The Book of the Lion Read Online Free PDF Page B

horse jigged sideways, its belly wet, its flanks spiky with moisture. I put out one hand and caught the bridle as the horse thundered past, all heat and sweat, tossing and snorting. The knight was a young man I had not seen before, his face screwed into a grimace.
    â€œHoo!” I cried. At this word from me, the steed rolled his eyes, flattened his ears, and began to run in a straight line, back down the hill.
    â€œHoo,” I repeated, in a lower, more strangled voice, hanging on, dragging like a rag puppet through the grass.
    The animal circled back, slowing down. His great hooves, splashed and glistening, slowed to a trot and then a walk, as my injured leg throbbed. The rider jounced, hauling on the bridle, and when the horse stood still at last the young man fell, over the horse’s neck, down into the grass.
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    â€œGreat terror!” said the young man when he could make a sound. Grete terrour, an accent from the west. “That horse fills me with dread.”
    He wore new mail, the fabric of close-woven iron gleaming, link to link. His helmet was stout bullock leather, and he worked to get it off, shaking his blond hair, sitting up.
    At his side was a broadsword. “Give me the silver,” he said, still breathless.
    I hesitated. Climb onto the horse, said an inner voice.
    Ride hard. Escape.
    â€œGive me the silver you stole from Sir Nigel,” said the young man. “The king’s men are coming, and they want to skin you.”
    I held out my hand. “I am Edmund,” I said, as though we had all day to share courtesies. “And you—?”
    He gripped my hand with his leather glove, and said, “I am Hubert.”
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    The black, mounted figures of the king’s men gathered at the edge of the pasture, letting their mounts breathe. They rode at an easy pace toward the sun, fanned out, encircling us.
    Hubert hefted the slack bag of silver in his hand, and took a moment to tie it to his belt, beside the pommel of his sword.
    â€œGood morning to you,” said Alan to Hubert, ignoring me entirely.
    Alan let his horse take a few easy paces, until his pale, tight face looked down at me, blocking the sun. “Sir Nigel said you and Hubert were sporting,” he said. He let me see the way his eyes took in the sack of silver beside Hubert’s belt. “Hunting roebuck.”
    â€œAnd making a poor game of it,” said Hubert.
    Alan let me see how well he knew everything, giving me a colorless smile. “Without a crossbow,” said Alan, “with only one horse, one of you lame. I would say the morning has gone badly.”
    Alan’s steed gave a shake of his bridle, black leather with fittings of polished copper.
    â€œYour master would be grateful,” said Alan, “in weeks to come, if we sheared off the hand of this walker-in-the-night, and let him bleed out on this very spot.”
    â€œMy lord, it may be as you say,” said Hubert. “But Sir Nigel believes that both of us are under his protection, and would see the least harm to any one of his men to be an assault upon his own body.”
    Alan laughed, letting us watch him count us with his eyes, and count the dozen figures of his own men.
    Hoofbeats approached. A heavy horse flung mud. A leather and iron armored figure approached. This horseman carried a war helmet by his side, a square bucket with eye slits and a socket for a plume. This upside-down helmet swung heavily, plumeless, a great dent in its side.
    Our newcomer was yet another man I had not seen before, soiled with house smoke, bearded, with a startling sneer across his face. In addition to a war helmet, he bore a hunting lance—not as long and heavy as a tournament lance, but fit to run down boar or bear. Or, indeed, an armored man.
    This stranger pulled up, and did not speak, letting his mount crop grass while he took in the sight of us, his teeth gleaming, lance upright in the sun. His horse lifted its tail and