LITMIR.BIZ

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one step short of prison. You know the price for what you’ve done. You have escaped it, for now.”

      Sybilla inwardly cringed, but she forced herself to stay composed.

      The foal emerged from the shadowy corner. He sniffed the sheriff’s red shoes, spun around, flagged his tail and farted.

      Sir Guy smirked at the sheriff. “Voilà. It appears my colt holds a rather low opinion of you, too.” He bowed with a flourish and touched the flat side of his sword to his forehead in mock salute.

      The priest, Margery, and Etienne froze in silence, but Simon doubled over, hooting as Sybilla pressed her hand across her mouth to hide her grin.

      The sheriff spat and planted both hands on his hips. “That colt is as common as a mule, Sir Guy. I know the rumors planted by the seer. She’s a Separate and a heretic. And Mistress Corbuc here has swindled you, for certain. The colt’s not magic and with four white socks, he is as worthless as she is. But ’tis a satisfying way to end my night. ’Tis clear you and Mistress Corbuc deserve each other. Get out of Cornbury before the cock crows.

      With that he spun on his heels and left, the indignant priest stumbling behind him, scratching at the hay stuck in the seat of his cassock.

      Chapter Three

      Guy banged on the cottage door. “Smith? Open up,” he bellowed. The fog from his warm breath puffed from his mouth as he spoke.

      He listened for an answer and watched Sybilla shift and stamp her feet beside him. They’d hiked a mile in ankle-deep snow to the smith’s and she’d not complained, but her face was pale and her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. Her golden hair and faded blue dress were dusted with a light coat of snow and in the pre-dawn light she looked like a woman from a mystic world, too young to be a ghost, but too fair and ethereal to walk the earth.

      He pulled his cloak off and tossed it to Sybilla. “Put this on,” he ordered, annoyed he hadn’t thought to give it to her sooner. Turning, he pounded on the door. “Get up. We’ve need of your services and we’re freezing.”

      The cottage door cracked open. Warmth seeped invitingly across the threshold and a man whose head was like a melon with bleary red eyes, stumbled forward.

      The smith pulled a woolen blanket over his shoulders and squinted. “By the devil, who the hell are…Mistress Corbuc?” He cocked an eyebrow. “What are you doing with these men? I do not want trouble. An’ I already told you, you can sleep 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

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