Eochaidh - Legend of the Horsemen (Book One) (2 page)

Lord John Forsyth Herdin, Tenth Earl of Dunower, strode
quickly across the wood planked floors of the large stables, his leather
boot-clad feet echoing in the large corridor running between the rows of
princely stalls that held his horses.
 
Upon entering, his nose was immediately assailed by the scents of
freshly strewn straw and recently shoveled manure.
 
Dust motes hung, as if suspended, in the
beams of early morning light that shone down through the small mullioned
windows cut into the thick wooden walls.
 
The opening to the loft, a dark cavity hanging twenty feet above him,
was still cloaked in darkness. Even the glow of the oil lanterns hanging
strategically next to each stall door could not penetrate the inky gloom.

The early morning noises of grooms emptying wheelbarrows
full of soiled straw or filling water troughs and feeders filled the air and
created their own kind of symphony. But Lord John had no time to think about
the ordinary workings of the day. He was on a mission and in a dreadful hurry.

“Jepson, saddle Galahad immediately,” he called out into the
dim shadows of the stables.

As if by magic, a dark-skinned man dressed in a loose
flowing shirt, vest and dun-colored breeches with tall leather riding boots
hurried forward leading a large bay stallion by the reins.

“I thought you might have need of him this morning, milord,”
Jepson answered in a soft accent, as he passed the reins to Lord John.

He paused for a
moment,
looking at
the man he now called his master. The light cast a glowing halo around Lord
John and Jepson was brought back to the day he met Lord John. He, along with
other young men in his caravan, had been pressed into service by His Majesty’s
Army.
 
Because they were Gypsy, the army
used them to take care of the horses in the cavalry.
  
Jepson’s officer was a cruel uncaring man
who thought more of his horse than the men serving under him and even less of
the Gypsy youth under his command.
 
Cold,
starving and exhausted, Jepson was near death when Lord John had ridden into
their camp. He was barely conscious, but he will never forget the dressing down
Lord John had given the brutal officer.
He
might look like an angel,
he thought of the tall, athletically built man,
but he’s a devil if you cross him
.
 
Serving Lord John in the military had taught
Jepson that the kind eyes and soft voice could be deceptive. And, even over a
decade past his time in the military, he knew his master to be as skilled a
warrior today as he was then.
 
So, he had
to admit, he felt a wee bit of sympathy for the poor fool who had made those
green eyes blaze this morning. “So she’s escaped again, has she?”

Lord John worked his jaw for a moment more before finally
answering.
 
“Yes. Yes, she has,” he said.
“I know she’s headed to the forest.”

Jepson shook his head. “There’ll be trouble if you don’t
find her in time,” he said gruffly.

Lord John mounted Galahad, and the horse’s powerful hooves
danced with excitement, pounding on the wooden surface. “You’re right,” he
agreed as he guided Galahad over to a tack wall and selected a long, rough
walking staff.
 
“But I believe there’s
going to be trouble before that.”

“Seems like there is always trouble with that one,” Jepson
murmured.

“Aye, there is,” Lord John agreed, resting the staff across
his legs. “And someone needs to teach her a lesson before it’s too late.”

Lord John dug his heels into Galahad’s flanks, urged the
stallion forward and galloped away into the early morning mist.

Jepson sighed, “Good hunting, milord.”

The forest stood at the edge of his estate.
 
The manicured lawns and the wild meadows
flanked the powerful, shadowy terrain, like a sandy beach on the edge of a
dark, turbulent sea.
 

Lord John reined in Galahad at the edge of the forest.
 
The stallion’s nostrils flared slightly as he
pranced nervously awaiting his next command, steam flowing from his nostrils
into the cool morning air. Lord John leaned forward in his saddle and carefully
surveyed the woods.
 
All of his senses
were on alert. Taking a quick inventory, he noted the birds in the trees, the
scurrying noises of small rodents in the brush, the soft trickle of a brook not
too far from the road, and the glisten of an ethereal mist that hugged the
bottoms of the trees and danced along the narrow deer paths of the forest. He
shivered and wondered if the eyes of the forest were even now watching him.

But the eyes of the forest were not on Lord John and Galahad
or the twinkling diamonds of light. No, they focused deeper in the woods on a
girl who knelt at the base of the grandfather oak and hid in the swirling
mist.
 
Meaghan was no longer looking for
the fae; she was alert to the world around her. For now, her breathing was
measured, slow and steady. She waited, watching the meadow beyond the trees,
listening to the sounds of the forest.

The sound in the distance that had seemed like the warnings
of a summer storm became more distinct. Meaghan heard the rhythmic pounding of
hooves against hard soil, and her body tensed. Eyes narrowed, she gripped the
center of her stick tighter. Now was not the time to move.
 
Now was not the time to flee.
 
She had planned and strategized, and now was
the time to see if her trap would work.

Peering through the overgrown ferns that surrounded the
giant oak, she could see the man at the edge of the forest.
 
He had dismounted and was looking for signs
that would betray her whereabouts.
 
She
inhaled sharply when he picked up the twig she had purposely snapped and placed
at the edge of the path.
 
He studied it
carefully and then peered into the forest.
 
She could see his shoulders move in response to the sigh that escaped
his lips.

“Well, Galahad,” Lord John said, remounting his steed. “I’m
afraid we must enter the forest and meet the she-bear in her den.”

He clicked the stirrups, and they trotted into the
forest.
 

The temperature dropped decidedly once they moved forward.
In the canopied forest, the sun was nearly completely blocked, and he could
feel the dampness of the cold morning seep through his clothing.
 
He pulled on the reins unconsciously as they
moved into the depths of the forest, and Galahad slowed immediately.
 
Both man and horse seemed to be watching and
waiting, trying to anticipate the danger before it was upon them.

They moved toward a clearing at the center of the woods.
Suddenly Lord John heard the crisp snap of a twig underneath Galahad’s hoof,
contrasting sharply with the muffled sounds of the thick ground cover they had
experienced since entering the forest.

Before he had time to react, a large round object swung from
an ancient tree alongside the path and hit him squarely on the side of his
head.
 
Stunned, he slid off his horse,
his staff falling to the ground at his feet.

Rubbing his head and shaking it slightly, he took a deep
breath, desperately trying to regain his composure. Once he could see straight,
he turned to see the large leather bag, suspended from a coarse rope, now
twisting harmlessly in the middle of the trail.

“Walked right into it,” he muttered. “Didn’t I Galahad?”

Using a stirrup, he pulled himself back up onto his feet and
reached down to pick up his walking stick. But before his fingers could reach
the polished wooden surface, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his knees. His
legs buckled, and he was sent sprawling into the decaying ground cover.

“En
garde
,” Meaghan cried out,
brandishing her walking stick like the finest sword while dancing around Lord
John.

“How can I be en
garde
if you
won’t let me grab hold of my blasted stick?” Lord John growled.

She raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps you should have thought of
that before you rode into my trap.”

Lord John stared at the insolent scamp.
 
“And just what was in that bag? You nearly
took my head off.”

Meaghan allowed a smile to cross her lips.
 
“It was Galahad’s feed bag filled with
grain,” she explained. “I thought that if you lost your way again, Galahad’s
keen sense of smell and overpowering desire to eat would bring you to me.”

“Quite a sassy thing, aren’t you?” Lord John asked softly.
And then, with amazing dexterity and speed, he reached over, grabbed his staff
and slid it across the ground in one smooth move, sweeping Meaghan off her
feet.

Meaghan fell but quickly rolled to the edge of the path and
jumped back to her feet.
 
She turned to
find Lord John standing opposite her on the path, body positioned in a
defensive stance.

His right eyebrow lifted, and he nodded slightly as she
positioned herself in a similar position.
 
“We don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can surrender now…”

With a cry of determination, she darted forward, holding her
stick in both hands. She swung her stick forward and barely missed his
arm.
 
Lord John lunged with his stick,
and Meaghan countered with hers.
 
The
crack of wood on wood echoed throughout the forest.

Pulling back a step, she swept the stick sideways, but he
met her thrust with a block.
 
They
battled up and down the pathway for several minutes, thrust and lunge, parry
and riposte.
 
Meaghan’s hands were sore
from the vibrations of her stick being hit time and time again, but she kept
her grip tight and solid on her weapon. She moved back, drawing him down the
path until, finally, they ended up next to the fast-moving river.

The water sparkled as it rushed over the pebbled creek bed,
around large rocks and fallen logs.
 
The
trees from the forest were reflected in its shallow surface, their green
foliage turning the color of the brook from clear to light green.

Meaghan took a deep breath, and her nose was filled with the
scent of cool water and the moldering vegetation lying at its banks. But she
couldn’t pause to enjoy the sensation; she had to concentrate on defeating her
adversary. Once more, his stick struck against hers, and this time she stumbled
back, her breath coming out in gasps.

He advanced, sensing her weakness, and she knew that his
size and strength would eventually give him the win.
 
But, she corrected herself, only if she
continued to rely purely on physical ability. She had worked too long to allow
something as inconsequential as size and experience to stop her.
 
She moved forward and allowed the edge of his
stick to catch on her shoulder.

“
Owwwww
!” she cried out in mock
pain.

“Meaghan,” Lord John dropped his guard, “did I hurt
—
”

But before he could finish the sentence, Meaghan swept her
stick to the side, caught him behind the knees and tumbled him into the brook.

The splash was quite loud and the spray of water so enormous
it soaked the front of Meagan’s shirt. Lord John fell hard, and he lay unmoving
in the fast flowing stream, the water rushing over his body. For a moment
Meaghan’s heart stopped. Had she really hurt him?
 
She started to wade into the stream when she
saw the large bubbles streaming from his lips burst onto the surface of the
water.
 
Pushing himself up on his
forearms, Lord John lifted his head and shoulders out of the frigid stream. His
hair dripped forward into his eyes, and water streamed down his face.

Meaghan backed slowly toward the edge of the brook.

“Father?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes Meaghan,” he answered.

She couldn’t quite tell how angry he was.
 
Well, she’d find out sooner or later, so why
wait.

“How angry are you?” she asked, anxiously biting her lower
lip.

With the same dexterity he exhibited earlier, Lord John sat
up, pulled off his riding boot and tossed the contents—cold water and a
slightly disgruntled frog—in Meagan’s direction.

“Not mad at all, my dear,” he replied, grinning at her. “Not
mad at all.”

Ignoring the calf-deep water, Meaghan waded in and threw
herself into the very wet arms of her father.

“So, how did I do?
 
Did you like the trap?” she asked, biting her lower lip in anxiety.

Lord John laughed. “You were simply magnificent my dear,” he
whispered, laying his cheek on the top of her head. “You have mastered the
skills of a true warrior.”

She sighed contently and closed her eyes, listening to the
strong beat of her father’s heart beneath his sodden clothing. As much as she
enjoyed the competition, she never tired of being held safe and secure in her
father’s arms.

“Do you think Mother will allow me to train with a fencing
instructor now?” she asked tentatively.

She could feel the rumble of laughter coming from her father
before she heard it.

“Not a chance, young lady, not a chance,” he said. “Speaking
of which, we’d best head back before your dear mother awakes and sees the mess
I’ve made of her precious daughter.”

He sat back and smiled down into sad eyes and a pouting
mouth.
 
“But perhaps we might be able to
sneak up to the loft over the stables and continue our fencing lessons up
there.”

Meaghan sighed deeply.
 
“But, Father, I already beat you every time.”