“We’re under attack,” came the muffled reply. “Stay down.” The elderly chamberlain’s eyes opened wide; Melisande took his hand, and together they moved clumsily to the floor of the coach as it picked up speed, the vibration from horses’ hooves thundering through the shell. From the roof of the carriage they heard a light thump and the sound of a crossbow firing in return. “The footman is an expert in the crossbow,” Owen said to the girl, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “The Lord— made certain of it. He should be able to repel anything that might give chase.” Melisande nodded and smiled encouragingly. Several more thuds slammed into the back of the carriage, behind where their backs had been a moment before. The lady shuddered at the sight of four bolt tips sticking through the upholstered fabric. Outside the carriage they could hear the noise of pursuit and evasion, shouted commands and cursing. The carriage rattled and shook from side to side as rocks and ruts in the road were made into more serious obstacles by speed. “Don’t—don’t worry, m’lady,” Gerald Owen stammered. “I’m not,” replied the girl. “But you are standing on my hand.”
“Apologies,” the chamberlain mumbled, quickly moving his foot. Missiles screamed by beyond me window in the carriage door. The sound of a bolt hitting its mark echoed from above, a crossbow firing in return, and the carriage rocked wildly from side to side, spilling the contents of the seats to the floor and sending the two passengers sprawling. With a horrific thump and another violent shake, the carriage lurched violently as it ran over something large in the road; Melisande shuddered. By the sound and direction of it, it seemed to be the driver. Her theory was born out a moment later as the carriage began swerving unevenly in the roadway. Shouts from above could be heard, answered by others behind. “I—I don’t think the door is locked,” Melisande said, watching it flap open and closed. Gerald Owen struggled to his knees and crawled over to the door, reaching to lock it. Just as he sat back, a rider appeared at the left side of the carriage, visible only in minute flashes through the velvet drape, and slammed his hand against the carriage door, then reached through the curtain at the window. The thunder of a horse could be heard next to them. “Go away!” Melisande shouted. “Just go away! Leave me alone!”
“M’lady, shhhhh,” Gerald Owen cautioned, reaching for her. The hand came through the window again, farther this time, a rough, calloused hand with sword blisters on the palms. It grasped wildly, then pulled back again. Melisande dodged as it came within a hairsbreadth of her. She straggled toward the right side, but the careening coach was veering between ruts in the road, the horses unbalanced by whatever was occurring in the combat. The arm lunged in once more, this time grazing her cheek before seizing a handful of her hair and dragging her back toward the window. The Lady Navarne gasped aloud. Gerald Owen lunged awkwardly for her, grabbing her legs and pulling her back, but the hand did not let go, only wrapped her hair around it like a rope, and yanked again. Fury replaced the panic in the black eyes. Melisande pulled the knife Gwydion had given her from her boot and, with an artful arc, swung at the arm, missing. Another yank, and her head grazed the window curtains. Melisande, her back now against the bottom of the door, slashed above her head, hitting her mark and dragging the knife shallowly across the wrist of the arm that had held her fast an instant before.
The arm retracted quickly amid cursing in a tongue she didn’t recognize, then shot through the window once again, bleeding slightly and reaching around in wild swings through the carriage.
Then it grabbed the door handle and began to twist it.
The child steeled herself, waited until the hand was fully engaged around the knob, then took a deep breath and, without so much as a blink, buried the blade to the hilt in the back of the man’s hand below the knuckles.