unlike many of Norman-French descent, he spoke English-not well, but enough to get by. While they were planning their next move, he retreated slowly toward the closest tree. He was ready for them when they attacked again, and they were forced to pull back, cursing and bleeding. But he was bleeding, too, and his fall had done more damage than he’d first thought, for his knee was stiffening up, slowing him down. Panting, his sword poised for their next assault, he realized that he was in the fight of his life and the odds were not in his favor.
The children were nowhere to be seen, probably long gone-if they were wise. His horse was not in view, either, and the distant road was still deserted-not that any passersby were likely to have intervened. But he saw then that there was one about to join the fray, for Loth had backtracked to find him, and was coming now at a run, a dark streak against the snow, silent and swift, hackles up, as fearful and blessed a sight as ever filled Ranulf’s eyes.
The dog made no sound, but alerted by instinct, perhaps, the redhead started to turn just as Loth launched his attack. The man yelled, but had no time to react, for the dyrehund was already upon him. As the animal leapt at him, he recoiled, slipped on the ice, and went over backward. His next scream was one of pain, for Loth had clamped his powerful jaws upon the redhead’s thigh, shaking the man’s body to and fro as if he were prey, as Ranulf had seen him attack deer.
When the redhead shrieked, Ned whirled in his direction. It was a natural reaction, but one that doomed him, for in the brief moment that he was distracted by the dog, Ranulf lunged, burying his blade in the other man’s back. Ned’s knees buckled. Ranulf’s second thrust all but decapitated him, and blood spurted out like a crimson fountain, splattering Ranulf with gore.
Swinging his sword up, Ranulf turned then to aid Loth, but the dog had no need of assistance. The redhead’s screams were mingling now with the dyrehund’s fierce, guttural growling. He’d dropped his club when he’d fallen, and had tried then to kick the dog away. Loth released his hold upon the man’s mangled thigh and, seizing an ankle, began a promising effort to cripple his quarry. Unable to break free of those ravening jaws and razor teeth, the man was writhing in pain as he desperately tried to reach his club, which lay tantalizingly close, but just beyond his groping fingers.
Ranulf kicked the club into the bushes, then reached down and dragged Loth off. It took the man a moment to realize he was no longer under attack, and he continued to claw the snow for his club, kicking feebly at a dog who was no longer there. Ranulf was having trouble restraining Loth; even when he pulled the dyrehund up onto his hind legs, the dog did not desist his struggles, choking and snarling as he fought to get back to his kill. The redhead had now scrabbled to his hands and knees, his breath coming in wheezing, gasping sobs. Somehow he lurched to his feet, screaming anew as pain jolted through his crushed ankle. Hobbling, stumbling, weaving like a drunkard, he fled in terror, leaving a blotched and bloody trail across the snow. He’d not get far; Ranulf had seen the terrible gaping wound, the shredded flesh of the man’s thigh.
Reaction now set in and Ranulf started to shake. Still clutching Loth’s collar, he sank to his knees. Blood was everywhere, splashed across the front of his hauberk, caking his boots. The churned-up snow was bright red, and Loth’s silver muzzle seemed to have been dipped in scarlet; so had his chest. The dyrehund was trembling, too; he whimpered and nuzzled Ranulf, smearing blood across Ranulf’s cheek and into his beard. Ranulf pulled the dog closer, wrapped his arms around Loth’s heaving sides, and held tight.
When Loth growled, Ranulf raised his head, automatically reaching again for his sword hilt. The boy was standing ten feet away, poised to take flight. Ranulf guessed he was about nine or so, but small for his age, reed- thin and meagre. He seemed all eyes; they dominated the pinched little face, a striking shade of blue-green, glassy with shock. He looked at the body, swallowed, and asked, “Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“And the other…the one the dog bit?”
“Most likely he’ll bleed to death,” Ranulf said honestly.
The boy was quiet for a moment, staring at Loth. “Good,” he said, and then recoiled when Ranulf seemed about to rise. He did not go far, though, backing off a few more prudent feet. “Are you bad hurt?”
“No, not bad,” Ranuld said and waited, feeling as if he were trying to tame some wild, woodland creature, ready to bolt at any moment.
“Why?” the child asked suddenly. “Why did you help us?”
Ranulf considered several different answers, and then twitched a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I had nothing better to do.”
The boy’s eyes widened even further. But he seemed to take reassurance from the joke, for he slowly edged closer. “I am Simon,” he said solemnly, and after Ranulf introduced himself and Loth with equal gravity, Simon held out a small fist for the dyrehund to sniff. In view of what the child had watched the dog do, Ranulf thought that was a commendable act of courage. Simon peered intently into Ranulf’s face, then glanced back at Loth. “We know where your horse is,” he said unexpectedly. “It ran into the woods and its reins snagged on a bush. My sister found it.”
Ranulf wondered why they hadn’t tried to catch the stallion for themselves, and then realized that to these children, a horse would be as exotic an animal as an elephant. He still did not know why they were out here alone, but did not doubt that he was looking at the sort of poverty he’d rarely encountered; Simon’s clothes were so ragged they showed glimpses of skin and his worn leather shoes were held together with cord. Getting stiffly to his feet, Ranulf said, “Can you take me to the horse?”
The child nodded, but hesitated. No longer meeting Ranulf’s gaze, he asked, “Do you have any food?” Adding quickly, “Not for me, for Jennet.”
“Yes, I do,” Ranulf said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage, and with the child hovering just out of reach, he limped across the meadow toward the woods. Even if he’d had a shovel, the ground was too hard to dig a grave, so he left the body of the outlaw where it had fallen. Simon seemed to share his view that the man did not deserve a Christian burial, for the boy did not glance back, either.
Simon’s sister looked so like him that they might have been twins if not for the age difference; she had the same vivid blue-green eyes, the same light hair of an indeterminate shade that was either a pale ash-brown or a dirt-darkened blonde, and like him, she bore the signs of malnourishment. Ranulf imagined she was about thirteen, yet she was smaller than his nephew Henry, so frail and wan that he ached for her. More than the boy, she comprehended the full horror of what they’d been spared, and he was impressed by the bravery she’d shown in staying to watch the outcome of the battle.
He had bread and cheese in his saddlebag, and they fell upon it ravenously, with a hunger he’d never known. He waited until they’d devoured every crumb before asking what they were doing by themselves on the Newark- Grantham Road, and got an answer that dismayed him. They were on their way, Simon confided, to their uncle Jonas in Cantebrigge.
“God Almighty, you cannot be serious! Not only is Cantebrigge at least eighty miles from here, but it is less than twenty miles from Ramsey Abbey, which has been seized by rebels. You cannot go to Cantebrigge!”
Anxiety had given his voice an angry edge, and the children reacted with immediate fear, backing away. “We are going to Cantebrigge,” Jennet cried, “we must! And we will, we will go!”
Ranulf hastily changed his tack. “I did not mean to shout,” he said soothingly, while rapidly reviewing his options. There was another ten miles or more to Grantham; Newark was less than five. “Speaking for myself, I’ve never felt so battered or bone-weary. Luckily, I know an inn in Newark where we can get a decent meal and mayhap even a bone for Loth.”
They conferred together, speaking too swiftly for him to catch their words; his grasp of English did not allow for nuances or even slurred speech. When they turned back, Simon came forward until he was close enough to be grabbed; it was, Ranulf recognized, a declaration of trust. “We’ve nothing better to do,” he said, with what was almost a smile.
Ranulf had already attracted attention at the inn the preceding night: a lone knight and a dog the likes of which none had seen before. When he and the wolf-dog returned, drenched in gore and with two beggar children in tow, he created a sensation. But their curiosity was to remain unsatisfied, for he offered no explanations and all that blood somehow discouraged prying.
The innkeeper was as amazed by Ranulf’s request for two rooms as he was by his alarming appearance. A private room was an almost unheard-of luxury, except for the highborn; it was usual for strangers to share not only a chamber but a bed, and it seemed utterly bizarre to him that Ranulf should want to squander a room upon bedraggled urchins who ought to be bedding down out in the stables with the lord’s fine palfrey. He confined
