Fair Border Bride by Jen Black

him. He flexed and relaxed his muscles, preparing as best he could for what would be the leap of his life. He pictured the scene behind him and gave Carnaby only a fraction of his interest.
    “My conscience is clear,” he said quietly. “Remember me to your boys, and Alina. I hope they live long and happy lives.”
    Carnaby leered. “They will soon forget you.” He gestured to the men forward to grasp Harry. “Take him to the edge. Throw him off, and be damned to the entire family Scott.”
    “I hope you rot in hell,” Harry said. He gave himself no time to worry. Before the guards reached him, he swung round, ran for the crag and jumped. Once launched, he could not change direction. The silver-beige trunk rushed up to meet him. One foot landed square on the trunk and the other hit the rounded side and slid off in a scatter of loose bark.
    The tree sank, groaned and rebounded under his weight. Debris rattled over the spear shaped leaves of the bluebells and garlic clinging to the slope below. Harry bit his bottom lip clear through as he teetered, threw his weight forward and grasped the trunk with both arms and legs.
    He lifted his head. The fallen pine presented a narrow pathway towards the tall beech. He sucked in a huge breath, kept his body close to the wood and clambered along the trunk. Patches of bark fell away. Branches loomed up, sharp spikes that gouged his flesh and no doubt ruined his boots and hose. Some smaller stuff he forced aside, or wriggled over.
    Panting, spitting bloody froth into the empty space below, he swarmed down towards the sturdy beech, anxious to reach it and be away before Carnaby entertained thoughts of checking for a body.
    The beech was old, massive and many-branched. Harry climbed down, jumped the last few feet to the ground and sank between the huge roots. He looked up, expecting an audience peering over the crag. Leaves obscured his view. If he could not see them, he doubted they could see him. No sounds of a chase reached him.
    Breathing hard and fast, he glanced around. The slope was steep and the soil damp beneath the ground cover, but there was no time to waste. Picking his route with care, he skipped, hopped and jumped down to the stream at the bottom of the ravine and dropped over the muddy bank into the stream bed.
    Harry doubled over, hands splayed on his thighs until he caught his breath. He looked back the way he had come. No bruised greenery betrayed his passage. They wouldn’t find a body, either. He snorted with faint laughter.
    Scratches burned his face, his body ached and he tasted blood from his bitten lip. He thrust his fist into the sky in a victory punch. Bruises would fade. He was alive. And Carnaby would be flummoxed when they found no body.
    Harry weaved his way downstream between the trees, and then struck at an angle up the slope towards the fields to find his horse. Once mounted, with his sword in his fist, no one would stop him.
    Jubilant bird song echoed around the leaf canopy as he moved silently through the woods, resting a palm now and then on a rough-barked pine or the smooth-trunk of a beech. Treading delicately through a patch of last autumn’s dry leaves towards sunlight and open space, he slowed and parted the foliage warily.
    Bessie grazed not too far away. Alina’s pony kept her company, and though he scanned the fields in every direction, there was no one about to hinder his next move.
    It was the work of moments to run to the old stable, collect his gear, saddle up and ride away. He took the field route towards Dere Street, shook himself and settled down to a gentle ride north to the old Port Gate and beyond.
    A passing carter gave him a doubtful look. Harry ran his hands over his hair and face, and knew why. Bits of twig and leaf drifted out of his hair, and his fingertips came away from his face with blood on them. He stopped at the horse-trough on a gentle bend, no doubt intended for carters and their beasts. Bessie nuzzled the water, and