The Protectors war

Tony Knolles's men, Nigel Loring thought. The family was distantly related to his. Oh, bugger, as Hordle would put it.

He'd worked with Knolles before the Change, mostly counterterrorist work in south Ulster in the 1980s, and since the Change as well; the last he'd heard of him was that he commanded a company of the Guard working out of the forward base at Stowe. If he'd heard news of the escape he would have moved quickly and decisively-efficiently to boot.

He's entirely too competent. So is this corporal, on a smaller scale. And Knolles isn't nearly so disenchanted with the king as I, either.

The rest of the farm's folk came up as the soldiers rested and ate and sipped appreciatively at their cider. That was natural enough as well, a visit being a change in the routine, but it put his teeth on edge-the more who spoke, the more chance of someone letting an unguarded word slip.

"Good day to you, Artie, mon," Bob said when he emerged from the long cottage, wiping a napkin across his mouth, evidently just finishing di

The corporal shrugged. "We're under orders tae he'lp whaur we can, Bob," he said.

"Yuh still pick me Jamaica Farm to help. Gudrun!" he called, and the blond young woman looked up from chatting with one of the hobelars. "Ninyam an' bockle for dese good men, good and plenty."

"Yuh here lookin' for Brushwood Men?" the farmer went on as she hurried away to pack food and drink. "Or de dam' leopard? Duppy ting take me sheep, mon."

"Nae."The corporal's mouth shut like a steel trap. "Fugitives, under warrant o' proscription frae the Crown. Two- Sair Nigel Loring, and his son, Alleyne. There's serious charges, ye ken, agin them and any who harbor 'em."

He went on to give a description. Bob Bramble mimed surprise; it would have been excessive in someone less given to the flamboyant.

"Me hear 'bout him prisoned at Woburn," Bramble said, rubbing at his chin and letting the Creole accent grow stronger. "No hear 'bout him es-caaap-ing. Bad business. Me noh quite undastan. Sir Nigel, he good mon, I always hear."

The corporal's face was expressionless-perhaps a little too stiff-but Nigel thought he caught uneasy looks on some of the archers behind him, and outright scowls from the farm folk. Then his heart skipped a beat as little Diana Bramble stamped out to confront the section leader.

"Sir Nigel is a good man!" she said shrilly, shaking a finger up at the Orkneyman's face, ignoring his bulk and armor. "You've got no bloody business going around hunting heroes like they was foxes! I wish Sir Nigel and Alleyne were here so they could take their swords and cut you up! You: you loathly bugger!"

"Diana!" her mother said, reprovingly. "Watch your tongue, my girl!"

The noncom snorted and scowled, turning away and making a brushing gesture with one hand, as at an a

"So there!" she shouted, then turned and ran.

"Ye cheeky peedie whalp!" the noncom shouted, and nearly fell over as he made a grab for her.

The Orkney accent was suddenly thicker than oatmeal as he hopped in the dust and horse apples of the farmyard, holding his knee. Then he controlled his temper with a visible effort, and stamped the boot down again at the sound of a subdued snicker from behind him. When he whirled to look at his men they braced to attention, motionless except for one still chewing on an apple tart.

"Are you a cow, then, that ye're chewing a cud, Jones, you daft taffie!" he snapped. "Search the farm! High and low! We've orders," he went on half apologetically, turning back to Bramble. "We'll just tak a keek aboot: "

One of the farm folk was an older man, the oldest Nigel had seen on Bob's holding; lean, gray and messy-untidy in a way the others weren't despite plain clothes and hard outdoor work. Now he ambled forward and grabbed the corporal by the shoulders.

"You're sairching?" he said. "For Doris? Have you seen Doris, then? Have you word of her? Have you?"

"Oh-"

The corporal bit back something pungent, and didn't quite stiff-arm the older man away; far too many folk who'd lived through the terrible years were a bit wandered in their wits, and it was convention to treat them gently. The graybeard still burst into tears as he staggered back, and Archie MacDonald jumped forward to lead him away as he called more and more loudly for Doris, whoever she was. People milled about talking and gesturing, and the corporal of the detachment looked for a moment as if he'd like to cry himself.

"Get searchin', I said!" he half screamed, and stamped away towards the house. "They twa're armed and dangerous, remember! Stay in touch and sing out if you see them."

One of his men stayed to hold the horses. The others split up hurriedly, clapping their helmets on, drawing their swords and taking their bucklers in their left hands. Nigel moved back from the wall with slow, gentle care and caught the eyes of the others, looking over towards the ladder. He and Alleyne moved towards it, their shields ready on their left arms. Hordle came behind them, an arrow on his string, waiting on one knee with his torso bent, ready to rise and shoot; his face had the hard blankness of an oak board. The big man's friendly smile could make you forget what he was like in action:

There's no problem unless someone comes up here, Nigel thought. If they do:

Hordle would take out the one who discovered them, then jump down and put a shaft through the corporal and get the horses ru

The thought of cutting down honest English soldiers made his stomach twist, but bringing him in now would give Queen Hallgerda's party at court too much extra leverage. Losing him for good would cost that crew dearly in prestige-and make people less afraid, which they couldn't afford, not being much loved even by their own folk.

The silence stretched as a soldier walked in through the big double doors. The dimness within was near darkness to eyes fresh from open sunlight, and he tripped and cursed and staggered as he ran into the disassembled threshing machine, windmilling his sword out-you could give yourself a nasty cut if you fell with one in your hand.

"Sod me if I like this above 'alf," he muttered as he recovered his balance. "If Nigel Loring's a traitor, I'm fucking Queen Hallgerda." He stabbed the sword into a small pile of burlap sacks, then flicked open a big plywood bin of raw wool still in the fleece. "Not in there, are you then? Christ, what an effing waste of time!"

He looked around, blinking, then went over to the loose-box. Nigel made a conscious effort to control his breathing, ready to step into the open space, hang by his hands and drop the remaining distance to the dirt floor. He'd drop the sword first, and it would be waiting point-down and hilt-up in the dirt:

"You're a big fellow, aren't you?" the soldier said to Pommers, taking something out of the small canvas haversack on his belt. "Here, 'ave a taste. Better you than that brass-arsed Jock."

That was probably a carrot, or perhaps an apple; the big gelding crunched enthusiastically, and then whuffled around the soldier in the hopes of something more. Alleyne's black was less friendly, turning from the other end of the box to cock a suspicious eye at the stranger.

"You're both big fellows, eh?" the man said thoughtfully.