The big man met his stare and he looked back to his coach for guidance. I could see it cross the servant’s face: this wasn’t bravery, this was stupidity.
The big man walked past him, nodding an acknowledgement of the bravery of a lone man prepared to stand against the line of mounted men. He swept his long hair back from his face in an unconscious gesture, plaiting it into a loose braid, and it was then that I recognised him. He’d grown since the incident at the river, putting on weight that wasn’t all muscle. He had stature that had been absent when he was being pursued, that came from more than the line of men behind him. This man was used to command, used to being at the centre of events. Townsmen and visitors, noblemen and women, servants and soldiers – they all watched him.
He walked along the row until he reached a young woman in a line of wealthy men. She was no more than a girl, and sat side-saddle on a beautiful grey horse, immaculately groomed and dressed with ribbons in its mane. She faced forward, and looked at the church across the square, not down at the man now standing beside her. The wealthy men around her moved restlessly, trying to decide what to do, but she ignored the man looking up at her completely.
He spoke to her. His voice was heard clearly across the square, but the words were alien to me. Her eyes didn’t waver. He spoke again, and this time he caught hold of the reins of her horse. She wrapped her hands in the reins and tried pull them from him, but he tugged them hard and she was wrenched from her saddle and pitched at his feet, skirts and petticoats trailing over the saddle as she slid to the ground. The fall was hard and she landed awkwardly, but she neither cried out, nor begged for assistance. She stood slowly, gathering her dress, brushing at smeared marks on her elbows and arms, and pulling her dignity together. She turned and faced the man, who watched her with apparent amusement. She drew back her arm and slapped him hard across the face.
There was utter silence. Neither the mounted men, nor the merchants moved.
He said something quietly to her that I did not hear. She replied in cold tones. The big man regarded her for a long moment. Then he drew a knife from his belt. One of the men behind her went to draw his sword and found himself the focus of the mounted archers. He took his hand away from the pommel very slowly.
The big man reached in and slipped the knife under the girth of the saddle, severing it in one smooth cut. He stepped in and pitched the saddle from the horse, dumping it behind her mount and making the horses behind hers dance back restlessly. Her horse stepped sideways and then recovered, standing shivering beside her. He regarded the girl, but she neither flinched nor gave way. He looked up at the merchants behind her, but not one would meet his gaze.
He stepped back, and gave a courtly bow quite at odds with his demeanour. With that he strode back through the lines and found his own mount, swinging easily up into the saddle. He surveyed the procession and the square for a moment as if he were committing it to memory, and then turned his mount and rode out of the square. The line of men followed, until the clatter of their passing faded from the square. Everyone waited until the last of them had gone and then let out the breath they’d been holding.
The girl, who had been left standing beside her unsaddled horse, was suddenly assailed by offers of carriages and assistance. She ignored all of them and, leaving the saddle where it had fallen, took the reins of her horse and walked with it along the line of the procession to the very front, passed the reins to a waiting footman, and with the all the grace she could muster, entered the church.
THREE
I came to on a cold stone floor. My cheek felt like it had been sandpapered. I tracked back through my memories, setting aside the dreams of stranger encounters, and tried to figure out what floor I was lying on. It was dark and cold, but not damp. Swallowing as I licked my dry lips, I winced in pain as I lifted