"Your horse is not yet curried, sir, and—"
"Out of the way!"
Kesley shoved the oldster to one side just as the four swarthy assassins swept into the courtyard and swarmed toward him. The old man tottered and took a couple of staggering steps that led him straight into the path of the South Americans; Kesley, mounting the horse, winced sympathetically as they collided with him and threw him roughly to the ground.
But the delay allowed Kesley to mount his animal and, even without spurs, he was able to bring the horse under quick control. He wheeled it toward the onrushing assassins. The magnificent beast whinnied and plunged forward.
Surprised, the South Americans yielded before this frontal attack; one aimed a knife blow at the horse's flank, but Kesley's boot caught the man's face and sent him reeling away. Kesley charged through the straggling, disarrayed South Americans and out of the courtyard into the main thoroughfare.
He rode three or four blocks, then pulled up, gasping for breath, and guided the horse into a side-street for a moment. For the first time in the last six minutes, he had a chance to evaluate the situation:
Point: Santana was dead.
Point: his six men had turned against him, and only their stupidity and his agility had kept Kesley from sharing the Archbishop's fate.
Point: someone had arrived from Miguel's court shortly before.
Therefore, Miguel had changed his mind and had ordered the assassinations of Santana and Kesley. Or had Miguel changed his mind? Perhaps this entire expedition had been a complicated way of wiping out a troublesome Archbishop?