“Leave me alone,” she hissed. “Or there’ll be trouble.”
She’d hoped to sound threatening, but the man only chuckled, grinning.
“Ooh, she bites! I like a lass with spirit. Now, let’s get a look at ye, eh?”
Before Freya could do anything, the man grabbed at her wimple and yanked it away in one smooth movement.
She yelped, lifting her hands to her head. Several strands of her hair had gotten caught in the folds of fabric and were pulled painfully out from her scalp. She could see them, long coppery strands dangling from the wimple, still hanging crumpled from the man’s hand. Her hair in its loose braid had fallen heavy over her shoulders, long pieces having come free to hang around her face.
The man stared at her, mouth slightly agape. He glanced at the piece of paper with Freya’s likeness on it, and back at her.
“Wait a moment,” he said, lifting a finger. “Ye aren’t actually… I didn’t think… Lads, grab her, and quick. She’s?—”
He never got to finish what he was going to say because at that moment, Brendan’s fist crashed into the side of his face.
The man’s feet literally left the ground, and he went flying into a table and chairs with a tremendous crash. He didn’t get up, lying in a shattered mess of splinters.
Brendan was on his feet now, and turned to face Freya.
“Under the table,” he barked. “Quick!”
There was no time to think twice. She obeyed, heart thudding.
I wish I had my bow and arrows. I wish Da had let me take them to Keep Grahame. I might have been able to take them with me when I escaped.
No time to think about that now. The other two men rushed forward, yelling. The tall man withdrew a greatsword, swinging it back over his head in a formidable arc. Freya clapped a handover her mouth, expecting at any second to see Brendan get decapitated.
But the ceiling was far too low for such a long, heavy sword, and the blade got stuck in the eaves above the man’s head. He tried in vain to pull it free, until Brendan punched him in the gut. He let go over the sword hilt—still stuck in the eaves—and doubled over. Brendan lifted him up bodily, and threw him forward through the window. The pane shattered, and the poor barkeep—probably still sheltering behind the counter somewhere—gave a moan of dismay.
The third man came forward more carefully. He had drawn a shorter sword, no longer than his forearm, and twirled it expertly in his hand. He surged forward, quick as lightning, but Brendan was quicker. He dodged again and again, far lighter on his feet than a man of his size should be. The soldier was growing impatient and desperate, stabbing at the air. More than once, the blade passed so close to Brendan’s torso she thought that hemusthave been caught, but he never slowed down, never flinched, and never took his eyes off the man’s flashing blade.
In an instant, so quickly that Freya nearly missed it, Brendan sidestepped once again, but this time grabbed the man’s wrist. He twisted his arm, and there was a sickeningcrack. Snatching the sword out of the man’s limp hand, he drew it back, point first.
He’s going to stab him,Freya thought in a horrified rush.He’s going to kill him.
Brendan paused, and then glanced over his shoulder. He met her eye. The whole exchange took a split second, but she saw something change in his face. He deftly threw the sword into the air, catching it around the guard. He hit the soldier across the head with the pommel, and the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
There was a long, long moment of silence, broken only by Freya’s ragged gasps and Brendan’s panting.
“Freya?” he said at last, his voice sounding very small and still in the quiet. “Are ye alright?”
She crawled out from under the table. Her braid pulled painfully on her sore scalp, and she had no idea what had happened to her wimple.
“I’m not hurt,” she responded shakily. “Brendan, that was incredible! I thought for sure they were going to kill ye. Kill us both.”
Brendan scoffed, tossing the sword away. “Just because I don’t carry a blade these days doesn’t mean I’m not a soldier.”
“Get out,” came the barkeep’s shaky voice. They both turned to see him peering over the counter, eyes bulging. “Get out of my pub.”
Brendan’s shoulders sagged. “Ned…”
“Don’tNedme! Look at the damage! I know for a fact ye can’t pay for any of this, Brendan! I begged ye to keep yer head down. Why can ye not just—” he broke off abruptly, shaking his head. He passed a trembling hand over his head, and threw an angry look at Freya. “I don’t know who ye are, lass, but ye are no nun.”
“I-I’m sorry, but ye cannot blame Brendan for this,” Freya heard herself say, voice wobbling. “None of this was his fault. Or mine, or yours! It was theirs, we were only defending ourselves. If it wasn’t for Brendan?—”
“Enough!” Ned snarled. “Ye have brought trouble on my head, Brendan. Those men are going to wake up and go back to their captain, and tell him all about what happened here. Ye don’t know what ye have done. Get out of here, quick, before they wake up. And don’t come back. Not this time.”
Brendan pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Ned…”
