DANGER ON THE ROAD
Conn rode quickly down the rain-slicked cobbled street. He felt the slide of his horse's hooves under him and shuddered, knowing that he had taken the corner too fast. He slowed.
I don't like this street.
He was perhaps an hour outside Edinburgh. It was cool, it was wet; a summer storm. He shivered in his wet cloak, though it was not just the rain.
This road is dangerous.
His father had warned him about it before he left and, during the journey, he had heard the same from many travelers. The home of brigands and outlaws, the forest beside the road had a fearsome reputation. Conn, riding alone, was worried.
He was a perfect target.
As he rode, Conn reached behind him to finger the hilt of his great-sword. He wore it slung across his back, the easier to draw it while riding. He was reassured each time he touched it. Not that it would be a great help to him if there were too many foes, however.
“We'll just have to ride fast and hard, boy.”
He patted the neck of his horse. This was one of the sons of Bert, his father's Clydesdale. White and delicate and lovely, Barra had been Conn's choice the moment he saw him. Now, he gripped with his knees, glad he was riding him and not a new horse. Barra was an ally.
“Come on, boy,” he said gently. The horse seemed to know he was nervous, for he was looking around, ears swiveling as he strained to catch small sounds.
Conn was not sure why he felt so nervous. The reputation of the stretch of road, probably, combined with the fast-approaching summer dusk. He was glad he was armed, and he still wished he had fallen in with a group of traders or merchants, seeking safety in having companionship on the road.
“We're almost there,” Conn said encouragingly. He felt his mood start to lift a little. It was pale dusk and he could hear a nightingale. The air smelled cool, like dew, and his spirits lifted as he relaxed. The countryside was different to what he was used to; more broad-leafed trees, the land more rich and arable.
He heard a rustle in the bushes and tensed. Listened harder. Barra snorted. Conn patted his neck in reassurance. “We should go.”
He gripped with his knees, encouraging a faster pace; a brisk trot. He did not want to go too fast: they had still a long ride ahead and the road was wet and slippery. He drew in a shaky breath and clung to the horse, heading off as fast as he dared to go.
“Ahoy, my lad!”
Conn turned, startled, as he heard someone hail him from the roadside. He turned and found himself looking at a tall, shabbily-dressed man standing on the road-side. He was gaunt and bony. He had a sincerely unpleasant look about him and Conn hesitated only a moment. Then he hurried on.
“What's the hurry?” the man shouted.
Conn shivered and went faster. He tried to shake off the unpleasant feeling that he was riding into an ambush.
Stop being so jumpy, Conn McNeil. Relax. He was just a simple farmer...
At that moment, something waved from the roadside. Something white and wavering – a bed-sheet, perhaps, Conn thought dimly. However, it was too late to do anything, as Barra shied, stepping sideways to avoid the apparent threat.
Conn yelled in alarm as he shifted sideways, clinging to the reins, his horse sliding on the icy road. Then something hit him hard on the back of the head and he was battered forward and sideways, losing his purchase on the saddle.
He shouted in alarm, reaching for his sword. Snarling and howling, he fell to the ground, the sword coming loose from the scabbard as he did so.
He found himself in a group of three men, sword in hand. They all looked at him, wary to strike first. Barra was snorting, rearing as a man grabbed at his bridle, this fourth man trying to lead him away.
Conn screamed a wordless war-cry and rushed at the tall man in the plaid cloak; the one who had hailed him initially. The man ducked the blow that had been aimed at his head and struck out with his dagger. It glanced off Conn's cloak, or it would have been a lethal blow. This close, swords were useless; no room to swing them. Daggers were dangerous.
Remembering in time, Conn stepped back. The men were circling him warily, each trying to draw him out, make him step in too close for the sword to be useful.
“You fight like a grandma!” one of them yelled derisively.
Conn ignored it. Don't ever be drawn into a fight. His father had told him, and the armorer had taught him the same. He would not let himself be annoyed enough to rush someone, no matter what they said.
“Barra,” he whistled. “To me!”
His horse heard his whistle and neighed, walking to him, pulling on the reins where the man sought to lead him. When he saw him raise a hand to strike his horse, Conn lost patience.
“Enough!” he screamed. He ran at the man holding the reins, his sword raised in a killing stroke. He brought it down and the man fell, shoulder cleaved through. Conn felt a stab of remorse when he heard the man hissing in pain, and brought the sword down on the back of his neck, killing him there. Better here than two weeks later from that wound I dealt him.
The other three – no, four, a fourth had joined them now – looked at him warily. Conn stepped back. “No more of you need to die!” he shouted. “Give me my horse and leave us be.”
They looked at him. Then they began a hasty conversation in their own group.
“We should let him go. He's right. Stay back.”
“Nonsense! There's only one of him. What's he got in those saddlebags?”
“Let him go? Why should we..? Who are we? The brotherhood of thieves, or courtiers?”
“No! Let him go.”
While they were arguing, Conn inched back toward Barra. His horse, standing patiently at the roadside, needed no further encouragement. He ran to Conn.
“Hai!” Conn screamed in wordless triumph as he ran for his horse, sword still in hand. He used the battle-leap to mount up into the saddle. His father had taught it to him more for fun than actually believing he would use it. He himself had learned it from an old tribesman; the way they’d fought centuries before. It worked in his favor.
Seeing him, the men shouted at each other.
“He's getting away!”
“Stop him!”
Conn felt a wild elation fill him as he gripped with his knees, spurring away down the road. The sword in his hands was heavy and dragged at him and he slowed as soon as they were a good distance away, lifting his arm to thrust it into the scabbard.
Only then, walking with Barra, praising him for his rescue and support during the fight, did he realize how exhausted he was. He was shaking. The effort and tension were taking their toll on him. His hands were shuddering and his whole body twitched. And he felt tired. So tired.
“We need to stop,” he said to Barra. The thought of a place in the warmth and something to eat was almost overwhelming. He knew they had half an hour more to go at least, but he was not sure he would hold out that long.
“We need an inn.”
Talking to Barra, letting them both go at a sedate walk, Conn proceeded along the road. He fought to calm himself.
It's only six miles. Only six miles more.
He clung to the reins, the sunshine slowly warming him as they rode on their way toward Edinburgh.
Two miles along, they reached an inn. Conn heaved a sigh of relief. They would stop here for an hour or so; time for Barra to recuperate and for him to find some peace after the fight.
He dropped from the saddle and walked briskly past the stable hand who came to fetch Barra.
“A rub-down and bran mash for him, please,” Conn said quickly, feeling in his pocket for his coins. He handed them over to the youth, knowing that the exchange would ensure Barra got the best treatment. Then he went inside.
“Stew and ale,” he ordered for himself.
“Will the young master be staying for the night?” the innkeeper's wife asked courteously. “We have some good rooms free upstairs.”
“I won't be stopping, Mistress,” he said politely.
“Oh.’Tis a pity, that. For we do have a good inn here, and like to host all manner of travelers.”
Conn nodded wearily. “Thank ye,” he said, and sank into a seat by the window. He stared out at the view across the valley, feeling his heartbeat slow and return to normal. He only stopped shaking when the warm stew arrived.
That was close.
Now that he was here, in the cheerful dining hall of the inn, filling up slowly with yeomen farmers and craftsmen and merchants, did he feel peaceful.
I could have died on the road.
The first thought that occurred to him was that, if he had died, he would not see Leona again. He leaned on the table, head supported by his hands, and let out a shaky exhale.
I can't not see her again.
The close encounter with death had made him realize how deeply he loved her. How much he had to see her again. He was not going to give up.
His cloak was rent where the dagger-point had grazed his ribs, and he could feel that it had left a mark there, though far from dangerous. All the same, it had been a brush with death. And it had reminded him of how very dearly he wanted to live.
I will go to France if I can. I will not let them take Leona from me. I cannot deny how much I love her.
The memories of her flowed into him as he sat in the warm inn’s dining room: her smile and the way her blue eyes slanted wickedly when she teased him. Her liveliness. Her infuriating and wonderful way of always being right, no matter whether or not she was. He missed her so much! She had only been gone for two weeks, but already he felt as if a part of him had died in her absence.
He was still shaken by the encounter on the road, but it had taught him something: how very much Leona meant to him. And how very much he refused to give her up.
He loved her too much for that.