The Devil in the Details

8. The Hostler

Deirdre had been running for some time before it dawned on her to look back and see if the mother superior had managed to keep up. To her astonishment, the long-legged cleric was just behind her, huffing and puffing, her frock lifted to keep her from tripping, and doing her best to keep up with the young and limber Surrey lass.

She knew there was nothing about which she needed to worry. The screams that had sounded in the distance not long before hadn't sounded much like Lady Isabel, and Deirdre knew that creature wouldn't allow any harm to come to their friend, but somehow panic had managed to grip her as she ran in the direction of the shouts and screams. The thought that her friend might be in danger left her heart racing even more than did the breakneck pace at which she ran.

She rounded a curve in the trail just in time to see Sergeant Eaton and one of his men-at-arms break through the underbrush ahead of them. No need for conversation. Deirdre followed the two soldiers in the direction from which the tumult emanated.

When the final line of trees and underbrush finally gave way to an open field, it was to show Deirdre a melee in progress ahead. Near the woods at the end of a small meadow, not 100 long paces ahead, an armored knight afoot was fighting off a small band of mounted fighters in plate mail and surcoats of bright gold. There were a pair of riderless horses nearby, and it appeared that the tall soldier afoot was getting the better of his adversaries.

But where was the sergeant and his man?

Glancing about, she saw that their guards had made a beeline for a small group of people not 50 paces distant. Among them were Lady Isabel and the fake reverend, the latter of whom made pious gestures and seemed to be praying skyward in supplication. The fraud. He could have at least made himself useful.

The scream of a horse and a man in unison drew her attention back to the melee. The dismounted warrior had felled man and stead, and much to her amazement, the fellow's continued aggression caused the remaining three riders to wheel their mounts as if to flee.

No. That wasn't right. Their lone enemy's single-minded aggression so frightened the horses that it took a moment for the mounted men to get their beasts under control.

Deirdre had no idea what was going on, knew not whether the soldier afoot was the villain or the victim, but she could never abide a bully. Many fighting against one was not fair. Something in her popped, and she found herself sailing across the grass of the vale as fast as her legs could carry her, her long dagger now naked in her hand and a powerful war cry on her lips.

By the time she was withing a stone's throw of the fight, the mounted warriors had their horses under control, but their enemy's onslaught was redoubled, and the fellow on the ground cast a powerful series of blows with his two-handed sword that nearly knocked the nearest of the horseman from his mount.

Deirdre's arrival seemed to tip the scales, and as she arrived at the scene of the affray, the men on horseback appeared to think better of it and beat a hasty retreat. (Or, perhaps, it was the sight of Sergeant Eaton and his man huffing and puffing behind her—the world will never know.)

When it was obvious that the mounted soldiers truly were gone, the lone warrior turned to face her. He was a tall fellow, and even in his plate armor it was clear that he was lean. It was then that he doffed his full helm and gave her a sweet smile.

The young man looked not the least bit winded, and he was the handsomest fellow upon whom Deirdre had ever cast her eyes. She avoided the temptation to smile back, though it took all her might. She long ago had learned never to let a handsome lad know that he is handsome.

"That was a spot of fun," the young man said to her, his toothsome smile only widening. And to the sergeant when he arrived, the soldier gave a solid, "Huzzah! ... You're a bit late, but thanks nonetheless."