‘I was once a stable-boy.’
‘Good. Make sure the cinch is tight enough. Two stalls down, there is a swaybacked black gelding; it was the best I could find for you. He’s old and near worn out, but he will get you back to your village.’
‘I will not return to the village,’ said Kiall softly. ‘I will hunt down the raiders who took Ravenna and the others.’
‘A sound and sensible idea,’ said Chareos irritably, ‘but for now be so good as to saddle my horse.’
Kiall reddened. ‘I may owe you my life, but do not mock me,’ he said. ‘I have loved Ravenna for years and I will not rest until she is free, or I am dead.’
‘The latter is what you will be. But it is your life. My horse, if you please?’
Kiall opened his mouth, but said nothing. Shaking his head, he left the room. Chareos waited for several minutes and then walked down the stairs to the kitchen where two scullery servants were preparing the dough for the day’s bread. He summoned the first and asked her to pack some provisions for him – salt beef, a ham, corn biscuits and a small sack of oats. With his order filled, he paid her and wandered through the now deserted main hall. The innkeeper, Finbale, was hanging freshly washed tankards on hooks above the bar. He nodded and smiled as Chareos moved towards the door and Chareos stopped and approached the man.
‘Good morning,’ said Finbale, a wide grin showing the gaps in his teeth.
‘And to you,’ responded Chareos. ‘Will you have my horse brought to the door?’
‘The stable is only across the yard, sir. And my boy is not here yet.’
‘Then do it yourself,’ said Chareos coldly.
‘I’m very busy, sir,’ Finbale answered, the smile vanishing and he turned back to his chores.
So, thought Chareos, they are still here. Holding his provisions in his left hand, he stepped out into the yard. All was quiet, and the dawn was breaking to the east. The morning was chill and fresh, and the smell of frying bacon hung in the air. Glancing around the yard, Chareos saw a wagon close by and a short wall leading to the chicken-run. To the left the stable door was open, but there was no sign of Kiall. As Chareos moved out into the open, a man ran towards him from the side of the building; he dropped his provisions and drew his sabre. Two more men came into view from behind the wagon and then Logar appeared from the stable. His forehead was bandaged, but blood was seeping through the linen.
‘You are very good with a rapier,’ said Logar. ‘But how do you fare with the sabre?’
‘I am better with a sabre,’ Chareos answered.
‘In that case we will take no chances,’ hissed Logar. ‘Kill him!’
As two swordsmen leapt forward Chareos blocked a wild slash, spun on his heel to avoid a second thrust and backhanded his blade across the first man’s throat. Blood welled from the cut and the attacker fell, dropping his sword and thrusting his fingers at the wound in a vain attempt to stem the flow of his life. The second attacker sent a cut at Chareos’ head but he ducked under it and thrust his own blade through the man’s chest. A third swordsman fell back, his eyes widening.
‘Well?’ said Chareos, glaring at Logar, and the Earl’s champion screamed and launched an attack. Chareos blocked the first slash, leapt back from a sweeping slice which would have disembowelled him, then swept a flashing riposte that plunged into Logar’s groin, severing the huge artery at the top of the inner thigh. Logar dropped his sabre and stared in disbelief at the blood drenching his leggings; then his legs gave way and he fell to his knees before Chareos. He looked up at his killer and blinked before toppling sideways to the ground. Chareos moved to the body, pulling free the sword-belt and sliding the dead man’s sabre back into the scabbard. When Kiall rode into the yard, leading Chareos’ grey, the former monk tossed Logar’s sabre to the villager, gathered his provisions and swung into the saddle. The last swordsman stood by, saying nothing. Chareos ignored him and steered his mount towards the southern gate.