Читать книгу Shadow Rider - Kathrynn Dennis - Страница 10

Guy banged on the cottage door. “Smith? Open up,” he bellowed. The fog from his warm breath puffed from his mouth as he spoke.

He listened for an answer and watched Sybilla shift and stamp her feet beside him. They’d hiked a mile in ankle-deep snow to the smith’s and she’d not complained, but her face was pale and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her golden hair and faded blue dress were dusted with a light coat of snow and in the pre-dawn light she looked like a woman from a mystic world, too young to be a ghost, but too fair and ethereal to walk the earth.

He pulled his cloak off and tossed it to Sybilla. “Put this on,” he ordered, annoyed he hadn’t thought to give it to her sooner. Turning, he pounded on the door. “Get up. We’ve need of your services and we’re freezing.”

The cottage door cracked open. Warmth seeped invitingly across the threshold and a man whose head was like a melon with bleary red eyes, stumbled forward.

The smith pulled a woolen blanket over his shoulders and squinted. “By the devil, who the hell are…Mistress Corbuc?” He cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing with these men? I do not want trouble. An’ I already told you, you can sleep in the shop, but there’s no room for your mare and foal.”

Sybilla shook her head and lowered her eyes.

Guy glowered at the smith. “Mistress Corbuc says you have a horse for sale. I want to buy it.”

The smith narrowed his eyes. “I know you…Sir Guy of Warwick. And you too, Sir Simon.”

Simon grinned and saluted the smith.

The smith lifted his chin and studied Guy. “I was on the battlefield at Balmont. You fought like a madman and saved King Richard. You’re poor but noble knights. And you’ve nothing on you now that makes me think you can pay for a horse.” He pointed to the mare and foal and shook his head. “I’m not looking for a trade. The colt’s a straggly one and marked as he is, he’ll bring bad luck.” He sniffed and held up his hand as if he anticipated an argument. “Aye, I’ve heard the tale about a magic horse, to be born this winter hereabouts. But this colt is not The One. Wouldn’t trade a goat for him.”

Guy stood up to his full height. “I am not here to trade, but I need another horse.” He put his hand on his sword and stepped toward the man.

“No.” Sybilla clutched Guy’s forearm. “He let me sleep by his firing grate these last two weeks. Otherwise, I would be dead from the cold. If he doesn’t want to sell the horse, we can walk. I will walk.”

Guy looked at Sybilla as she shivered; her fingernails had turned blue. She wouldn’t last long on foot. He removed and lowered his sword and offered the hilt to the smith.

The smith’s eyes grew wide. “That’s the weapon King Richard gave you. I recognize the stone in the handle. ’Tis the biggest rock o’lapis I ever seen. For that sword, I’ll trade my horse, an’ I’ll throw in a little bag o’ last year’s oats.”

Guy shook his head. “You get the stone, but not the weapon.”

The smith stroked his chin and studied the handle of the sword. “’Tis a bargain. But you get what you get in horse tradin’.”

Within the hour, the smith wore the blue stone around his neck. He hurried to the barn and reappeared, leading a burly horse. Grain spilled from the animal’s mouth and he snorted bits of hay from his nose. The smith handed the lead rope to Guy. “You be doin’ me a favor ta take him. He eats like every mouthful is his last.”

The stocky courser, a stallion with a winter coat as black as soot, coughed and rubbed his face on his wide knees. He had a plug’s head, but by the looks of his belly, he hadn’t missed a meal all winter.

Guy frowned. “He’s sound?”

The smith nodded. “He ain’t pretty, but he’s a solid ride. His name is Bacchus.”

Taking Addy’s lead from Sybilla’s hands, Guy tossed the rope to Simon. “The mare is your mount.”

Simon pulled a horse face. “Why can’t I ride the stallion? I can’t be seen riding on this bag-o’-bones. I’m a knight, too, you know.”

Suppressing a grin, Guy shook his head. Simon had a gifted sword arm, but he was not a knight who could boast his talent as a rider. He hated riding without a saddle.

Guy jumped onto Bacchus’ back, and hauled a cold-stiffened Sybilla up to sit behind him. He winked at his friend. “Two of us will have to share a horse. I’d rather ride with Mistress Corbuc than with you.” He reached toward the smith. “I’ll take those oats now.”

The smith tossed the oats to Guy. “Mistress Corbuc, what have you done? Have you sold your soul for a warm bed and whatever scraps this man will give you? ’Tis a pity. He’ll put a babe in your belly, then turn you out. You coulda stayed here and kept your freedom. We could have come ta some agreement.” He smiled and scratched his crotch.

Guy bristled at the thought of Sybilla sharing hearth and bed with this man. He was a greasy fellow and smelled of soured straw and piss.

He turned Bacchus toward the road. “Mistress Corbuc has conscribed to be my servant. The choice was hers to make.”

Sybilla called down to the smith. “Thank you for your kindness for these last few weeks, good sir. Aye, I am a servant now, but my heart and soul are free.”

He felt her stiffen and lean away from him. The gap of cold air that rushed across his back made the fine hairs on his neck stand up.

Guy exhaled and rubbed his forehead. What was he doing taking this woman, an old mare, and a gangly, unproven foal back to Ketchem?

Damnation. He could not afford to pay the board on two more horses and he needed a servant like he needed head lice. For the past six months, he’d slept in a stone cell in the bottom of the castle and eaten with the other knights in the great hall, even though the Earl of Ketchem Castle and his wife, Lady Claire, had offered him a warm apartment and a place at the high table. He preferred the solitude and the privacy of his darkened cellar room.

What would he do with Mistress Corbuc?

He would set her free, he decided, as soon as he was certain she was safe. He’d keep the foal, but it would be hard to part with Mistress Corbuc. God’s breath, she was a comely woman with no husband or protector, but full of pride and independence, determined to survive. He knew what it was like to be alone, with nothing much to live for except your freedom and your horse.

Guy spurred Bacchus into a gallop, jostling Sybilla. She grabbed his waist and fell against him. Her softness felt good against his back and he breathed in her earthy scent, of horses and of hay.

Hell to the devil. He got that feeling again. The one that made him stop and think, for just a moment, that he wanted something more than the life of a knight-for-hire. He’d had a taste of home and hearth, and of the kind of love that once filled his widowed sister’s house. He’d grown accustomed to her boisterous home, the squall of his infant nephew, and the antics of their one-eared cat that made him laugh. Every now and then, he craved that life and blamed himself for having lost it.

Having lost them.

He clenched the reins, guilt and regret burning in his stomach. He’d sacrificed it all to be a knight. King Richard’s wars had cost him dearly. Had he not left his widowed sister and her child for the call to battle, he would have been there to protect them when the raiders came.

The foal whinnied. His coltish squeal pierced the wintry silence. Armor clattered and hoof beats thundered in the distance. Sybilla straightened and tightened her arms around Guy’s waist.

Guy drew Bacchus to a halt.

Crimson banners shimmered in the morning sun and a retinue of mounted soldiers, all dressed in red and black, stopped in the middle of the road ahead. A fair-haired nobleman on a white horse rode to the front of the pack.

The massive destrier reared and snorted, his rider’s brilliant blue cloak, emblazoned with his crest, an eagle with a sheaf of wheat clutched in his talons, draped over the horse’s rump and haunches like a king’s parade robe.

Guy moved his hand to his sword. “Lord Hamon,” he said, his voice detached. “I trust you are well rested?”

Lord Hamon drew his sword. “Guy of Warwick and Simon Portney, impoverished knights, pretending to be noble. I am not surprised to find you fleeing Cornbury at the crack of dawn. I want my emerald.” His eyes narrowed and his covetous gaze settled on the foal. “That colt. I want him, too. Yield them both and I’ll let you live.”

The sound of swords flying from their scabbards rattled in the air as the men behind him drew their weapons. Lord Hamon’s horse pawed and the animal tossed his head as though he had a hornet up his nose.

Simon sidled Addy next to Guy’s black courser. The foal, wedged between them, stood quietly, as if he understood the danger.

Before Guy had the chance to stop her, Sybilla slipped his cloak off her shoulders and dismounted. Her golden hair shining in the morning sun, she strode across the icy road and stood directly in front of Lord Hamon’s maniacal horse.

Arms akimbo, she squared her shoulders and glared up at Lord Hamon. “Let us pass, my lord. The colt is not for sale and Sir Guy doesn’t have your emerald. We are on our way to Ketchem Castle. You will be rid of me forever.”

Lord Hamon’s fair cheeks flashed with red. “Mistress Corbuc, you are as comely as your mother was, but you test me sorely. I don’t mean to buy the colt, I mean to take him. And retrieve my emerald. Now step aside. I have business with these men and no quarrel—today—with you.”

Sybilla glanced across her shoulder at Guy. He watched as her gaze rested on the foal for a moment. She turned and faced Lord Hamon. “No. I will not step aside. I have stepped aside for you for years. Let us pass, or run me through.”

Lord Hamon inched his horse a few steps forward. “Mistress Corbuc, ’twould be a pity to separate your lovely head from your lovely neck. Step aside and do not force my hand.” He lifted his sword.

Sybilla didn’t flinch. She tipped her head slightly to the left and lifted her chin. “Kill me, Lord Hamon…and know that you have murdered the only seed to ever spring from your infertile loins.”

A hush fell across Lord Hamon’s soldiers. Even his great white horse stood still and ceased his incessant snorting.

Simon raised his eyebrows and looked at Guy.

Guy rubbed his forehead and moaned. Good God, what a way to start the day.

A flash of steel glinted in the sunlight as Lord Hamon swung his weapon—just as Regalo bolted, kicking and squealing, raced to Sybilla’s side.

Lord Hamon’s horse pinned his ears back. Teeth bared, he lunged at the foal. Hamon’s blade slashed the space just inches from Sybilla’s head.

Sybilla screamed and Addy, her broomstick tail sticking straight up, whinnied and spun around, nearly flinging Simon from her back.

The old mare bucked. Both rear feet shot out behind her, aiming at Lord Hamon’s horse. They clipped the destrier across the muzzle and a broken tooth went flying.

The white horse, his mouth bloodied, whinnied and reared. Hamon grabbed the reins to keep from falling. Jerking backward, he threw his mount off balance.

The great horse twisted, his head pulled to the left, his feet scrambling on the ice until his massive bulk came crashing down. Lord Hamon landed underneath his mount, his foot trapped beneath the horse’s hips. His voice cracked with pain. “Get him off me!”

Soldiers jumped from their horses. Three men put their shoulders to the horse’s white rump and heaved, while another two grabbed the animal by the mane and pulled.

Regalo darted from the road and headed for the field. Addy raced to follow. Simon’s beefy arms strained against the reins, but she had set the bit between her teeth and he could not hold her back.

Hamon’s face contorted with agony as the white snow beneath him turned red. He beat the ground with his fists. “Bind my ankle before I bleed to death, you fools. The bone is through the skin!”

At the sound of Hamon’s voice, Addy seemed to gallop faster. With Simon clinging to her bony back she raced, gaining on her foal with every surging stride.

Guy galloped Bacchus forward and hauled a shocked Sybilla up and into his lap. “Mistress Corbuc, whatever possessed you to––”

“Sir Guy!” a boy’s voice called from across the field. “Your emerald. Found your bag afore the sheriff got it. I ain’t opened it. Brought it straight to you!”

Sybilla snapped her head up. “Etienne?”

Guy clamped his arm around Sybilla’s waist and spun Bacchus on his heels, pointing the horse toward the field. “Bloody hell, boy—not now!”

Etienne’s small form tromped across the field, through snow drifts as high as his knees. He raised the pouch and shook it, waving it proudly in the air. He cupped his hand around his mouth and called louder. “Your emerald, Sir Guy. I got it.”

He shook the bag high above his head.

Bacchus’ ears pricked. His nostrils flared and he swung his head around to look at Etienne.

Lord Hamon yelled, “Get them. I want that colt. And the boy with my emerald. Kill the girl.”

Horses whinnied and swords clattered. Bacchus squealed and bucked, his stomach rumbling, burping like a hollow drum filled with gas and water. He reared and landed facing Etienne. With the speed of the wind, the great horse charged into the field.

Etienne stopped waving. Panic swept across his face as his eyes shifted from Addy and the foal thundering toward him, to the furry black stallion not far behind them.

With the force of Bacchus’ stride, Sybilla’s head slammed against Guy’s chest. “Etienne! Get out of the way!”

Guy wrapped his arms around her and laughed. “Hold on tight, mistress. I do believe Bacchus thinks the bag is full of oats and if the boy runs, I think we all might escape.”

Sybilla twisted in the saddle to look behind her, her white-knuckled fingers threaded through Bacchus’ wiry mane. “Give the horse his head and they’ll not catch us.”

Guy slackened the reins and leaned forward. “Woohay! Here we go.”

Bacchus powered on, clods of snow-pack flying from his feet. He galloped into the field, roundly overtaking Addy, Simon, and Regalo.

Sybilla cried out, “To the woods, Etienne!”

Guy craned his neck to see behind him. Lord Hamon’s men had fallen lengths behind, their mounts slipping spread-eagled in the snow. Not a horse could run full out and neither did they seem inclined to try, lacking, apparently, the proper motivation.

He grinned and leaned into the icy wind that whipped his hair and stung his eyes. Hell to the devil, the fiery Mistress Green Eyes would defend her friends and her possession against Lord Hamon, or go down trying. She could ride a horse like she was born in the saddle. What a woman! The kind of woman who could defend his hearth and home—if he had one. God’s teeth, she made him feel alive, made his blood rush from his heart and his breath explode from his burning lungs.

He leaned close to Sybilla and laughed, his lips against her temple. “Hail to Bacchus, mistress! He has a demon’s appetite and when he’s hungry, he thinks his feet can fly!”