others did not even slow down as they rode down the rioters, laying about them indiscriminately with their swords and truncheons. One young rioter's head was split open like a melon in a spray of blood and brains. Another screamed hoarsely as he had his arm and most of his shoulder chopped clean through. Unlike some of the fashionable, rapier-toting toughs, the City Marshal's men were armed with broadswords. Not as quick, perhaps, but devastatingly effective, especially from horseback.
"We had best get inside someplace and quickly," Smythe said, "before we get caught up in all that."
"Aye, they do not seem to care much whom they chop down, do they?" said Shakespeare. "They are a most profligate bunch of butchers."
"Over there," said Smythe, pointing out a painted wooden sign for a tavern just a few doors down.
Shakespeare glanced up at the sign. "The Swan and Maiden, eh? Well, by Zeus, it seems like just the place. If we can make it there."
They made it through the door mere seconds before the carnage would have caught up with them, plunging through it so quickly that they tripped upon the threshold and fell sprawling to the rush-strewn floor. A group of men had gathered at the windows to watch and they were heartily cheering each brutal stroke, raising their tankards, slapping one another on the back, laughing boisterously, and toasting the slaughter outside in the street as if it were being staged purely for their benefit.
"Hah! Well struck!"
"Again! Get him!"
"Kill him!"
"Run him through!"
"Mow down the bloody bastards!"
"Look! Here's two of them come bursting in here, trying to flee! What do you say, lads? Shall we toss them back out into the street to get their just desserts? Or should we carve them up in here ourselves and save the marshal's men some trouble?"
Smythe turned, fixed the speaker with a glare, and rose to his feet. The man's eyes widened and he swallowed nervously, backing off a step. His hand went to his sword hilt. Smythe hefted his staff. The man who'd spoken hesitated, suddenly uncertain if he wanted to draw steel and commit himself to a fight he might not win. He looked to his comrades for support, his gaze quickly flicking from Smythe to them and back again, as if seeking a prompt for action.
Smythe made a quick assessment of his potential opponent. He had the look of a tradesman, middle-aged and bearded, as they all were, in his early to mid-thirties, and fashionably, if not ostentatiously dressed in a brown leather doublet with the rough side out and buttons of polished brass set close together. Slashed sleeves, showing touches of red cloth underneath, were in conformity with the latest style. The sword, too, looked more worn for fashion than for function. Doubtless, it was reasonably functional, but the hilt and scabbard looked a bit too ornamental for serious work to Smythe's trained eye. The workmanship was gaudy, but strictly second-rate. The man was a barroom bravo, a loudmouthed bully with a few tankards of ale under his belt, but judging by his weapon, he was not a real swordsman.
"Oh, we've got ourselves a roaring boy," one of the others said. This one, Smythe noted, was a larger man, but soft around the middle and bleary-eyed with drink. His large and red-veined nose betrayed his fondness for the cask. His gut-stuffed, ale-stained, blue and buff striped doublet confirmed it. "I think this one wants a fight, lads," he added, with ale-fueled belligerence.
"He's a strapping big bugger," the first one said, uneasily.
"Aye, but he's only got a staff," the third man replied. "And the other one's just a skinny little bloke, and there's five of us."
Smythe glanced at the man in the dark green doublet with the puffed shoulders and black-slashed sleeves. He was beefy, though not as heavy as the one in blue and gold. He wore a short black cloak that made it difficult to tell his true dimensions, particularly with the latest padded and puffed fashions. But he did not seem quite as drunk
"We had best get inside someplace and quickly," Smythe said, "before we get caught up in all that."
"Aye, they do not seem to care much whom they chop down, do they?" said Shakespeare. "They are a most profligate bunch of butchers."
"Over there," said Smythe, pointing out a painted wooden sign for a tavern just a few doors down.
Shakespeare glanced up at the sign. "The Swan and Maiden, eh? Well, by Zeus, it seems like just the place. If we can make it there."
They made it through the door mere seconds before the carnage would have caught up with them, plunging through it so quickly that they tripped upon the threshold and fell sprawling to the rush-strewn floor. A group of men had gathered at the windows to watch and they were heartily cheering each brutal stroke, raising their tankards, slapping one another on the back, laughing boisterously, and toasting the slaughter outside in the street as if it were being staged purely for their benefit.
"Hah! Well struck!"
"Again! Get him!"
"Kill him!"
"Run him through!"
"Mow down the bloody bastards!"
"Look! Here's two of them come bursting in here, trying to flee! What do you say, lads? Shall we toss them back out into the street to get their just desserts? Or should we carve them up in here ourselves and save the marshal's men some trouble?"
Smythe turned, fixed the speaker with a glare, and rose to his feet. The man's eyes widened and he swallowed nervously, backing off a step. His hand went to his sword hilt. Smythe hefted his staff. The man who'd spoken hesitated, suddenly uncertain if he wanted to draw steel and commit himself to a fight he might not win. He looked to his comrades for support, his gaze quickly flicking from Smythe to them and back again, as if seeking a prompt for action.
Smythe made a quick assessment of his potential opponent. He had the look of a tradesman, middle-aged and bearded, as they all were, in his early to mid-thirties, and fashionably, if not ostentatiously dressed in a brown leather doublet with the rough side out and buttons of polished brass set close together. Slashed sleeves, showing touches of red cloth underneath, were in conformity with the latest style. The sword, too, looked more worn for fashion than for function. Doubtless, it was reasonably functional, but the hilt and scabbard looked a bit too ornamental for serious work to Smythe's trained eye. The workmanship was gaudy, but strictly second-rate. The man was a barroom bravo, a loudmouthed bully with a few tankards of ale under his belt, but judging by his weapon, he was not a real swordsman.
"Oh, we've got ourselves a roaring boy," one of the others said. This one, Smythe noted, was a larger man, but soft around the middle and bleary-eyed with drink. His large and red-veined nose betrayed his fondness for the cask. His gut-stuffed, ale-stained, blue and buff striped doublet confirmed it. "I think this one wants a fight, lads," he added, with ale-fueled belligerence.
"He's a strapping big bugger," the first one said, uneasily.
"Aye, but he's only got a staff," the third man replied. "And the other one's just a skinny little bloke, and there's five of us."
Smythe glanced at the man in the dark green doublet with the puffed shoulders and black-slashed sleeves. He was beefy, though not as heavy as the one in blue and gold. He wore a short black cloak that made it difficult to tell his true dimensions, particularly with the latest padded and puffed fashions. But he did not seem quite as drunk
Similar Books
