Still more rarely, foraging
parties swept through the morning stillness, lowing cows pricked to a sharp
trot before them, and squawking fowls slung over their broad shoulders.
Captured pigs gave back squeal for squawk, and the voices of the riders rose
in uproarious laughter until the very echoes revolted and cast back the
hideous din.
The approach of the first of these bands caused Randalin's heart to leap and
sink under her brave green tunic. For all that she could tell from their
dress, they might as well be English as Danish. If her disguise should fail!
As they bore down upon her, she drew her horse to the extreme edge of the road
and turned upon them a pale defiant face.
On they came. When they caught sight of a sprig of a boy drawn up beside the
way with his hand resting sternly on his knife, they sent up a shout of
boisterous merriment. The blood roared so loudly in Randalin's ears that she
could not understand what they said. She jerked her horse's head toward the
trees and drove her spur deep into his side. Only as he leaped forward and
they swept past her, shouting, did the words reach home.
"Look at the warrior, comrades!" "Hail, Berserker!" "Scamper, cub, or your
nurse will catch you!" "Tie some of your hair on your chin, little one!"
As the sound of hoof-beats died away, and the nag settled back to his steady
jog-trot, the girl unclenched her hands and drew a long breath.
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