in the shop, but there’s no room for your mare and foal.”
Sybilla shook her head and lowered her eyes.
Guy glowered at the smith. “Mistress Corbuc says you have a horse for sale. I want to buy it.”
The smith narrowed his eyes. “I know you…Sir Guy of Warwick. And you too, Sir Simon.”
Simon grinned and saluted the smith.
The smith lifted his chin and studied Guy. “I was on the battlefield at Balmont. You fought like a madman and saved King Richard. You’re poor but noble knights. And you’ve nothing on you now that makes me think you can pay for a horse.” He pointed to the mare and foal and shook his head. “I’m not looking for a trade. The colt’s a straggly one and marked as he is, he’ll bring bad luck.” He sniffed and held up his hand as if he anticipated an argument. “Aye, I’ve heard the tale about a magic horse, to be born this winter hereabouts. But this colt is not The One. Wouldn’t trade a goat for him.”
Guy stood up to his full height. “I am not here to trade, but I need another horse.” He put his hand on his sword and stepped toward the man.
“No.” Sybilla clutched Guy’s forearm. “He let me sleep by his firing grate these last two weeks. Otherwise, I would be dead from the cold. If he doesn’t want to sell the horse, we can walk. I will walk.”
Guy looked at Sybilla as she shivered; her fingernails had turned blue. She wouldn’t last long on foot. He removed and lowered his sword and offered the hilt to the smith.
The smith’s eyes grew wide. “That’s the weapon King Richard gave you. I recognize the stone in the handle. ’Tis the biggest rock o’lapis I ever seen. For that sword, I’ll trade my horse, an’ I’ll throw in a little bag o’ last year’s oats.”
Guy shook his head. “You get the stone, but not the weapon.”
The smith stroked his chin and studied the handle of the sword. “’Tis a bargain. But you get what you get in horse tradin’.”
Within the hour, the smith wore the blue stone around his neck. He hurried to the barn and reappeared, leading a burly horse. Grain spilled from the animal’s mouth and he snorted bits of hay from his nose. The smith handed the lead rope to Guy. “You be doin’ me a favor ta take him. He eats like every mouthful is his last.”
The stocky courser, a stallion with a winter coat as black as soot, coughed and rubbed his face on his wide knees. He had a plug’s head, but by the looks of his belly, he hadn’t missed a meal all winter.
Guy frowned. “He’s sound?”
The smith nodded. “He ain’t pretty, but he’s a solid ride. His name is Bacchus.”
Taking Addy’s lead from Sybilla’s hands, Guy tossed the rope to Simon. “The mare is your mount.”
Simon pulled a horse face. “Why can’t I ride the stallion? I can’t be seen riding on this bag-o’-bones. I’m a knight, too, you know.”
Suppressing a grin, Guy shook his head. Simon had a gifted sword arm, but he was not a knight who could boast his talent as a rider. He hated riding without a saddle.
Guy jumped onto Bacchus’ back, and hauled a cold-stiffened Sybilla up to sit behind him. He winked at his friend. “Two of us will have to share a horse. I’d rather ride with Mistress Corbuc than with you.” He reached toward the smith. “I’ll take those oats now.”
The smith tossed the oats to Guy. “Mistress Corbuc, what have you done? Have you sold your soul for a warm bed and whatever scraps this man will give you? ’Tis a pity. He’ll put a babe in your belly, then turn you out. You coulda stayed here and kept your freedom. We could have come ta some agreement.” He smiled and scratched his crotch.
Guy bristled at the thought of Sybilla sharing hearth and bed with this man. He was a greasy fellow and smelled of soured straw and piss.
He turned Bacchus toward the road. “Mistress Corbuc has conscribed to be my servant. The choice was hers to make.”
Sybilla called down to the smith. “Thank you for your kindness for these last few weeks, good sir. Aye, I am a servant now, but my heart and soul are free.”
He felt her stiffen and lean away from him. The gap of cold air that rushed across his back made the fine hairs on his neck stand up.
Guy exhaled and rubbed his forehead. What was he doing taking this woman, an old mare, and a gangly, unproven foal back to Ketchem?
Damnation. He could not afford to pay the board on two more horses and he needed a servant like he needed head lice. For the past six months, he’d slept in a stone cell in the bottom of the castle and eaten with the other knights in the great hall, even though the Earl of Ketchem Castle and his wife, Lady Claire, had offered him a warm apartment and a place at the high table. He preferred the solitude and the privacy of his darkened cellar room.
What would he do with Mistress Corbuc?
He would set her free, he decided, as soon as he was certain she was safe. He’d keep the foal, but it would be hard to part with Mistress Corbuc. God’s breath, she was a comely woman with no husband or protector, but full of pride and independence, determined to survive. He knew what it was like to be alone, with nothing much to live for except your freedom and your horse.
Guy spurred Bacchus into a gallop, jostling Sybilla. She grabbed his waist and fell against him. Her softness felt good against his back and he breathed in her earthy scent, of horses and of hay.
Hell to the devil. He got that feeling again. The one that made him stop and think, for just a moment, that he wanted something more than the life of a knight-for-hire. He’d had a taste of home and hearth, and of the kind of love that once filled his widowed sister’s house. He’d grown accustomed to her boisterous home, the squall of his infant nephew, and the antics of their one-eared cat that made him laugh. Every now and then, he craved that life and blamed himself for having lost it.
Having lost them.
He clenched the reins, guilt and regret burning in his stomach. He’d sacrificed it all to be a knight. King Richard’s wars had cost him dearly. Had he not left his widowed sister and her child for the call to battle, he would have been there to protect them when the raiders came.
The foal whinnied. His coltish squeal pierced the wintry silence. Armor clattered and hoof beats thundered in the distance. Sybilla straightened and tightened her arms around Guy’s waist.
Guy drew Bacchus to a halt.
Crimson banners shimmered in the morning sun and a retinue of mounted soldiers, all dressed in red and black, stopped in the middle of the road ahead. A fair-haired nobleman on a white horse rode to the front of the pack.
The massive destrier reared and snorted, his rider’s brilliant blue cloak, emblazoned with his crest, an eagle with a sheaf of wheat clutched in his talons, draped over the horse’s rump and haunches like a king’s parade robe.
Guy moved his hand to his sword. “Lord Hamon,” he said, his voice detached. “I trust you are well rested?”
Lord Hamon drew his sword. “Guy of Warwick and Simon Portney, impoverished knights,
