Rowan Hood Returns (10 page)

The others were watching her.

“I think it gets shallower somewhere,” she mumbled. Blurrily she seemed to recall wading across, wet to the waist.

“La, see, the fleur-de-lis,” said Beau, pointing at spears of green thrusting up from the river's verge, not yet in bloom.

“Ding-dong Belle, it's called iris flower,” Lionel grumbled. “What—”

“You no call me Belle! No ding-dong. Sot-head, fleur-de-lis means shallows upstream. Maybe a crossing.”

“She's right,” Etty said. “The irises grow in shallow water, and then the bulbs get washed downstream.”

They turned upstream, with the river to their left, keeping their distance from its muddy verge.

The gray sky darkened, threatening yet more rain.

“There,” Lionel said, pointing ahead with one hand,
“
a ford.”

A place where the banks of the river lowered, and the river widened and ran more shallow, and folk waded across, fording the river for want of a bridge. A cart path ran down to the ford, disappeared into the water and reappeared on the opposite side, by a copse of poplars.

Up until now Rowan and the others had stayed away from trodden ways, where too many eyes might see them. And where they were more likely to meet with brigands, or some lord's men-at-arms, or bounty hunters, dangers of all sorts.

Rowan scanned the cart track as far as she could trace its path northward, on the far side of the river, and southward. “No one in sight,” she murmured.

“Mon foi,
then let us, how Euripides say, seize the moment?”

“Carpe diem,”
Etty murmured. “Seize the
day.
And I don't think it was Euripides. It was ...”

“It doesn't matter,” Lionel grumped. “Let's go.”

They headed at a fast walk down the hill toward the path and the ford. Rowan started to gather up the gray cloak to keep it from trailing in the water. Riding Dove, she would get her feet wet, nothing worse, but the others would be soaked to their chests, chilled, on a day with no sun to warm and dry them afterward. They were likely to take ill with the coughing sickness, and it could kill them as readily as an enemy's sword.

“Somebody get up here with me,” Rowan offered as the path turned to mud. “Beau, climb on.” Her thoughts ran as swift as the river. “Etty, you wait here, Beau can leave me on the other side and bring the pony back for—”

These plans remained incomplete.

“Halt!” bellowed a man's deep voice. “Stop where you are, or die.” Out of the poplar grove on the far side leapt a great gray warhorse carrying an armored knight, his lance upright at his side, his broadsword flashing, the visor of his helm down to hide his face. His steed's next galloping stride sent it into the river, splashing toward Rowan and her band across the ford. So huge was the horse that the water barely reached its belly, but sprayed higher than Rowan's head.

They stopped where they were, indeed, for terror froze them. They stood like wood.

But then the burning heart of anger in Rowan flared forth in words. “Halt yourself, brute!” she screamed like a hawk at the knight bearing down on her.

The knight yanked on the reins. His charger plunged to a stop in midstream. His lance, pointing skyward in its holder by his stirrup, swayed like a pine tree in a storm. “You're no squire!” he roared. “You speak with a damsel's voice. Why do you wear a helm?”

“Because I so choose.” Seldom had Rowan spoken so fiercely.

Lowering his sword, the knight actually sketched a sort of bow at her from his saddle. “I beg your pardon, damsel, for my mistake. I thought you a squire, and I have taken a vow to challenge any man of warrior blood who seeks to cross this ford.”

Ettarde spoke up. “You bear no pennon upon your lance.” Even though she stood ankle-deep in mud, she sounded imperious. “No plume to your helm, and no device.” Instead of showing an emblem, the knight's shield gleamed entirely black. “What is your name and who is your lord?”

In the middle of the rushing river, his gray warhorse surged like a spirit of the gray water, while he controlled it with one hand on the reins. Swinging the steed toward Ettarde, he retorted, “I have also taken a vow to reveal my name and allegiance to no one.”

Vow? Nonsense. Rowan started to tremble, more fearful now than fierce, but she kept her voice hard. “Then you're a brigand.” Plainly this was a robber knight, taking what he would from travelers who had to use this ford—the only way across the river.

“Nay, I rob no one. I take only a fair toll from those who pass this way.”

Toll? Fair? To whom?

“
And,
”
added the knight with the black shield, “it is for the sake of honor that I engage them in combat.”

Honor? He might like to call it that, as he liked to call thievery a toll, but plainly he spoke in threat. Still, Rowan kept her voice edgy and flat, like a dagger. “Very well. For what price may we cross?”

“What have you to offer?”

“Little enough.”

“Why, then, I fancy some fun with you. Yon varlet shall cross swords with me. You.” The knight raised one gauntleted hand to point at Lionel. “Prepare to fight.”

“Me?” yelped Lionel. “But I'm a minstrel!” He held his harp in front of him as if it could shield him.

“No common minstrel grows so tall. You are warrior thewed, and I will battle you. Provide yourself with a weapon.” The knight sent his charger at a splashing trot toward them.

“I have no sword!” Lionel cried.

“You shall have one of mine.” Parlous great hulking clodpole, he wore a spare sword at his right side; Rowan saw it slapping his leg as he approached.

Lionel tried again. “But I have no horse!”

“I shall dismount to fight you. And you may have my shield, if you like.”

“How very generous of you!” Lionel sounded ready to laugh, cry or scream. Tall and strong he might be, but he stood small chance against this bulky oaf all armored like a beetle in breastplate and greaves and chain mail clanking from his helm down over his gray woolen tunic to his knees.

“Lionel,” Rowan ordered, “run! Go back, join Rook.”

“I can't just leave you!”

“We're all going.” Already Dove, shying, had leapt away sideward. Rowan turned the pony to flee—

She gasped. Necessarily she halted Dove, for her path of retreat was blocked.

“
Sacre bleu!”
Beau exclaimed. “Another one!”

Down the hillside toward them strode a great bay warhorse bearing a knight much like the first, except that instead of flourishing his sword, he couched his lance. Spurs clashing, he urged his steed into a ramping trot. His armor clanged, his chain mail rang like war bells. He bore a large white shield blazoned with a black X. One of Marcus's knights? But if he recognized Etty ...

He seemed not to. “Out of my way, churls,
”
he snapped at Rowan and the others from behind his lowered visor.

“Gladly!” Lionel spoke for all of them as they scrambled aside from the path and away from the river.

The newcomer knight roared to the first, “Ho, you at the ford, knight with two swords!” He made a mocking jingle of it. “I have heard of your renown, and I have come to knock you down. Couch your lance!”

Doing so, the other one replied, “Prepare to die.”

A
t first Rowan thought she would not mind watching.

These were knights, after all. Like the knights on horseback who had invaded her mother's forest, set fire to her mother's cottage. Henchmen of a heartless lord, or brigands with no loyalty but to themselves, let them battle all they liked.

From a safe distance up the hillside—although truly, no distance seemed safe—unable to cross the river while the combatants held the ford and the path, Rowan and the others saw the warhorses thunder toward each other. Each knight aimed the steel tip of his lance at the other's helm, and each aimed true; with a hundred times hammer force, steel struck steel.

But the helms withstood the blows, the lances glanced off and the knights reeled but kept their seats.

They swung their steeds around and charged each other once again along the bank of the river, lances aimed at breastplates this time. Both struck so hard that the lances splintered. And the shock of impact hurled both knights to the ground.

The war steeds ran away, but not far. Stepping upon their own reins, they stopped, snorted, then lowered their massive heads to crop the grass. To those chargers the combat was a matter of indifference now, over.

But not to the knights. Staggering to their feet, they drew their broadswords.

“Beware!” bellowed one.

“‘Ware
yourself,
hound!” roared the other. Then the swords clanged.

To Rowan, those metal-clad battling figures seemed barely human, such strange creatures smiting at each other for such unaccountable reasons. More like trolls, if there were such a thing as trolls, with their great hacking swords swinging. Or like lions fighting, if there were really such a thing as lions. Or dragons—

But then she saw puddles of red on the mud at the riverside, and she knew that blood came from men, not dragons, and she had to press one hand to her mouth to keep from crying out.

She heard Lionel ask Etty, “Is the one with the white shield a knight of Lord Marcus?”

“I do not think so.” Ettarde's voice sounded as taut as a bowstring. “I think one of my uncle's knights lies dead, and this one has borne away his shield.”

Although Rowan had known they might really fight to the death, something in Etty's tone made her close her eyes.

But it was even worse to hear the clangor, the shouts, the thudding impact of blows, without knowing what was happening.

“Lady help us all, neither one of them will yield.” Lionel's voice shook.

There sounded a battle roar that twisted into a scream of agony. Rowan's eyes snapped open. She saw the knight with the black shield striking right through the other's larger shield and into his head. Blood like a red plume ran down from the challenger's helm, yet he did not fall, but swung at the other one so fiercely that he cleaved his shield as well, and his sword bit into the defender's arm.

Rowan turned her face away. Beneath her she felt something shaking, and did not realize it was Dove; she thought the very earth quaked.

She heard Lionel whisper, “They're in the water.” Then, “They're both down! They'll both drown!”

Rowan could not help it; she looked. For a long moment, she saw only two shattered shields drifting down the gray river.

But then, like monsters coiling out of chaos and darkness, both knights surged up to stand staggering under the great weight of their own armor, swaying against the pressure of the current. Their combat had carried them into midstream, where the water ran fierce and swift up to their chests.

Both at the same time lifted their swords, hacking at each other. Rowan saw the river water turning red. Biting her lip, lowering her eyes, she saw that Beau stood with her arms around Dove's neck, hiding her face in Dove's mane. Etty had grabbed hold of Lionel as if he were a tree to support her. When Rowan looked up again, both knights had somehow staggered back to the shore of the river where they had begun, blundering up the muddy bank, barely able to stand.

“Is it over?” Rowan whispered.

Lionel shook his head. “I doubt it.”

And even as he spoke, one of the knights—Rowan could no longer tell which was which—one of the water-soaked, bloodstained, mud-caked warriors, with a great effort, struck the other with his sword.

The other one heaved up his own heavy weapon and struck back.

Rowan could not bear it anymore. “Stop it!” she screamed, shoving Beau aside with one hand as she kicked Dove into a wild downhill canter.

Behind her, the others cried out.

“Rowan, no!”

“Are you insane?”

“Wait! You'll get yourself killed!”

Rowan paid no heed. But as she reached the battling warriors, Dove snorted at the scent of blood, shied away from the red pools, whirled to a stiff-legged halt and would approach no nearer.

One knight had beaten the other to his knees, but he himself staggered backward and fell down. The kneeling one slumped over, barely holding himself out of the mud with his elbows. Rowan saw the sheath at his right side. It was the knight with two swords, the one who had held the ford.

He called hoarsely, “Who are you, Sir Knight? Never before have I met a fighter who could match me.”

The reply came faintly. “I am Holt, son of Orric, Lord of Borea.”

Rowan felt a strange cold storm of emotion blow through her, leaving her chilled to the bone.

The other one gave a terrible cry. “My brother!” And he fell down, unconscious.

Cold and hollow to her heart's heart, Rowan barely noticed as Lionel ran up beside her to seize Dove's reins.

Crying out in his turn, Holt Orricson floundered to his hands and knees, crawling through the mud to the other. Jerking at the man's half-destroyed helm, he got it off.

Etty and Beau stood by now also, staring at the fainting knight. A savage, bearded face, but bloody, bruised and still.

“No! Oh, Hurst, no!” The other one tore off his own helm and flung it into the river. Stunned, Rowan stared at his face, much like his brother's, but with tears cleaving runnels in the blood and dirt.

Hurst Orricson's eyes flinched and opened, looking up at Holt. He moved his bloodied mouth soundlessly, then spoke. “We're cursed,” he said faintly. “You have killed me, my brother, and I have killed you.”