Paul was silent for a moment. “Two nephews?”
“That’s what the account said when I read it before we left. Apparently they were put to the sword as well. I wonder how old they were?”
“We won’t have to do that,” Paul said quickly. Then he gave the professor a sheepish look. “I guess we won’t have to bring the .22 rifle along either.”
“What do you mean?”
“The sword,” said Paul softly. “Lambert had a sword by his bed. There’s a weapon right there….”
The two men just looked at one another, but neither one spoke for a while until Nordhausen voiced the obvious next question.
“Who does it?” His voice was a near whisper.
“Be my guest,” said Paul.
“I think’ we’d better draw lots,” said Robert.
They reached the place where they had manifested, and said nothing more on the matter. Paul was studying the ground, and could even see the imprint of their footprints in the grass when they arrived. There was a wilted edge around each one, he noted, as if the plants had been damaged by severe cold.
“Here are my footprints,” he said. “You were over there.”
“And Maeve was right between us,” said Robert. But as they stepped into their footprints the professor pointed at the ground a few feet away. “But who was there?” he asked darkly.
Paul looked where he was pointing and clearly saw another set of tracks in the ground, facing in toward the spot where they had appeared. He followed them back toward the hedge that had screened them from the road, an uneasy feeling rising in his gut.
“Looks like someone is curious,” he said quietly.
Chapter 17
“Damn,” said Nordhausen, “We’ve been discovered! Our cover’s blown already!”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Robert.” Paul tried to calm him down.
“Looks like just one person,” said the professor, going over to peer at the tracks left in the wet grass.
“Get back over here and stand in your tracks again,” said Paul in a controlled whisper, excited himself now. “Someone is on the road, and heading this way.”
Robert looked to see horsemen on the road, apparently riding at a good clip given the dust they were leaving. It looked like two, then four men, hastening towards them.
Nordhausen stepped quickly back into his footprints. “Someone was probably passing by when we manifested, and they obviously hid in that hedge there. God, they may have seen us appear! They would have thought we were spirits, angels.”
“Or demons,” Paul took the down side of the argument. “And in either case they would have been scared out of their wits.”
“Ya think?” Nordhausen squinted at the oncoming riders. “Or they would have hastened back to Heristal to raise the alarm and get a posse up after us.”
“A posse? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then who is that?” Nordhausen pointed. “Four riders. Dodo and his men?” He pointed at the horsemen, who reined in sharply and came to a halt. The lead man was dressed all in black, tugging at the fit of his leather gloves as he spoke to them. Robert listened, trying to shift his brain into Latin to pick up what the man was saying, but the emotion in his voice was plain to hear, a derisive tone that paid them no respect at all, in spite of their monk’s robes.
Robert gaped at the horsemen, obviously flustered. Paul had the good sense to keep his mouth completely shut. Then the lead man, the one Robert took to be Dodo, gave them a dismissive wave and spurred his horse on. As they passed a fat man in a thick leather jerkin leaned over and spat at them, laughing as he rode off.
“Damn!” said Robert when the riders had passed well out of earshot. “That was Dodo and his retainers or I’m a frog!”
“Ornery cuss, isn’t he,” said Paul. “What did he say?”
“I was too startled to catch it all,” said Robert. “Something about pigs and a warm fire. Then that other fat slob spit at us! So much for consideration shown to clergymen.” As he finished Robert felt a shudder, and a wave of nausea sweep over him.
Paul felt it too. “Robert?”
“Close your eyes,” said the Professor. “Looks like Kelly is on time and we’re going home.”
They stared at the riders, who seemed to fade away in the gathering shadows on the road. The hedge blurred into a smudge and then the lights appeared around them in a thick frost. Nordhausen wanted to watch again, but as he needed his wits about him for a possible second shift, he closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer for Maeve, and hoping they would not see the 8th century again anytime soon.
At least not tonight.
Maeve rode at a good speed for well over an hour before she eased off the road under an apple tree for a much needed bite to eat. Most of the low hanging fruit was gone, picked away by passersby, but from her perch on the mare she could reach high enough to pick several well ripened apples, plenty for herself and the horse.
The sun was down and the evening sky was darkening fast behind a wall of gray clouds, their tops tinged with vermillion and violet as the last light faded in the west. She had seen no one on the road thus far, but now had come down a low rise to a cultivated area that led her to believe there may be a farmer’s shack nearby. She could smell roast mutton on the wind, which seemed odd, but nonetheless inviting at his hour.
Around the next bend she saw a cluster of three buildings, an old barn, and what looked like a weathered silo. The farm house was well lit from within, the wavering glow of firelight emanating from every window. The barn was some ways off, and there were bales of recently harvested hay stacked against one wall. She rode silently towards the scene, masking her approach by skirting a line of tall hedge and thistle. When she had come up on the barn she dismounted, leading her horse by the rein. The scent of hay, horses, and leather was thick in the air. She tied of her mare to a low post, and ventured to peek inside the half open door of the barn.
It was dark and musty inside as she eased through the entrance into a small enclosure that passed for a tack room. It opened onto the main barn, where a bale of hay lay next to several canvas feed bags. The scent of oats and molasses was obvious, and she could hear the stirring of several horses inside.
She wanted to get a look at the animals without startling them, so she began to sing softly, whisper quiet at first, as she edged around the corner. One of the horses chafed and whinnied, but then grew still when Maeve drew near, still whispering her quiet song.
There were two steeds, one a milk white stallion and the other a chocolate brown plow horse, from the look of him. One glance at the stance of the stallion, and the telltale circle around the eye told her she had found the horse she wanted—Kuhaylan. He had proud bearing with well chiseled features and a long well muscled neck with a graceful arch. But more than this, the deep chest, and strong legs with large joints, told her this was a horse that could run like the wind. Elated she padded quickly back to the tack room to find a suitable rein and approached the horse again.
He was a bit skittish at first, but she stroked his neck and mane, speaking softly until he grew calm, accepting the rein with a steady eye meeting hers. She untethered the stallion and led him quietly through the barn door. The farm house was on the other side of the barn, and the smell of wood smoke and roasted meat was thick on the cool night air. She led the Arabian to the place she had tethered her mare, feeling guilty to be stealing off with such a prime steed. So she took out the small felt pouch and tied it neatly to the rein of her older mare. Small compensation, she thought, for this was a horse worth his weight in gold, but it would have to do.