Then I saw that not only did Iswy have his hand on the knife at his belt, but also he was heading toward the stableyard-where he certainly had no business, as a common foot soldier. I nearly choked again, instantly aware of why he had a hand on his knife and what he meant to do with that knife.
Losing his Libyan stallion would take the heart out of Lord Artos.
With all the confusion this night, and so many strangers coming and going, Iswy must have felt that he would be able to succeed in maiming, or killing, the stallion he had so wanted to ride. I darted after Iswy through the milling throng of serving men and attendants.
“Iswy! Stop! I want a word with you!” I called, but my shout was lost in the noise from the busy kitchen and the yard.
I had trouble weaving my way past cooks and soldiers carrying supplies to the waiting wagons. Outside, I caught sight of Iswy, still striding across the courtyard toward the stable block. Again I called out.
“Stop that Cornovian!” This time my shout was masked by the creaking wheels of a heavily laden cart. I lost speed going around it and then tripped over packs that were waiting to be loaded on another cart.
Just then, someone caught my arm, and I had my dagger half out of its sheath before I realized he was finely dressed.
“You are Master Galwyn, the horse-sandal maker?” he asked.
“I am, but I-” I struggled to release myself from his grip.
“My steed”-and he pointed back over his shoulder-“needs your skills.”
“Later, later.”
“I beg your pardon.” But he dropped my arm, dismayed and annoyed by my response.
“Take him to my forge. I must go-” I called over my shoulder at him as I renewed my pursuit of Iswy.
Dodging and weaving, I got to the entrance of the stableyard but could not see Iswy among those bustling about the yard.
“Eoain! To Cornix!” I shouted as I ran as fast as I could toward the corner stable, where Cornix and Spadix were kept.
I heard one short scream, unmistakably a horse’s, cut off sharply.
The sound was enough to cause those in the yard to pause in their busy-ness.
“God in heaven!” I cried, and grabbed the nearest man. “Cornix is being attacked!”
“What?” An older groom caught me by the shoulder, swinging me around. “What say you? Oh, pardon, smith. What’s the matter?”
Pulling him along with me, I pointed urgently toward the corner stable. “Cornix is being attacked …”
That startled him into action and he ran with me. But even as we raced to the corner stable, I could see the door swinging open.
“Hurry!” We would catch Iswy in the act, but what had happened to Cornix? My heart raced with fear. How could I tell Lord Artos that his battle steed had been spitefully maimed or killed?
“What’s the matter?” Master Glebus appeared at my other side, and we all reached the stable at the same time.
I had to grab the door frame to keep upright. It was not Cornix who lay on his side in the straw but my faithful pony, Spadix, a dagger protruding between his eyes, in the thinnest part of a horse’s skull. His dark eye was already filming with death.
“God above!” cried Master Glebus. “Who could have done such a wicked thing?”
“Iswy. He’s Cornovian. I saw him come this way. No one else would want to kill Spadix.”
I turned, looking out over the stableyard, trying to see any figure moving hastily out of the yard-but everyone was converging on us, not running away. “He can’t have got far.”
Master Glebus acted immediately, shouting for someone to run to the guards and close the gates. “The villain must be apprehended. I cannot have people slaughtering the animals in my care. What does he look like, Galwyn?”
“Wearing Cornovian, a head shorter than I, scraggly beard, slingsman,” I said, now boxed into the corner by the press of men coming to see what had happened.
Maybe he’d be stopped at the gate. But there were still so many places in this section of Camelot in which a crafty man like Iswy could secrete himself. Oh, why had that lord stopped me? Why had no one been guarding Cornix?