No, another sound. He tensed before recognizing the neigh of a horse. That made him feel better. There must be a farm nearby. His legs were steady enough now that he could push through a screen of withes to find the horse.
When he did, he stopped dead. “No,” he said.
The animal was gigantic, a stallion the size of a Percheron but with more graceful build, sleek and black as polished midnight. It was not tethered, though an elaborate fringed pair of reins hung from a headstall chased with silver and arabesques. On its back was a saddle, high in pommel and cantle, also of ornamented leather; a sweeping silken blanket, white with an embroidered black eagle; and a bundle of some kind.
Holger swallowed and approached closer. All right, he thought, so somebody liked to ride around in such style. “Hallo,” he called. “Hallo, is anyone there?”
The horse tossed his flowing mane and whinnied as he neared. A soft nose nuzzled his cheek and the big hoofs stamped as if to be off. Holger patted the animal—he’d never seen a horse so friendly to strangers—and looked closer. Engraved in the silver of the headstall was a word in odd, ancient-looking characters: Papillon.
“Papillon,” he said wonderingly. The horse whinnied again, stamped, and dragged at the bridle he had caught.
“Papillon, is that your name?” Holger stroked him. “French for butterfly, isn’t it? Fancy calling a chap your size Butterfly.”
The package behind the saddle caught his attention, and he stepped over for a look. What the devil? Chain mail!
“Hallo!” he called again. “Is anyone there? Help!”
A magpie gibed at him.
Staring around, Holger saw a long steel-headed shaft leaned against a tree, with a basket hilt near the end. A lance, before God, a regular medieval lance. Excitement thuttered in him. His restless life had made him less painstakingly law-abiding than most of his countrymen, and he didn’t hesitate to untie the bundle and spread it out. He found quite a bit: a byrnie long enough to reach his knees; a conical crimson-plumed helmet, visorless but with a noseguard; a dagger; assorted belts and thongs; the quilted underpadding for armor. Then there were some changes of clothes, consisting of breeches, full-sleeved shirts, tunics, jerkins, cloaks, and so on. Where the cloth was not coarse, gaily dyed linen, it was silk trimmed with fur. Going around to the left side of the horse, he wasn’t surprised to find a sword and shield hung on the breeching. The shield was of conventional heraldic form, about four feet long, and obviously new. When he took the canvas cover off its surface, which was a thin steel overlay on a wooden base, he saw a design of three golden lions alternating with three red hearts on a blue background.
A dim remembrance stirred in him. He stood puzzling for a while. Was this... wait. The Danish coat of arms. No, that had nine hearts. The memory sank down again.
But what in the world? He scratched his head. Had somebody been organizing a pageant, or what? He drew the sword: a great broad-bladed affair, cross-hilted, double-edged, and knife sharp. His engineer’s eye recognized low-carbon steel. Nobody reproduced medieval equipment that accurately, even for a movie, let alone a parade. Yet he remembered museum exhibits. Man in the Middle Ages was a good deal smaller than his present-day descendants. This sword fitted his hand as if designed for that one grasp, and he was big in the twentieth century.
Papillon snorted and reared. Holger whirled around and saw the bear.
