by Bell, Hilari
Rupert, who’d been waiting for an opening in the conversation, didn’t look convinced.
Fisk added, “Not to mention grooms and waiters, who’d fight to protect their customers. From people who look more like criminals than the guys in the coach do.”
“Unless the sheriff would help us,” Kathy said slowly. “Surely if Rupert presented himself, and told the sheriff a kidnapping was taking place in his town...”
There was a long silence. Fisk didn’t want to go to the law because the Liege and Master Arnold had told him not to, and he didn’t want to imperil his reward. I didn’t want to, because as an unredeemed man, my mere presence would make the authorities reluctant to aid anyone I was with. Though if Rupert thought he could pull it off, I was willing to try.
“No,” said Rupert finally. “If I had my proper entourage, had some clean clothes and that kind of thing, I would. As it is, ’twould take me so long to convince them I’m the Heir the coach would be long gone.”
“So ’tis up to us, and we must press on ahead of them and see what we can arrange.” I would have kicked Chant to a gallop then and there, had the street not been filled with shopping housewives, apprentices on errands, and a collier’s cart that took up half the lane.
Once we were free of the town we set off at a canter, but soon slowed to alternating between a walk and a trot, which is the best pace a horse can maintain — and we rode for several hours before we found what we were looking for.
The good part was, ’twas a perfect place to block the road. Indeed, ’twas the only place we found where we could set an obstruction and they couldn’t simply drive off the road and around it.
The bad part was, ’twas the bridge that spanned the Pottage River. If they crossed despite our efforts, we’d be unlikely to get any help from the authorities even if we had days to convince them.
The other bad part was that open fields surrounded the bridge, the nearest cover being a copse of pines almost a quarter mile back down the road.
“They’ll see us coming,” was the first thing Rupert said.
“So they will,” Fisk agreed. “But we might be able to use that to our advantage. If their attention was fixed on someone riding toward them, people hidden down below the riverbank might be able to get pretty close before they were seen.”
Trust Fisk to know how to run a highroad robbery.
“First we’ll need to block their entrance to the bridge,” I said. “Thank goodness there’s not much traffic.” In all the way from the town we’d passed just one farm cart, and I prayed that luck would hold.
“How can you block the bridge?” Kathy asked. “There’s no gate, no big rocks, and anything you could move into their way, they could just move out of it. They won’t be that far behind us, either.”
“I’ve an idea for that,” I said. “’Tis simple.”
Well, ’twas simple in concept. In reality, dragging one of the logs I’d seen embedded in the river’s mud up onto the road, even with a rope and four horses, was one of the trickiest things I’ve done in some time.
’Twas easy, if muddy, to clamber down the steep, six-foot bank and select a log large enough that ’twould be impossible for men to move, but small enough for our horses to drag. I had already resigned myself to losing my good, long rope... A long rope is something most don’t bother to pack, for ’tis bulky and one seldom needs it. Fisk’s and my roving life was sufficiently unpredictable that I did carry rope. We used it seldom ... but when we needed it we needed it badly, and ’twas there.
Even with the rope, cut into four pieces and tied off to each saddle, the great muddy log, with spikes of root and branch protruding, twisted and rolled as we hauled it forward. Rupert had to climb down to help me wrestle it into a position where it could be towed over the lip of the bank, while Fisk and Kathy handled the uneasy horses.
Once we got it out of the riverbed, ’twas much easier to drag it over the flat ground. As Fisk and Kathy supervised its placement across the entrance to the bridge, Rupert and I splashed into the river’s shallows to wash off some of the mud, for we were coated with the stuff from brow to heels.
By the time we hauled our dripping selves up the bank, Fisk had cut the ropes free of the log and coiled them, and we all mounted and cantered down the road to the copse, to wait and plot.
“Why can’t they use their horses to pull the log aside?” Rupert asked.
“They can,” I said. “Both the carriage horses and the ones they ride ... if they have some way to tether the log to saddle or harness. They’d need a rope that’s both long enough and strong enough, and I’m betting they won’t have one.”
“I’m more worried...” But Fisk fell silent before he finished, for the coach had come into view.
’Twas still accompanied by four outriders, and Fisk had told me during our morning ride that one of them carried a crossbow. What surprised me was not that they had only one, but that they had one at all. They’re fearsome weapons, but their short heavy bolts veer off course long before an arrow will, and they’re expensive as well, so few favor them for hunting. The only reason I’d gotten the chance to shoot one was because my great great grandfather’s guardsmen had taken it from an assassin after he’d put the bolt through great great’s shoulder, leaving him unable to raise that arm above his head for the rest of his life.
Crossbow bolts might not be as accurate over long distance, but they destroy what they hit. I’d no desire to encounter one from the sharp side.
We’d tethered our horses and True on the far side of the small glade, and there were other horses pastured nearby so even if one of them neighed ’twould not give us away. True, being mute, could make no sound even if he wished, but our good horses were silent too as we watched the carriage roll past. The outriders didn’t look as if they thought we might be following. They rode two before the coach, and two far enough behind it that the dust wouldn’t trouble them. Both pairs chatted casually, as men will on a long ride.
Rupert’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles whitened, but they were still six to our three.
“What worries me,” Fisk murmured, after the last rider was out of earshot, “is how many men they’ll leave behind. If they send one man for help to clear the road, that leaves still five to three. And for all we know there might be two or three men in that coach with Mistress Margaret. And they’ll all be on the alert, once they’ve seen the log.”
“Five to four,” Kathy said stubbornly. She and Fisk and been arguing about her part in this affray since we left town — and so far as I could tell, neither was winning.
“If they send just one man for aid, we can ride from the other side of the copse and ambush him before he reaches town,” I said. “Once they realize he’s not coming back, they’ll send more men, mayhap two more, which would bring their number even to ours.”
“Leaving three to five of us at the coach, if they sent off two more men,” Kathy said. “Assuming Meg’s in a position to fight.”
The riders out in front had seen the log. They cantered forward and dismounted to inspect it, one going so far as to grasp the protruding roots and try to roll it. The only thing he accomplished was to muddy his waistcoat and britches, and he was rubbing them with a kerchief when the coach came up and stopped.
At this distance we couldn’t tell who was in command or what he said, but the riders abruptly turned to gaze outward, looking for the ambush that log all but proclaimed.
“What if they’re smart enough to send two men for help, right from the start?” Fisk’s voice was low, though the kidnappers wouldn’t hear anything short of a shout. “Or even three, to keep us from taking them out on the road.”
“I think the four of us could probably take two,” I said, and Kathy gave me an approving nod. “But if they split their number and send three, we simply wait till the riders have passed and then attack the coach.”
“Well, waiting while they ride past will be simple,” Fisk said.
I didn�
�t bother to reply, for the drama at the bridge commanded my attention.
No ambush having occurred, the outriders turned their attention to the log — though I noticed the coach driver kept his gaze on the countryside, and his high perch gave him a fine view.
The outriders all dismounted and tried to move the log, which resulted in naught but more muddy clothing. One of them then went to the back of the coach, where he opened the luggage compartment and searched through it for some time before pulling out two long leather straps.
“Spare reins for the coach horses,” Rupert said, as they tied the log to two saddles and prepared to lead their horses forward. “We should have known they’d have those.”
“I did,” I said. “But I doubt they’re strong enough.”
Two horses might have been able to drag the log over the hard-packed earth of the roadway, but I was proved right when one of the taught straps snapped, recoiling so hard it struck the horse who’d pulled it. He bucked and kicked, and his fellow, still fastened to the log, shied violently.
And the fact that they’d used those flimsy reins in the first place meant...
“No one carries rope,” I murmured.
“Yes, you told me so,” said Fisk — rather unfairly, as I’d said nothing of the kind. Though remembering years of his complaints when we’d unpacked and repacked the unwieldy coil... I must confess, I’d thought about saying it.
Considerable discussion ensued at the bridge, but the end of it was that three wary-looking men mounted their horses and trotted back toward town. To my considerable satisfaction, one of them was the man with the crossbow strapped to his saddle.
“We’d best get moving,” I told Rupert. “Fisk, you should be able to see when we reach the river, but be sure to give us time to get to the bridge before you and Kathy approach.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Fisk assured me. “None at all.”
“I am,” said Kathy. “But we’ll wait.”
The final plan was a combination of Fisk’s idea and mine. He and Kathy would ride slowly toward the coach, drawing the villains’ attention and mayhap even pulling the remaining outrider away from our target. Rupert and I were already wet and muddy, but there were other reasons we should be the ones to creep down the riverbed under cover of that high bank. One of those reasons was Fisk’s passionate insistence that once the distraction had done its work, Kathy should turn the horse and gallop out of range of the fighting. But since he had no way to force Kathy to fall in with that plan... At all events, while everyone was watching Fisk and Kathy (who I thought would be quarrelling robustly at that point) Rupert and I could creep up and get the drop on them.
’Twas not the best plan, I admit. But given even numbers and the lack of cover around that coach, I defy anyone to come up with better.
We hadn’t time to scout the dry gulley that ran from behind the copse down to the river, and the bottom was overgrown with weeds and low bushes, so it took some trouble to traverse.
The end of the gulley was far enough from the bridge that I risked standing up to wave at the place where we’d left our allies. I couldn’t see them, concealed in the trees, but when we departed Kathy had been whittling the branches off of a stout “walking stick.” Fisk, in no way deceived by this euphuism, said he’d come up with a way to make them look less like the people these men had probably seen all too clearly from the old keep’s ramparts. He would be trying to contrive some way to keep Kathy from using that stick as a weapon, too, and since the only horse we had that wasn’t remarkable in some way was Posy, I thought this was asking a lot, even of Fisk ... but my ex-squire and new partner is most inventive about such things.
Rupert took my orders without question, and he made less noise in the log-choked shallows than I’d expected. With the task at hand, and so much riding on it, his nerves seemed to settle and his face showed a cool resolve I found quite heartening.
As we drew near the bridge I spotted a log that had been thrust up against the bank by some long past flood, providing ... not a ramp, mayhap, but at least a mounting block to climb out of the riverbed.
Even better, some of those small bushes were growing on the flat ground above it. I signaled for Rupert to hide under the bridge while I climbed up to wait for our diversion to appear.
It took them long enough that my wet clothing grew cold. My muscles might have stiffened, but for the exuberant energy of action that sang through me. And as it turned out, ’twas worth the wait.
Fisk and Kathy came trotting down the road. The first thing I noticed was that Kathy, now wearing an ordinary skirt that showed her legs to her knee as it slid up, was mounted on Tipple, while Fisk bestrode Posy. He had also stripped the ribbons from Kathy’s straw hat and wore it himself. Her hair, which had been braided round her head when these men saw her last, now flowed free. Fisk had also given her one of my more voluminous shirts, which hung loose over a huge mound of something-or-other that had been bound to her stomach.
Given the anxiety with which Fisk leaned over her, it didn’t need the way she clutched her girth, or the groans I’m sure she was emitting even though I couldn’t hear them, to tell everyone who watched that a new babe was about to enter the world.
I shook so hard with laughter, I almost slipped from my perch. That fake pregnancy was not only a fabulous distraction, ’twas awkward enough it might actually keep her out of the fight. And if it didn’t, ’twould serve almost as well as light armor to protect her vulnerable belly.
One should never underestimate Fisk.
“What do we do?” I heard one of the kidnappers ask. “What do we do if she pops it here?”
“Warn them away.” This voice held authority, its accent much finer than the first speaker’s. “Tell them the bridge is blocked.”
“But they can ride around the log,” the third man said. “Wouldn’t that be the best way to get rid of ’em?” I heard the first faint groan from Kathy, and he added. “Get rid of ’em quick!”
They’d never be more distracted than they were now. I signaled to Rupert that ’twas time, and drew my sword, slowly enough to keep the steel from rasping as it came free. I was still well below the top of the bank, but I leapt up high enough to land my belly on solid ground and crawled as quickly as I could to the bushes — which proved too short. I might have been partly screened from the rider and the coach’s passengers, but the driver could look right down upon me.
Fortunately, he was staring up the road with the consternation any man would feel at the sight of a woman who was apparently about to give birth right then and there.
I stood as quietly as I could and began walking toward the remaining outrider. Fisk covered my approach with a shout for help, was there a woman with them, could he borrow the coach...?
The man was still mounted, which was a pity. Had he been on his feet I might have been able to strike his head with my sword hilt and thus take him out of the fight. But his head, clad in a broad-brimmed felt hat much like the one I often wore, was beyond my reach.
It would have been possible to run my blade through his unprotected back, but even though I knew him for a villain I couldn’t slay him in cold blood — indeed, no man who wasn’t a monster could.
His horse was aware of me, one ear flicking back, but it offered no other warning of my presence. I patted its rump reassuringly, before reaching up to grab its rider’s belt and drag him, with a startled squawk, from the saddle.
This brought his head into range and had it not been for his hat, and his quick lurch to one side, I might have ended my fight with him right there. But startled as he was he started moving instantly, and what should have been a solid thump behind one ear glanced off.
He drew his sword as he turned, shouting a warning, and I slashed his wrist in yet another blow that could have ended our fight ... only to discover that, like me, he wore a stiffened leather cuff beneath his sleeve.
Blood welled from his wrist but ’twas not enough. As he came fully to his feet he lunged at
me, with a low and expert stroke I should have expected but did not. I barely managed to parry as I scrambled out of his reach.
The first lesson my father’s arms master had taught me — by dint of several painful bruises — was to keep my gaze on my opponent. I parried several quick thrusts, but he seemed to be more interested in testing my guard than running me through. Even as I noted that this man knew what he was about, I saw Fisk, with Kathy’s long stick in his hand, dash behind my opponent’s back ... and keep right on running toward the coach.
But my surge of exasperation subsided when I heard the clack of wood striking wood and the thrum of a bowstring. I never saw the arrow, but whoever ’twas aimed at, Fisk had kept it from finding its mark — and that stick was long enough for him to keep the man from getting off another shot, which mattered more than ending my small affray.
My opponent lunged once more, a stroke that started low but changed course and swept up as I moved to block. Had I been trying to strike at him I might not have managed to parry, but I was simply blocking his blows. This was another of the arms master’s lessons, for ’tis easier to defend yourself than defend and attack ... and, he said, if you just wait long enough your chance will come. This gave me time to observe my opponent as well. He was some years older than I — as most men are — with a bravo’s bold mustache and rough, serviceable garb. But the body beneath those drab clothes was hard, lean, and quick enough to keep me jumping.
Our circling brought the carriage into view. I didn’t dare take my gaze from my attacker, but I heard Fisk trying to persuade the driver to put down his bow and give it up, and caught a glimpse of Kathy, big belly and all, standing on the narrow iron step and reaching through the window in the coach’s door — probably trying to unlock it. As I watched, she shrieked and pulled back, clutching her hand. But even when she fell away from it, the still coach rocked. Rupert must have gone around to the other side of it, for guttural grunts and gasps revealed some battle—