When he reached the barn and threw the heavy locking board off its latch, the second shot sizzled past his right ear and thunked into the wood. Whoever was firing could indeed hit a barn, though this was not its broader side. He didn’t wish to pause for a third attempt; he pulled the door open and the heat and noise of the flames growled out at him and he realized he was silhouetted by the light and made to be a better target, so into the fire he ran.

The place was not yet an inferno, but a large pile of hay was burning fiercely and the flames were beginning to lick up the wall on that side. Matthew caught the smell of whale oil over the odors of burning hay and wood. One of the big horses had already pulled free of its tether and it nearly trampled Matthew as he jumped aside in its swift passage out the door. Another smaller horse that must’ve belonged to the Autreys also ran wildly past Matthew and out. Not only were the remaining three horses of their coach pulling at their tethers and screaming in distress, but one other smaller steed was trapped by a second pile of burning hay toward the rear of the barn and it was screaming, spinning around and kicking at the walls.

Matthew had to untie the horses but he was in triple danger: from the unknown gunner, the fire, and the hooves of those Viking monsters. Again, there was no time. He saw a shovel leaning against the wall near the door. He pushed his gun into his waistband, got the shovel and ran to free the Autreys’ horse at the far side of the barn, using the shovel to push aside enough of the mass of burning hay so that the animal could recognize a way out. And indeed it did, rushing past him and gone. Then Matthew turned his attention toward freeing the other three, and that was when the figure came walking toward him through the swirling smoke.

“Ah,” said Bertrand Montague. “The Baron Brux imposter, come here to die.” He lifted his pistol, which Matthew no doubt knew had been reloaded and ready for murder.

Before Montague’s finger could pull the trigger, another shot rang out and the man lurched forward and spun around as if dancing a strange minuet. The pistol in his hand went off with a loud report and the bullet went into the burning hay.

Montague fell to his knees and then onto his face, and Matthew could see the blood rising on his coat from the wound at the center of his spine.

“Any man who shoots my husband and tries to burn horses,” said Greta Autrey as she held the smoking musket at her side, “is not fit to live.” She blinked, perhaps stunned at what she had just done. Then she added, “No questions asked.”

“Help me,” Matthew said.