Free The Fugitive Queen by Fiona Buckley Page A

that for a brief moment I took for upright stones or perhaps bushes, until I saw that they were moving. Then came hoarse shouts and a trampling of hooves, and out of the vapors burst a crowd of men on hairy ponies.
    Sybil, on Dick Dodd’s pillion, screamed. The merlin, which was in a hamper slung on a pack mule, bated inside the wicker-work with a furious beating of wings, and Meg’s pony, which was alongside, plunged, frightened as much by the hamper as by our assailants. I caught at the pony’s bridle, dragging it away from the mule. Our attackers were faceless beings with scarves wrapped around their faces and bodies swathed in thick mantles. They were also brandishing a haphazard but frightening collection of weapons. I glimpsed a sword or two, but most of them seemed to be carrying pikes and quarterstaves.
    Our men had their own swords out on the instant but the sharpest blade is at a disadvantage when confronted with a longer weapon. A quarterstaff swept Harry Hobson clean out of his saddle and Ryder, lunging with his sword, had it struck from his hand by a pike. Dick Dodd, with Sybil clinging to his waist and still screaming, swung his horse between the attackers and the pack mules, which he was leading, and which he naturally assumed were the target. His blade was at the ready. But he and Sybil were ignored and so were the mules. It was my turn to scream as, too late, we saw that the enemy’s real objective had nothing to do with ordinary robbery.
    A bulky figure came up on the other side of Meg and hoisted her from her saddle, dumping her on his horse in front of him. In the same moment, Harry Hobson, who had scrambled to his feet and had kept hold of his sword, ran forward and lunged at Meg’s captor. The man wheeled his mount deftly and then I screamed a second time for one of the swords I had glimpsed among our assailants was his, and he was swinging it.
    It looked as though he were trying to parry Hobson’s blade but if so, he missed. He struck Harry instead, between neck and shoulder. I heard the beginning of a hoarse outcry from Harry,but it was cut off short as his blood gushed out and a spatter of white bone came with it. Then his attacker wrenched the sword free and Harry fell, right in front of my mare, Roundel, who reared and squealed. Somehow I kept my seat though I let go of Meg’s frightened pony. Meg’s captor let out a shout, and then they were all spurring away, streaming off across the heather and into the grayness, taking Meg with them. I heard her shriek: “Mother, Mother !” and then she was gone.
    â€œMeg!” I wailed. I tried to follow, but there were stone out-crops amid the heather and my good Roundel pecked and almost came down. She stopped short, trembling and sweating, and I found Ryder beside me, reaching for my bridle.
    â€œMistress, Mistress! There’s Harry . . .”
    â€œLeave me alone! I must follow Meg.” I tried to push his hand off my rein, at the same time straining my ears, thinking I had heard voices in the fog, not far off, as though our enemies, or some of them, were still nearby, hidden only by the mist. But Ryder was turning Roundel, leading us back. Confusedly, I let him. Then he was helping me down and urging me forward, and a moment later I was kneeling at Harry Hobson’s side.
    He was dead. The sword had smashed into him at an angle that had nearly decapitated him and had gone like a meat cleaver deep into his breastbone. His blood was soaking into the wet heather. His eyes were open and glazed and his right hand was still clenched on the hilt of his own sword, the one with the amethyst in the hilt. That too was smeared with blood. He had died instantly. That at least was a mercy.
    Ryder had disappeared, though I heard his voice close by, speaking to Dick Dodd. I could hear our horses, too, trampling and snorting, badly upset. I crouched, crying, dropping tears on poor Harry’s body, and then