Apparently this had been a most important post in the scheme of things. Once that went down, the entire arrangement of posts and basket-weave fencing came apart like the unraveling of a poorly knit glove.

Startled by the crashing fence parts, the livestock within scurried and bolted in all directions. Squealing pigs ran beneath Icarus's legs. Ewes and lambs flowed around them like a white river around a black rock. It was all too much for the finely bred horse. He was a civilized creature, accustomed to cobblestones and rubbish bins and ladies with fluttering skirts and cursing cart drivers and newsboys waving gossip sheets. All of that was familiar and sane, while this scurrying, trampling, baaing horde was peculiar and alarming. Icarus reared on his back legs as if he couldn't bear to have the woolly bodies brush against his hocks anymore.

Lysander clung on as Icarus rose and remained high like a rook on a chessboard poised for his next move. The horde of smelly fleecy offenders trickled to the odd dashing lamb and Icarus let his hooves fall to the ground with a relieved thud.

Movement caught Lysander's eye as an enormous horned beast abruptly focused his upset on Icarus — and by default, upon Lysander.

CHAPTER 4

Chapter 4

A FEW HOURS LATER, IN THE TAPROOM OF A YORKSHIRE INN…

IT WERE MADNESS, I tell ye! The fight o' the century! The Legend o' Goose-Gogs! That ram is the pride o' Swaledale, he is!"

"To Goose-Gogs!"

"Aye!" The crowd of farmers bellowed in unison.

"To Swaledale!" cried one.

"To fightin'!" cried another.

"To beatin' down snooty Londoner toffs!"

"Aye!" The timbers shook.

In the last high-backed settle in the coaching inn taproom, as far from the fire and the crowd of locals that one could get, Pollux Worthington, of the London Worthingtons, sank a bit lower in his seat.

Not that he was snooty in any way whatsoever, or an actual Londoner, for that matter. He'd been born in the pastoral county of Shropshire. He didn't consider himself a toff at all, except that he occasionally enjoyed a hand of cards with the Prince Regent — which hardly counted for he always had to be careful to just barely lose. However, these gargantuan louts in their rough boots, now slamming their pints together in celebration of someone named Goose-Gogs, didn't seem the sorts to make such fine distinctions when they were in their cups. And Poll didn't need any trouble when all he was trying to do was to get back to the aforementioned London and his ailing mother, Iris.

I'm only riding through. Just through the blasted village and out again.

"Oh aye, it were a fine battle!"

"Battle!"

"Tell it again, Orren!"

"Orren!"