“Aye.” Malcolm moved to take the saddle off the horse’s back. “I cannae help but feel for the laddie’s loss, though.”
“That I can understand for I would feel the loss of such a beast sorely myself. ’Tis a guilt I am willing to live with,” he drawled.
Malcolm lifted the saddle from Elfking’s back and raised his gaze to the walls of the keep. “Jesu,” he breathed, his eyes widening with disbelief.
“God’s teeth, Malcolm,” Parlan snapped when the saddle fell from Malcolm’s hands and barely missed Parlan’s foot. “What ails ye? Ye near to broke my foot.”
“The wee laddie,” Malcolm croaked. “Up there. On the walls.”
All eyes followed Malcolm’s stunned gaze. The slight figure looked even smaller as it skillfully descended the wall of the keep. There was admiration mixed with the shock for, if asked, several of the men watching would have admitted that they would not have dared such a thing. It was not thought cowardly if a man preferred to keep his feet on or very near to good solid ground.
“Is he mad?” ground out Parlan after a hearty bout of cursing.
“I willnae argue the lad’s sanity with ye but I will say ’tis skill that he uses in his lunacy.” Lagan nodded when Parlan shot him a brief, piercing look. “Aye, skill. That is no scrambling descent. I have seen the trick of it before. He kens weel how to use both rope and body.”
“Aye,” Parlan agreed slowly, “that he does. But to escape into a crowded bailey? ’Tis madness.”
“We wouldnae have seen him had Malcolm not chanced to look up.” Lagan chuckled. “’Tis really quite clever.”
“If he doesnae end up splattered upon the ground,” Parlan growled. “This is a cursed annoying business. I have one boy sick and near to death and the other trying to kill himself. Mengue will pay dearly for raising such brats.”
Lagan laughed. “Weel, we should wander over there to greet the lad when he reaches the ground.”
“Oh, aye, I will greet him.” His fear for the dangling boy turned to anger as Parlan strode toward the wall.
“It may be the tales ye just mentioned that drive him to such an act,” Malcolm suggested quickly as he hurried to keep pace.
Struggling against his anger, Parlan finally nodded as he glanced at Malcolm. “’Tis true. I will keep that in mind whilst I am beating the brat.” He looked back toward the small figure gingerly descending the wall just as the wind stole the bonnet the lad wore. “Jesus wept.”
Parlan’s soft curse was repeated by all around him.
In her haste, Aimil had not only failed to secure her bonnet but her hair as well. It tumbled free in glorious thick waves, the wind catching it and tossling its beauty with abandon. The predominant color was a blond so fair it was silver in color but streaked with shades of gold and red that caught and held every beam of light. What Aimil thought a bane, an unruly mass that could not decide upon a color, Parlan and those with him thought beauty itself.
After shock had released its hold, the first thought that entered Parlan’s mind was that he would like to wrap himself up in that hair which was like silken sunlight. He then wondered if she was old enough to be used in the ways he was thinking of. Her small stature might yet indicate youth. Few mature women he knew could so easily and successfully disguise themselves so. The disappointment he felt when that possibility occurred to him surprised him some. Suddenly he recalled the “lad’s” delicate features and swore at himself.
“I should have seen it,” he snapped as he again moved toward where Aimil was now hanging some feet short of the ground.
“The lass has come up short. We best hasten before she tries to drop to the ground,” suggested Lagan. “She could land afoul and break a bone.”
“I am sorely tempted to break a few of her bones. T’was a foolish move for a laddie to make. For a wee lass…” He shook his head, stunned by the daring of the girl, even as he guiltily admitted that his reputation, which he had done little to clear, might have driven her to the rash act.
The advance of the men halted as abruptly as Aimil’s whistle pierced the air. Parlan sensed what was about to happen, but his shout of warning barely came in time. Men hurled themselves out of the way of an onrushing Elfking who stopped directly beneath the dangling girl. They watched in astonishment while they rose, dusting themselves off, as she neatly lowered herself onto the stallion’s back. Her plan of escape was clear to all now.
Aimil recovered quickly from the jolt of dropping onto Elfking’s back and grasped the reins. Riding bareback did not trouble her. She did, in fact, prefer it. Exhilaration filled her though she tried to quell it. Freedom was so close she could taste its nectar.
Chapter Three
“Close the gates! Get my cursed horse. Fools! Dinnae bother with a saddle. She will be sitting at Mengue’s table before I have even mounted.”
If Aimil had not been so afraid that she could yet fail, she would have laughed at the sight of the much-feared Black Parlan bellowing orders and his men scrambling to obey. She knew, however, that what looked like confusion was not. It was only haste, a haste that could rob her of her goal when she was so close to it. With a yell that rivaled any battlecry, she urged Elfking toward the gates that were already being shut against her escape.
Men threw themselves clear of the horse but there was barely enough space to get through when she reached the gates and the men closing them were hurrying to take even that away. She urged Elfking to rear and, as she had expected, the men instinctively shied away from the flailing hooves, allowing her to break clear of the bailey into open ground. The delay had caused Elfking to break stride and she feared it would cost her dearly for she could hear that pursuit had already begun in earnest.
Although he cursed the men at the gate, Parlan did not blame them for dodging the white stallion. They did at least have the sense to start reopening the gates even as Parlan thundered past them on his black stallion, the purity of the animal’s coat marred only by a small patch of white on his nose and a circle of it round his left rear hoof. His horse, Raven, was as yet unmatched in speed, but Parlan sensed he would be pressed to keep pace several lengths behind his quarry. Elfking, with his far lighter burden, fairly flew over the ground. Watching the horse run only increased Parlan’s desire to have the mount.
As he watched the girl ride, he recognized her skill, a skill increased by the obvious rapport between rider and horse. With her hair unbound, her lithe shape nearly one with her animal of such grace and speed, there was an air of other worldliness to the pair. Parlan decided that Elfking was a suitable name for the milk-white stallion.
So thought Malcolm and Lagan who followed with a small group of men. They crested a small rise to see Parlan and the girl galloping over an open field. The sight of the black horse with its large dark rider pursuing the white horse with its small fair rider conjured up a vast number of fanciful images. To see two such magnificent animals racing was spellbinding. It would be a close-run race, and both men agreed that they and their horses would not even be in the running.
