The lights of the tavern grew tiny in the distance, the noise of the galloping hooves barely covering the thumping of lady Twyla’s heart in her throat. Not an hour earlier she had been preparing for a peaceful night’s sleep, in the tavern her entourage had stopped at as the young Anglo-Saxon noblewoman made her journey to her uncle’s lands, travelling through the neighbouring kingdom of Rosalynd. But soon after Twyla’s handmaiden had left the room, a masked intruder revealed herself, trussing the poor lady up and cramming a large ball of cloth into her mouth before she had a chance to yell. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, the thief slung her prize over her shoulder, leapt out of the window and onto a pitch-black horse that swiftly carried them both into the night…
All the kidnapped lady could do now was stare into the unnaturally green eyes of her captor, who she could tell, despite the scarf hiding most of her face, was smiling back with sinister intent. Was she one of her uncle’s enemies? A mere bandit intending to ransom her? Or was an even more devious plan afoot? The only hope she had left were the sound of her knights’ hounds beginning their pursuit and her prayers that they would catch up with her in time…
