Ken Hood - Demon Rider

"Of course. He has nothing, absolutely nothing except a razor, a thimble, and some shiny buttons. I don't think he's eaten since he left Montserrat."

Toby tried not to smile at the cleric's annoyance. "So all we can do is feed him and take him back with us?"

"Apparently."

Strange! Why send a moron when there must be dozens of eager young novices who would enjoy such a break in routine? It was something to think about. Toby looked to the don. "Your orders, senor?"

The don pouted across the field at the guardians of the village. "Artillery is rarely reliable in weather like this." He twirled up his mustache. "Lead the troops out, Campeador . I shall join you shortly."

"Um..." Telling Don Ramon to be careful would be a futile exercise. Besides, Toby approved of what he thought the young maniac had in mind. "Just let me get the others out of range, senor. Mount up, everyone!"

By the time the procession was moving in some sort of order, the don was cantering Midnight around in a wide circle, warming him up. Then he swung his shield into place, couched his lance, and charged the villagers at the gate.

He had been right about the arquebuses, for not a shot was fired. Three of the defenders displayed military training, swinging their pikes forward in the standard drill to oppose cavalry. The rest just screamed and fled back through the archway. Seeing themselves deserted and the madman still coming, the pikemen chose discretion over posthumous honor and followed. The gate slammed shut just in time, although the don could certainly have come faster and ridden them down had he wanted to. Yelling his war cry in scorn, he set Midnight to prancing and cavorting on their doorstep for a moment, before coming after the pilgrims. As he galloped by them, heading for his place in the van, they all cheered him mightily, even—Toby was amused to notice—the normally humorless Father Guillem. The mysterious Jacques merely smiled, not understanding the joke.

"Sometimes yon laddie is not as daft as he lets on," Hamish remarked with glee.

"You don't think that was daft?"

"No, I mean he didn't wait around until they found a dry arquebus!"

"True." Toby shivered as more water trickled down his neck. "We'll have to keep our eyes peeled for rustlers tonight. Some young hotheads may try to redeem their honor."

"Not to mention the brigands. Um... you won't mind if I trade with the monk and take second watch?"

"Not if he has no objection." Toby eyed his young friend inquiringly.

"He said he wouldn't mind." Hamish was looking elsewhere.

It was standard procedure now for him to share first watch with Josep. It was also standard procedure for him to spend second watch with Eulalia, although presumably not watching anything. Quite often he was still off in the shrubbery with her when Toby was awakened to take third watch. Although Toby was careful not to pry, he had overheard enough angry words to know that their romance was not all honey and rose petals. Remembering how he had seen Hamish in earnest conversation with the acolyte that afternoon, he wondered if Father Guillem himself had suggested the switch.

"I don't mind. Just don't turn your back on Rafael tonight."

"I never do," Hamish said sharply. "Why not tonight especially?"

"Because tomorrow's our last day as a group. First thing in the morning, I plan to bring up the matter of the landsknechte's gold. I think there should be a friendly sharing-out of the loot."

"They know that?"

"They may guess."

"I agree about the sharing-out," Hamish said. "But you're dreaming if you expect it to be friendly."

The campsite, when they reached it, was a dense grove of cypress, but even there the ground was waterlogged. The pilgrims muttered and grumbled and made the best of it. Their fire smoked, people banged their heads on low branches, and the horses had to be hobbled to keep them from wandering in search of better grazing. No one was in a mood for singing.

The inexplicable Jacques ate as if he was starved. He spoke to no one unless he was addressed and even then provided no information. He could tell Toby nothing about the road he had come or people he had met on the way; indeed he had forgotten that he had been sent to meet Senor Longdirk. It had been the villagers who told Father Guillem that much. When he was not admitting that he could not answer a question, he just stayed in one place and smiled, but when Toby asked him to chop firewood he worked hard until he was told to stop.

Surprisingly, Pepita disliked him. She seemed frightened of him, and this was very unlike her. When Toby asked her why, she pouted.

"He is broken."

"He's not very clever. Do you think he may hurt you?"

She shook her head. "But he is broken." She seemed unable to explain what she meant.

Hamish found him an intriguing problem. "He's French, originally! Speak to him in Catalan and he answers in Catalan. But speak to him in langue d'oc and he answers in langue d'oc! He knows some German too. He must've traveled a lot. How did he manage that with no wits?"

"Pepita says he's been broken."

"What does that mean?"

"I wish I knew," Toby said soberly.

The night was black as pitch. Everyone retired as soon as the meal was over. Toby, having given the sentries' whistles to Josep and Father Guillem, rolled himself up in his wet blanket to sleep. Hamish was already curled up shivering in his, so he really had turned over a new leaf. Amazing! How long would it take Eulalia to turn it back again?

A white swan drifting across dark water, trailing a soft vee of ripple, one dark foot just visible below... Lochan na Bi, Lochan na Bi.

The swan was swimming in the back of Toby's mind, and it seemed to be working. He could not judge his heartbeat, but he felt no fear or even anger, no sweat or dry throat. Of course he always tended to stay cool when there was a fight coming, so perhaps this was not a fair test of Brother Bernat's technique. He could not hope to win against the don, so he must try and talk his way out of his predicament.

He said, "I am at fault also, senor. I should have wakened at the proper time, as you did."

About the hour he should have been coming off watch, the don's foot in his ribs had awakened him and not gently either. Hamish and Rafael should have called Toby and Miguel; they in turn should have called the don and his squire. They had not. Don Ramon had demanded an explanation. In the ensuing search, it had been Doña Francisca who found Hamish lying in the weeds, bound and gagged, one side of his face caked with dried blood. Now Don Ramon was demanding Hamish's head.

From the way Hamish was holding it with both hands, he might be very glad to be rid of it. He was barely conscious even yet, sitting there huddled under a blanket in the first glimmers of a very rainy dawn while nine people he had been supposed to guard stared down at him with expressions ranging from Pepita's sympathy to the don's homicidal fury.

Nine. Once the pilgrims had numbered sixteen. Now they were only ten, not counting Jacques who was still asleep in his cloak, and that was assuming Hamish and Toby survived the next few minutes.

"It was his job to call you, not yours to wake yourself," Don Ramon repeated. "He failed in that duty. He failed to sound the alarm. The penalty for failing on guard duty is death."

"Not in this case, senor," Toby said with the best blend of deference and stubbornness he could muster. "He was set to guard against intruders, not against treachery from his friends." Liar! He had warned Hamish not to turn his back on Rafael.

Hamish peered up at him blearily. He did not speak—fortunately so, because he was confused enough to say almost anything, even the truth.