Several things happened at once. Maximilian fired his pistol, the ball struck the Scot in either his chest or his shoulder; Maximilian could not be sure of which. The man grunted and tumbled backward over the rump of his horse. An instant later, Maximilian whistled sharply. Half turning, he found the other three charging straight at him with their blades raised.
Maximilian’s gelding galloped toward him at his whistle, leaped the fallen Scot, but slammed hard into his horse. The other mount bolted, kicking out. As his gelding reached him, Maximilian had no time to vault into his saddle. Instead, he used the horse’s tall body as a shield as the three tried to run him down. They swerved their horses around the bay, slashing at him with their swords, trying to cut him down.
Ducking and dodging, Maximilian tried keeping his gelding between himself and his attackers. Knowing his bay would not long tolerate other horses in his personal space, the now agitated gelding pinned his ears and lashed out at his assailants’ mounts. A man screamed as a rear hoof connected with a human rather than a horse. Maximilian caught the glint of newly risen moonlight on metal as the man dropped his sword.
As the horses of the highwaymen balked at approaching Maximilian’s furiously irate gelding, Maximilian threw himself, rolled across the gravel, to grab the sword by the hilt. Now armed, Maximilian braced himself for an attack. The injured man, still mounted, spurred his horse straight at Maximilian. Dodging aside at the last instant, Maximilian swung the blade.
The man screamed again as the sword cut across his leg. His horse carried him further away, out of the fight. Now facing two men, who sought to catch him between them, Maximilian once again sought shelter with his angry bay. The gelding lashed out and connected solidly with the chest of another beast. Caught between spurs and an armed rear quarters, the highwayman’s beast tried to rear.
As the attacker fought his horse, Maximilian seized the opportunity to vault into his saddle. Without trying to find his stirrups, he kicked his horse straight at the mounted man right in front of him. With the sword raised high in his hand, Maximilian screamed a wordless war cry. As he had expected – and hoped – the man jerked his horse’s head around. He set spurs to hide and galloped away.
Wheeling his own horse, the bay half rearing, Maximilian challenged the man behind him. That fellow fought him, blade to blade, his horse dancing under him until he realized Maximilian had only to press the advantage and he was dead. Like his friend, the would-be attacker kicked his horse away from Maximilian and galloped on the heels of the first.
The injured and unarmed highwayman had already fled, as Maximilian discovered as he sought to match blades with him. That only left the highwayman he had shot, still lying where he had fallen. Panting with the exertion, Maximilian trotted his snorting bay toward the Scotsman on the ground. Dismounting, he found the man gasping for breath. Maximilian’s shot caught him squarely in the chest, and blood bubbled on his lips.
“Who are you?” Maximilian demanded, seizing the man by the front of his coat, half lifting him. “Tell me, and I will see you cared for.”
The Scotsman stared him straight in the eye as he tried to speak. Words formed on his mouth, but they never emerged into words. Then his wide eyes rolled back into his skull, and he collapsed, deflated, dead. Frustrated, Maximilian let the corpse drop back to the ground and stared down at it. Rising, he walked to the dead man’s horse, caught it by the reins and took it back to its former master.
Struggling, cursing, Maximilian heaved the body across the horse’s saddle. He groping around inside the dead man’s saddlebags and found some lengths of rope, a small bag of gold coins, clothing, dried meat, a dagger in its sheath and a few other oddments he could not identify. Pocketing the gold, suspecting it was what the man had been paid to kill him, Maximilian took the rope and bound the corpse, hand and foot, to the saddle.
He mounted his bay and galloped on toward his castle, leading the other horse by the reins. Lights showed through windows all around the castle and outbuildings as Maximilian trotted toward the stables. Grooms, and surprisingly, Nigel and Fergus, emerged from the buildings to greet him. Lamps held in hands were raised toward both him and the corpse bound across the other horse’s saddle.
Wearily dismounting, Maximilian listened to the voices talking about the body, making exclamations and eying him sidelong. Nigel and Fergus glanced between himself and the corpse in astonishment. “What happened, Your Grace?” Fergus asked. “You ride out alone and come back with a friend?”
Laughing, Maximilian handed the reins to his bay to a groom. “Take good care of him,” he said. “He saved my life tonight.”
The groom bowed, nodded, and led the now tired bay into the stable. Maximilian led Nigel and Fergus to the corpse. Before he spoke, he glanced around to make sure no one could overhear his words. “He was one of four,” he said, lifting the Scot’s head by his hair. “He is Scottish, but I am not sure about the others. They did not talk much so I could not hear their accents. They were hired to kill me.”
Digging the pouch of gold from his pocket, Maximilian waggled it in front of their astonished eyes. “This one told me about their intent before I shot him. One of the others is injured, a kick from my horse and a sword cut. Nigel, I want you to track them down. Get the constables in York involved. I told them I will hang them, and I intend to do it.”
“Right you are, Your Grace,” Nigel said, his tone hard. “I will take this – thing – into York first thing in the morning.”
“Good. Tell the constables I can identify the others when they are found. And, you two…” Maximilian stared at the two of them. “No one else at the castle is to know they were paid to kill me. Understood?”
Both Fergus and Nigel nodded. “Not a word, Your Grace.”
“Good. Nigel, get the body into York as soon as you can. Report to me immediately when you return.”
“I will, Your Grace.”
Loosening his cravat as he walked, Maximilian pondered, yet again, who wanted him dead.
Is Edmund right in that it is Sophia?
While he knew she could be selfish and temperamental, he had difficulty accepting the possibility that she would hire brigands to murder him on the road or connive with one of his servants.
Unless she has changed, she never spoke to servants except to demand she be served.
“Could love turn to such hate?” he muttered.
He knew it was possible. He and Sophia had not parted amicably, and if Edmund was correct in that she wanted him back and discovered he cared for a servant, Maximilian knew she was perfectly capable of murder. Striding across the bailey, he frowned as he wondered who in his employ would be in her pay. As Edmund so adroitly pointed out, he had so many it was well nigh impossible to know whom Sophia paid.
Though he did not feel truly hungry in the aftermath of the fight, his belly burned from not eating. He entered the castle proper and ordered a footman to bring food and wine to him in his quarters. “And a hot bath,” he added. He had sweated through his linen shirt and into his coat and felt disgustingly grimy.
He headed toward the wide staircase and found Wilmot emerging from the drawing room, dressed impeccably in his formal supper attire, a glass of port in his hand. His eyes widened in shock upon seeing Maximilian, and his jaw dropped. Recovering quickly, he eyed his older brother up and down.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
