Shield of Three Lions by Pamela Kaufman

trembling so that she could hardly stand and I was no better. We leaned into each other to steady ourselves, fearing to betray our presence by so much as a shaking twig.
    All my life I’ve heard tales of the fiendish butcherers of the north, but nothing had prepared me for the apparition which now rode into sight. Mounted on a monstrous plodding white mule, he looked to be a bull more than a man, for he was covered with dark reddish hair and grew curved horns low on his forehead; furthermorehis broad knarry shoulders bent to his pipe like a bull’s hump. Yet he was a man withal, for he wore a strange garb of gaudy wool woven in cross-colors of scarlet, blue and purple; a cape pinned on one shoulder, a skirt on a thick leather band at his waist; dark red coarse socks tied below his knees with straw garters, soft elk boots laced high. As he drew closer I saw that the horns were attached to a bearskin hat and that a squirrel vest also contributed to the animal effect. The most chilling evidence that he was human, however, was the armory bristling on his person: keen daggers at belt and sock, broadsword on his right, the two-sided Lochinvar ax for which the Scots are famous on his left, hunting bow with arrows, a tall pointed pike resting in a thong under one arm. ’Twas hard to estimate his age as his face was hidden by his elflock beard and the mouthpiece of his bagpipe was on the far side from us, but his formidable bulging muscles appeared young and supple: he was a beast in his prime. Awed, we watched him draw closer and closer.
    He was now almost parallel and we saw that he pulled a small white ass behind him, loaded with pelts, pans and household goods of all kinds. Closer and closer he loomed, a huge menacing form emitting deafening shrieks and harsh guttural drones in a relentless throbbing skirl which pained my fantastick cells to an agony I couldn’t bear!
    “Stop!” I screamed, full out of my wits, and clapped my hands to my ears.
    In a flash, Lance leaped free and attacked. Just as quickly the Scot whirled with pike in hand to kill.
    “Don’t slay my wolf!” I flew from my bush and landed atop my snarling beast. “Please! Kill me first!”
    I looked up the long deadly spike to his bulging wild blue eyes. He pricked me slightly on my neck to hold me in place as his eyes rolled that way and this to see if I were alone. There was a movement on the bank and he raised his weapon to hurl.
    “Stop, ’tis my mother!” I screamed again, beginning to sob as well.
    His flicking eyes fastened on the bush where Dame Margery hid.
    “Quha gang ther? Fra quhair commit?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Can you speak Saxon, sir?” I asked faintly.
    He leaned down and roared, “Quhat be I spakin yif nocht Saxon?”
    I understood that all right but was too weak with terror to reply.
    “Gie me yer nam.”
    I was near fainting and could hardly stutter, “Alix Want—” before I stopped myself, appalled. My very first test on the road and I’d failed, after I’d rehearsed “Tom” for hours! I said a quick prayer to myself in case this was the end; then, when he didn’t move to slay me, tried to read any flicker of recognition at the name in his face.
    “Alexander Want,” he repeated slowly. He worked his mouth to speak and finally managed a few words I could understand.
    “In quhat direction do ye travel, boy?”
    “Toward York,” I said quickly, getting it right.
    “And ye war waitin’ to luik fier.”
    “Look fier? Oh, aye, you mean someone to travel with. Aye, I’m waiting.” I stood again. “I’m sorry about my wolf—’twas the music that hurt his ears, I think. Come, Lance.” Cautiously I prepared myself to get away and hoped he would leave me without harm.
    “Wolf?” He looked at Lance. To my amazement, the wolf was now licking the white ass’s nose and the ass seemed to like it. The Scot bared square white teeth in a hideous leer, which I saw belatedly was a smile.
    “
Domes forte