"I shall, Sir Knight." The steward bowed and departed, clearly amazed at the notion that a man should know anything about birth.

Alone in the pantry, Rod gazed at the grid of light on the bottle-glass window and mused, thinking over the events of the morning and wondering what the missing piece was that would make the whole pattern take shape. A knight had gone out alone—in the darkness before dawn, probably, considering how early was the hour in which Rod had found him. He had clearly expected battle, or he wouldn't have worn armor—but his wife had known nothing of his going. From what threat had he sought to shield her? And what enemy would require single combat without the presence of even a squire?

There was no assurance the other guy wouldn't have brought a small army—which meant the knight was either going to meet a blackmailer (but why the armor?), answering a challenge to single combat, or going after a suspected threat that he wasn't sure existed.

Rod decided on the third.

"Sir Rodney." The steward was at the door. "Sir Reginald is conscious, but tosses as though with a fever."

"Delirious," Rod interpreted. "Well, I can do something about that." He stood, picking up his first-aid kit. "Lead on. By the way, steward, what's your name?"

"Michael Duff, Sir Rodney."

"Figures."

A full-throated scream rent the air as they reached the top of the stairs; Rod nodded with satisfaction.

"How long will the labor be, Sir Rodney?" the steward asked nervously.

"No way to tell, Michael Duff."

The steward glanced over his shoulder at the guest and risked informality. "Most call me Mick, Sir Rodney."

"Mick you shall be," Rod promised. "Let's see your master."

The knight tossed in his bed, mumbling incoherently— unless he rolled onto the wounded shoulder, in which case the mumbling turned into a cry of pain. Rod sat beside him, frowned down at the man for a moment while his thoughts probed his patient's delirium, then laid a hand on his forehead and said sternly, "Sir Reginald, awaken!"

The knight stilled as Rod's thoughts calmed his; then the pain bit, and his back arched as he pulled in a long, shuddering gasp.

"It will mend," Rod assured him.

Another scream echoed down the hall.

Sir Reginald tried to sit bolt upright. "What…"

"Only your lady in the labor of birth." Rod pressed a hand against his chest. "It's perfectly natural, and there's no reason for worry."

"I must… must…"

"Go to her?" Rod shook his head, smiling. "The women would chase you out, Sir Reginald. The last thing they need on their hands right now is a hysterical husband. Besides, you're wounded, in case you hadn't noticed."

The knight turned to look at his shoulder; the pain bit through the adrenalin his wife's scream had summoned. He clamped his teeth, gasped again, then asked, "What…"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Rod said.

He didn't have to eavesdrop; the flood of images in the man's mind were so vivid Rod would have had trouble shutting them out: a bright slash of daylight bordered by darkness above and below—the slits in a knight's helmet, through which he saw three foresters in dark green, two with bows bent and arrows aimed at his helmet as the third thrust upward with a blood-encrusted sawtoothed pike.

The shield dropped to block the pike, and the hound charged the villein who held it, barking furiously, but the bows thrummed and the dog leaped aside at the sound, as he had been trained to do. The shield jumped up to ward off the arrows—and pain seared the knight's shoulder, as the pike jammed under his pauldron; the shield dropped down as his own cry of pain echoed in the helmet. But his sword flashed across and down, and the villein fell back holding a shortened pole with no head and pressing a hand to his arm, where blood welled. The hound was after him, barking like a whole pack. The two archers lifted then-bows again, but the knight charged them; the arrows leaped up, then passed him, as the varlets scrambled aside—but not quickly enough for one of them to avoid the sword. He dropped his bow, bellowing pain.

"Coward!" the pole-bearer shouted. "Come at us without armor or horse!"

The knight's voice echoed in the bell of his helmet: "Come alone, and I will." Then he was charging down at the man, and the villein lurched aside, then fell and scrambled to escape the horse's hooves. On his feet again, he stumbled away into the forest. Turning his horse, the knight saw the archers making their escapes too. Panting, he felt the exaltation of victory, of vindication, for he had beaten off three who had set upon him without cause.

Then the pain in his shoulder flared, the world blurred, and the blur lurched, ending with a jolt. Dimly through thoughts gone murky, Sir Reginald realized he had fallen from his horse.

Memory came in flashes after that, enough so that Rod realized the knight was fading in and out of consciousness, managing to drag himself up out of the darkness of blood loss to meet threats—the first being a return of the pole-arm villein, a bandage around his arm and one archer behind him—but Sir Reginald saw him through the arch formed by his warhorse's legs, which rose out of sight while his head filled with the charger's battle-scream, and the foresters backed away hastily. The archer nocked an arrow, but the hound burst from cover, barking madly. The archer swung his arrow to the beast and loosed, but again the dog leaped aside, then came on, baying madly, and the archer ran. The dog stopped at the edge of the wood and turned back—to find the pole-armed villein with his pike lowered and centered on the hound. The beast came on, barking and growling as it leaped to this side, then that, evading the pike-point, and the villein gave ground—too much, for he came within the horse's range, and the charger screamed as it lashed out with its forehooves, knocking the man over.

The dog leaped in, but the villein brought his blade around in time and the dog dodged, then leaped in and out, in and out, as the man scrambled to his feet and backed away. The hound stopped when the trees had swallowed him, but stayed stiffly on guard as the man called, "Come alone yourself, knight!" then crashed away.

The last picture was the dog's head, filling the knight's vision and whining anxiously, then turning away and barking with gladness as the lady sank heavily to her knees by him, weeping even as she loosened his helmet, and frantic worry kept the knight awake despite the pain, worry for her when she was so heavy with child—but his strength ebbed, and darkness came again.

"Valiantly fought," Rod said, "but what made you think they would be there?"

"Signs in the wood, and words of worry from my tenants." Then Sir Reginald gasped at a spasm of pain, but went on through clenched teeth. "They said outlaws had come by many farmsteads in many manors, telling the peasants their masters were using them as beasts of burden and cared nothing for their welfare. But I have always dealt fairly with my peasants and have done all I could to make sure they are well fed and well housed, so they brought the word to me instead …"

Another cry echoed down the hall, a ragged tearing cry this time, and Sir Reginald jolted upward to answer, but met Rod's palm pushing him down again. "If that wasn't the birth, it's very close," Rod said. "Nothing to worry about, not that knowing it will stop you, or any young husband at a first labor—but you'd only be in the way. Trust me—my wife went through this four times, and it always took two or three people to keep me calm."

"Praise Heaven you are come, then!" Sir Reginald said.

"We're all the same in this hour," Rod told him, "and all need the reassurance of a man who's been through it before, having to stand by and do nothing when his wife's in torment… So you didn't know these three were going to be out there hunting knights?"