Finnula waited only until darkness fell, encompassing the land in long blue shadow and lending her the cover she needed to escape. She did not think it necessary to delay her journey until the sheriff and his mother retired for the night. Doing so would mean hours wasted, valuable time better spent searching for Jamie. Once she made the decision to go, Finnula could not wait.
Since she had no braies, she wore the darkest bliaut she owned, of midnight blue with muted silver trim, and a kirtle of dove gray that, though light in color, was mostly hidden by the gown. Forsaking a wimple for her trusted braid, she was ready to leave at once, and opened her window shutters to climb out upon the thatched roof of the smokehouse.
Gros Louis saw her at once, banished as he’d been to the yard, Madame de Brissac not being able to stand the sight of him after last year’s butter debacle. A well-trained dog, he did not bark, but stood happily wagging his tail until Finnula was safely upon the ground. Then he rose onto his hind legs, placing his forepaws on her shoulders, and licked her face until she moved away.
She had no knife, no bow, and no quiver; no supplies, in the event that they were forced to spend the night out of doors, and no coin to purchase any. All she had was the heavy emerald, hidden in the valley between her breasts, and that she wouldn’t have parted with for all the money in the world. Still, the only trepidation she felt was for the sheriff’s sake, since he would surely be chastised when it became known publicly that she had escaped.
But if she was able to find Jamie before morning, as she hoped to, perhaps her absence need never be known beyond the walls of the de Brissac cottage. For she would return to her prison as soon as she’d satisfied herself on Jamie’s account, and there await her punishment. ’Twas the honorable thing to do.
Creeping from the yard, Finnula trod as silently as a wraith in her velvet slippers. Gros Louis was nearly beside himself with delight at the prospect of this unexpected hunting trip, and he conducted himself as well as a dog aquiver with excitement could be expected to. They avoided the road, of course, and stuck to well-traversed trails through the woods, heading in the direction of Stephensgate Manor. There was no moon yet to guide them, but Finnula knew the land as well as she knew the lines on her own palms, and they made rapid progress despite the uneven terrain, the stinging brambles and occasional stream.
By the time they reached the demesnes of the manor house, the moon had risen, and, though still tangled in the lower branches of the trees upon the horizon, its silver light was already both a boon and a disadvantage: Though Finnula could see better by its light, she herself could also more easily be seen, and that, above all, was something she wanted to avoid.
But though her intention had been to skirt the edges of the property on which the manor house was situated, she was completely unprepared for the hypnotic pull Hugo’s presence had upon her. A single glance showed her that a light burned in the window of the earl’s solar, and she found herself drawn toward it. She felt a lovelorn fool. She had to shake herself, and drag her eyes from the window, in order to proceed according to plan.
She turned her back upon the manor house and trudged to the very spot where, Sheriff de Brissac had explained, Jamie’s scent had been lost by his own hounds. Drawing the boy’s soiled tunic from her sleeve, Finnula presented it to Gros Louis, who sniffed at it curiously.
Words were not necessary between huntress and hound. The mastiff had accompanied Finnula on too many midnight hunting trips not to know what she wanted him to do. Lowering his snout to the ground, the dog sniffed the fresh spring grass, nosing through dead leaves and sheep dung. Then, his heavy ears lifting, but his nose still upon the ground, he began to move, jogging swiftly into the cloying darkness of the woods.
And Finnula, lifting the hem of her gown, followed.