It was joined by another, and then another, the baying of the hounds becoming one insistent, hungry voice. Breathless from the chase, Will grabbed a leaning elm to halt his careering descent down the steep hillside. In the dark, exposed tree roots threatened to break his neck, tufting grass obscured sudden drops where the soil had slipped away in heavy rain, and rabbit holes peppering the slope promised to break ankles or tear ligaments. The spy held out a helpful arm to the red-haired woman scrambling down the bank behind him. She clutched for branches to prevent a sudden fall and tore at her crimson skirts where they were caught on brambles. Dirt streaked her face and sweat glistened on her knitted brow. ‘I do not need your aid,’ Red Meg responded ferociously, as if he had offered to take her there and then. ‘This is not a time for pride, my lady. Proclaim your independent spirit now, but it will only result in a noose round both our necks by dawn.’ The Irish woman let forth a stream of cursing the like of which Will had heard only in the bustling shipyards along the Thames.
