Evading the third stallion wasn’t difficult, for the horse was somewhat lame in the left hindquarter. But Simon’s horse couldn’t spin aside quickly enough to escape entirely the first knight’s charge.
In a last, desperate attempt at avoiding the deadly lance, Simon yanked harshly back and up on the bit and at the same time raked his mount with spurs. Simon’s horse reared wildly, hooves flailing. It was a maneuver familiar to war-horses, but totally unexpected from an untrained animal.
A hoof hit the first knight’s lance with numbing force. The big knight grunted as the shaft was wrenched from his suddenly weak grip.
Yet even before the lance hit the earth, Simon knew his luck and skill had reached an end. By the time his horse had four feet on the ground again, the third knight would be on him. There would be no room to maneuver. No escape.
Simon’s only solace was that he had bought enough time for Ariane’s mare to outrun the war stallions.
Grimly Simon hauled at the bit, forcing his horse around to confront the death that he knew was coming with the next breath, or the one after, as the third knight’s sword descended on Simon’s unprotected back.
What Simon saw as he turned wasn’t death, but a chestnut juggernaut hurtling over the grass at a right angle to the third knight. On the back of the thundering mare was a girl dressed in amethyst, her black hair whipping behind like hell’s own pennant, and her mouth open with a scream that was his name.
Just before the renegade’s sword would have split Simon’s skull, the heavy mare slammed broadside into the renegade’s stallion. The horse’s weak hind leg gave way, tumbling the two mounts with their riders into a pile of threshing, steel-shod hooves and flailing limbs.
Even as the felled knight went down, he drew his battle dagger and turned on the one who had caused his downfall, either not knowing or not caring that it was an unarmed girl he sought to kill.
Simon’s own horse staggered and went to its knees, but Simon had already kicked free of the stirrups. He landed as he had trained all his life to land, upright, running, wielding the heavy broadsword as though it were made of smoke.
The wide blade descended on the third knight at the same instant that his dagger slashed out at Ariane. The renegade’s helm saved his life, turning Simon’s blow aside.
Ariane had no such armor. She screamed as she felt the burning edge of steel cut into her.
Simon went mad. His broadsword whistled through the air as he brought it down over his head to cut the renegade in two, regardless of the armor the man wore.
Before the sword bit into flesh, a mailed fist descended on Simon from behind, knocking him aside. If it hadn’t been a left-handed, looping blow, it would have knocked Simon senseless. As it was, he was merely dazed.
Instinctively he turned to face his enemy as he fell. He was rewarded by a glimpse of a stallion’s strong legs, a sword, and ice-blue eyes glaring out from beneath the first knight’s hammered steel helm.
Though slowed by the blow, Simon managed to roll aside as he hit the ground. At that, he barely got beyond the reach of the first knight’s sword.
The big renegade cursed savagely and struck again at Simon. The blow was awkwardly aimed, for the man’s hand was still half-numbed from the strike that had broken his lance. Despite that, Simon barely raised his own sword quickly enough to deflect the blow.
Before Simon could draw a breath, the war-horse’s mailed shoulder slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending his heavy sword spinning beyond his reach. Winded, all but senseless, Simon sank to the ground. With a triumphant shout, the renegade lifted his sword for the killing blow.
A peregrine’s uncanny cry split the air. The bird plummeted down with blinding speed, talons held forward as though to rake prey from the air.
But a war-horse rather than a fat partridge was the bird’s target.
Talons slashed at the stallion’s unprotected ears. The horse reared wildly, ruining the renegade’s aim. No sooner did the stallion recover than the peregrine attacked again, this time going for the war-horse’s eyes. Retreating, the stallion screamed in fear and fury, but there was no way for the earthbound animal to attack the peregrine that hovered just beyond reach, waiting for another opening.
In the distance came the shouts of men. Much closer came the full-throated howl of a wolfhound on a fresh trail.
Cursing, the renegade made one last, futile slash with his sword before he spurred his horse away from the voices. The stallion leaped forward, eager to leave the savage, unexpected peregrine behind.
No sooner had the war-horse turned to run away than Simon lurched to his feet. His sword was but two strides distant. As his hand closed around the cold, familiar haft, the world spun dizzily around him.
Simon sank to his hands and knees and crawled toward Ariane, dragging his sword alongside, knowing only that he had to protect her.
Dimly he realized that Ariane’s mare and the war-horse had both scrambled onto their feet once more. The remaining renegade knight had managed to remount, but neither he nor his stallion had any heart for fighting on alone. Awkwardly, favoring his left haunch, the stallion cantered off and was soon lost among the trees.
Simon didn’t spare the fleeing renegade so much as a look, for Ariane was lying on the battle-churned ground. Blood trailed like a ragged scarlet ribbon down the left side of her body.
“Ariane,” Simon said harshly.
The word was almost a groan.
“I am—here,” she said.
Ariane’s voice was thin, her face pale, her eyes huge in her ashen face.
A peregrine’s uncanny, sweet greeting trilled through the silence. It was answered by a wolfhound’s deep-throated bay.
Stagkiller raced down the slope, scanned eagerly for enemies, and found none. The hound’s presence told Simon what he had already guessed from the peregrine’s attack.
Erik was nearby.
As three war-horses thundered down the rise toward Simon, he braced himself upright on his sword next to Ariane.
“Nightingale,” he said hoarsely.
It was all he could say.
Magnificent amethyst eyes focused on Simon. Ariane opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a choked cry of surprise as pain and darkness closed around her, taking the very breath from her lungs.
When Erik, Dominic, and Sven galloped up, they saw the bodies of two outlaws. Just beyond, Simon lay on the ground, his wife in his arms.
“There were five,” Erik said flatly.
Dominic didn’t ask how Erik knew.
“Track them,” Dominic said curtly.
At an unseen signal from Erik, Stagkiller raced off, coursing the trail of the bandits. Sven followed without an instant’s hesitation.
The two remaining war-horses came to a sliding, ground-gouging stop a few yards from Ariane and Simon. Both knights dismounted as Simon had earlier, a muscular leap that set them upright on the ground, running. As Erik ran, he stripped off his chain mail gauntlets and stuffed them into his belt.
“Simon?” Dominic called urgently.
Simon simply tightened his arms around Ariane, pulling her even closer.
“There is blood,” Dominic said, bending down to his brother.
“Not mine,” Simon said hoarsely. “Ariane’s.”
“Let me see to her,” Erik said, kneeling.
His voice, like his expression, was surprisingly gentle. Even so, Simon made no move to release Ariane.
“I have some small training in wounds,” Erik said. “Permit me to help your wife.”
Painfully Simon shifted, but not enough to allow Erik to see Ariane’s wounded side. The violet fabric of the dress moved with Simon, covering both him and Ariane from the waist down.
“Release her,” Erik said in a low voice.
“Nay. She will die if I don’t hold her next to me.”
Simon’s eyes were black, savage.
Erik’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he said nothing. He simply looked
to Dominic for help.
After a single glance at his brother’s eyes, the Glendruid Wolf shook his head, cautioning Erik. Erik didn’t argue. He had seen enough battles to know that reason was too often the first casualty.
Slowly Dominic knelt by Simon’s side. A hand wrapped in chain mail settled as delicately as a butterfly onto Simon’s leg. Beneath the mail gauntlet, the fey dress rippled and shivered with every breath of wind as though alive.
“Simon,” Dominic said urgently. “Let us help you.”
A shudder coursed through Simon. Gradually the wildness left his eyes. He moved aside just enough for Erik to reach Ariane’s wounded side. The amethyst fabric moved with Simon, clinging to his thigh. Absently he stroked the cloth as he would have one of the keep’s cats.
With great care, Erik’s fingers probed down the side of Ariane’s dress.
“I couldn’t find a wound,” Simon said roughly.
“The dress is binding it,” Erik said.
“Then make it bind more tightly. She bleeds too much.”
“The dress is only cloth,” Erik said. “Very clever cloth, but still…cloth.”
Delicately Erik began to run his fingertips down Ariane’s side once more.
“What happened?” Dominic asked Simon quietly.
“I was ahead of Ariane. Two outlaws and three renegade knights struck. The knights were in armor and riding war stallions.”
“God’s wounds,” hissed Dominic.
“I killed the two who weren’t in armor.”
“You should have fled,” Dominic said curtly. “Your horse was more than a match for war stallions carrying fully armored knights.”
“Ariane’s mare was not.”
Dominic blew breath through clenched teeth, making a hissing noise.
“You are as fine a knight as I’ve ever known,” Dominic said after a moment, “but even you couldn’t defeat three knights in chain mail riding war stallions. How did you survive?”
“I had help.”
“Who?” Dominic asked, looking around.
“A brave, foolish nightingale.”
Dominic’s head snapped back around to his brother.
“Ariane?” Dominic asked, shocked.
“Aye,” Simon said. “I sent one knight running, but another was set to slice me in two. I was a dead man. Then Ariane came out of the mist at a hard gallop and slammed that blocky little mare right into the knight’s stallion.”
Dominic and Erik were too surprised to speak.
“Before that tangle was sorted out,” Simon said, “a peregrine came out of the sky like feathered lightning and sent another stallion fleeing. I guess the remaining knight decided that he had fought enough for one day and quit the field.”
“Was Ariane struck on the head?” Erik asked.
“I don’t know. All I saw was the dagger blow. I would have killed the cursed knight, had not the blue-eyed devil intervened.”
No one interrupted the silence that came after Simon’s bleak statement.
“What of your wounds?” Dominic asked finally.
“I’ve taken worse during your endless drills.”
“You can thank those drills that you lived long enough for help to arrive,” Dominic muttered.
“That and the big renegade’s bloodlust,” Simon agreed. “It made him too eager.”
Erik and Dominic exchanged a look.
“Would you recognize this renegade if you saw him again?” Erik asked Simon.
“I think not. Thick-chested, blue-eyed bastards are as common as rocks in the Disputed Lands.”
“What insignia was on his shield?” Dominic asked.
“None,” Simon said succinctly.
“Do—”
“Enough,” Simon interrupted impatiently. “’Tis Ariane who matters now, not the misbegotten bastards who attacked us.”
While he spoke, Simon’s hand caressed Ariane’s cheek as delicately as a shadow. The tenderness of the gesture was at odds with the gaunt planes of Simon’s face and the marks of recent battle on his body.
“Try to tear a strip of cloth from the hem of her dress,” Erik suggested.
Dominic reached for the dress, only to be stopped by Erik’s hand.
“Nay, let Simon do it,” Erik said. Then, turning to Simon, “When you hold the fabric, think of Ariane’s need to have the flow of blood staunched.”
Simon stripped off his hawking gauntlet, took the fabric between his strong hands, and pulled. The cloth parted as though along a hidden seam. Nor were any raveling edges left behind.
“You did that as well as any Learned healer,” Erik said with satisfaction.
“Did what?” retorted Simon. “The stuff came apart in my hands. “Tis a wonder the dress hasn’t fallen to pieces and left Ariane wearing only her chemise.”
Erik smiled slightly and said, “Now, bind the strip around Ariane’s wound. Do it so tightly that a dagger would have difficulty getting between cloth and skin.”
When Simon shifted Ariane in order to bind the wound, she moaned. The sound hurt Simon more than any of the blows he had received fighting renegade knights.
“Why didn’t you run to safety, nightingale?” Simon asked, his voice both soft and rough.
There was no answer but that of the Learned fabric clinging like lint to Simon’s thigh while he worked to bind Ariane’s wound.
“You would have been safe,” Simon said to Ariane under his breath.
“And you would have been dead,” Erik pointed out.
Simon opened his mouth but no words came for a time. He hissed a Saracen phrase.
“I am a knight,” Simon said finally. “Death in battle is my lot. But Ariane…Ariane shouldn’t have to fight for her own life, much less for the life of her husband!”
“Cassandra would disagree with you,” Erik said. “The Learned believe that we all fight—man, woman, and child—each according to need and skill.”
Simon grunted. Yet despite the grimness of his expression, his hands were gentle on Ariane’s body. Even so, she moaned from time to time as he worked.
“Nightingale,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but I must hurt you in order to help you.”
“She knows,” Erik said.
“How can she?” Simon asked coldly. “She is senseless.”
Erik looked at the amethyst fabric lying placidly within Simon’s grasp and said nothing.
Overhead, a peregrine arrowed down out of the sky, trilling a sweet, uncanny greeting. A second falcon followed, its pale feathers bright against the sky.
Dominic pulled on Simon’s hawking gauntlet and whistled Skylance’s special call. The gyrfalcon hovered, then settled onto Dominic’s arm, accepting captivity once more.
When Erik stood and held out his arm, his peregrine swooped down with heart-stopping speed. At the last possible instant, the falcon’s wings flared. With dainty care, the peregrine landed on Erik’s hawking gauntlet.
“Well, Winter, what have you to show me?” he asked softly.
Then he whistled an ascending trill. The peregrine cocked her head, watching him with clear, knowing eyes. Her hooked beak opened and astonishingly sweet trills poured out. For a few moments bird of prey and Learned man whistled to one another.
Then Erik’s arm moved with swift, muscular ease, launching the peregrine back into the sky. Winter climbed rapidly, vanishing into the distance.
“The outlaws are still running,” Erik said, turning back to his human friends. “Stagkiller and Sven still follow. They hold to an ancient trail.”
“Do you know where it leads?” Dominic asked.
“To Silverfells. Stagkiller will bring Sven back to the keep.”
“Why?” Dominic asked. “Shouldn’t we know where the renegades are camped?”
Erik said nothing.
Simon glanced from the gyrfalcon on Dominic’s arm to the equally fierce profile of Erik, son of a great Northern lord.
“Lord Erik?” Dominic asked.
The Glend
ruid Wolf’s voice was polite, but he meant to have an answer. The well-being of too many keeps rested on peace in the Disputed Lands.
“The land of the Silverfells clan is forbidden to the Learned,” Erik said curtly.
“Why?” asked Dominic.
Again, Erik said nothing.
Simon stood, lifting Ariane with him.
“Come,” Simon said impatiently to his brother. “We must get Ariane to safety.”
For a few instants Dominic’s eyes glittered with the same hard light as the fey crystal in the wolf’s head pin that fastened his mantle.
Then the Glendruid Wolf turned away from Erik to his brother. The amethyst of Ariane’s dress flowed like twilight against the indigo of Simon’s mantle.
“To the keep, then,” Dominic said curtly.
“Quickly,” Simon urged, striding to his horse, “before the renegades realize they were defeated by a Learned peregrine and a reckless little nightingale.”
14
“’Tis like an oiled eel,” Meg muttered, turning to Cassandra. “Have you a dagger? I can’t get a grip on the bandage to make it come free.”
Cassandra looked from Ariane’s white face to the violet fabric covering her wound. Only a small amount of blood had seeped through the Learned weaving.
“Simon,” Cassandra said.
“I’m here.” Simon stepped forward from the doorway, where he had stayed to avoid getting in the healers’ way. “What do you need?”
Simon’s glance took in the room he had not come to since his wedding night. Nothing had changed, except that the bride lay more dead than alive on her bed.
“Take off your wife’s bindings,” Cassandra said.
Without a word, Simon went to Ariane. A few deft motions of his hands unwrapped the bandage he had put on after the battle with the renegades.
Baffled by Simon’s ease with the slippery cloth, Meg looked from the bandage to the Learned woman. Cassandra didn’t notice, for she was intent upon Simon’s handling of the odd fabric.
“Now,” Cassandra said. “The dress.”
Ariane neither stirred nor even moaned as Simon swiftly unlaced the front of the dress. She lay as limp as sea wrack stranded on a rocky shore.
Silver laces slid free of their moorings with gratifying speed. The dress opened, revealing fine linen underclothing. The pale gold perfection of the linen was ruined by a scarlet blotch running all the way down one side.
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