“Oh, I don’t know. Anyone who might be watching … the guards on the walls or someone who may have put her needlework down in order to climb the east tower to look out the window?”
Reuben looked back. The city was obscured by the hill and the trees. “No, Your Highness.”
The princess smiled. “Wonderful.” She crouched low over Tamarisk’s back and made a clicking noise. The horse broke into a run, racing down the road.
Reuben had no choice but to follow, holding on to the saddle with both hands as Melancholy made a valiant effort, but the nineteen-year-old pasture mare was no match for the seven-year-old Maranon palfrey. The princess and her horse were soon out of sight and Melancholy settled to a trot, then slowed to a walk. Her sides were heaving, and nothing Reuben tried urged her to move any faster. He finally gave up and sighed in frustration.
He looked down the road, helpless. He considered abandoning Melancholy and running, for at that moment he could travel faster than the horse he was on. He didn’t know what to do. What if she had fallen? If only Melancholy could gallop as fast as his heart.
Plodding to the top of the next rise, he saw the princess. Arista was on her horse, standing at the Gateway Bridge, which marked the divide between the kingdom of Melengar and their neighboring kingdom of Warric. She spotted him but made no move to flee.
At the sight of her his panic vanished. She was safe. Looking at her mounted near the riverbank, Reuben decided the ride there was not the best time of his life—this was.
She was beautiful, and never more so than at that moment. Sitting tall in the saddle, the wind splaying the luxurious gown across the back and side of her horse. Her long shadow reached toward him as the setting sun bathed both, playing with Tamarisk’s mane and the silk of the dress the same way it played with the surface of the river. This moment was a gift, a wonder beyond words, beyond thought. Being alone with Arista Essendon in the setting sun—her in that womanly dress and he on horseback armed with a sword like a man, like a knight—was a perfect dream.
The thunder of hooves shattered the moment.
A group of horsemen burst out of the trees to Reuben’s left. Three riders raced down on him. He thought they would collide with his horse, but at the last moment they veered and raced by, cloaks flying behind them. Melancholy was startled by the near miss and bolted off the road. Even if Reuben had been an expert rider, he would’ve had trouble staying in the saddle. Caught off guard, and unfamiliar with the motions of horses, he fell, landing on the flat of his back.
He crawled to his feet as the riders made straight for the princess and circled her, laughing and hooting. Reuben was not yet a castle guard, but Ian had given him the sword for a reason. That there were three didn’t matter. That his ability with a sword could best be described, even in his own mind, as embarrassing, did not give him the slightest pause.
He drew the blade, sprinted down the hill, and when he reached them shouted, “Leave her alone!”
The laughter died.
Two of the three dismounted and drew swords together. The polished steel flashed in the low sun. As soon as they hit the ground, Reuben realized they were no more than boys, three or perhaps four years younger than himself. Their features were so similar they must have been brothers. Their swords were unlike the thick falchions of the castle guard or the short swords of the squires. They held thin, delicate weapons with adorned handguards.
“He’s mine,” the largest said, and Reuben could hardly believe his luck that the other two stayed back.
To defend the princess from ruffians, even if only children—to have her watch me fight for her honor, to be the one to save her. Please, Lord Maribor, I can’t fail … not at this!
The boy approached all too casually, puzzling Reuben. Shorter by a good five inches, thin as a cornstalk, and with the wind at his back, he struggled to keep his wild black hair from his eyes as he strode toward him, a huge grin on his face.
When he came within a sword’s length, he stopped and, to Reuben’s amazement, bowed. Then he rose, sweeping his sword back and forth, such that it sang in the air. Finally, he took a stance with bent knees, his free arm behind his back.
Then the boy lunged.
His speed was alarming. The tip of the little sword slashed across Reuben’s chest, failing to cut skin but leaving a gash in his smock. Reuben staggered backward. The boy advanced, shuffling his feet in a strange manner that Reuben had never seen before. The movements were fluid and graceful, as if he were dancing.
Reuben swung his sword.
The boy did not move. He did not raise his blade to parry. He only laughed as the attack missed by an inch. “I think I could just stand here trussed to a pole and you still couldn’t hit me. The lady should have found a more able protector.”
“That’s not a lady. That’s the Princess of Melengar!” Reuben shouted. “I won’t let you harm her.”
“Is she really?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you hear that? We’ve captured a princess.”
I’m an idiot. Reuben felt like stabbing himself.
“Well, we aren’t going to harm her. My fellow highwaymen and I are going to ravage her, slit her throat, and then dump the wench in the river!”
“Stop it!” Arista shouted. “You’re being cruel!”
“No, he’s not,” the one who hadn’t dismounted said. He wore a hooded cloak, and with the setting sun at his back, Reuben couldn’t see his face. “He’s being stupid. I say we hold her for ransom and demand our weight in gold!”
“Excellent idea,” the younger of the two brothers declared. He had already sheathed his sword, pulled a wedge of cheese from his pack, and offered it to the mounted one, who took a bite.
“You’ll have to kill me first,” Reuben declared, and the laughter returned.
Reuben swung again. His opponent deflected the attack, his eyes locked on Reuben’s face. “That was a little better. At least that might have hit me.”
“Mauvin, don’t!” the princess shouted. “He doesn’t know who you are.”
“I know!” the boy with the wild hair yelled back, and laughed. “That’s what makes this so precious.”
“I said stop it!” the princess demanded, riding forward.
The boy laughed again and swung his sword low toward Reuben’s feet. Reuben had no idea how to counter. He thrust his blade down and in fear pulled his feet back. Off balance, he fell forward, driving his blade into the dirt. Rolling to his back and scrambling to his feet, he discovered the boy held both swords. Again laughter erupted from them all—except Arista.
“Stop it!” she shouted again. “Can’t you see he doesn’t know how to use a sword? He doesn’t even know how to ride a horse. He’s a servant. All he’s ever done is split wood and carry water.”
“I was only having some fun.”
“Fun to you maybe.” She pointed at Reuben. “He really thinks you’re going to hurt me. He isn’t playing.”
“Really? Because if that’s true, then he’s pathetic. Honestly, if that’s the best he’s got, why in Maribor’s name did Lawrence send this sod as your escort? A real highwayman would have killed him with the first swing, and you’d be tied to his horse while a ransom note was sent to the castle.”
She scowled. “If you were real highwaymen, Tamarisk and I would have left you in the dust. You’d be coughing and spitting as we raced away.”
“Not likely,” the mounted one said.
“No?” The princess leaned in close, and with a whisper in Tamarisk’s ear, the horse lunged as fleet as a deer and ran back up the South Road toward the city.
“Get her!” the mounted one ordered. Kicking his own horse, he chased after.