21st Century Vinny in 13th Century

I'll be away in Spain for about a week - in the area where part of The Reptile Wars is set.  In the meantime, here is another excerpt.  Vinny has been mistaken for Vincent of Baalfire.  However, Radulph of Baalfire, astride his horse, Zel, is not convinced. In this scene, Vinny has just been dragged up on to the horse in front of Radulph:

Me?  Hold the reins.  As I take the reins, Zel shakes his head so violently that I would have

been thrown off if Radulph hadn’t gripped me tightly round the waist.  I’ve ridden before.

But never on a horse as wild and powerful as this creature.  So I stroke its neck.  Lean close

to its ear and ask it to be kind to me.

Nearby, one of the wardogs, a heavily-built mastiff, is going berserk.  Probably was born

berserk. Its handler, an irritable old farmer, covered in cowshit from the waist down and,

I’d say, chickenshit from the waist up, is having trouble controlling it.  I suspect he uses it to 

keep people off his land, though I’m sure the state of his clothes would do that pretty 

well.  Suddenly, the animal pulls free.  The poor old wretch of a farmer, rivers of sweat 

running down his face into his grizzled beard, beats it with his cudgel.  He kicks at it to

keep it from mauling him.  As it runs around wildly, Astryd screams and draws back into 

the crowd.  Right away, the animal is surrounded by a circle completely emptied of people.  

It glares at everyone ominously, eyes full of loathing.  For a moment it’s undecided.  

Then, without warning, it lunges wildly at the fetlocks of Zel.  When the stallion rears, I'm 

almost hurled to the ground.

“Easy,” I say.  “Easy.”  As if that’s going to make any difference.

As the hooves come down, they lash out at the mastiff.  Radulph mutters in my ear.  “You 

are not my son.”  I strain to listen and hold on to the reins and Zel’s mane at the same time. 

The wardog persists.  Snapping.  Snarling.  The stallion rears again.  Comes down again 

kicking furiously.  “My son, Vincent, is dead.”  The growls of the mastiff fire up the savage 

blood-lust of other wardogs, who add to the frenzied yelping.  “Of this I am sure.  You 

have fooled my wife.  Impostor.”

A third time, the horse rears up and its hooves come down hard.  This time solidly on the 

brute’s skull.  “I know this,” says Radulph.  “For I killed him.”  There’s a moment of silence.  

The wardog slumps to the ground.  For a few seconds, the hind legs twitch.  Then it lies 

still.  Forever.  A jagged crack across the skull.  Pink saliva trickles from its mouth.  Blood 

mingles with the dust.