Odette merely stared after him, overwhelmed with numbness.
Jorgen had bandaged his shoulder himself, not wishing to alarm his mother. Now he prepared himself for a hunt. After donning a new tunic and leather shoulder cape, he placed extra arrows in his quiver. He kissed his mother on the cheek and went out just as twilight was beginning to fall.
Jorgen had met Dieter earlier in the day at the fountain. He had followed Mathis this time and had met him at his place of business. By flattering him, he convinced Mathis to show him around his own storehouse, which was not far from Rutger’s.
“He showed me various goods—spices, fabrics, carpets—stored there, but there was one section of the goods that was covered with tarps. When I asked him about those, he said he was holding those until later. I asked, ‘Holding them for what? For whom?’ He would not tell me, but I think if I keep at it, he will eventually. He dearly loves to boast, and he is very proud of whatever he has under those tarps.”
Now Jorgen used his walking staff to slash at a bush in his path.
Jorgen was fairly certain Rutger was behind the poaching and the black market, but he couldn’t prove it yet. When the truth was known—and truth always had a way of making itself known—Odette would be hurt. What would she do if Rutger was found guilty of these crimes? He would no doubt be severely punished, be stripped of his wealth, and Odette might have nothing and nowhere to go. And that would be where Mathis would come in. Mathis could give her every material luxury, and he might even be able to prevent her uncle from suffering the most severe punishment.
She would be foolish not to marry him.
Regardless of whether she married Mathis, Odette had suffered enough in her childhood. Her kindness and goodness to the poor must make her worthy of God’s special care. And yet, how could she be saved from this inevitable pain and grief? For Jorgen was determined to capture this poacher who was involved with Rutger and employed by him. Then both Rutger and his poacher would have to pay dearly. And if either of them had killed Jorgen’s father, the margrave would have them executed.
Jorgen moved more quietly through the trees, pausing every few steps to listen for any man-made noise.
After a few hours, he had not heard or seen anything out of place. There was the occasional rustle of leaves from a small animal, a hare or squirrel or nesting pheasant. He yawned, then pinched his arms to wake himself up. He wanted to catch this poacher much more than he wanted to sleep.
As he stood listening to the still night air, he heard a sound. He peered through the trees and saw a young hart with his head held high, also listening and perhaps sniffing the air for predators.
He was a sleek, healthy yearling, and he soon stretched his neck down to feed on the grass. A moment later, he lifted his graceful head again, then bounded away. That was when Jorgen caught sight of a shadowy, leather-clad figure holding a bow and arrow ready but pointed to the ground.
Jorgen did not hesitate. He nocked an arrow, pulled it back, and aimed for the poacher’s left arm. He sent it shooting through the night toward its target. Jorgen grabbed another arrow as he heard the poacher gasp. His first arrow had found its mark.
The poacher seemed too stunned to run. Pulling back on the string, Jorgen let his second arrow fly toward the poacher’s left leg.
The poacher cried out and reached for his leg. “Run!” the miscreant grunted before turning and starting to run himself.
Jorgen was already running after him, determined not to lose the culprit, even as the poacher’s companions ran away, crashing through the trees.
He lost sight of him for a moment. When he came back into view, he was crumpling to the ground, unable to run anymore on his injured leg.
Within moments, Jorgen stood over the poacher, who was curled on his side in the leaves. The poacher was gasping, clutching his leg with his right hand and letting out tiny grunts of pain.
Jorgen froze. Something was wrong. This poacher sounded like . . . a woman.
His face began to tingle and his stomach sank to his toes. O God. It couldn’t be. But the poacher’s hair was spilling out of her hood, blond curls covering her shoulders, and Jorgen could see half of her face.
He sank to his knees, his hands shaking. “Odette. What have I done?”
She turned her face toward the ground, but her hood had fallen back to reveal her unmistakable profile.
She groaned. Her features were twisted in pain, her eyes clenched shut.
Odette was bleeding, with two arrows sticking out of her body. Jorgen’s arrows.
He pushed her good shoulder back so he could see her left arm. His arrow was sticking out, but it had not gone all the way through her arm. Then he checked her thigh where another arrow protruded, dark blood oozing out and wetting her brown hose.