The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [18]
“Ow!”
“What is it? What happened?” Gerard pulled his sword fully out of the scabbard and moved forward, keeping half his attention on the surrounding area, aware that an ambush could come from any direction, at any time.
Newt reemerged from the bushes, holding one hand to his face. His other hand came forward to show off—
“A rabbit?” Gerard didn’t know if he should be relieved or angry.
Newt shrugged. “They scream when they die. Why not a sneeze?”
Gerard looked at the dun-colored beast twitching in Newt’s grasp and started to laugh weakly as he resheathed his sword.
“I suppose at least we have breakfast for tomorrow.”
Newt looked at the rabbit, then at Gerard. “I caught it. You kill it.”
“You think I can’t?” Gerard bristled at the suggestion. He hadn’t had to do such a thing in years, but he was sure he would remember how. Pretty sure, anyway.
Newt shrugged, holding the rabbit out for the squire to take. In the firelight the small beast seemed almost misshapen, demonic. Gerard stared at it, then looked up at Newt.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” Newt started to say, then opened his hand and let the animal fall to the ground. It recovered the instant its paws touched dirt, and with two strong hops disappeared back into cover.
Gerard blinked at the expression on Newt’s face: part anger, part embarrassment, and purely defiant.
“It wouldn’t have kept well on the road, anyway,” was all the other boy said. “I’m going back to sleep.”
But sleep didn’t come for either one of them. They started and turned at every sound in the night, until dawn found them both awake and ready to move on. A full day and then some had passed since their world turned upside down, and Gerard found himself wondering about the castle. Were they all still safe? Did anyone outside Camelot know?
“Get up with you,” Newt muttered to the mule, tugging at one of its elongated ears. “We’re not on a pleasure trip, you know.” The mule made a rude noise at him, bit a tuft of his hair, and got a solid thwap on its rear in return.
“If you’re done making love noises at your lady…” Gerard began, already saddled and mounted.
“At least I have one,” Newt retorted. He kneed the mule gently in the gut to make sure it wasn’t holding its breath against the packs and, satisfied, hooked the lead rope to his beast’s saddle and mounted. The gelding sidestepped at the weight, then settled down once Newt picked up the reins. He might not be the rider the squire was, but he knew horses better. You took what satisfaction you could. And if it was petty and foolish, so what? It still felt good.
The sun was at their shoulders when Newt heard the noise. It wasn’t much of anything—it might have been the stream that ran alongside the path they were riding on. Or a squirrel in the trees to their left. Or even a bird following them for some reason known only to birds.
But he didn’t think so.
Digging his heels into the gelding’s sides, Newt moved up to ride alongside Gerard. The look on the squire’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes were moving back and forth and there was a drop of sweat on his forehead that couldn’t be explained by the cool weather or the easy pace they were keeping.
“Wasn’t a rabbit last night,” Newt said quietly.
“I figured that one out already.”
Nice to see nerves didn’t make him any softer. Was it something they learned when they became squires? The pages always seemed decent enough, until they jumped up the next level and became too good to talk to servants. The knights were a different matter again. Some good, some not. All too full of themselves. Except Lancelot. Lance was different all over.
“Your horse is going lame,” Gerard said.
Newt was startled out of his thoughts by the comment. “He is not! I’ve never had a horse…. You just don’t want to talk about whatever was in our camp last night, do you?”
“He’s limping. Get down and take a look. He probably has something in his shoe. You were too hasty in grooming him last night.