The girls veered off and tried to make their escape over another stone wall. But before they could get to the wall, one of them—the younger—had been snared by a noose thrown by the horseman. The other girl made a frantic attempt to pry the noose off her companion. But, whatever the captor’s other failings, he was clearly an expert at this endeavor. He had his end of the rope snug to the pommel of his saddle, and was backing up his horse in such a way as to keep the noose tight.
Two more horsemen appeared, leaping their mounts over the same low wall from which the girls had first burst onto the scene. I was surprised to see the relative grace with which the horses managed that leap. But then, reflected that in this terrain the ability to leap low walls of stone was probably the single most prized feature in a “warhorse.”
The older girl still at liberty took one look at them and gave up her attempts to free her companion. She began running toward the other stone wall. But, after taking not more than seven or eight steps, she desisted. It was obvious enough that the two new horsemen would reach the wall long before she did.
Disconsolately, she turned back and rejoined her trapped companion. Younger sister, I assumed. They were close enough by then that a certain familial resemblance could be seen.
The man who had lassoed the girl was now on the ground. He was making his way along the rope to the captured girl, expertly maintaining the tension. I recognized the skill, of course. I was a maestro in the use of a whip (if I say so myself—more to the point, my uncle Larue says so). And while a whip and a lasso are not the same, the two devices are similar enough that my uncle Larue had spent some time acquainting me with the art of lassoing. In which art, of course, he was superb—as he was with the use of a bola, or, indeed, any weapon involving the same general principles.
As the man drew near the captured girl, her companion began cursing bitterly. Given the surroundings, I was not surprised to hear such brilliant invective and profanity issuing from the lips of a fifteen-year-old girl.
Eventually, the profanity ceased and the girl lapsed into standard language. “T’ain’t right!” she shrilled. “It’s not my birthday—Lana’s neither! And it’s not a saints’ day!”
The other two horsemen had reached the scene, and were dismounting. One of them, hearing the girl’s protest, laughed harshly. “The Baron decides what’s ‘right,’ girl. Advised by his soothsayer, o’ course.” He pointed to the new moon, whose dim silhouette could be seen above the horizon. The sun had set, by now, but the area was still half-illuminated by its dying glow. “Th’ Baron says ’tis only right that droit d’seigneur applies at new moon too, seein’ as how the whole business is tied to the lunar cycle and sech.”
“T’aint’ fair!” shrilled the girl. “T’aint’t!” echoed her younger sister.
The man who had spoken advanced and took the older one by the scruff of her tunic. Then, shrugged. “Wha’s ‘fair’ got to do with anytin’? Th’ Baron decides what’s fair, not you. And he’s horny.”
“So ‘re we,” chortled the man who had lassoed the younger. He ruffled her hair. “Won’t be but a couple o’ days, lass. An’ y’may as well get used to it anyhow.”
Within seconds, the two girls were bundled across two of the saddles and the little party—now remounted—was moseying its way toward a distant hill. Atop the hill, as on all the hills, a castle could be seen. Mangy, of course, insofar as the term “mangy” could be applied to a pile of stone. Until I saw the Baronies, I would have sworn it couldn’t.
Once they were out of sight, Gwendolyn nudged me. “Let’s go,” she hissed. “At least we won’t have to be worried about being spotted in this Barony tonight. They’ll be busy with the girls.”
I had been frozen with shock. The casual callousness of her words jolted me out of my paralysis.
“They’re but children!” I snarled. “Bad enough, even if they weren’t—but this—!”