they had settled down, at least for the time. It would be a good hiding place. No one, not even a lawman, would come riding here.
“The Harriers?” he asked. “Where are they now?”
“No one knows,” the Reaver told him. “They could be anywhere.”
“But this is little more than the border of the Desolated Land. Word is that they struck deep into northern Britain.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps. We have had no word. There are none to carry word. You are the only ones we’ve seen. You must have matters of great import to bring you to this place.”
“We carry messages. Nothing more.”
“You said Oxenford. And London Town.”
“That is right.”
“There is nothing at Oxenford.”
“That may be,” said Duncan. “I have never been there.”
There were no women here, he noted. No ladies sitting at the table, as would have been the case in any well-regulated manor. If there were women here, they were shut away.
One of the youths brought a pitcher of ale, filled cups for the travelers. The ale, when Duncan tasted it, was of high quality. He said as much to the Reaver.
“The next batch will not be,” the Reaver said. “The grain is poor this year and the hay! We’ve had a hell’s own time getting any hay, even of the poorest quality. Our poor beasts will have slim pickings through the winter months.”
Many of those at the table had finished with their eating. A number of them had fallen forward on the table, their heads pillowed on their arms. Perhaps they slept in this manner, Duncan thought. Little more than animals, with no proper beds. The Reaver had lolled back in his chair, his eyes closed. The talk throughout the hall had quieted.
Duncan sliced two chunks of bread and handed one of them to Conrad. His own slice he spread with honey from the comb. As the Reaver had said, it was excellent, clean and sweet, made from summer flowers. Not the dark, harsh-tasting product so often found in northern climes.
A log in the fireplace, burning through, collapsed in a shower of sparks. Some of the torches along the wall had gone out, but still trailed greasy smoke. A couple of dogs, disputing a bone, snarled at one another. The stench of the hall, it seemed, was worse than when they had first entered.
A muted scream brought Duncan to his feet. For a second he stood listening, and the scream came again, a fighting scream, of anger rather than of pain. Conrad surged up. “That’s Daniel,” he shouted.
Duncan, followed by Conrad, charged down the hall. A man, stumbling erect from a sodden sleep, loomed in Duncan’s path. Duncan shoved him to one side. Conrad sprang past him, using his club to clear the way for them. Men who came in contact with the club howled in anger behind them. A dog ran yipping. Duncan freed his sword and whipped it from the scabbard, metal whispering as he drew the blade.
Ahead of him, Conrad tugged at the door, forced it open, and the two of them plunged out into the courtyard. A large bonfire was burning and in its light they saw a group of men gathered about the shed in which the animals had been housed. But even as they came out into the yard the group was breaking up and fleeing.
Daniel, squealing with rage, stood on his hind legs, striking out with his forefeet at the men in front of him. One man was stretched on the ground and another was crawling away. As Duncan and Conrad ran across the yard, the horse lashed out and caught another man in the face with an iron-shod hoof, bowling him over. A few feet from Daniel, a raging Tiny had another man by the throat and was shaking him savagely. The little burro was a flurry of flailing hoofs.
At the sight of the two men racing across the courtyard, the few remaining in the group before the shed broke up and ran.
Duncan strode forward to stand beside the horse. “It’s all right now,” he said. “We’re here.”
Daniel snorted at him.
“Let loose,” Conrad said to Tiny. “He’s dead.”
The dog gave way, contemptuously, and licked his bloody muzzle. The man he had loosed had no throat. Two men stretched in front of Daniel did not move; both seemed dead. Another dragged himself across the courtyard with a broken back. Still others were limping, bent over, as they fled.
Men were spewing out of the great hall door. Once they came out, they clustered into groups, stood, and stared.
Pushing his way through them came the Reaver. He walked toward Duncan and Conrad.
He blustered at them. “What is this?” he stormed. “I give you hospitality and here my men lie dead!”
“They tried to steal our goods,” said Duncan. “Perhaps they had in mind, as well, to steal the animals. Our animals, as you can see, did not take kindly to it.”
The Reaver pretended to be horrified. “This I can’t believe. My men would not stoop to such a shabby trick.”
“Your men,” said Duncan, “are a shabby lot.”
“This is most embarrassing,” the Reaver said. “I do not quarrel with guests.”
“No need to quarrel,” said Duncan sharply. “Lower the bridge and we’ll leave. I insist on that.”
Hoisting his club, Conrad stepped close to the Reaver. “You understand,” he said. “M’lord insists on it.”
The Reaver made as if to leave, but Conrad grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. “The club is hungry,” he said. “It has not cracked a skull in months.”
“The drawbridge,” Duncan said, far too gently.
“All right,” the Reaver said. “All right.” He shouted to his men. “Let down the bridge so our guests can leave.”
“The rest stand back,” said Conrad. “Way back. Give us room. Otherwise your skull is cracked.”
“The rest of you stand back,” the Reaver yelled. “Do not interfere. Give them room. We want no trouble.”
“If there is trouble,” Conrad told him, “you will be the first to get it.” He said to Duncan, “Get the saddle on Daniel, the packs on Beauty. I will handle this one.”
The drawbridge already was beginning to come down. By the time its far end thumped beyond the moat, they were ready to move out.
“I’ll hang on to the Reaver,” Conrad said, “till the bridge is crossed.”
He jerked the Reaver along. The men in the courtyard stood well back. Tiny took the point.
Once on the bridge, Duncan saw that the overcast sky had cleared. A near-full moon rode in the sky, and the stars were shining. There still were a few scudding clouds.
At the end of the bridge they stopped. Conrad loosed his grip upon the Reaver.
Duncan said to their erstwhile host, “As soon as you get back, pull up the bridge. Don’t even think of sending your men out after us. If you do, we’ll loose the horse and dog on them. They’re war animals, trained to fight, as you have seen. They’d cut your men to ribbons.”
The Reaver said nothing. He clumped back across the bridge. Once back in the courtyard, he bellowed at his men.
Wheel shrieked and chains clanked, wood moaned. The bridge began slowly moving up.
“Let’s go,” said Duncan when it was halfway up.
Tiny leading, they went down a hill, following a faint path.
“Where do we go?” asked Conrad.
“I don’t know,” said Duncan. “Just away from here.”
Ahead of them Tiny growled a warning. A man was standing in the path.
Duncan walked forward to where Tiny stood. Together the two walked toward the man. The man spoke in a quavery voice, “No need to fear, sir. It’s only Old Cedric, the bee master.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Duncan.
“I came to guide you, sir. Besides, I bring you food.”
He reached down and lifted a sack that had been standing, unnoticed, at his feet.
“A flitch of bacon,” he said, “a ham, a cheese, a loaf of bread, and some honey. Besides, I can show you the fastest and the farthest way. I’ve lived here all my life. I know the country.”
