The Horse Lord by Peter Morwood Read Free Book Online

out of the ordinary—until his gaze reached the doorway.
    Her name was Hen; that was all she had admitted and he had not pressed her for more. Their relationship was a complicated one, since she was the lady of a good friend of one of Aldric’s good friends and he was reluctant to do anything which would break these longstanding ties. The young man had absolutely no previous experience of women to guide him; Joren had guarded his morals with the same energy as he had taught him to fight, and at the age of twenty Aldric was shy, frustrated, obsessively honourable and nervously virginal. His visit to Radmur was intended to rectify this uncomfortable situation, since at their last meeting—at somebody else’s birthday feast—Hen’s friendship had shown signs of becoming something more intimate.
    As Hen crossed the room Aldric half-rose and bowed with as much grace as his apprehension allowed. He was downright scared of doing something which might appear foolish or awkward in the girl’s eyes, and was consequently becoming reluctant even to move. Then he did move, very smoothly and with a speed even Joren would have applauded.
    Hen had come too close to the table where three soldiers just off punishment drill were drowning their sorrows, and one had made a grab at her. His fingers had closed around the girl’s slender wrist and he was hauling her closer with as much finesse as a fisherman landing herrings. The man’s drunkenness was some excuse—but in Aldric’s opinion, not much. “Let her alone, friend,” he said harshly, tugging the guardsman’s shoulder and relying on his rank to gain obedience.
    As he sorted out his legs from those of an upturned table and wiped blood from his lip, Aldric realised such reliance had been a little optimistic. Scrambling upright, he intercepted a tray of tankards and helped himself to one, then moved in on the little group of soldiers— rather more carefully this time. They were trying to kiss Hen and laughing heartily as she tried to flinch away. Aldric’s teeth showed briefly and he tapped the nearest man on the back. The soldier swung round, blearily looking for trouble, and found it in the shape of a tankard smacking him very hard under the chin. Not surprisingly he fell down with a crash that took his comrades’ table and their drinks down with him.
    In the ensuing silence Aldric extended one hand to lien. “Let us leave, now,” he suggested calmly, and there was a clattering as several of the more timid customers took his advice, just before somebody grabbed his queue from behind with an excessively vicious jerk.
    Nobody did that to a
kailin-eir
! Without looking, Aldric slammed elbow backwards at mouth level and felt the crunch of a good square impact shoot down his arm. The “somebody” let go of his hair and tried to yell, a sound muffled by several displaced teeth. It gave Aldric the chance to roll sideways under the shelter of a friendly table, where he could watch the developing fight in relative peace and quiet.
    Something heavy hit the ground behind him and he found himself no longer alone. Not that his visitor was anyone he could talk to—the spice seller had been on the wrong end of a bottle, brandy by the smell, and was in no fit state for conversation. Judging by the rising uproar, things were getting out of hand and Aldric guessed that
kailin-eir
or not he had best not be around when the Watch came calling. Radmur’s Prefect of Police doubtless remembered the last time well enough.
    One of the chairs by his table shot straight up out of sight, followed by loud noises and a rain of splintered wood. Drawing his sword was out of the question, of course; this was only a friendly fight and while brawling was one thing, bladeplay was quite another. As two squealing wenches ran for the door Aldric stood up and followed them, oozing innocence.
    This fooled nobody, as three swinging fists made quite clear. By the time he had sorted out that problem— easily