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Vinny Balfour is thrown back to the 13th century, where he is mistaken for Vincent of Baalfire. But not by everyone. Here is a taster:
One of the wardogs, a heavily-built mastiff, trained by an irritable, old farmer to chase people off his land and bring down hot-tempered steers, suddenly pulled free from the rope held by its handler. The poor old wretch, rivers of sweat running down his face into his grizzled beard, beat it with his cudgel. Then, without warning, the animal lunged wildly at the fetlocks of Zel. The stallion reared, nearly hurling Radulph and Vinny to the ground.
As the hooves came down, they lashed out at the mastiff. Radulph whispered in Vinny’s ear. ‘You are not my son.’ Vinny strained to listen and hold onto the reins and Zel’s mane at the same time. The wardog persisted. Snapping. Snarling. The stallion reared again. And came down again kicking furiously. ‘My son, Vincent, is dead.’ The growls of the mastiff fired up the savage blood-lust of other wardogs, who added to the frenzied yelping. ‘Of this I am sure. You have fooled my wife. Impostor.’
A third time, the horse reared up and its hooves came down hard. This time solidly on the animal’s skull. ‘I know this,’ said Radulph. ‘For I killed him.’ There was a moment of silence. The beast slumped to the ground. For a few seconds, the hind legs twitched. Then it lay still. Forever. A jagged crack across the skull. Pink saliva trickled from its mouth. Blood mingled with the dust.
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