Derry put on one of his more innocent expressions and spread his arms in a wary gesture of conciliation, his helmet dangling by its leather chin strap.

“Why, the Fifth, of course,” he dared, guessing that there had to be at least eight horse-regiments in Bran’s army. “What is this, anyway?”

“Wrong,” the third man glared, his hand also going to the sword at his belt as his eyes flicked over Derry’s form. “The Fifth wears yellow buskins; yours are brown. Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Now, gentlemen,” Derry soothed, edging his way backward and calculating the distance to his horse. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’ve already got that, son,” the first man muttered, thumbs still hooked nonchalantly in his belt. “Now, are you going to come peacefully or not?”

“Not, I should think!”

Flinging his helmet into the face of the startled man, Derry whipped his sword from its scabbard and lunged forward, dispatching the short, fat soldier with his first deft thrust. Even as he wrenched his blade free, the two remaining guardsmen were shouting and attacking, leaping over the body of their slain comrade to charge him with drawn swords. He could hear shouts in the distance and knew that help was being summoned. He must get away now, or it would be too late.

He dropped momentarily to one knee and came up slashing with the dagger he had drawn from his boot top, raking the blade across the knuckles of one of his attackers. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, but Derry was beset by the fellow’s partner and another pair of swordsmen before he could press the advantage. A glance hazarded over his shoulder revealed half a dozen more armed men approaching at a dead run, swords already drawn, and Derry cursed under his breath as he slashed his way to his horse’s side.

He lashed out with the dagger and one booted heel as he tried to scramble to the horse’s back, but someone had loosened the girth and the saddle went out from under him. Even as he flailed for balance, reaching hands were grabbing at him, pulling at clothes and hair, hooking into his belt to drag him from the saddle.

He felt a lancing pain in his right bicep as someone’s dagger caught him, and his sword slid from fingers that were suddenly slippery with blood: his own. Then he was being borne to the ground under a crush of mailed bodies, his limbs pressed down spread-eagled against the new spring grass, the breath being choked out of him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“The tents of robbers prosper, and they that provoke God are secure.”

JOB 12:6

DERRY winced and stifled a groan as rough hands rolled him to his back and began probing his wounded arm.

He had passed out briefly as the men manhandled him from his horse, regaining consciousness as he was half-dragged and half-carried to where he now lay on a patch of damp grass. Three armed soldiers pinned his limbs to the ground: three grim men in the harness of war, badged in the royal blue and white of the Earl of Marley.