“Watch out!” Darton tried to grab her, and McBannon kicked hard. The blow landed on Darton’s knee with a sickening crack.
“Christ!” Darton wailed to the heavens as he dropped to the ground, writhing and clutching his leg.
“Almighty God, now look what you’ve done! Get back, woman!” Roy snarled. He wrapped the reins around one meaty fist and yanked hard, intending to reach the stables and the whip.
“No!” Sorcha flew across the ground, grabbed hold of the whip, and backed up. Her eyes were on fire, her heart hammering above the rising wind.
“Let him go!” she commanded.
“Are you daft? He’ll tear the damned keep apart.”
The crowd hushed as Sorcha uncoiled the whip. “Give the reins to Bjorn, you idiot, or I’ll give you a sting from your own strap!”
Darton pulled himself to a stance. His face was white with pain and rage, his eyes murderously dar
k. “I’ll handle that devil.” He made a move for the reins, and Sorcha, reacting, snapped the coiled whip over her head. Crack! The leather lashed out and the tip of the whip flicked against the stable master’s butt. With a roar, the man danced, nearly dropping the reins.
“Hey!”
Darton’s mouth was tight with fury as he struggled to stay on his feet. “Stop!”
“Give the reins to Bjorn!” Sorcha commanded again, the whip drawn back and ready. Her fingers began to sweat around the handle as she saw the rage on Darton’s features. He took an uneven step toward McBannon, and she cracked the whip over Darton’s head.
He ducked and covered his head. “You bloody wench!”
The little boys and girl giggled nervously.
“Take the stallion, Bjorn,” Sorcha ordered, unaware of the whispers of milkmaids and the silversmiths and even the cook, who had stepped out of her kitchen to watch the drama in the bailey.
“God help us,” Ada whispered through the spaces in her teeth and she crossed her ample bosom.
Bjorn walked toward the beast, but Darton grabbed hold of the stableboy’s tunic. “I’ll handle this!” he said, pushing the younger man backward. The horse wheeled, yanking his head with renewed strength. The reins slid from Roy’s sweaty fingers and McBannon, sensing freedom, whistled and kicked.
“Oh, God,” Sorcha murmured. “McBannon …whoa…”
The horse was loose. For a stunned second, even he did not realize his freedom.
Sorcha walked quickly forward, trying not to frighten the nervous stallion. “Easy, McBannon, there’s a good boy.” She dropped the whip as she advanced on the horse, who wasn’t moving, though his coat was gleaming with sweat and his muscles quivered. “You’re going to be all right.”
From the corner of her eye, Sorcha saw Darton grab the vile piece of leather from the ground. “Don’t!” she said under her breath as she tried to grab the free-swinging reins.
Without warning, Darton snapped the whip against McBannon’s rump. The horse neighed wildly and Darton struck again. McBannon tore away, hooves flying, barreling toward the crowd of children who had gathered near the stables. Screaming in fear, the boys scattered, but the tiny dirty-faced girl stood frozen on the spot, her skin paling to the shade of snow.
“No!” Sorcha yelled. “McBannon—”
Bjorn lunged for the child, throwing himself in front of the enraged animal. He shoved the girl out of the way. McBannon’s deadly hooves came down. Bjorn screamed, a horrid wail that would wake the dead.
“No!” Sorcha cried, running forward as Bjorn was trampled. “No! No! No!”
The horse sped for the gate.
“Christ Jesus!” one soldier whispered, and a woman howled with grief and fear.
The tiny girl cried pitifully.
“Oh, Lord,” Leah whispered, running to the child, but Sorcha could see that the girl was unhurt—saved from certain death by the stableboy.
Several women crossed their breasts as Sorcha dropped to her knees to sink into the mud where Bjorn lay, his chest crushed, his eyes at half-mast. Blood stained his tunic, and a jagged rib poked through his skin.