Had they been landsknechte, Toby might have hoped to give himself up in return for the others' freedom, but one glance at these ruffians was proof enough that they were only after loot, not him in particular. He felt mostly anger at being taken so easily... frustration at failing so close to his destination... sheer terror at what those bolts could do to his flesh... an urgent disinclination to die... the hob! Not the hob!
Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. He lowered his sword and strove to breathe as he had been taught, struggling to calm his racing heart. He must not let the hob rampage! It might strike down his friends as easily as his foes.
And besides: If you ever travel that road again, you must not expect to return.
"Company halt!" barked the leader. He was big, although probably more blubber than muscle, with a coarse, black-bearded face. He wore a steel helmet and breastplate. Alone among the group he carried no weapon in his hand, but a gilded hilt protruded from the scabbard at his side. He regarded the catch with satisfaction. "Throw your swords over there."
His arrogant smirk made Toby's fists clench and brought sweat to his forehead even as he repeated his mantra and tried to think of the swan. "We are but poor pilgrims, senor. We have little worth stealing except our mounts."
"We'll be the judge of that. Throw away your sword, boy."
Gold did not matter now, and certainly the horses did not. Even if the pilgrims lost everything except their lives, they could walk to Montserrat from here.
Toby eased Smeòrach forward to place himself ahead of Guillem. "Will you spare our—"
Before he completed the move, the monk roared, "Fools!" in a voice like a cannonade and kicked in his heels. Startled, his horse leaped into motion.
Toby shouted, "Careful, Father!"
Still bellowing, the monk rode straight for the brigands, going much too fast over the rocks and mud. "You are within the domain of the holy tutelary of Montserrat. It will not condone such violence!"
"Take him, Jordi."
A crossbow cracked. Father Guillem and his horse went down together in a somersault and rolled on the muddy, rocky trail. The horse screamed, tried to struggle to its feet, shrilling in pain, but then collapsed in a heap and fell silent. Father Guillem lay face down, half dragged out of his robe. The bolt must have gone right through him without hitting bone, or the impact would have hurled him backward out of the saddle. If the shot had not killed him, then the horse had smashed him to pulp. He was either dead or dying.
"Seems he was wrong," said the leader. "Nice shot, Jordi. Throw down your sword, boy, and dismount." He had summed up the group and picked out Toby as the leader. He knew his business. He had the same cold blooded efficiency as Arnaud Villars the smuggler; he even looked like him.
"You will spare our lives?"
"Your lives are no use to me, sonny, but if you don't get off that horse right now, we'll shoot you off it."
Smeòrach was fast and nimble. Toby might get one of them—the leader or another—before they got him. Maybe even two. By then he would be a hedgehog of crossbow quarrels and what would happen after that? Unless a bolt took him through the heart, his body might fight on without him. Or the hob might lash out with lightnings, destroying brigands and pilgrims and forest indiscriminately. Or it might flip him back in time to the Inquisition. Whatever it did, Brother Bernat had said, If you ever travel that road again...
He threw his sword into the trees and turned in the saddle to address the others. "Do as they say! They will spare our—"
"King Pedro and Castile!" Hooves thundered, mud sprayed, horses whinnied in alarm. Having won his way past the pack train, the don came charging down the trail with his lance couched.
It should have been obvious that Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo would not surrender to a common footpad, nor even forty of them. Or perhaps he thought he was leading a whole army of armored knights against the Moors. Whatever the reason, honor demanded death. Toby spun Smeòrach around and kicked him harder than the poor beast had ever been kicked. Astonished but ever willing, Smeòrach leaped forward. Toby rode him straight into the oncoming maniac.
The don held his lance in his right hand, aimed to strike an opponent approaching on his left—that was correct technique for jousting, and he was undoubtedly well practiced in the arts of chivalry. But the terrain was very treacherous, and one thing that almost never happened in the best tilting yards was a horse careering into you at high speed from the right and a young man of very large size hurling himself on top of you. Lance, shield, knight, Longdirk, and Midnight all went over together in an explosion of mud and stones. The outraged Smeòrach carried on up the trail as fast as his hooves would carry him.
***
The brigand leader walked over and put the crippled Midnight to death with a single deft thrust to the heart. He peered at the don, then wiped his sword on the animal without bothering to administer another coup de grace. He took a longer, warier look at Toby.
The world had not quite stopped spinning. He had managed to rub most of the mud out of his eyes but had not yet catalogued all his scrapes and bruises. Still too sick and shocked from the impact to think of sitting up, he returned the brigand's calculating stare as well as he could from ground level.
Total disaster! In three years of wild adventuring, he had never failed so hopelessly. Even in his visions of Oreste's dungeon or the Inquisition's torture chamber he had been alone, whereas here he must endure the reproach of friends who had depended on him. Now he could appreciate Brother Bernat's warning that he would no longer have the hob to defend him. Worst of all, he had accepted the old man's word for it that next time the hob would take him over permanently. He might have been wrong. It had never done so before. For the others' sake, Toby should have risked possession. The don had done the honorable thing, while he must live with his guilt—Montserrat piled on Mezquiriz.
Only the monotonous hiss of the rain disturbed the silence of the forest. Then Doña Francisca threw herself on top of her son with a wail. His helmet had fallen off; his auburn hair trailed in the mud. He was either dead or stunned.
The surviving members of the company arrived on foot—Pepita, Josep, Gracia, Senora Collel, and Hamish leaning on Jacques's shoulder. Brigands closed in around them with drawn swords. Others had already taken charge of the horses, moving as if they had performed this operation many times.
Toby sat up—carefully and painfully.
"That's far enough, sonny!" snapped the leader. "Jose, keep an eye on this one. If he as much as twitches, kill him."
"With pleasure, Caudillo." The nearest guard took up position in front of Toby, aiming a cocked crossbow at him. He was a rangy youth with a nasty leer on his unshaven face. "It will not be a difficult shot."
Toby groaned and just sat where he was in the mud. The spinning slowed.
Night and fog were closing in. Vague shapes of horses jingled and splashed as they were led away down the road. The captives huddled together at the verge, surrounded by their grinning captors. Some of the brigands dragged Francisca off the don and began searching his body for valuables. The monk lay where he had fallen, ignored.
The caudillo stepped up to Gracia and leered. "You're worth keeping. You'll come with us." He raised his voice. "The rest of you take your clothes off—all of them."
"That is barbaric!" Toby roared.
"Kill him if he speaks again, Jose."
"You promised not to harm us—"