The Valcourt Heiress (Medieval Song 7)

Their leader shouted at Garron, “This is none of your affair, sirrah! Get you gone now and we will not kill you!”

Garron glanced at the three villains, then over at the boy, who was scooting away from them as fast as he could move. He came up and pressed against a tree, drew his knees to his chest. Garron saw the wild hope in his eyes. Garron smiled at him.

Berm was bent over, still holding himself and moaning while blood gushed from his nose. Garron couldn’t make out his features what with the filthy woolen cap pulled over his forehead and the huge tangled black beard that covered his face and neck. He looked back at the man in the rich red tunic, and said easily, “I’ve a fancy to save the boy. Would you like to tell me what you’re doing with him?”

Red Tunic said, “He is my nephew, a spoiled and heedless boy, and disobedient. I was merely taking him back to his father.”

The boy yelled, “You’re a mangy liar! I never saw you before in my life until you and these nasty louts kidnapped me!”

Red Tunic took two steps toward the boy. Garron stopped him with a raised hand. He said, his voice cold as the winter solstice, “I suggest you and your men leave at once. If you do not, then Saint Peter may find himself judging you this day. Given what you’ve done, I doubt you would like the outcome.”

One of the men growled as he slashed out with his knife, “ ’ Tis nay likely, ye cockhead. I can send ye to hell meself. Saint Peter will never have a whiff of ye.”

“Look behind you,” Garron said, as he leapt backward.

Aleric called out, “Aye, fill your eyes, you fool! We are here, my lord.”

Garron said easily as he slashed his sword before him, “Either you leave now or you will die. It is your choice.”

Red Tunic shouted as he pulled his sword from its scabbard, “Kill them!” He ran straight at Garron. Garron saw furious concentration and intelligence in the man’s dark eyes, unlike his men, who were all violence and no brains. This man was a formidable opponent, single-minded in purpose, and filled with pride. Was there desperation as well? No, he didn’t think so. He was a good fighter and he knew it. Garron saw one of the men run toward the boy. He jumped back from Red Tunic’s sword, pulled his own knife from his belt, and released it all in one smooth motion, so fast it was a blur. The man grabbed at the knife that stuck out the back of his neck. He whirled around, stared at Garron, and crumbled to the ground. There was an instant of frozen silence, then Red Tunic yelled, fury lacing his voice, “Bastard! I’m going to kill you now!”

You’re still not afraid of me. Garron smiled, then yelled like a berserker as he ran toward Red Tunic, his sword directly in front of him like a lance. He heard the horses scatter into the forest.

“Aleric, dispatch the others,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Protect the boy!” He saw the man wasn’t so cocky now. He paused, stroking his chin a moment, goading his opponent. “If you weren’t so meager, I would take your rich red tunic after I slit your throat. Mayhap I’ll spare you if you offer it to me on your knees. I’ll give it to the boy.”

“I am not meager, you whoreson!”

“If you are not meager, then just who and what are you?”

“I am—it is none of your affair. There is no reason for you to interfere. You have killed one of my men. You will pay for that.” He slashed his sword in front of him. “You’ll not have my tunic, damn you.”

“I’m thinking if the boy doesn’t want it, I will use it to wipe down my horse after I have sent my sword through your belly. Why are you afraid to tell me who you are? Who is your master? If I don’t kill you, mayhap he’ll relieve you of your tunic when you return to him empty-handed. You are so scrawny, mayhap he’ll use your tunic to rub down his horse.”

The man squared his shoulders and cursed, loud and fluent.

Garron said over him, “Four men with a struggling boy. You stole him, didn’t you?” His smile was ferocious. “What are you, a pederast? Or is your master a pederast?”

Red Tunic growled deep in his throat and lunged. He was well trained and agile, Garron thought dispassionately as he sidestepped, watching how the man moved, watching for a weakness. Then he saw it. The man was furious, not thinking hard and cold, as a warrior should. Garron knew the man didn’t have his strength, but he didn’t want to kill him just yet. He wanted to know who he was first, and who the boy was, and so he contented himself with hacking a wide circle in front of him, keeping him back, wearing him down. He knew the moment the man realized he wouldn’t survive this fight. He chose to run, shouting over his shoulder as he jumped a tree root, “You’ll die for this!”

Garron was after him in an instant, but Red Tunic had a stout warhorse nearby, and Damocles was back in the forest, tethered with his men’s horses. He was mounted and away before Garron could catch up to him. He stood there panting, watching the bright red disappear into the thick of the trees. He wondered again who the man was as he slid his sword back into its scabbard. He knew if he chanced upon the man again, he would certainly recognize his thin face, his dark, hot eyes beneath heavy black brows. He’d also recognize his warhorse, a bay with four white fetlocks, a horse he would take after he’d dispatched the man to hell.

Garron flexed his hand as he walked back to the clearing only to see Pali, his eyes red and watery, stick his sword in a man’s chest, then kick him onto his back.

It was dead silent now in the clearing.

Garron said, “Where is the boy?”

Aleric looked around. “He was—well, the ungrateful little bittle’s gone. He must have been frightened and run to hide in the forest.”

“No wonder,” Garron said. “What were they going to do with him? Ransom, I suppose, and that would mean he’s of some importance to someone.”

Aleric asked, “Shall I send Pali to search for the boy? With those long legs of his, he can cover more ground than the four of us put together. Or Hobbs, he can see better than an eagle.”

Gilpin, Garron’s squire of nearly two years, laughed. “Aye, Hobbs can see a worm hiding under a leaf.”

Garron looked at the dying afternoon sun overhead through the thick trees. It was growing late. Still, he couldn’t simply leave the boy alone. He and his men searched, kept assuring him they wouldn’t hurt him, that they would protect him.

They didn’t find the boy, even though Garron called again and again to him.