like a magician might conjure gold coins from an ear.
Replace Tilly. It cannot be done, the old crone had moaned.
True enough. It could not be done, unless you could find a demon-possessed bag of bones with horns like a battering ram, and a kick that would intimidate a fortress.
The old couple had produced a rope, surprisingly free of charge, with which to lead the bony beast. The problem was, as Boden soon learned, the goat wouldn't be led, no matter what he did. She would rather lie down and be dragged like so much timber down the trail, a fate Lady Bernadette was quite distressed to see.
How the hell had he gotten himself into such a predicament?
He stepped down from Mettle, simultaneously glaring at the stinky goat that was tied across his proud destrier's ample arse. Tilly glared back, her marbled eyes eerie in the evening light.
"Is she quite well?" Bernadette asked as she slid back from the high pommel.
"I hate goats," Boden said, seeing no reason to reassure her. "They have bad dispositions and bad body odor."
She stared at him as if thinking the same could be said of him.
He scowled. "I'm usually in better humor." Silence. He cleared his throat. "Tis not me that you smell. Tis... the horse."
Mettle irritably flicked back an ear.
A fleeting smile lifted Bernadette's lips as Boden turned to help her dismount, but she refused to look into his eyes. Hell, he'd bought the damn goat, given up his best doublet for her—even told the old codger how fine he looked in the soft hide jacket that hung like an empty sack nearly to his knees.
Couldn't she, perhaps, after all that, trust him a wee bit by now?
"Ye could have left me at the crofters' cottage," she said.
And there was another thing. Why did she wish to be left behind? There was something she wasn't telling. And he would be damned if he'd leave her before he knew what it was.
"You said you want to return to Scotland," he said. "Tis my duty to grant your wish."
The nanny thrashed behind the saddle's cantle. Mettle shifted his feet, rolling white-rimmed eyes toward his unlikely baggage.
"If ye'll get Tilly down, I'll feed John," she said.
Boden grunted noncommittally and untied the goat. The beast thrashed more wildly, and though Boden tried to catch her, she slipped over Mettle's rump and fell from view with an irritable bleat.
The stallion skittered nervously to the side.
"And you call yourself a warhorse," Boden scoffed. He drew back on the reins, pulling Mettle in a tight half circle as Tilly bounded to her feet. "St. Dismas's cold arse, you'd think the bony beast was going to—" It was pure bad luck that when Tilly charged, she thumped directly into Boden's wounded knee. Pain shot up his leg like slivers of fire. Tilly backed away, and Mettle jumped sideways, pulling Boden with him. He fell with a curse, finally releasing the reins and grabbing his knee.
"Sir Blackblade."
Boden opened his eyes to see Bernadette bending over him. Sometime during the day, she'd braided her hair. The messy plait hung well past her shoulder.
"What?" he growled.
She grasped the braid in one hand and backed off a step. "Is there ought I can do for ye?''
"Other than killing the goat?"
"Aye. Other than that." The flicker of a smile crossed her face again. It did nothing to improve his mood.
"Nay."
"But your knee—"
"I'm fine!" he snapped.
She opened her mouth, then nodded pertly and retreated another step, her eyes bright with the humor she wisely kept to herself. "Then I will see to the goat."
"Aye," he grumbled. "And when you're done with her I'll make myself a fine leather purse."
There was little enough to do once the baby was fed, so Sara wrapped them both in her shortened cloak and settled down on a trampled stand of bracken for the night.
It took only moments for sleep to take her, and not much longer for the dreams to follow. They were pretty dreams, deep and quiet.
Sunlight sparkled off the silvery waves of the chuckling burn. From its edge two
Replace Tilly. It cannot be done, the old crone had moaned.
True enough. It could not be done, unless you could find a demon-possessed bag of bones with horns like a battering ram, and a kick that would intimidate a fortress.
The old couple had produced a rope, surprisingly free of charge, with which to lead the bony beast. The problem was, as Boden soon learned, the goat wouldn't be led, no matter what he did. She would rather lie down and be dragged like so much timber down the trail, a fate Lady Bernadette was quite distressed to see.
How the hell had he gotten himself into such a predicament?
He stepped down from Mettle, simultaneously glaring at the stinky goat that was tied across his proud destrier's ample arse. Tilly glared back, her marbled eyes eerie in the evening light.
"Is she quite well?" Bernadette asked as she slid back from the high pommel.
"I hate goats," Boden said, seeing no reason to reassure her. "They have bad dispositions and bad body odor."
She stared at him as if thinking the same could be said of him.
He scowled. "I'm usually in better humor." Silence. He cleared his throat. "Tis not me that you smell. Tis... the horse."
Mettle irritably flicked back an ear.
A fleeting smile lifted Bernadette's lips as Boden turned to help her dismount, but she refused to look into his eyes. Hell, he'd bought the damn goat, given up his best doublet for her—even told the old codger how fine he looked in the soft hide jacket that hung like an empty sack nearly to his knees.
Couldn't she, perhaps, after all that, trust him a wee bit by now?
"Ye could have left me at the crofters' cottage," she said.
And there was another thing. Why did she wish to be left behind? There was something she wasn't telling. And he would be damned if he'd leave her before he knew what it was.
"You said you want to return to Scotland," he said. "Tis my duty to grant your wish."
The nanny thrashed behind the saddle's cantle. Mettle shifted his feet, rolling white-rimmed eyes toward his unlikely baggage.
"If ye'll get Tilly down, I'll feed John," she said.
Boden grunted noncommittally and untied the goat. The beast thrashed more wildly, and though Boden tried to catch her, she slipped over Mettle's rump and fell from view with an irritable bleat.
The stallion skittered nervously to the side.
"And you call yourself a warhorse," Boden scoffed. He drew back on the reins, pulling Mettle in a tight half circle as Tilly bounded to her feet. "St. Dismas's cold arse, you'd think the bony beast was going to—" It was pure bad luck that when Tilly charged, she thumped directly into Boden's wounded knee. Pain shot up his leg like slivers of fire. Tilly backed away, and Mettle jumped sideways, pulling Boden with him. He fell with a curse, finally releasing the reins and grabbing his knee.
"Sir Blackblade."
Boden opened his eyes to see Bernadette bending over him. Sometime during the day, she'd braided her hair. The messy plait hung well past her shoulder.
"What?" he growled.
She grasped the braid in one hand and backed off a step. "Is there ought I can do for ye?''
"Other than killing the goat?"
"Aye. Other than that." The flicker of a smile crossed her face again. It did nothing to improve his mood.
"Nay."
"But your knee—"
"I'm fine!" he snapped.
She opened her mouth, then nodded pertly and retreated another step, her eyes bright with the humor she wisely kept to herself. "Then I will see to the goat."
"Aye," he grumbled. "And when you're done with her I'll make myself a fine leather purse."
There was little enough to do once the baby was fed, so Sara wrapped them both in her shortened cloak and settled down on a trampled stand of bracken for the night.
It took only moments for sleep to take her, and not much longer for the dreams to follow. They were pretty dreams, deep and quiet.
Sunlight sparkled off the silvery waves of the chuckling burn. From its edge two
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