"Not that one!" she called out quickly as Vulkan hoist a squealing, portly fellow up by the hair and raised his dirk to administer the coup de grace, "that is Henrik, my footman."

Vulkan let the servant go with obvious reluctance.

"He does not appear to be badly hurt," grunted the prince unsympathetically, "just a small hole in his shoulder and a bang on the skull by the look of him."

The prince slapped the servant on the back and pointed with the tip of his fearsome dirk at the countess' baggage strewn about the meadow.

"Pick up all that stuff and reload the coach," he barked, "and be quick about it, your mistress is anxious to be away from this place."

The servant scuttled off nodding obsequiously, his knees still wobbling as he realised how close the fearsome prince had come to cutting his throat by mistake.

"But Prince Vulkan, where are your men-at-arms?" asked the countess looking around the meadow in confusion.

"I have none Madame, what I did, I had to do single handed."

The countess glanced down again at the corpses of her attackers, raising her hand to her lips in a somewhat coquettish display of amazement.

"Oh my goodness," she breathed, "how very impressive."

Vulkan reclaimed his gear and tied his horse to the back of the coach, before climbing back aboard with the countess who immediately drew down the blinds.

Sensing him watching her she said, "the afternoon sun is so intrusive don't you think?"

As soon as the coach had resumed its slow, undulating way the countess suggested that Vulkan might like to be relieved of the burden of his armour.

"After all," she laughed gaily, "you seem to have slaughtered all of the local desperados, so there's little chance of us being disturbed again, is there?"

The prince readily agreed and sat back as the countess began to undo the many buckles and clasps that held his battle gear in place.