Enchanted (12 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Are you certain Duncan isn’t
Learned?”

“Why does it matter to you?” Simon
retorted with barely leashed irritation. “You’re not
married to him.”

“Are you and Cassandra allies?”

The change of subject made Simon blink. He looked
at his wife’s eyes. Their violet clarity was breathtaking. It
reminded him of how she had looked by lantern light, eyes
half-closed, shimmering, fully in thrall to his kiss.

“Dominic respects Cassandra’s gift of
prophecy,” Simon said finally.

“And you?” Ariane asked.

“I respect Dominic.”

Ariane frowned and looked again toward the
shifting, enigmatic shadows inside the first of Stone Ring’s
circle of monoliths.

“You reject Learning,” Ariane said
slowly, “yet the Learned value you.”

Simon gave her a dark, sideways glance.

“What makes you think that?” he asked
sardonically.

“Cassandra told me. It was because of you
that they gave me this dress.”

Surprise showed clearly on Simon’s face.

“Perhaps they value me because they value
Dominic,” Simon said after a few moments.

“No.”

“You sound quite certain.”

“I am.”

“Second sight?” he asked
sarcastically.

“Firsthand knowledge,” she retorted.
“Cassandra told me that they value you because you have the
potential of being Learned. Few men do.”

“By the Cross,” muttered Simon,
“what flatulence.”

Abruptly he removed the gyrfalcon’s hood, put
Skylance on his gauntlet and urged his horse into a faster pace.
The bird responded with an open beak and mantling wings. Only the
jesses firmly held in Simon’s fist prevented the falcon from
leaping onto the back of the wild wind.

“Come,” Simon said curtly.
“Skylance grows impatient and so do I. The Lake of the Mists
lies just over the next rise.”

With that, Simon galloped off beyond the reach of
more questions whose answers were as uncomfortable as they were
unknowable.

Simon’s mount was fleet, long-legged and
eager to run. The mare Ariane rode was a heavy-boned, broad-beamed,
muscular animal whose colts were destined to carry fully armed
knights into battle rather than to race after stags in a hunt.

Ariane’s mount had a singular lack of
interest in galloping anywhere unless a pack of wolves was in close
pursuit. Despite smart kicks from her rider’s heels, the mare
was just cresting the rise when Simon’s blood-freezing shout
of warning rang back to Ariane.

“Renegades! Flee to the keep,
Ariane!”

A
s soon as Ariane heard Simon’s
warning shout, she hauled back on the reins. The unexpected
pressure on the bit made the mare rear back onto her thick
haunches. Ariane swayed effortlessly in the saddle, balancing
herself even as she stared intently down the rise and into the
misty trail ahead.

One sweeping look told it all. Scattered oaks and
grass, a lake gleaming like quicksilver between gaps in the mist,
and two groups of outlaws spurring their horses toward Simon. The
closest men were perhaps six furlongs away from her and only one
from Simon. The two quickest outlaws wore old battle helms and rode
horses like Simon’s, long-legged beasts bred for the hunt
rather than for the battlefield.

But there were three more outlaws a furlong farther
back, and those men were fully protected by chain mail from lips to
heels. Even their horses had chests and rumps covered by mantles of
mail. Though the men were knights, their shields and lances were
barren of any lord’s colors or symbol.

Simon made no attempt to flee the renegade knights.
Grimly he held his mount at a standstill, guarding the approach to
the rise.

Guarding Ariane.

Before Ariane’s horrified eyes, the first two
outlaws thundered up to Simon, broadswords raised for a killing
blow. Ariane screamed her husband’s name, but the sound was
lost in the clash of steel on steel as Simon’s broadsword met
and slashed right through an outlaw’s
inferior weapon—and through far more vulnerable
flesh and bone as well.

The outlaw fell in bloody ruin onto the grass.
Panicked, his mount raced off among the trees.

The second outlaw shouted a curse. Enraged, he
swung mightily at Simon. Fighting one-handed with a broadsword
meant for two hands, Simon wheeled his horse to meet the
outlaw’s blow. Then, with a quickness so great the eye could
barely follow, Simon dropped the rein and swung his broadsword
two-handed.

The second outlaw died even more swiftly than the
first.

Three renegade knights spurred their war stallions
from a heavy trot into a canter, eating up the distance between
Simon and themselves.

“Flee, Simon!” Ariane shouted.
“Your horse is faster than theirs!”

The brief battle had taken Simon farther from
Ariane. He could not hear her cries. He heard only the renegades
thundering closer to him with each heartbeat. One hand wrapped
firmly around the rein, the other grasping his heavy broadsword,
Simon waited.

As he waited, he wished for Dominic’s oaklike
strength, or that of Duncan of Maxwell. But Simon had only his
quickness of hand and his wits and a driving need to protect the
violet-eyed girl whom fate had given into his keeping.

Ariane’s whip whistled through the air and
cut across her mare’s haunches. Before the startled animal
could collect itself, Ariane’s arm rose and fell once more.
The mare broke into a lumbering canter, then a gallop, dodging
between trees and around boulders.

But it was down the slope toward Simon that Ariane
galloped, not toward the safety of Stone Ring Keep.

Intent on the attacking knights, Simon kept his
back toward the slope. There was no question that the renegades
meant to fight three against one, though Simon
had neither armor nor war stallion with which to
defend himself.

Simon was hopelessly overmatched, and he knew
it.

Even worse, he wasn’t certain he could stay
alive long enough to give Ariane’s heavy-footed mare
sufficient time for her to outrun the powerful war stallions and
reach the haven of Stone Ring Keep.

Tautly Simon waited, eyes searching for any
weakness in the trio charging toward him. One of the knights was
already dropping back a bit. His horse ran as though stiff in the
hindquarters. Another of the men, the biggest of the three, was
pressing ahead of the pace, obviously eager for the kill. The
smallest man sat his mount awkwardly, protecting his ribs as though
he had recently taken a blow across his left side.

Whoever fought you last gave a
good account of himself
, Simon thought bleakly.
He must have worn armor
.

Lance leveled, the most eager renegade shouted in
foretaste of victory as he spurred his stallion at Simon. With a
harsh grip on the rein and unrelenting pressure from his powerful
legs, Simon held his frightened mount in place.

At the last instant Simon yanked the bridle, spun
his horse on its hocks, and spurred it to the side.

The war stallion swept past like a landslide, but
Simon was already beyond reach. Immediately the renegade yanked on
the rein, turning his stallion. But at a full gallop, the turn
would be wide. For a minute or two the eager renegade would be out
of the battle.

Simon had no chance to appreciate his small
strategic victory. The smallest of the renegades was upon him.
Again Simon forced his horse to wait, then spurred it into flight
so swiftly that great clots of earth leaped from beneath the
horse’s hooves.

The renegade was expecting such a maneuver and had
slowed to counter it. Still, Simon’s quickness and the
agility of his horse kept them beyond range of the renegade’s
deadly lance.

Instead of retreating as he had done before, Simon
spurred his horse forward. As he had planned, he was now on the
knight’s left side, the side the renegade had been taking
such care to protect.

A short, backhanded blow was all Simon could manage
from the saddle of his untrained mount, but it was enough.
Simon’s broadsword thudded into the renegade’s ribs.
Though the edge of the blade was stopped by chain mail, the force
of the blow itself was not. The renegade screamed in pain and rage,
dropped his lance, and doubled over in the saddle.

Before Simon could follow up the advantage, the
last of the three knights galloped up. A glance told Simon that the
first knight had managed to complete his wide turn, the second
knight was out of the battle, and the third knight was planning to
pin Simon against the second knight’s horse.

Simon spurred his own mount forward, trying to
evade the third knight and still not come any closer to the first,
bloodthirsty knight who was charging toward him again.

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.