NORTHERN FRANCE
28 MAY, 1500

* * * * *

They met, quite literally, at a crossroads. The cloaked man astride the black-and-white spotted Knabstrup stallion reined in the latter. He then tied the Poitevin donkey he had been leading to one of the railing pegs of the little balcony on the rear of the wagon they had been accompanying.

One of the Dominican friars they had stopped for stepped forward.

"Habla usted espanol?"

The Scotsman smiled and shook his head.

"Sorry, laddie! Only English, French, and Gaelic are spoken here."

The Black Friar smiled.

"Ah! You are English, then!

"Saints preserve me, nay!" replied the mounted stranger (crossing himself for emphasis), before doffing his feathered bonnet in greeting.

"Romney Crawford of Strathclyde; professional horse trader. At your service! Strathclyde is in Scotland. And, 'tis where I'm returnin' after havin' spent the last two weeks in Poitou, buyin' one of their giant shaggy jackasses."

The Black Friar frowned in puzzlement.

"Por que, senor? I mean; why would you do such a thing?"

"Well, when I get home, I plan to breed him to some brood mares from Clydesdale. And, create a whole new strain of Poitevin mules, thereby!"

"Ah, si! Comprendo! And, the two gitanos with you? Do you plan to breed them, as well?"

The burly bearded man, driving the wagon's matched team of black Friesian/Percheron crossbreeds, scowled. As if he was suddenly contemplating usage of his horse whip upon the Dominicans! But, the red-headed younger woman sitting beside him instantly put her right hand around his left wrist.

Crawford forced himself to politely chuckle.

"Nay! Allow me to introduce Padraic O'Riordan, a humble gypsy tinker, and his lovely daughter Elena. They are returnin' to Ireland from holy pilgrimage to Le Saintes Marie-de-la-Mer, in the Camargue. And, we are travelin' together, towards Calais, because the roads of France are not as...well-secured...against danger, as the roads of Spain."

The Black Friar chuckled, as well.

"Si! Esta verdad. May we travel with you? For we are on pilgrimage, too. To Canterbury Cathedral for the feast day of San Tomas de Becket."

"Why, certainly!" exclaimed Crawford.

Several hours later, they had camped for the night. And, after the evening meal, Crawford sat down, took out a whetstone, and began to sharpen two lethal-looking weapons. A sword with a basket hilt that appeared to be made of gold-plated mesh. And, a dagger with a U-shaped hilt.

"Horse trading must be a very dangerous profession, Senor Crawford," remarked the Black Friar spokesman.

The Scotsman laughed: "Nay! Up until last year, I was a gallowglass, or soldier-of-fortune. Servin' as master-at-arms aboard a merchant ship of the Hanseatic League. This dagger is called a baselard, And, it was bestowed on me, as a gift, by an Italian-Swiss mercenary I saved the life of, durin' a battle at sea. As for the sword? 'Tis called a claybeg. Not to be confused with the cruciform-hilted claymore, which requires the use of both hands!"

"If horse trading is so less dangerous than your earlier profession," the Black Friar persisted: "...why, then, do you sharpen those?"

"Well, one never knows when one might come across hired killers dressed as clergymen."

There was instantly a tense silence

"That is not funny, senor."

Crawford lost his own smile.

"Neither was your slip-up, concernin' Thomas a Becket. You see, while 'tis true that he was made Archbishop of Canterbury in the month of June, back in the 12th century, his feast day as a saint...isn't till December."

There was a further minute of tense silence before the Black Friar shouted: "Pronto!"

Whereupon, the whole party of them doffed their black robes; lit the tips of their walking sticks on fire; and withdrew custom-made stilettos from the tops of same.

"Donde esta los merinos, gringo?" demanded the spokesman.

"Go to blazes, Spaniard!" Crawford growled, defiantly.

The spokesman's grin was absolutely predatory: "Usted, primero. Para la Garduna!"

And, with the shouting of that last part, battle was joined.

tbc

* * * * *

The first two assassins died, relatively quickly. One, disemboweled by a horizontal slash from the claybeg. The other, choking to death on his own blood as the baselard plunged straight into his throat!

After that, Crawford was surrounded. His assailants poking at him with their improvised torches, in between attempted thrusts with their stilettos. As for the two gypsies? Padraic O'Riordan was using his horsewhip with skillful abandon. Doing his best to keep his own and his daughter's attackers at bay!

That is; till a pair of the Garduna assassins climbed on top of the wagon's roof. With a "whoosh" and a "thunk" their stilletos took flight...and landed with all-too fatal accuracy in the gypsy tinker's back.

"Papa!" screamed Elena, as her father fell to the ground, face-first.

Naturally, she fell to her knees beside him, desperately trying to reassure herself that he might only be wounded. Alas! He was not. And, in her initial mixture of panic and grief, she was blind to her father's killers jumping down from the wagon roof, and grabbing her from behind. Whereupon, they dragged her to her feet. Suspending her between them like a spread-out deer hide waiting to be tanned!

"Mi jefe!" one of them called out: "La mujer es nuestras!* "

"Bueno!" exulted the Garduna spokesman.

He then turned to back to Crawford.

"Where are the sheep, senor? Tell us, and we release you to breed your Scottish mules Refuse? And, we kill you as well as the gitana!"

"Release her with me, and I'll tell you," the Scotsman countered.

"No! She is a heathen puta and deserves nothing less than death. Under _any_ circumstances!"

"Then, there's no reason for me to co-operate," Crawford replied: "Is there?"

"Wait!" Elena cried out: "I will show you where the sheep are."

Whereupon, she suddenly shot upwards to a height of fifty feet!

The Garduna assassins were stunned speechless. That is; till Elena lifted up each of her former captors, and positioned them over her mouth. She shook loose the one clinging for dear life to her right index finger, and he fell in. His screams of terror fading only after her swallowing of him.

The second one did no less, as she shook him loose from her left index finger.

When that was over with, she used her right hand to delicately remove a giant burlap pouch from within her immense cleavage! She then untied the strings at the top of the pouch, prior to depositing its contents (a merino ram, half a dozen ewes, and a black-and-white Scottish border collie) upon the ground.

"Are you happy, now, senores?" the half-Granadan gypsy girl demanded: "If so, I will now claim satisfaction for myself!"

Whereupon, she began a bare-footed flamenco dance that crushed every one of the other Garduna assassins. Naturally, they all tried to flee! But, Elena was too good a dancer to permit that. And, their spokesman?

She saved him for last.

"Por favor!" he whimpered: "No!!"

"Vaya con Dios..." she replied: "Bastardo!"

She not only stepped on him. She also ground his body into the dirt until even his powdered bones were invisible. She then resumed normal size, and helped Crawford and the collie regroup the sheep. And, the following spring?

They repeated this little sheep-smuggling ploy with no trouble, at all.

THE END