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Authors: Lois Greiman
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absolutely silent.
O’Banyon gave them a grin. “Latch the door behind me,” he ordered. “And if I be yet alive when she’s done with me, fetch a priest to read me me last rites,” he said and stepped into the stall.
In the aisle, Southren rushed to close the door. Then the threesome remained perfectly still, listening. Inside the stall, something hit the wall like a loosed battering ram. Southren jumped back. The mare screamed. A feral growl answered. Another blast shook the stable. There was the sound of rustling straw. Hooves struck the floor, rattling the very earth beneath their feet. And then silence.
The trio glanced at each other and shuffled forward a few tremulous steps. Inside the stall, nothing stirred.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” called the old man. “Or shall I fetch the priest?”
No one answered. The boys glanced at each other, breath held.
“My lord?” he called again.
“Aye,” came the growled response.
More glances were exchanged. More breath was held.
“Aye, you are well, or aye, I should fetch a—”
A growl sounded again.
Bailey swallowed. The old man crossed himself.
“Good sir?”
Silence echoed like thunder around them. Reaching carefully forward, the gaffer unlatched the top door, then stepped cautiously back.
“All is well,” O’Banyon said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was standing a bit on end and his eyes held a strange glow, but otherwise he seemed quite whole. He smiled. “I need but a moment to calm her.”
They blinked at him. “Right sir. Of course, sir.” The old man bobbed a nod. “Shall I have Bailey fetch your saddle, sir?”
“That would be much appreciated,” O’Banyon said and swung the door closed again. “Methinks she missed me.”
***
Near an hour had passed before the mare was saddled and O’Banyon threw the stall doors wide, but all three horsemen still remained, industriously scrubbing at tack that already gleamed with cleanliness.
The Irishman grinned as he led the cantankerous mare down the aisle. The steed’s iron-shod hooves met the cobbles like the slow, heavy strike of a smithy’s hammer. “There be times when wee Luci here can be a mite fractious,” he said. “But she’ll na harm ye.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the old man.
“Unless ye come within striking distance,” Banyon added, and leading the beast into the open air, slipped the reins over her head. The sorrel shifted an evil eye toward him.
O’Banyon growled. Luci flipped her tail and turned away, casual as a turnip. “Good day to ye,” Banyon said, and mounting, reined the mare onto the thoroughfare.
Hacks clip-clopped past. Luci pinned back her oversized ears and shook her head.
An open curricle spun by. Two identical young women, dressed in identical gowns, with identical expressions of glee, sat across from a scowling matron. They giggled and whispered something behind their identical ivory fans. O’Banyon gave them a grin and a truncated bow.
Borough Market’s costermongers were in full cry. Milkmaids ambled by with placid cows. Tradesmen hawked every conceivable skill. Baked apples and jellied eels were sold in concert with ice blocks and live rabbits.
But O’Banyon soon left the hustle and bump of prosperous London behind. East End looked different in the light of day, but he had no trouble finding the hovel where the countess had stopped just the night before.
Issuing a terse warning, he dismounted distractedly and led the moody mare to the door. The portal was warped and slanted, set askance on bent hinges. He rapped once and waited. Down the street, a boy appeared, eyes wide in his dirty face.
“Lad,” he called. “Might ye tell me who lives here?”
The child remained frozen for an instant, then turned and ran, dirty feet flying beneath tattered breeches.
O’Banyon rapped again. Footsteps sounded from within, and finally the door opened on rusty hinges. An old woman stood there, bent and gnarled.
“Yer pardon,
O’Banyon gave them a grin. “Latch the door behind me,” he ordered. “And if I be yet alive when she’s done with me, fetch a priest to read me me last rites,” he said and stepped into the stall.
In the aisle, Southren rushed to close the door. Then the threesome remained perfectly still, listening. Inside the stall, something hit the wall like a loosed battering ram. Southren jumped back. The mare screamed. A feral growl answered. Another blast shook the stable. There was the sound of rustling straw. Hooves struck the floor, rattling the very earth beneath their feet. And then silence.
The trio glanced at each other and shuffled forward a few tremulous steps. Inside the stall, nothing stirred.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” called the old man. “Or shall I fetch the priest?”
No one answered. The boys glanced at each other, breath held.
“My lord?” he called again.
“Aye,” came the growled response.
More glances were exchanged. More breath was held.
“Aye, you are well, or aye, I should fetch a—”
A growl sounded again.
Bailey swallowed. The old man crossed himself.
“Good sir?”
Silence echoed like thunder around them. Reaching carefully forward, the gaffer unlatched the top door, then stepped cautiously back.
“All is well,” O’Banyon said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was standing a bit on end and his eyes held a strange glow, but otherwise he seemed quite whole. He smiled. “I need but a moment to calm her.”
They blinked at him. “Right sir. Of course, sir.” The old man bobbed a nod. “Shall I have Bailey fetch your saddle, sir?”
“That would be much appreciated,” O’Banyon said and swung the door closed again. “Methinks she missed me.”
***
Near an hour had passed before the mare was saddled and O’Banyon threw the stall doors wide, but all three horsemen still remained, industriously scrubbing at tack that already gleamed with cleanliness.
The Irishman grinned as he led the cantankerous mare down the aisle. The steed’s iron-shod hooves met the cobbles like the slow, heavy strike of a smithy’s hammer. “There be times when wee Luci here can be a mite fractious,” he said. “But she’ll na harm ye.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the old man.
“Unless ye come within striking distance,” Banyon added, and leading the beast into the open air, slipped the reins over her head. The sorrel shifted an evil eye toward him.
O’Banyon growled. Luci flipped her tail and turned away, casual as a turnip. “Good day to ye,” Banyon said, and mounting, reined the mare onto the thoroughfare.
Hacks clip-clopped past. Luci pinned back her oversized ears and shook her head.
An open curricle spun by. Two identical young women, dressed in identical gowns, with identical expressions of glee, sat across from a scowling matron. They giggled and whispered something behind their identical ivory fans. O’Banyon gave them a grin and a truncated bow.
Borough Market’s costermongers were in full cry. Milkmaids ambled by with placid cows. Tradesmen hawked every conceivable skill. Baked apples and jellied eels were sold in concert with ice blocks and live rabbits.
But O’Banyon soon left the hustle and bump of prosperous London behind. East End looked different in the light of day, but he had no trouble finding the hovel where the countess had stopped just the night before.
Issuing a terse warning, he dismounted distractedly and led the moody mare to the door. The portal was warped and slanted, set askance on bent hinges. He rapped once and waited. Down the street, a boy appeared, eyes wide in his dirty face.
“Lad,” he called. “Might ye tell me who lives here?”
The child remained frozen for an instant, then turned and ran, dirty feet flying beneath tattered breeches.
O’Banyon rapped again. Footsteps sounded from within, and finally the door opened on rusty hinges. An old woman stood there, bent and gnarled.
“Yer pardon,
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