Tori Phillips - The Dark Knight

The horse pricked his ears forward but did not shy away when Tonia touched his forehead. She wished she had an apple or a carrot to sweeten her introduction. Still murmuring endearments, she ran her hand along his neck. He sidestepped a little but did not pull away.

“My father would pay your master a wealth of golden angels for you, I am sure,” she said as she noted the firmness of his muscles under his well-groomed coat. She glanced over her shoulder at the man, but he worked with his back to her. “Methinks your master will not part willingly from you.”

If Tonia was ever going to dash for freedom, now was the moment. She moved around to the horse’s near side and laid her arm over his back to see if he would accept her. Baxtalo stood very still. One ear twitched. Tonia looked over the horse’s withers for one last glimpse of her would-be executioner. Oddly, she regretted leaving him in the lurch like this. In his own quiet way, the Gypsy was very charming. And quite handsome as well.

She sighed. “I am sorry that I never saw his face,” she murmured to the horse as she took a firm grip on his mane. “’Tis a pity that I must steal you from him, for I know he loves you dearly. I will try to return you when I am safely home.”

With one last look at the Gypsy’s back, Tonia hiked up her skirts to her knee, then vaulted onto the horse’s back—a feat she had learned as a child from her French godfather, Gaston. Baxtalo snorted and tossed his head. Tonia hung on with her knees clamped against his sides, and both hands entwined in his mane.

“Go!” she commanded the horse, kicking his flanks.

With another snort, Baxtalo bolted across the meadow toward the stream. Tonia lay low over his neck as the two of them crossed the water in two quick, wet strides. Behind her, she heard the headsman shout.

“Be sure to tell your master how sorry I am,” she said to the horse as they dashed into the woods. “Truly, I am not a thief at heart.”

Tonia pointed him downhill, where she suspected there was a village or town. She knew that her former guards had gone somewhere to replenish their food supplies while they had waited for the King’s executioner. She did not think beyond reaching that village. Surely there would be a church where she could claim sanctuary and send for her father. For now it took all her strength to hang on to her prize as Baxtalo raced under low-hanging tree branches. Her blood sang, intoxicated with her freedom.

Suddenly the horse wheeled and came to an abrupt halt. Had Tonia not been an experienced rider, she would have been thrown from his back. Renewing her grip on his mane, she again kicked his sides.

“Please, I pray you, sweet Baxtalo, let us be gone!”

A sharp whistle pierced the silence of the woods. It hung on the air then rose in its pitch. Tonia realized it must be the Gypsy calling. Lying over the horse’s neck, she implored the animal to go. “’Twill be the death of me if we linger here!”

Snorting, Baxtalo stamped the leaf-covered ground. Once more, the same signal whistled through the trees. This time the horse responded. To Tonia’s horror, he turned again then dashed back up the slope toward Hawksnest.

“Nay, Baxtalo! Please!” Tonia pulled his mane to the left and dug her knee in his side. The horse paid her no more attention than if she were a fly.

Her stomach clenched into a knot; panic as she had never before experienced welled up in her throat. She looked down at the uneven ground that raced under the horse’s hooves. She should let go of his mane and jump, but the fear of possibly breaking an arm or her neck kept her clinging to Baxtalo’s back. They crossed the stream with a splash. Once again in the meadow, the horse increased his speed.

Looking over his head, Tonia saw the Gypsy standing on the edge of her grave, his hands planted on his hips and his feet wide apart as he waited. With a final burst of speed Baxtalo thundered toward him. The horse leaped over the hole in the ground, circled around it and came to a stop beside his master.

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