The screamer tried to duck away, but he reached out and grabbed her, pulled her tight against him, lifted his free hand and clamped it hard against her mouth. The screaming was shut off. Teeth closed on a finger and he jerked it free, slapped her hard, and clamped down the hand across her mouth. She did not bite again.
"Keep quiet," he told her. "I'll take the hand away. I do not mean to hurt you."
She was small and soft.
"Will you be quiet?" he asked.
She bobbed her head against his chest to say she would. Behind him Cornwall heard the others scrabbling up the ladder.
"There are others here," he said. "They will not hurt you, either. Don't scream."
He took the hand away.
"What's the matter, Mark?" asked Oliver.
"A woman. She was hiding up here. Was that what you were doing, miss?"
"Yes," she said. "Hiding."
The loft was not quite dark. Heavy twilight still filtered through the louvered windows set at each end of the gables.
The woman stepped away from Cornwall, then at the sight of Oliver, shrank back against him. A frightened breath caught in her throat.
"It's all right," he said. "Oliver is a very friendly goblin. He is a rafter goblin. You know what a rafter goblin is?"
She shook her head. "There was an animal," she said.
"That was Coon. He's all right, too."
"Wouldn't hurt a flea," said Hal. "He is so downright friendly that it is disgusting."
"We are fugitives," said Cornwall. "Or very close to fugitives. But non-dangerous fugitives. This is Hal, and over there is Gib. Gib is a marsh-man. Hal is hill people."
She was shivering, but she stepped away from him.
"And you?" she asked. "Who are you?"
"You can call me Mark. I am a student."
"A scholar," said Oliver, with fidgety precision. "Not a student, but a scholar. Six years at Wyalusing."
"We seek shelter from the storm," said Cornwall. "We would have gone to the inn, but they would not have taken us. Besides, we have no money."
"He is drunk," said the girl, "and smashing up the furniture. Madam is hiding in the cellar and I ran out here. I was afraid of him. I've always been afraid of him."
"You work at the inn?"
"I am," she said with some bitterness, "the wench, the scullery maid, the slops girl."
She sat down suddenly in the hay. "I don't care what happens," she said. "I am not going back. I will run away. I don't know what will happen to me, but I'll run away. I will stay no longer at the inn. He is always drunk and madam is handy with a faggot and no one needs to put up with that."
"You," said Oliver, "can run away with us. What matter if there be one more of us? A brave but a sorry company, and there's always room for another."
"We go far," said Hal, "and the way is hard."
"No harder than the inn," she said.
"There is no one at the inn?" asked Cornwall.
"Nor likely to be," she said. "Not on a night like this. Not that there is ever any crowd. A few travelers now and then. Charcoal burners and woodcutters in to get a drink, although not too often, for they seldom have the penny."
"Then," said Gib, "we can sleep till morning with no fear of disturbance."
Coon, who had been investigating the crannies of the loft, came back and sat down, wrapping his tail around his feet.
"One of us will have to stand guard for a time," said Cornwall, "then wake another one. We'll have to take turns throughout the night. I will volunteer for the first watch if it's agreeable with the rest of you."
Gib said to the serving wench, "Will you be coming with us?"
"I don't think it wise," said Cornwall.
"Wise or not," she said, "I will leave as soon as it's light enough to travel. With you or by myself. It makes no difference to me. I'm not staying here."
"I think it best," said Hal, "that she travel with us. These woods are no place for a human girl alone."
"If you are to travel with us," said Oliver, "we should know your name."
"My name is Mary," said the girl.
"Does anyone want to eat?" asked Gib. "I have some cold corn-bread in my knapsack and a bag of shelled walnuts. Not much, but something we can chew on."
Hal hissed at them.
"What's the matter?"
"I thought I heard something."
They listened. There was only the muffled patter of the rain and the mutter of the wind underneath the eaves.
"I hear nothing," Cornwall said.
"Wait. There it was again."
They listened and it came again, a strange clicking sound.
"That's a horse," said Hal. "A shod horse, the metal of the shoe striking on a stone."
It came again and with it came the faint sound of voices. Then the sound of the stable door creaking open and the shuffle and the thump of feet as a horse was led inside. Voices mumbled.
"This is a foul place," said one whining voice.
"It is better than the open," said another. "Only a little better, but this is a noisome night."
"The innkeeper is drunk," said the other.
"We can find our own food and beds," said his fellow.
More horses were led in. Leather creaked as saddles were taken off. The horses stamped. One of them whinnied.
"Find a fork and get up that ladder," someone said. "Throw down some hay."
Cornwall looked quickly about. There was no place to hide. They could burrow into the hay, of course, but not with someone in the loft, armed with a fork, questing in the darkness for hay to be thrown down the chute.
"All at once," he muttered. "All of us will have to make the break. As soon as he shows above the ladder."
He turned to the girl. "You understand?" he asked. "As fast as you can, then run."
She nodded.
Feet scraped on the ladder and Cornwall reached for the hilt of his sword. A flurry of flying hay went past him and out of the corner of his eye he saw Coon, leaping, spread-eagled, at the head that appeared above the opening into the loft. Coon landed on the head and there was a muffled shriek. Cornwall leaped for the ladder, went swarming down it. Halfway down he caught a glimpse of a fork, its handle lodged in the floor below, its tines spearing up at him, and twisted frantically to one side to miss them. At the bottom of the ladder was a whirling fury of wild motion as the man who had been climbing the ladder fought to dislodge Coon, who was using his claws with terrible execution on his victim's head and face. Even before his feet hit the floor Cornwall snapped out his left hand and, grasping the fork, jerked it free.
Three yelling shapes were charging from the front of the barn at him, metal gleaming as one of them drew a sword. Cornwall's left arm came back, carrying the fork backward until the metal of its tines scrapped against his jawbone. Then he hurled it, straight at the bellowing shapes that were bearing down on him. Sword held straight before him, he charged to meet them. His shield was still on his back; there had not been the time to transfer it to his arm. And a good thing, too, he thought in a split second of realization. With it on his arm, he never could have grabbed the fork, which, if it had stayed, would have impaled one of the others tumbling down the ladder.
In front of him one of the three shapes was rearing back with a shriek of surprise and pain, clawing at the fork buried in his chest. Cornwall caught the glitter of metal aimed at his head and ducked instinctively, jerking up his sword. He felt his blade bite into flesh, and at the same instant a massive blow on the shoulder that momentarily staggered him. He jerked his sword free and, reeling side-wise, fell against the rump of a horse. The horse lashed out with a foot and caught him a glancing blow in the belly. Doubled up, he went down on his hands and knees and crawled, gasping, the breath knocked out of him.