the fore of the carriage, obviously picking at his nose and examining his findings. She reached up for her horse’s mane and heaved herself up with a mighty effort, the blanket tangled in her wrist chains making her mounting all the more awkward. Octavian moved away from the carriage in a strange, sidestepping, backward manner, and then in an instant, reared back on his haunches and leapt into the darkness away from the camp and the road.
The soldier to the rear of the carriage swung around, just as his fellow guard called out, “What was that?”
The soldier chuckled as he saw the moonlit rump disappear in a blink into the shadows of the landscape. “I think it was your wild horse, mate. Missed your chance. Right behind you, it was.”
The other guard cursed crossly and then set to digging in his ear with his pinky.
Someone shook Julian’s shoulder roughly, as if they thought him to be asleep. Of course, Julian had not so much as closed his eyes since stretching out on the hard ground, his hands and ankles once more bound.
“Yes?” Julian asked, rising up on one elbow and looking over his shoulder where a soldier was bent on one knee. The sun would rise within the hour; already the sky was lightening above the wood. “What is it?”
“Sybilla Foxe has escaped,” the man said darkly.
Julian dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment, letting the realization sink in fully. “Did anyone see her? Try to stop her?”
“No, milord. No one saw a thing. We’re not even certain how she quit the carriage—it remains quite locked.”
“Good. If no one tried to stop her, that means no one is dead. The last thing she needs following her is a charge of murder.”
In that moment, Julian and the young soldier were joined by the king’s man who had arrested him and Sybilla in Fallstowe’s hall. He didn’t appear particularly cheerful.
“If you think to follow her lead and escape before gaining London and your just punishment, I hate to disappoint you,” the brazen one threatened. “As it is, you’ll be taking her place in the carriage to forestall any attempt at flight.”
“Because that conveyance is so obviously effective at containing prisoners?” Julian scoffed at the man. “Very well. I accept.”
The man looked confused for a moment, but covered his uncertainty quickly. “I’ll be sending men back to Fallstowe. She shan’t escape for long.”
“A piece of advice, soldier,” Julian offered. “Your men will not intercept Sybilla Foxe at Fallstowe. But if they would happen to cross paths with her, I would suggest that they not try to apprehend her in any way, lest they long for a hasty death.”
“She’s but one woman, alone, afoot without even her shoes,” the man sneered.
