The crystal cave - Mary Stewart [55]
There was a gleam in the man's right hand. He leaned forward, then drove the knife down and across.
Still in silence, slowly, the bull sank to its knees. Black flowed over the white hide, the white ground, the white base of the stone.
I broke from my hiding place and ran, shouting something -- I have no idea what -- across the field towards them.
I don't know what I meant to do. The man saw me coming, and turned his head, and I saw that nothing was needed. He was smiling, but his face in the starlight seemed curiously smooth and unhuman in its lack of expression. I could see no sign of stress or effort. His eyes were expressionless too, cold and dark, with no smile there.
I stumbled, tried to stop, caught my feet in the trailing cloak, and fell, rolling in a ridiculous and helpless bundle towards him, just as the white bull, slowly heeling over, collapsed. Something struck me on the side of the head. I heard a sharp childish sound which was myself crying out, then it was dark.
4
Someone kicked me again, hard, in the ribs. I grunted and rolled, trying to get out of range, but the cloak hampered me. A torch, stinking with black smoke, was thrust down, almost into my face. The familiar young voice said, angrily: "My cloak, by God! Grab hold of him, you, quick. I'm damned if I touch him, he's filthy."
They were all round me, feet scuffling the frost, torches flaring, men's voices curious, or angry, or indifferently amused. Some were mounted, and their horses skirmished on the edge of the group, stamping and fidgeting with cold.
I crouched, blinking upwards. My head ached, and the flickering scene above me swam unreal, in snatches, as if reality and dream were breaking and dovetailing one across the other to split the senses. Fire, voices, the rocking of a ship, the white bull falling...
A hand tore the cloak off me. Some of the rotten sacking went with it, leaving me with a shoulder and side bare to the waist. Someone grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet and held me. His other hand took me roughly by the hair, and pulled my head up to face the man who stood over me. He was tall, young, with light brown hair showing reddish in the torchlight, and an elegant beard fringing his chin. His eyes were blue, and looked angry. He was cloakless in the cold. He had a whip in his left hand.
He eyed me, making a sound of disgust. "A beggar's brat, and stinking, at that. I'll have to burn the thing, I suppose. I'll have your hide for this, you bloody little vermin. I suppose you were going to steal my horse as well?"
"No, sir. I swear it was only the cloak. I would have put it back, I promise you."
"And the brooch as well?"
"Brooch?"
The man holding me said: "Your brooch is still in the cloak, my lord."
I said quickly: "I only borrowed it, for warmth -- it was so cold, so I -- "
"So you just stripped my horse and left him to catch cold? Is that it?"
"I didn't think it would harm him, sir. It was warm in the shed. I would have put it back, really I would."
"For me to wear after you, you stinking little rat? I ought to slit your throat for this."
Someone -- one of the mounted men -- said: "Oh, leave it. There's no harm done except that your cloak will have to go to the fuller tomorrow. The wretched boy's half naked, and it's cold enough to freeze a salamander. Let him go."
"At least," said the young officer between his teeth, "it will warm me up to thrash him. Ah, no, you don't -- hold him fast, Cadal."
The whip whistled back. The man who held me tightened his grip as I fought to tear free, but before the whip could fall a shadow moved in front of the torchlight and a hand came lightly down, no more than a touch, on the young man's wrist.
Someone said: "What's this?"
The men fell silent, as if at an order. The young man dropped the whip to his side, and turned.
My captor's grip had