Jane leaped back into the underbrush, then twisted aside, and Rogash blundered past her, bellowing, "Come back here, vixen!" Moving with the silence of one born to the greenwood, Jane searched among last year's fallen leaves until she found a broken branch, three feet long and still sound.
Rogash came blundering back, calling, "Where are you, trull? Come out and get what you deserve!"
Jane stepped out in front of him and swung the branch two-handed.
Rogash howled with pain, falling back with a crash but Jane heard a retching gasp behind her and turned to see Barlein coming toward her, still hunched over his pain, but with a dagger in his hand and blood in his eye.
Jane swung her improvised club in a feint. Barlein reached up to catch it, lunging with his knife...
But the branch wasn't there to catch; it circled around to smash against his knife hand. He screamed again, dropping the knife, then went silent as the branch cracked against his head.
Suddenly, the wood was awfully still.
Fear of another sort seized Jane, for she had never killed any man, and had no wish to begin. She glanced at Rogash, but he began to groan, clasping his head, and Barlein at her feet was breathing, at least. She stepped back into the roadway, club ready—but Lumpkin was scrabbling in the dust, trying to regain his feet. All guilt vanished, and Jane raised her club...
Feet pounded through the underbrush, many feet, and Jane leaped back with a scream that was as much anger as fear, her club swinging high, ready to strike ...
"Nay, sister, I pray thee," Leander said, startled. Jory and Martin stepped up to either side of him.
Jane just stared at them, still holding her club as she gave a sobbing gasp. Then she dropped it and leaped into her eldest brother's embrace, throwing her arms about his chest in a hug like that of Death.
"Nay, sister, 'tis well, 'tis well," he soothed. "You are safe now—we will not let any harm you."
"She seems to have little enough need of us," Jory told him, and there was definite pride in his voice.
"No need! See how she trembles, brother! Nay, sister, what did these cattle seek to do to you?"
"What do you think, Leander?" Martin snapped. "Brave fellows, to come at a poor weak lass three together!"
"Fool that I was, to ever let you go alone in the woods!" Leander groaned.
"You did well, sister," Martin said with admiration. "Well, but not enough." Leander disengaged himself from Jane. "Come, brothers. Let us finish what she has begun."
"No!" Jane cried in panic. "I would not have you hang!"
"Peace, sister." Now it was Jory's arm around her. "We shall not be hung—but neither shall they."
"No, no!" Jane cried. "Nothing that will not heal!"
"You are too kindhearted, sister," Martin sighed, "but we shall honor your wish." He dropped to one knee to yank Lumpkin's head up by the hair. "Did you hear that, bag of offal? It is only by our sister's mercy that you shall not lose more than your life."
"Nor even that!" Jane cried.
"Well, as you wish, sister," Jory sighed, dragging Barlein back into the trail and throwing him down on the ground. "Up, swine! For I shall give you one chance of fair fight, though 'tis more than you gave my sister."
But Barlein knew better than to risk it; he scrambled to his feet, trying to spring past Jory.
Jory kicked his feet out from under him. "You do not wish the chance, then? Sister, turn your head!"
"Aye, Martin, take her home," Leander snapped. "The two of us are more than a match for what is left of the three of them. Do not beseech greater mercy, sister, for they deserve none."
"True enough." Martin turned her away with a consoling arm about her shoulders. "Come, sister, home to safety. You do not wish to see what follows."
He was right—she didn't. She was sure of that the next week, when she happened to see Lumpkin going out to the field to work. The bruises had faded, but he was still limping.
She had no trouble with the village boys after that but apparently, word of her spread to the manor house, for it was Sir Hempen who stopped her next—Sir Hempen, the son of Sir Dunmore, the knight whom her father served.
Sir Hempen leaned down from his saddle to catch her wrist, saying, "Hail, pretty maid!"
Jane's heart quailed within, for knight's son or not, the glint in his eye was the same she had seen in the eye of the peasant Lumpkin. "Say, pretty maid, have you seen a fox?"
"Several times in my life, sir." Jane gripped her staff more tightly—she never went without one, now.
"Aye, but have you seen one today? I am hunting vixen."
"I have not seen one, sir, not this week past."
"None?" Sir Hempen feigned surprise. "Not even when you have looked into the waters of a still pond?"
Jane stared at him, startled, then twisted her wrist out of his grasp in anger. "Nay, sir, but I have seen an ass, not two minutes past!"
His hand cracked across her cheek, and she fell back, biting down on a cry of pain, pressing her left hand to her cheek, then glaring up at him—but the young knight lolled back in his saddle, face easing into a wolfish grin. "Why, then, if you have seen an ass, so shall I! Come, wanton, will you be bought? Or will you be forced?"
"I am no wanton, sir," she retorted angrily, "not for any man's buying or beckoning!"
"That is not what I hear from the village boys. Nay, think, pretty lass—there shall be gold for you, and for your child."
A sudden certainty crystallized within her, and she did not know where it came from, for it must have been building a while. "I shall never bear any child, sir, not yours nor any man's!"
But he misunderstood her completely. "Barren? So much the better, then!"
"Nay, sir, I am a virgin!"
"Then how could you know you were barren?" He reached down again. "Come, I am not your first, nor shall I be your last!"
She stared at the reaching hand for a horrified instant, realizing that Lumpkin and his friends had certainly had their revenge. Anger glared into rage, anger at them and this presumptuous young knight. She snatched the groping hand and spun about, yanking hard. She heard Sir Hempen's cry of surprise and fear, then saw him fly past her to slam full-length into the ground. His horse neighed and backed, alarmed—and Jane felt satisfaction glowing within her.
Then Sir Hempen heaved himself up, glaring murder at her, and with a sick sense of certainty, she saw in her mind's eye a gallows, with the bodies of her three brothers swaying in the wind—for to revenge your sister on a peasant was one thing, but to take that same revenge on a knight's son was quite another. The certainty grew and the sickness faded as she lifted her quarterstaff in both hands, with grim conviction—for though Sir Hempen might have charged her brothers with assault, she knew he never would complain of a beating from a girl, for the very shame of it.
If she could—for a peasant was one thing, but a knight trained in fighting was another.
"You shall regret that, my lass," Sir Hempen grated, "regret it now, and in my bed!"
"I shall never come to your bed, sir," she retorted. "They who did hint that I might, did slander me most sorely."
"Most sore shall you be," he retorted, "but I doubt that you were slandered." He gathered himself and charged, reaching.
She spun aside and swung her staff.
It caught him on the back of the head with a hollow knock, and he went sprawling.
Jane stepped back and waited. A single blow and a quick flight would not serve this time, she knew, for word might still reach her brothers, and fools of honor that they were, they would seek Sir Hempen out. Worse, he would pursue her still, if not today, then another time, until they were bound to come against him. The only chance was to stand and fight, and best him at his own game.