Stand and Be Eaten

Chapter 4

The band of ruffians and miscreants made southward at surprising speed. Greyson Wood's greatest talent, besides a hearty appetite for cruelty, was an uncanny instinct for knowing when there would be other travellers on the roads, and thence dashing behind a convenient cowshed or copse of woods. While the others may have been able to disperse and look as ordinary travellers, there was no possible way to disguise the fact that a young lady of good fortune was most definitely being spirited off.

Whenever it was necessary to enact one of these dramatic hiding scenes, Greyson would clap a hand to Annabelle's mouth, roughly ensuring her silence. She was of a mind to bite his hand on more than one occasion, but the thought made bile rise in her throat, for he was a filthy, unkempt man, and her delicate palate surely would not tolerate such an odious taste.

With growing trepidation, Annabelle realised the sun was tiring, and sinking slowly to the horizon; she had a preternatural fear of being out at night, not least because her reputation would be henceforth irreparably damaged if it should become public. The horses, too, were flagging, sweat lathering their flanks. They would have to stop, and soon, lest their mounts be ruined.

The one called Wells appeared at the edges of Annabelle's vision occasionally, and though he did not speak, he seemed to be sweeping his eyes over her, as if to ensure that liberties were not being taken with her person. This was only the smallest of comforts to Annabelle, for though this Wells fellow had stood up to Greyson previously, it was clear that Greyson was the czar of this particular fiefdom.

At last, when Annabelle thought she might finally scream from the continued jostling, the horrid stench of Greyson's breath on her ear, and the growing ache in her back from the odd position, they made a sharp left turn into a dark wood. Though the sun was still shining, it only penetrated the leafy canopy in sporadic dapples. The trees grew so thickly that they had to pass between them single-file, some of the trunks so wide that Annabelle would not have been able to throw her arms all the way about them.

She frowned; General-Father had told her on more than one occasion that England's forests were vanishing to build a mighty navy. This must be the land of a great lord, then, she reasoned. They are safekeeping their timber so that they might sell it at a premium. Suddenly, she stiffened and nearly went upright–if she were on the land of a nobleman, he would be greatly vexed to learn that there were bandits afoot on his acres, and would also be obliged to assist her. If she were able to get away, she might be able to make it to the manor...

She was lost in thought, and lost track of her surroundings as they passed by. It was some many minutes before they at last halted, quite near a tall, blunt-faced rock. Here, the men began dismounting, and Annabelle was passed roughly down to a man who leered at her with a gap-toothed grin. Instinctually, she slapped his hands away and tossed her head haughtily.

Unfortunately for her, this was no well-appointed inn: The forest floor was strewn with twigs that pricked the bottoms of her feet painfully, but she refused to acknowledge the indignity. Hands pushed her forward, nearly unbalancing her, but she began walking forward. As she rounded the large, speckled-grey rock that loomed imposingly over her, the dark, abyssal mouth of a cave was revealed. Though dark and dank, it was a rather ingenious hiding spot; there was no chance of someone spotting the cave entrance unless they knew precisely where it was.

An instinctual, crushing fear of dark, enclosed spaces gripped Annabelle, and she dug her heels in. "This is beyond the pale! Surely you cannot expect–"

The only warning she had before her head was roughly seized was a weary, dramatic sigh from Greyson. One pair of hands held her fast about her jaw and forehead, the fingers on her jaw digging in painfully. She opened her mouth to gasp in surprise, which was a further mistake on her part, for this allowed an all-too familiar pale set of hands to run a faded, dingy, bit of fabric through her mouth and knot it roughly behind her head.