The Protectors war

"Do your best, Sergeant," Nigel said.

The first of the Guard archers stopped and bent his bow. The snap of the bowstring was faint at this distance; that would be a long shot under any circumstances. The arrow twinkled as it spun uphill, and then they could hear the faint hissing of its passage just before it thumped into the earth and disappeared in the long grass ten feet from Hordle.

"That's Jack Graham," he said absently. "Good man to have a beer and a bit of a yarn with. Arms like a gorilla, he has, for all he's under six feet-good shot, Jack, and it's the last you'll make until next spring."

He drew the great yellow bow and shot. "Over!" he swore.

Downrange the stocky broad-shouldered man in his green-enameled chain-mail shirt and green uniform threw himself down with a yell as the long shaft hissed malignantly over his head. He shot back, two shafts in quick succession; the last one nearly reached Hordle's feet.

"All rightie then, I gave you an extra two," Hordle muttered, and shot again.

This time the arrow went home, through the other man's right shoulder. He fell, then sprang up, dancing with rage and shaking his left fist before crumpling again; the curses came faint and far against the wind.

"Well, that's what you get for bloody shooting at me!" Hordle shouted, laughing, and reached for another shaft. The remaining pair of archers would be in range in a moment, and the odds were now even.

"Wait," Nigel Loring said. Hordle looked over his shoulder. "Put your handkerchief on this."

He sloped his lance, dropping the long diamond-shaped head by the tall archer's shoulder, and held it there while Hordle stuck the scrap of off-white linen on the sharp point. Then he raised it again and waved it back and forth to catch the other officer's eye; he could hear Knolles's voice call the archers back immediately, and the Guard commander trotted forward to meet him as he sent his horse out into the middle of the field. They halted at lance-length apart, their visors raised; the wind murmured through the long grass and the woods behind, the thick brush ahead to the west. The warhorses mouthed their bits, tossed heads and stamped forefeet in challenge as they sensed their riders' tension and throttled anger. Nobody could hear what the men said through that susurrus of white noise.

"You're under arrest, Colonel Loring," Anthony Knolles said. "And you've added firing on the forces of the Crown to the tally of charges!"

Nigel felt himself smile; it was even genuine, which hadn't happened often since his wife died. He'd always liked Knolles, who was an entirely honest man-and who had a mind as savagely straightforward as an ax blade. Nothing could turn him from his duty but death-and even then one would be well advised to cut his head off to make sure-but he didn't handle conflicting duties well.

"Not under arrest quite yet, Tony," he said. "And you haven't lost any men yet, either-good men the country needs. I've a proposition for you, old boy."

"You'll return with me, and name your accomplices," Knolles said. "Besides those two, that is."

"I'm most assuredly not going to give you any names," Nigel said serenely. "Here's what I will do. We'll run a course here and now. You beat me, and I'll surrender myself; you let my companions go-they're pla

His face went tight. "Except for Maude, of course. His Varangians have ensured that she stays."

Knolles blinked at the savagery of Loring's momentary expression and winced slighty. "How on earth are you going to leave Europe?" he asked. "Where else is there to go? Norland-"

"Is part of Europe. Come now, Tony. You didn't think I was going up the Ml just to join the Brushwood Men, did you? And of course I can't tell you the details or destination, because you'd have to report it and the king might try to stop me."

"I have definitive orders," Knolles said.

Nigel smiled. "You had very emphatic orders from the politicians not to cross the border that time in South Armagh, Tony," he said. " 'Eighty-five, wasn't it? We didn't pay much attention then, either of us."

A smile struggled to break through the other man's craggy features for a moment, then he shook his head.

"You always were stubborn: I have to bring you back, Nigel. You know that." He sighed. "You should have accepted the governorship of Gibraltar when they offered it you last spring. You'd have got a gong with it, too."

"Which would have put me conveniently out of the way until I retired," he said dryly.

"I ca

"No. You can try to personally capture me, Tony. As I said, if you win, you return with your mission accomplished. If not: well, you can honestly say you did your best and took losses in the trying."

"You're better at this King Arthur business than I, Nigel, and you know it," Knolles said. "I still feel like an actor waving this stick about, sometimes. Don't you?"

"Not recently. More sporting than guns, what? And you have knocked me off my horse in practice bouts, you know."

"Not as often as the reverse," Knolles grunted sourly.

"You could bring me back," Nigel pointed out. "And without endangering any of your men. It was pure luck that shaft didn't go through your archer's throat. There aren't so many Englishmen left we can afford to waste them-or their sons and daughters yet unborn."

Knolles looked over his shoulder; his men were grouped around their wounded comrade.

And you know they're not enthusiastic about this, Loring thought. They're good soldiers, they'll do as they're told, but you can't make them like it.

"Very well, Sir Nigel," Knolles said formally. "There aren't many men whose bare word I'd take, but you're one."

"Thank you, Tony," Loring said. "And Tony? Whatever happens, look after the princes."

Knolles's face changed slightly; backing the king didn't mean he liked the new queen any too well.

"Here? Or up on the Ml?" he said. "No rabbit burrows there."

"We can check before we run the course. The footing's better for the horses on grass than on tarmac and I'd prefer to come off on dirt, if I'm going to come off at all."

Knolles nodded assent and turned his horse. Sir Nigel did the same, riding two hundred yards along the side of the low slope at a slow walk, checking the ground for rabbit burrows and foxholes beneath the yard-high growth of grass and thistles. At the end of it the horse turned in its own length at the pressure of his thighs, superbly trained and willing. He felt a pang of absurd loss; not only was he going to have to part with it soon, but it would be spending the rest of its life pulling plows and harrows on Rasta Bob's farm. Doubtless well-treated, but: he ran a gauntleted palm down the smooth hard curve of the yellow gelding's neck.

Four hundred yards away Anthony Knolles was a tiny figure of steel and menace on his big black warmblood. Nigel bared his teeth; now he could stop being responsible and rational, and hit someone. He'd been wanting to do that very badly for a day and a half now.

With identical gestures they reached up to snap their visors shut; the world darkened, sight limited to the long narrow slit ahead. He squeezed his thighs, and Pommers broke into a walk, a trot, a canter: and then a hard hand gallop. Nigel braced his feet in the long stirrups, brought the shield around under his eyes, the lance down-held loosely at this stage. Hooves thundered, throwing divots of turf and brown earth high under the uncaring blue arch of the sky. The world shrank down to two bright lance heads and a shield marked with a silver wedge.