He remembered hearing a sharp bang, and it wasn’t long after when he fell to the ground, crashing violently into the mud. Shadows emerged from the nearby woods, all around. He couldn’t remember how many there were, he couldn’t even see properly, all he could remember was a devastating neigh, the shrill cry from his horse that sends shivers down his spine and is still echoing in his mind. He remember standing up as he was aching all over from the fall, with blood trickling down his forehead through unknown injuries, the pain was paralyzing yet he didn’t remember feeling panic. It was as if he had accepted his doom, as if he, as a prey being hunted, had accepted his fate.
Then a bullet scraped his shoulder, and he fell again, not getting up this time.
Herbert woke to a sudden bump and the muffled sound of distant chattering from all around with his head still heavy. As his hearing and sight slowly returned to him, he noticed he was lying down, dragged on a wooden cart. He twitched and turned, noticing a few men glancing his way as they exchanged comments between themselves. He had many questions but all he could manage was a faint groan followed by coughs and hisses of pain between his gritted teeth. He turned to his side, only to tumble back when he felt the sharp pain in his shoulder, he coughed again when he thought he heard a man speak to him. Before he thought to reply, before he could form a coherent sentence, he felt the cart halt and he was then assisted down and led into a large building. He didn’t quite catch a sight of it clearly, he didn’t know where he was, but he saw the stained glass windows, and all he could think about was that it was a sanctuary.
In there he saw a man, a rather large and graceful figure leant back in a chair, intimidating yet alluring. Herbert dropped to his weakened knees as the man half carrying him released his grip on his unscathed arm, then the figure on the chair rose. He stammered.
“M-monsieur…” Then the man spoke to him, his voice deep and calming, almost sounding like he was amused. Herbert flinched at the throbbing pain and grasped his injured shoulder as the man spoke, he gaze flickering, weak, under the soft light. As his conscious slowly cleared up, he briefly surveyed the hall.
“M-mon cheval,” he finally uttered in a quiet hush, “is he alive?” His mind was still a stirring mess, concern and disbelief compromising his defences. Herbert held no power in that moment, and all words seem to choke him as penetrating gazes surrounded him.
He was tempted to pull away as the mysterious man offered him hospitality, and he would have. He struggled to form appropriate phrases, an expression of gratitude might do, but it somehow seemed off. “Some water would do… thank you.” He replied calmly, his voice subtly adrift. He just wanted to lie down, to sleep, to be away from all the trouble. For a moment he wanted it even more than he wanted answers. Distantly, he heard the younger version of himself sobbing.
“I should not stay long.” He straightened his back despite the pain.
Antoine watched the man drop to his knees with an expression of mild interest, his gestures neat as he wiped the majority of blood from his haggard features. With the same air of grace, he handed the dirtied rag to one of the men beside him. Water was provided to Herbert by another of Antoine’s band, and then, with a nod, the great man banished them from the room. The door, heavy as it was, closed behind them firm as a punctuation mark.
Alone, he returned his attention to the gentleman in front of him, who looked, understandably, traumatised. Antoine considered that It shouldn’t be particularly difficult to earn his good will. Those steady eyes met Herbert’s, relaxed, completely in control of the situation. Good will or not, there was little reason to lie to him. On the contrary to what many considered, Antoine was not fond of lying or liars, mainly due to the profound effort involved.
“Your horse was shot from under you,” he replied, careful to keep his voice as even and calm as possible. “Unfortunately, it has died. I’m sorry.” And it was unfortunate. Antoine didn’t enjoy killing animals unnecessarily, took little pleasure in it. He accepted it occasionally as collateral damage, but he wasn’t above offering a light condolences. “However,” he added, with a flicker of a smile, a tilt of his head, “we can supply you with another.”
“No tragedy occurs that cannot be weathered I’m certain you’ll find,” he reassured him, “and little cannot be solved without a night’s rest. There is a cot here that you can have use of. It is an abbey after all.” He smiled again, fleeting, soft, subtle. “A place of safety. But first, we should see to your wounds, should we not?”
