Wars of the Roses: Bloodline: Book 3 (The Wars of the Roses) by Conn Iggulden Page B

hands had given up its grip on the ground with no warning. She flailed and in the last instant kicked away from the wall, so that she was falling towards him, a dark shape against the pale sky. He had only to rise and take a step to catch her.
    Edward watched, idly scratching the dog’s ribs as the woman crashed to the ground beside him, to lie gasping up at the sky. He did not know if she had been badly hurt. The dog rolled to its feet and ran over to her with its tail a blur, whining and yelping as it licked her face and pressed its nose into her open hands. Edward unwrapped a piece of twine from a loop around his waist and began to knot a collar for the dog.
    ‘You will need a name, old son,’ Edward said. A thought struck him and he looked over at the woman. She was still gasping, lying where she had fallen despite the dog’s slobber and nuzzling. ‘What did you call him?’
    She groaned suddenly as she sat up, her face and hands badly scratched and stained in green and brown. There were leaves in her long hair, he noticed. On another day, perhaps a day when she had not fallen and scraped her way down a cleft in the ground, she would have been called beautiful. Even then, glaring at him, her eyes were arresting, over-large and bright with anger.
    ‘He is mine, whoever you are,’ she said. ‘And my brothers are coming down that path, if you’ve a mind to hurt me.’
    Edward waved a careless arm back at the path.
    ‘I have an army around here somewhere – and a hunting party of forty men. I’m not worried about your brothers, or your father. Or you. But the dog is mine, so what did you call him?’
    ‘You’re
stealing
him?’ she said, shaking her head in amazement. ‘You didn’t catch me and now you’re
stealing
my dog? Why didn’t you catch me?’
    Edward looked at her. Her hair was a reddish blonde, dragged back and held in a knot behind. Half of it had come loose and stood out like a brush. There was something about the heavy-lidded eyes that made him wish he had caught her, but he could not retreat from the position he had chosen. He shrugged.
    ‘You caused me pain, with your wolves.’
    ‘Not
my
wolves! I was trying to save Bede from them.’
    The mastiff pricked up its ears at hearing its own name. Still at her side, it leaned against her until she scratched its back. The dog groaned and huffed in pleasure. Edward felt a pang of loss.
    ‘Bede the scholar? That is a poor name for a dog. I shall call him Brutus, perhaps.’
    ‘You are a poor excuse for a man, for all your size. Youdid not catch me and you cannot name a dog better than a child.
“Brutus”!
’
    Edward coloured, his cheeks deepening as his mouth tightened.
    ‘Or Moses, perhaps. Or Brindle, for his colours. Is that your name, boy? Brin? Is that it? I think it could be.’
    Something colder had come upon him as he talked to the dog. His eyes seemed to darken and he hunched slightly, radiating a threat where before he had seemed gentle. The woman closed her mouth on any further protest. His great size had misled her at first. She realized he was years younger than she had guessed, with a fine black beard to cover most of his face. His cloak had been torn and tattered by the wolves, but it still swirled around him, adding to the sense of his bulk in that small place. She stood, not yet sure if he would be a danger. It was clear enough that her dog would be no use at all. She frowned, feeling her aches and pains begin to throb.
    ‘You shouldn’t steal a dog, above all other things. If you would like him, you should buy him from me – and you should pay a fair price.’
    Edward rose with her and seemed to blot out the sky above. It was not just his height but the huge breadth of him, the shoulders and arms built by years of working with a sword and shield. His beard was unkempt and his hair was long and matted with dust, but his eyes were steady. She felt a fluttering in her stomach and womb as he shook his head.
    ‘I imagine you