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Fergus sighed deeply. He leaned one way and then the other against the stone wall of his cell, trying to find a more comfortable position with his hands bound behind his back.
He sighed again. If the usurper had him executed, who would take care of the horses? Not only feeding them, brushing them, cleaning their hooves . . . Who else knew that Dusty, although she threatened to bite, was secretly the sweetest, or what kind of treats Daisy liked best? (The knights always gave their steeds lofty names like Thunderbolt or King’s Ransom, but the names Fergus called them were the ones they answered to when they were out at pasture, and Fergus would give them a little treat and scratch behind their ears.)
Or the messenger pigeons—who else knew that they liked to sit in the sun like a cat, or the soft noises they made when they were happy?
Suddenly, the cell door burst open. “Captain?” he said incredulously.
It was Maid Jean, the keys jingling in her hands. “The Black Fox is in the castle!” she announced triumphantly. She cut his bonds with her knife and helped him to his feet. “You’ll be safe now. I must go find Hawkins!” And then she was gone, dashing back out the door.
Fergus blinked and rubbed at his wrists. He was feeling very well, all things considered.
He peered out the door to see a scene of chaos. The usurper’s guards were fighting, but they seemed to be getting the worst of it. Outlaws pursued and harried them—some of them rather small, but very nimble.
Fergus picked up a stout log of wood and hefted it experimentally. It was finally time to fight for the true king, and there were a few heads he would like to thump.