“No, it’s fine.”
“Ian, I think it’d be better if she waited in the stables.” The guard juts his chin toward the large grouping of tourists who have stopped to watch the unfolding scene in the courtyard.
“Good idea, trooper.” Ian strokes his chin. “We don’t need to cause any panic.”
“I’ll take the lady in. I should bring the Corporal of Horse up to speed anyway.”
“Brilliant, we’ll be right behind you.”
The guard marches a few steps toward the slatted doors opposite of where we’re standing, then pauses and glances back at me. “Are you coming?”
“Oh, um... yeah, I just need to grab something. Give me a second.” Remembering the entire reason I was placed in this precarious situation in the first place, I dash over and grab the spur from behind the pillar. “OK.”
The guard rolls his eyes, but otherwise stays silent. He swings his arm as he marches, and I walk beside him. Maybe march isn’t the right word. It’s more of a stiff, clunky walk. “Make way for the King’s Guard,” he barks at tourists blocking our path.
I grimace. “Do you have to be so loud?”
“Yes,” he says under his breath.
“Because you enjoy it? Or because they won’t listen unless you’re intimidating?”
He snorts, choosing not to reply. His chocolate-chip eyes dance in amusement. They’ve gone from cold to warm and make me want to melt.
Three
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the semi-darkened stables. I immediately smell hay and mud. A horse neighs and I see the backside of two massive black ones swishing their tails from side to side. The temperature is nice and toasty, a stark contrast to London’s winter weather.
“Huh, I thought you’d have more horses in here.”
“We do. There’s eight more around the corner in the main stable block, two out front in the boxes, and these two.”
The soldier removes his helmet and stretches his neck side to side. “That’s better.”
I get my first good look at him. He has close-cropped auburn hair and is tall. If I had to guess, I’d say he stands over six feet. It’s hard to tell from the boxy coat, but I’d imagine he’s also pretty strong.
“Is it heavy?”
“See for yourself.” He gently places the helmet in my hands in exchange for the spur. “I’ll take that.”
“Whoa, it’s like a small bowling ball.” I gaze at him with newfound respect. “You have to wear this all day?”
“Not all day, but most.” He lifts his coat and glances at the heel of his boots. “Ah bollocks, itismy spur. These things are an absolute nightmare. They’re awkward to walk in and constantly falling off. Thank you for finding it.” He glances at his sword, then me. “Would you mind holding this?”
“Oh . . . er, no.”
“Thanks. We don’t wear scabbards with our winter uniforms.”
“Thank you for guarding my phone. I’m curious, but why didn’t you put it in your boot instead of my handbag?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t think of it. My boot seemed more secure.”
I’m still holding his helmet in my left hand, so he places the sword in my right. It’s lighter than his helmet. I study the intricate carving on the hilt and elegant curve of the blade. I resist the urge to swing it around. “I bet this could cause some serious damage if you wanted to.”
“You have a keen pair of eyes. Most tourists think they’re toys.” The soldier has leaned against the wall and is shimmying his boot off his foot. “Little do they know, it’s sharp enough to easily slice through a watermelon.”
I let out an impressive whistle. “Has that theory been tested?”
“Of course. The non-commissioned officers in charge of our riding course made a point to literally show us that these swords were once deadly weapons.”
