Free The Last Knight by Hilari Bell Page B

slammed open with a force that made the bottles rattle, and all three of us jumped. One of the four stocky men who entered bore a strong resemblance to Mistress Agnes, except for his furious glower.
    “Don’t you say one more word to this bastard, Aggie. He’s going to bring Cece back to be hanged!”
    Rumor travels amazingly fast in the countryside. In the city, I’ve seen it leap from house to house like a wildfire, but in the country villages are hours, even days, apart, so how—
    “Not to be hanged.” Sir Michael rose to his feet. “To be tried by the law and assigned whatever redemption the judicars deem fit. If she killed her husband, she has to answer for it—surely you understand that. If she’s innocent—”
    I didn’t think they had to understand anything of the kind and neither did they. The brother’s face was red with anger and pain…mostly anger.
    “She’d not have a chance in Lord Dorian’s court if she was innocent as a babe!” The brother—a woodworker, I recalled—stalked around the table, and even Sir Michael had sufficient sense to back away. His arms were as big as most men’s thighs.
    “Lord Dorian’s rule is just, and I should know. My father is his liegeman, and I was raised—”
    “Yeah, we know all about him and your father and you. Do you get shares in the money he’s going to make off Cory Port if he hangs my sister?”
    “What!” Sir Michael stopped backing away. I could have told him this was a mistake, but I was hiding behind the distillery in the corner. In a four-on-one fight, I never bet against the odds.
    “What port? What are you—”
    The brother pushed Sir Michael into the wall. It didn’t look like he was trying very hard, but the bottles rattled again and Sir Michael had to shake his head to clear it.
    “Cory Port—as if you didn’t know.” The hulk grabbed Sir Michael’s collar and pitched him out of the herbarium into the hall, where he hit another wall. This time Sir Michael came up fighting. Unfortunately, the three journeymen who’d ridden in with the brother were ready to grab him.
    Perhaps out of consideration for his sister’s furniture, they took the brawl into the yard, but they bounced off the wall a few times on the way out, and one journeyman’s head connected loudly with a tall oak chest.
    Mistress Agnes followed, arms crossed under her breasts and lips pressed tight. I drifted inconspicuously after her.
    At first it took all four of them to hold Sir Michael. He not only swung his fists whenever his arms were free, but also kicked with a vigor and accuracy that was almost ungentlemanly. He’d picked up a few unknightly tricks in his wandering.
    The uncluttered yard made a good arena, although at one point the flailing tangle of limbs, fists, and boots collided with the horse trough pump. I’m happy to say it was the brother who sank to his knees, clutching his elbow and swearing.
    That left three of them on Michael—two clutching his arms. He stamped on the toes of the third and then kicked him in the chest, sending him staggering to the foot of the steps, where Mistress Agnes and I stood. The man looked around wildly and grabbed me.
    I stood quite still in his grasp. “I’m just his squire. I only take orders, and I’m not going to fight. So don’t hit me.”
    He glared at me. One of his eyes was puffing up. Then he turned and went back to the brawl.
    I saw with regret that the other two journeymen had gotten a firm grip on Sir Michael’s arms, holding him despite his struggles. His nose was bleeding.
    The brother rose, stalked over to them, and punched Sir Michael in the stomach. I winced.
    He followed that with a nasty blow to the jaw and another to the stomach, the soft thuds almost lost in the gasps and grunts of the participants.
    Sir Michael managed to hook one of the journeyman’s feet from under him, but it was clear that the ensuing scramble only delayed the inevitable.
    Mistress Agnes chewed her lower lip, the anger