Coll’s heart sank, for he recognized the voice, and the coat of arms on the shield. It was the knight who had sought to take Dicea, the knight whose men he had killed!
But he struck with his spear, stabbing and swinging, and downed three men before the others struck him a stunning blow. He fought to hold on to consciousness in spite of the roaring in his ears, fastening his attention on the hard hands that yanked his arms up behind his back, bowing him over, for the pain helped him stay conscious while the stomach-lurching swirl of colors faded. It did, and the roaring dimmed; he found himself staring at the ground, the shouts of anger and fear and the din of swordplay filling his ears. He threw himself back and upright, feeling something, someone behind him crushed against the hut wall, heard him cry out—but none of it meant anything because, wonder of wonders, there was Sir Gar in his mail shirt, hammering at the earl’s knight with his broadsword. Coll knew it was Sir Gar because his shield held his device—blank, matte metal, except for a black armored horse’s head in the center. Behind him, Sir Dirk wheeled his horse and wheeled again, slashing at the men-at-arms with his rapier.
Behind, but quickly before. The soldiers cowered back, spears uplifted to defend themselves, and Sir Dirk swung his horse about to come charging down straight at Coll! The soldier behind him shouted and dodged aside, letting go of Coll, and the serf tried to step aside, but he stumbled, and the horse was coming straight at him …
At the last second, Sir Dirk pulled back on the reins, and the horse reared, whinnying protest. It swung about sideways, dropped down, and Dirk reached an arm to Coll. “Climb aboard, quick!”
Coll could only stare in amazement for a moment. Then he leaped, catching Dirk’s arm and clambering up onto the stallion’s rump. Turning, he was amazed to see Sir Gar’s sword flicker in past the knight’s guard, stabbing into the crevice between arm and breastplate. The knight cried out in pain and fell from his horse.
Coll stared in disbelief as Gar turned to him, his face grim under the steel cap, his eyes burning.
Coll found his voice. “You slew a knight!”
“No,” Gar told him. “He’ll recover.”
“But he’s a knight!”
“So are we,” Dirk reminded him.
“Oh.” Coll blinked, gazing at the fallen knight, feeling very foolish indeed. “Yes, you are, aren’t you?”
“And, after all,” said Gar, “he is the enemy.”
The door opened a crack, and four frightened eyes stared out. The younger two widened enormously at the sight of Gar.
Dirk drew up alongside Gar. “Who have you there?” Coll turned in surprise, saw the open door and the wide young eyes that had swiveled to stare at Dirk, and pivoted back to tell his masters, “My family, sirs, or what’s left of it—my mother and sister, all that I have.”
“More than some men have.” A shadow crossed Dirk’s face. “But you can’t stay here to guard them, Coll, which means they can’t stay, either.”
Coll’s heart sank as he realized the truth of the knight’s words. If he stayed until the battle was done, someone was bound to report him as an outlaw. He would be taken to the gibbet and hanged. If he left, though, his mother and sister might yet be prey for the soldiers.
Mama decided the issue for him. “He speaks truth, Coll, and we gathered our few belongings as soon as we heard the battle had started. We didn’t get away in time, though. Come, Dicie! Say good-bye to your home, child, for there may not be anything left of it, if we ever come back.”
Dicea stepped out the door, tears starting to her eyes; she stepped back and regarded the hut once, long and lingering, then turned to the future, looking up with wonder at the two stalwart knights who sat their horses above her. Coll stared at her face and felt a surge of relief—the eagerness with which she gazed at the men, the light that danced in her eyes, assured him that the knight had not come back for her after Coll had escaped. Perhaps he had been too busy with the hunt, and she so unimportant to him that he hadn’t bothered to return.
“However did you make such friends as these, Coll?” Dicea breathed.
“Sheer luck,” he grunted. “They saved me from an ambush before I had a chance to try to rob them.”
Dirk laughed, and Gar smiled. “We had need of him, lass, for we are from far over the sea, and know little of your land. Your brother has, at least, given us enough knowledge to make it possible to find employment.”
“As knights in the king’s army?”
“The very same,” Gar assured her, “and no one will be surprised if we disappear for a little while in the middle of a battle.” He looked up at Coll. “Where shall we take them?”
“The greenwood, of course.” Coll was amazed that the man could even ask the question. Surely the merest dolt could see that an outlaw had the choice of only two places where the lords’ law didn’t run: the forest or the wastelands, and the forest was much closer.
Or could it be that in their distant homeland, there were no places for outlaws to flee, and no need of them?
He put the thought behind him; it was too dizzying, too impossible. He reached down to take the heavy sack from his mother, but Gar said, “No. You may need your hands free to fight.”
“I carried you for nine months, Coll,” his mother assured him. “I can carry this sack for an hour.”
Dicea regarded him merrily. “You wouldn’t think twice about my hauling a basket of wet wash this heavy, but at the sight of a sack, you leap to carry.”
“All right, haul your own blasted bag,” Coll grunted, but he was secretly glad of the excuse. Gar was right; the clash of arms and the shouts of soldiers sounded all about them, mingled with the screams of serfs caught between the two forces. He ushered his mother and sister before him. The knights rode to either side, swords bare, shields high.
They came out from between the huts, and the fringe of battle caught them like a whirlwind. Coll backed up, facing away from his mother and sister, buffeting soldiers away with his buckler, taking quick glances behind to make sure he was still with the group. He saw Gar and Dirk hewing and thrusting with their swords, then turned back to see an earl’s man rise up before him, eyes staring, mouth a gaping, fetid maw, the yell lost in the clamor all about them, swinging a halberd down at him one-handed—its pole had broken off short. Coll snapped his shield up and heard the halberd strike into it—then saw recognition start up in the man’s eyes. Suddenly Coll knew him for Nud, the father of one of his childhood friends—but the battle whirled the two apart, and Coll fought on, fending off old companions and strangers, as the sinking feeling within him told him that the earl would learn that one of the king’s soldiers was his escaped serf.
The battle boiled out of the village, whirling Coll and his protector-knights along with his family. Away and across the fields they went, until finally the ramparts of the forest rose up before them, and Coll and his family were swept in among the trees on a tide of relief. Dirk and Gar crowded in after them, and the giant called down, “Keep going! Work your way deeper and deeper into the greenwood, for this battle may yet invade the forest, and even if it doesn’t, a lot of fleeing soldiers will!”
“They … saw me! ” Coll turned to Gar in alarm. “Earl’s soldiers, my fellow villagers, men from other villages who know me! They’ll tell the earl!”