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Bertha’s girth worked in his favor. She and Glenda collided in the doorway as they lumbered to pursue their victims. He estimated it would take at least five minutes to haul them to their feet and clear the way. Enough time to reach the piggery and free Terric de Quincey and his comrade.
* * *
In the pitch blackness of the pigsty, it took Roland most of the chilly night to contort his body into a position where his bound hands could reach the dagger concealed in his boot. By the time he grasped the hilt, he’d lost all feeling in his hands and he was sweating profusely, despite the cold. He’d also drawn the attention of the sow in the pen, cringing each time the wet snout sniffed his frozen fingers. If he dropped the blade now…
“Have you got it?” Terric rasped from the darkness.
“Yes,” he panted. “I just hope I don’t slice into my own flesh. Do pigs drink blood?”
Stunned silence met his query, so he gritted his teeth and began sawing at the twine as best he could.
When the bonds finally gave way an eternity later, he collapsed onto the cold, stone floor, dizzy with relief and dying of thirst.
After taking a few minutes to steady his breathing, he crawled over to Terric and cut through the twine binding him.
They staggered to the doorway like two drunken fools, relieved there were no guards in sight.
Off to the east, a grey glow lined the horizon. Roland rasped, filling his lungs with the crisp air, desperate to clear his head so he could devise a plan.
He blinked twice when Mandeville burst out of the manor-house, sword in hand, Adelina not far behind, her cloak billowing like a sail. They ran toward the piggery.
Roland groaned. He was about to finally meet the woman he intended to wed. He stank of pig, his clothes and boots were filthy, he probably had shit in his hair, and he was exhausted.
“Come on,” Terric yelled when he hesitated.
