of mane, a streak of mire, as if that could make them safe, get them behind gates and walls.
A vast somber sound boomed out, brazen and measured, the rattle and groan of chains as the portcullis was lowered. It was not an auspicious hour to arrive unheralded and alone. Gates were secured at sundown and reopened with the dawn. Many a traveler who misjudged the timing of his arrival spent an uncomfortable night outside the walls at the mercy of robbers and worse.
“The lower gate should be open still.”
The stallion shifted its weight, bowed its head, and made a quiet, disturbed sound. No doubt Deso was thinking of a warm stable, a good rubdown and some sweet oats. He himself wished desperately for a cup of ale, for a place to lie down and rest. But first he had to discover whether the postern gate remained open. He would know soon enough.
The road bent to follow a curve in the curtain wall where standing stones made an aisle leading to the gate. Here, by the towering arch of stone, a small table had been set up, in front of which stood a motley-dressed collection of beggars.
With a certain disquiet, he noted there was no watch on duty. Doubtless they kept a burly fellow or two on hand to deal with possible emergencies, but there ought to be guards posted in a hold as large this and with constant threat along the border.
Leon slid from the saddle. The stallion stood braced, head high, eyes and nostrils wide. Leon looped the reins and gave the beast a pat on the neck. It shuddered once and was still. He looked about, taking nothing for granted. With a soldier’s practiced eye, he searched for irregularities.
Some distance away, four churls huddled together, talking in low voices and casting uneasy glances around. Shadows lurked and flickered about them. His brows drew hard together. No doubt he was imagining things, but he gained the impression that these ruffians were plotting some villainy. The idea intrigued him, and his spirit lightened at the prospect of a bit of action.
There was the sound of some commotion coming from the vicinity of the courtyard. A woman hurried through the postern gate. She looked about her, letting her glance rest briefly on the beggars. Despite the plain cut and drab color of her gown, he knew she was no peasant wench or waiting woman.
“Tudur?” Her voice was low and musical, with a distinctive husky tone. There was something about it that made him want to hear it again. What folly! He laughed out loud, and surprised himself for it was not a usual thing for him. The woman must have heard him because she swung around and stared at him so intently that he felt both rude and careless. Her eyes held him where he was.
Leon felt his heart skipping. He wished he had come with the clarion of trumpets, the rattle of armor and the gleam of sword instead of by the back door and in the company of beggars. He wanted to leap back onto Deso and race away. He laughed again. Why he thought such foolishness was beyond him.
A tall boy, almost as thin and angular as a spider, came clumping out of the postern with a wooden pail that sloshed with liquid. A flutter of murmurs rippled through the crowd. The woman watched while the boy set the pail on the table, then turned her gaze back to Leon, but her face was in shadow, her features hidden. A swirl of skirts and she withdrew.
The four ragged fellows inched their way toward the open doorway, their shadows following them like cringing dogs. There was a pause in voices. A murmur. A tensing of the air. A deep voice. A sudden exclamation.
A small shadow thrust forward. “Get away from there!”
“Says who?” asked a hoarse, harsh voice.
“Guards!” The sharp quick shout came from the boy Tudur. A hairy hand wrenched the boy’s head to one side.
Abruptly Leon became every inch the soldier. His heart sped up and his hand reached for his sword hilt. Fingers clenched and unclenched on empty air. He had let Deso carry his sword, which he had stowed behind the saddle, though he carried a dagger in his belt. Beneath his brown wool cloak and leather tunic, he wore no mail, not even a padded gambeson, naught but a linen shirt.
He’d been a fool to leave his shield and armor, even to his helmet, at Chirk with his squire this morning, and he was beginning to regret it. He might be strapped with ropy muscle, tough as an oak tree and as hard to kill, for he’d been to hell and beyond and survived. In all truth, most men would rather not face him with or without his sword. Even so, he regretted the sacrifice of his mail. Linen and wool were poor protection against edged steel.
He had, he thought, taken a great deal on himself. He’d seen that much in his squire’s eyes when they’d parted; a cool kind of reckoning he had gotten in the drill yard. Now it seemed mad to have done, and a light sweat lay on his limbs, for all that the wind was chill.
Wrenching himself free, Tudur dodged a fist, scurried past the ring of people gathered by the table, scampered across the road, and stopped, panting, in midsprint in front of Leon. The young face came up, the mouth opened and the eyes widened. The boy flinched visibly, caught himself, and drew back, the look on his face changing in an instant from surprise to confusion.
Leon sighed. His forehead ached. He realized he was scowling. He stretched his mouth into a smile.
“Are you a knight?” The boy looked afraid—not greatly so, but uneasy all the same.
Leon inclined his head to him.
A peculiar animation had come to the boy’s face, a keen anticipation. “The sort that saves maidens in distress?”
No, Leon began to say. But…
“So ’tis said,” were the words that tripped off his foolish tongue.
“Yes. Yes! I knew it! Some say I am daft, but I could tell straightway you were Brenna’s knight!”
“I’ve no notion what you mean.”
The boy’s eyes darted from Leon’s face to the postern opening, back again. “Of course. My mistake. Being daft, I get confused, so I don’t—” His eyes flicked back to the postern. “You are most needed here, sir.” There was tremulous expectation, as if Leon would act now, at once, in a breath.
Leon inwardly cursed. He was not usually a man given to rash acts of compassion, and, though the boy’s pluck touched him, he saw no obligation to have his throat cut. Or to die for nothing because some self-righteous slip of a girl was too cocksure stupid to take heed of the curfew. He stared down his nose at the boy, who went beet-red.
“If you would give aid, good sir!” Tudur said, blinking wildly. “There may be trouble—at the gate.”
Well, what the hell. Nobody else was going to play the hero, and Deso needed hay and a warm stable. Condemned now to simple workaday practicalities, Leon cast common sense to the winds. He handed the reins to Tudur, pointed silently to the open gate and stepped into the shadow of the wall, drawing his hood over his head. This action had the added benefit of concealing the greater part of his features.
He held still while Tudur led the destrier through the gate. Deso went with his ears laid flat and pricked up by turns, dancing and skipping through imagined obstacles, iron-shod hooves ringing on the gray cobbles. Ravens still circled aloft, dropped lower, as if urging him forward.
The girl came running out of the postern once more, her dark braids whipping loose from under the confining net, each with a mind of its own, her skirts aflurry, her slippered feet hardly touching the stones. This time she carried a large basket piled high with bread and meat.
“Hurry, Telyn, we are already past the hour!”
A smooth-faced youth clad in a vivid green tunic and bright yellow hose followed her, also bearing a basket. “This is foolishness. Curfew has rung. The gates should be locked!”
She gave a laugh, easy and merry. Leon caught his breath at the sweet, open sound. “Shall these poor folk go hungry because the hour grows late?” The laugh died. “Come, good people…here is some bread for you…and for you.”
A vague fluting of tones rose among the group, and a voice said, “It is unsafe, Brenna. The air is charged