Free Blood and Dreams: Lost Years II by Richard Monaco Page B

curses and missed slashes.
    Lohengrin , I was thinking, you silly, unhappy, wretched, rash, half-brained … You’re like … I concentrated on the simile as the bright green cornstalks flicked past, the oven-hot wind rushing past my face … like a raw sore on the tip of my prong …
    “What has he done now?” I asked the heat shimmer and the horse’s nodding head. “My idiot by-blow!”

 
    LOHENGRIN
     
    My father. Name hundreds of people I wanted not to meet just then and he and the pope would top the list. What fate!
    I was broiling hot, bone-jarred to a mushy weariness. I mechanically kicked the horse along. I’d made the mistake of loafing in a village inn yard, drinking and eating, and then talking with a round, dark soft-bodied serving girl. She had small, pretty toes and fingers, and I was in the mood to admire them. The moon was high, my urges low. Oh, she had a too shrill laugh and a broken front tooth, but such a sweetly compact body. She’d been only mildly impressed (which showed good sense) by my knightly estate, but I was just showing her a little brass trinket that could have been gold (unless seen by sunlight) and the perky, dark face was turned up to mine, her sweet and sourish scent filling my nostrils. The blood and tingle was half filling my sausage loaf …
    I was just thinking about how some knights would have stunned and gagged her, then had their way. For all the pleasure in that you might as well stuff the stern of a sheep. No, I needed a willing partner in pleasure. Willing for whatever reasons. I was close to my goal, feeling good about everything in general, sitting there by the haystack when those four horsemen came clattering into the yard. I crouched around behind the hay in the moonshadow. Heard the voices. Excused myself and headed for the stables as (I think) three of the men crashed into the sleepy inn. One reached the stable as I was climbing in the side window. He sat outside, cautious. I armed quietly and then charged out full tilt.
    He didn’t miss by much, but he missed. Oh, I may not have been the killer my father was, but I had a neat swing. I stabbed and hit some part of the moongleaming rider. Sparks. Jarred my wrist. Had no time to follow up. Veered off the road into the near fields because the others (and torches and voices) were spilling out various doors and windows. No time for a nice duel.
    I’d been riding hard ever since. One mistake like that is as good as ten. By mid-morning all the animals were winded and we’d lain on two small hills a quarter mile apart, in shade, staring at one another across the summer pounding sun-fury, and waited for the blown mounts to get up for the next segment of the chase.
    Thank God or the Devil, I care not, for that cornfield. Certainly the devil, for my great father popping in like an armored scarecrow. On days when I missed him he never turned up.
    I nearly overturned, scrambling down into a dried-up streambed with steep sides. Dense green prickly bush with tiny purple flowers lined the walls. Hard, smooth, damp stone grated and clacked under the horses’ hooves,
    I was satisfied. Even if they followed close they’d have to come up on me one at a time here.
    I was aiming to reach the coast as soon as possible. The village I wanted was north of London and maybe a day’s ride. I had directions and instructions. I hadn’t stolen the spear on speculation. No. I’d been outside one fine, warm, moonlit night. On the hillslope near the castle walls. Practicing fast draw and cut. The air was rich and refreshing. I’d worked up a sweat, stripped to leather shorts. Barefoot. The moon was risen.
    I was poised on the crest where the hill fell off steeply. I could see into the valley where the serfs used to live. Two or three families lingered on. I could see the faint stutter of candle flames among deserted huts.
    I worked through a series of terrific thrusts, hoping to get a good night’s sleep from tiredness. I had too much energy