I won’t die like this, Edmund thought. Not for such foolishness. Shame burned in his chest and the fear vanished. He drove his foot hard into his assailant’s shin. The man cursed and staggered, but kept one hand gripping Edmund’s neck. Edmund slammed his elbow into folds of soft flesh, then felt a rush of savage satisfaction as the man grunted and pulled back. His grip slackened enough for Edmund to twist his head away, painfully shaving his chin as he tried to dodge the blade of the dagger.
Still gasping from the elbow jab, the showman grabbed Edmund in both arms like a bear. Edmund kicked out again and again, and managed to sink his teeth into a fleshy forearm. It stank of rancid fat, but the man flinched.
Edmund writhed like an eel, feeling his cloak tear. He ripped himself free and darted clear, leaving a square of cloth in his attacker’s hand.
The man laughed softly. ‘Lads, lads!’ His voice was hoarse, his gaze still fixed on Edmund. ‘There’s no need to get yourselves hurt! Throw me the brooch, and the wager is settled.’
‘Never,’ said Edmund. ‘You’ve not kept your side of the deal, so why should I keep mine?’
The showman’s lip curled back. ‘Because I am armed, and you are not?’ he suggested with a sneer, taking a step towards him.
Edmund backed to the stable doors. He could hear horses shifting uneasily inside. When he felt the door’s iron bolts jab in his spine, he stopped. The showman reached him in two strides and lashed out again, and this time the blade seared into Edmund’s arm.
Through a mist of pain, he heard Elspeth shout – and the world exploded in white light.
Edmund threw up his unhurt arm against the dazzle. He heard the man’s oath, the clang of metal, the whinnies of frightened horses.
When he could look through the glare, the showman was standing stock-still, staring at the hilt of his dagger. The blade had been sheared clean off. Beside him stood Elspeth, the crystal sword flaring in her silver-clad hand, filling the yard with pulsing light.
The man moved first. Still holding the useless hilt like a weapon, he took a step sideways, his red face the colour of clay.
‘It’s witchcraft you use, is it?’ he snarled, his voice unsteady. ‘I’ll have the Guardians on to you!’
Elspeth said nothing, just stepped forward and brought the sword up over her head, ready to strike again.
The man’s nerve broke. With a howl of terror, he threw down the knife hilt and ran from the yard.
For a long moment Elspeth stood with the sword raised over her head. Then she let out a long breath and let her arm fall.
The sword had come when she called it – and there had been a rightness to its appearance, as if the sword had answered her. Power had surged through her, a bolt of fire, with a shard of ice at its heart. Nothing can hurt you, it had promised, nothing…
‘Your sword can cut through metal!’ she heard Edmund exclaim.
Elspeth said nothing, just stared at her hand. The sword was beginning to fade, and her skin was visible through the silver gauntlet.
She shivered. The day had turned cold. The sun had dipped behind the stable buildings and the yard lay in deep shadow. In the gloom, Edmund’s face loomed palely beneath the sweat-streaked walnut juice. His blue eyes held her like the bluest rock pools. Then Elspeth noticed the bloody gash along his chin, and saw the awkward way he held his arm as he picked up his torn cloak.
‘You’re hurt!’ she cried. ‘Let’s go to the abbot’s house. There will be a healer among the monks.’
‘No time,’ he snapped, and she could tell it took an effort for him to speak. ‘We have to meet Cluaran. That man will have told the Guardians about us by now.’
Elspeth felt the weight of the sword vanish, the mesh of the gauntlet dissolve into her skin. ‘We said we’d wait for Cluaran in the market,’ she reminded him. ‘We’ll just have to hope he comes soon.’
Edmund nodded, his face strained. Praying he wouldn’t faint, and draw even more attention upon them, Elspeth led the way back into the main square.
The stallholders still there were lighting torches, fixing them to poles beside their booths. Elspeth looked around anxiously, hoping against hope to spot Cluaran in the crowd. But the minstrel was nowhere to be seen.
‘I think one of the stalls had medicines for sale,’ she said. ‘We could trade something.’ But when she saw Edmund’s face, she knew it was no good. He could not show his bleeding chin around the stalls for fear of attracting too many questions.
Edmund clearly had the same thought. He pulled up his hood. ‘We can’t risk showing ourselves,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should stay by the church.’
‘But that’s where they’ll look for us first!’ said Elspeth. ‘We’ll be safer in the crowd.’ She caught Edmund’s hand and dragged him into the throng, keeping her head bowed. Where was Cluaran? Had the minstrel got wind of the upset and taken off to save his own skin?
Torches now flickered and flared at every booth and stall. At opposite ends of the square, a fiddler and a bagpipe player sent out conflicting melodies, and in between, the queue at a pudding-woman’s stall was being entertained by a boy juggling clubs.
Suddenly Edmund tugged her arm.
He nodded towards the juggler. On the far side of the crowd, directly opposite them, was the cup-and-ball man. He was talking earnestly to a dark-dressed man with a sword hanging at his belt.
‘Run!’ Edmund hissed. Elspeth swung round to follow him into the crowd, but it was too late. The showman had spotted them.
‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘There! Over there!’
Elspeth sped after Edmund. He was heading for the church, instinctively seeking sanctuary with the God that was not his own.
But as they drew nearer, the great doors swung open, and instead of candlelight and monks’ chanting, out spilled three armed horsemen, with more behind. The horses’ hoofs clattered on the stone flags and torchlight danced on the shields’ silver bosses.
The Guardians!
‘Back to the market!’ Edmund cried, spinning round.
They dived back among the stalls. Elspeth squirmed between fat bellies and bony elbows; earned foul curses and a slapped ear as she struggled to keep track of Edmund for, wounded though he was, he pressed ahead like a rabbit bolting through a warren.
Just as she caught up with him, there were cries of panic from behind, indignant yells and the jingle of spurs as the Guardians urged their horses through the crowd.
‘Quick,’ Elspeth hissed. ‘This way!’ She dived under the awning of an ale booth with Edmund on her heels. They watched the horses’ legs clatter by, then dived under the next stall, and the next.
One of the horsemen yelled, ‘The one with a wound on his chin can be spitted, but the other’s to be kept alive!’
Elspeth shuddered. A faint, familiar pressure started in her right hand. Not now! she willed it fiercely. Don’t give us away!
There was a crash as a booth was overturned behind them; cries of alarm as its torch caught the awning of the next-door stall. There was a gust of black smoke and people reeled away, shielding their eyes and mouths. Elspeth seized the chance to dash across the space to the next row of stalls. The blood pounded in her ears. Behind she could hear Edmund’s laboured breathing.
Now they were on the edge of the square, peering into the shadows beyond the market lights. Nothing stirred in the blackness of the streets, but one wrong move and the horsemen would be upon them.
Then something moved in the darkness. ‘He’s here!’ Edmund cried, running into the gloom.
A man was leading three horses towards them, not the sleek mounts of the Guardians but market horses, saddled and bridled.
It was Cluaran.