He was armored in a shirt of mail, which she was accustomed to, but over that, guarding his shoulder and his breast, he wore segmented plates of polished steel. Slung over his back was a shield shaped, she sourly guessed, like the teardrops that must have rained from the faces of all the fancy ladies in his castle on the day he had gone prancing off to fight the Mongols. On his hip was a sword made for use in one hand, but straight, double-edged, longer and finer than most such weapons.

The other man was smaller, thick-muscled, and with a head more square than round. At first she assumed he was a squire, but as the pair rode into the compound, she saw he was at least as old as the knight. His clothes, though travel-worn, were more in keeping with courtly life than this forest camp. Something like a hatchet dangled from his waist, and he was festooned with daggers. Across his back was slung a crossbow, drawn and cocked. In his posture and the way he related to the beautiful knight, there was no deference, only equal regard and camaraderie. Coupled with a wry awareness of how people favored his handsome friend.

The knight had eyes only for Feronantus and a courteous greeting seemed ready on his lips, but the courtier with an excess of daggers broke in and was first to speak. He swept his arm ceremonially and announced in a booming voice to the compound: “Christendom is saved! Brother Percival has made a quest of it.”

Laughter from all around, partly at the jest, but partly, Cnán thought, out of relief that these men were on their side.

The knight Percival drew up near Feronantus and dismounted with practiced grace. Finn had been right about his horse. It was a rare, beautiful brute with a white blaze on its forehead and a silky gray mane, barrel-chested, bigger than Istvan’s stallion, and easily twice the size of a Mongol pony.

She had heard tales from her kin-sisters of an altercation between certain brothers of the Teutonic Knights and a party of Mongols who had gone astray and gotten lost in enemy territory. Trapped between river and woods, unable to maneuver as they were wont to, the Mongols had crowded together and the warhorses of the Teutons had slammed their smaller mounts around like bowling pins. Seeing this huge destrier, it was easy to believe. A horse worthy of the man…