Rochemont recoiled with a scream as a sliver of metal gashed his cheek. Blood spattered over his fancy doublet, and with his face contorting in fear, he looked like a demented demon. A veritable spawn of Satan.
Kicking, swearing, he threw himself once more at the unyielding oak. But on hearing Saybrook’s stentorian shouts coming closer, the comte left off his efforts and fled.
“That way!” she yelled to her husband, pointing to the passageway Rochemont had chosen.
The earl shot her a surprised look, but didn’t slow his loping stride. “I’ll deal with you later,” he called. “Go find Henning.”
Arianna pocketed the spent pistol and pulled out its loaded mate.
“Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered, then set off after her husband.
The six Hungarian chargers snorted and stomped their massive hooves at the sand-covered stone, the vaporous puffs of breath silvery against the burnished black coats. The soft swoosh of the silk trappings was punctuated by the jangling bits of gilded brass and polished crystal adorning the bridles as the grooms struggled to keep them grouped in a tight line, allowing the other horses for the pageant to be led into the staging area from the outdoor bridle path.
A squire patted the plumes of his velvet hat into place while another adjusted the girth of his knight’s mount. One of the heralds blew a low practice note on his trumpet, setting off another rustling of restless energy.
“A quarter hour,” intoned the master of ceremonies after consulting his jeweled pocket watch. “Our noble cavaliers will be arriving in a quarter hour.”
Banners fluttered in the breeze blowing in through the open gates. An air of expectancy swirled around the saddling arena as the participants jostled to take up their assigned positions.
A figure burst out of the main walkway, the crimson satin tails of his surcoat trailing behind him like tongues of fire.
“What the devil . . .” The master of ceremonies stared in slack-jawed shock as the flash of red streaked past him. “I’ve not been informed of any change in plan.”
“Out of my way!” The shrill shout rose above the confusion. Swinging the flat of his sword, Rochemont knocked down a groom and scrabbled into the saddle of the horse nearest the gate. The big animal whinnied and reared as the comte slammed his ceremonial spurs into its flanks, then shot off in a blur of flame-tinged charcoal and disappeared into the night.
“Stop! Stop!” wailed the master, waving a helpless hand as Saybrook sprinted toward the gate.
The earl veered around one of the startled grooms, and with a lithe grace grabbed the saddle pommel, speared the stirrup with his boot and vaulted lightly onto the back of the biggest charger. “Move aside, lad,” he ordered, fisting the reins in one hand and quickly bringing the powerful stallion under control.
The horse danced through the gates and then surged forward, muscles rippling, nostrils flaring, hooves kicking up clods of damp earth as it shot down the bridle path.
Ornate copper torches lit the way, blazes of bright gold against the darkness. Up ahead, the pale stone of the palace rose like a ghostly specter out of the evening mist.
“Damnation,” muttered Saybrook, urging his mount into a gallop. “If the dastard cuts through the side courtyard and reaches the main gates, he’ll have a good chance of escaping.”
In answer to the flick of leather, the stallion thundered through a tight turn and began to gain ground on the comte.
Rochemont was sliding from side to side, his big sword flailing as he fought to keep his seat in the saddle. Hearing the drumming of pursuit, he cast a desperate glance over his shoulder. His jaw fell open. His mouth moved, but any sound was swallowed in the wind.
Spotting an opening in the wrought iron fence, Saybrook guided his horse through the gap and cut through a series of zigzag turns. A low wall loomed up ahead, its frieze of gilded spikes a daunting hurdle for the big-boned charger.
“Up, up, on my signal,” murmured the earl as he squared his horse’s head and gave a light tap to its lathered flanks.
The stallion gathered its powerful legs and soared high. Horse and rider hovered for an instant in the air, a dark avenging angel silhouetted against the night, before thundering back to earth.
Saybrook was now neck and neck with his quarry. Ignoring the panicked kicks from the comte, he edged his horse sideways and forced Rochemont’s mount off the path to the Imperial gates up ahead. Hooves skidding and sliding over the smooth cobbles, both chargers rumbled through a narrow archway and into a side courtyard.
“You might as well surrender now,” called Saybrook, calmly reining his sweat-flecked mount into position to block the only avenue of escape.
Rochemont darted a desperate look around at the regal stone façade rising up on all sides. “Out of my way,” he screamed, brandishing his weapon high overhead.
Steel flashed in the moonlight as Saybrook gave a mock salute. “Alas, your skills with a sword don’t have me quaking in my boots. But if you wish for another clash, by all means come at me. I shall be happy to slice open your traitorous throat.”
The comte’s horse pranced nervously over the stones.
“If you promise to let me go, I’ll tell you all I know.” Rochemont’s bluster gave way to a wheedling tone as he circled into the shadows of the courtyard’s center fountain.
“You’re in no position to bargain,” countered Saybrook. “I want Renard’s name, and you don’t have it.”
“I lied,” cried the comte. “In fact, I have proof of his identity.”
“Proof?” repeated the earl.
“Come here and I shall hand it over.”
Saybrook’s low laugh was nearly lost in the splashing of water. “Do you think me a gudgeon? Throw down your sword and come out. If what you say is true and you help us apprehend Renard, the government may agree to spare your life.”
“W-will you drop your weapon as well?”
“That’s a fair request.”
A moment later came the ring of Rochemont’s steel falling to the cobbles. “Now it’s your turn, Lord Saybrook.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he called, letting his sword clatter to the ground.
Clack, clack. Iron-shod hooves echoed the metallic sound.
Saybrook placed a hand on his pommel.
Clack, clack—the equine steps quickened to a hard trot as Rochemont rode out from the gloom. A long pitchfork protruded from under his arm, the stout length of oak topped by a menacing crown of prongs.
“You are a gudgeon,” cried the comte, spurring his horse forward. “Let the joust begin!”
Saybrook reacted with martial quickness. Kicking free of the stirrups, he hurled himself to the cobbles and spun into a tight, twisting roll, causing Rochemont’s desperate lunge to miss by a hair. His hand shot out to seize his fallen sword, and in the same smooth motion he sprung to his feet and ran to block the archway. “Don’t be a fool, Rochemont. In a fight to the death, you won’t come away the victor.”
Swearing a savage oath, the comte yanked his mount around as he sought to regrip his weapon and charge again. Hands tangling in the reins, he lost momentary control of the pitchfork and the points raked across the other charger’s flanks. With a foam-flecked snort, the animal reared, lashing out wildly with his forelegs.
Spooked by the sudden melee, Rochemont’s mount shied sharply, throwing the comte off balance. He swayed and then tumbled from the saddle, pitching headfirst in between the panicked horses.
“Damnation.” Ducking under a flying hoof, Saybrook grabbed hold of Rochemont’s surcoat. A bruising blow caught him hard on the ribs, but he held on, even as he fell to his knees. “Keep your head down,” he warned, trying to haul the other man to safety.
But Rochemont lifted the pitchfork, intent on launching one last spearing attack. An evil grin split the comte’s face . . . an instant before a thrashing kick crushed his skull.