"Shawn Dark!"

He launched straight toward her. Margo, bleeding and whimpering, rolled awkwardly on the floor. Someone tried to tackle him, but was too late. The soldier brought the maul down in a smashing blow. Margo barely rolled out from under it. An iron band around the end of the hammer sparked on concrete a hair's breadth from her ear. He staggered past, off balance--and ran straight into the arms of station security. Four men put him in a headlock, finally immobilizing him.

Another disturbance in the crowd caught the periphery of her attention, then Kit bent over her. He was utterly, ashen.

"Margo! Margo, you're hurt..."

She waved an unsteady hand toward the soldier. "He... came through the gate..."

Kit was examining her arm, her thigh. "Not deep, thank God," he said with a heartfelt grin that actually wobbled.

He really cares ....

Margo hadn't realized how much. Kit tore his own shirt for compresses and tied them down. The soldier, still struggling against restraint, snarled something at him. Kit glanced up, looking astonished, then spoke gently in some language Margo had never heard The man glowered, then slowly stopped struggling. Another few words from Kit and fear began to shine in his eyes. He whispered something to which Kit replied. Whatever Kit said, it terrified the soldier.

"Let him go," Kit said quietly.

The men who'd grabbed him looked uncertain, then released him. The soldier stood uncertainly in the midst of the crowd, looking suddenly terrified and utterly alone.

"He'll need to see Buddy for orientation," Kit said. "Has anyone called him yet?"

Someone near the edge of the crowd said, "He's on his way down."

"Anybody tell Bull what happened?"

One of the Pest Control officers, standing sheepishly by with an empty net, said, "Al's already gone for him. Kit, that grandkid of yours saved a little girl's life before you got here. She acted real quick, caught a French charger by the bridle before any of us were in position to act. It raked her with its spiked bit, but she saved the kid's life. Would've tramped her for sure."

Kit glanced sharply at her, then said, "Can you stand on that leg?"

Margo tried. A nauseating wave of pain swept through her. Kit simply picked her up and strode hastily through the crowd, which gave way with astonishing rapidity.

Margo bit her lips, not wanting Kit to know how badly she hurt. "What did that soldier say, when you talked to him?"

He glanced down just long enough to meet her gaze. "He was at the siege of Orleans. In medieval France. He was fighting for his life. When you appeared out of nowhere, he thought Jeanne d'Arc had opened the gates of hell. Now he thinks you've sent him through into hell.

" Jeanne d'Arc, that's what he called me."

Kit tightened his lips. "Yes. He thought you were Joan of Arc. Said something about you thrashing another archer?"

"He tried to stab me. I disarmed him, that's all ... ."

She didn't want to talk. Margo's stomach was so uneasy it was all she could do to swallow down the nausea that accompanied every throb in her arm and leg.

Kit just nodded "Well, the English army lost the battle at Orleans, rather badly. This fellow's a Welsh archer, a longbowman. Like the English, he thought Joan was a witch. The Burgundians caught her a couple of years after Orleans and turned her over to the English. They burned her."

Margo shut her eyes. "I ... I fell through the gate when it opened. I didn't have any equipment, I don't know when it was..." She started to cry.

"Hang in there, Margo. I'm taking you to Rachel Eisenstein. They're not serious cuts, I promise."

"Good," she whispered

Kit tightened his arms around her and shoved open the infirmary door with the point of his shoulder.

"Rachel! Emergency!"

The station doctor appeared at a run. "What happened?"

"Medieval warhorse raked Margo with a spiked bit. Slashes to arm and thigh. Unexpected gate into a fifteenth-century battle."

They eased her onto an examining table and Rachel Eisenstein stripped off Margo's ruined clothes. "It isn't as bad as it feels," Rachel told her gently, swabbing out the long slices. She gave Margo a local anesthetic and cleaned the wounds, then stitched them up. She finished off with bandages.

"Your medical records indicate no allergies to penicillin," Rachel said, consulting a computer screen. "That's correct?"

"Yes," Margo said in a small voice. "That's right. I'm not."

The doctor injected antibiotics and anti-tetanus and gave her a prescription for oral capsules as well. "When you're wounded with a down-time weapon that's been only God knows where and in God knows what, we take no chances."

Margo felt sick again, clear through.

"Not to worry," Rachel said with a smile. "We'll take good care of you. Put her to bed, Kit, and feed her when she feels like eating."

Margo felt like a complete fool when they settled her in a wheelchair. Kit wheeled her back out onto the Commons.

"What happened, exactly?" Kit asked quietly.

Margo told him.

"You were lucky," he told her when she'd finished "Medieval war horses were trained to kill foot soldiers. If the charger hadn't been so spooked by the gate, he'd have crushed you. I'll question the Welshman more closely to see if we can pinpoint more or less when you emerged through that gate."

Don't I even rate a well-done for saving that kid?

she wondered miserably.

Evidently not, as Kit didn't say another word on the subject. He took her back to his quarters and tucked her in, the only concession being that he put her in his own bed and carried his pillow and blanket to the couch.

"Hungry?" he asked, settling down beside her.

She turned away. "No."

He hesitated, then touched her shoulder. "You did okay, kid. But you have so much to learn ... ."

"I know," Margo said bitterly. "Everyone keeps telling me."

Kit dropped his hand. "I'll check on you again later. Call me if you need anything."

Margo didn't want anything more from Kit. She was tired and sick and her injuries throbbed and the best he could manage to say to her was "You did okay."

She muffled her face in the pillow and drowned out all sound of a misery she could hardly bear.

Kit sat in the darkness, nursing a shot glass of bourbon. So close ... dear God, she'd come so close, and didn't even realize it. His hand was still a little unsteady as he drained the glass and poured again. A knock at the door interrupted an endless stream of graphic images his mind insisted on presenting had the confrontation gone even a little differently.

Kit climbed wearily to his feet and found the door.

"Yeah?"

"It's Bull."

Kit unlocked it. "Come on in."

"Drinking in the dark?" Bull asked with a frown.

"Margo's asleep. I didn't want to disturb her." He flicked on a table lamp.

"I won't stay long then. I've spoken with our newest down timer. He's suspicious and unhappy and protested rather violently when I confiscated his weapons, but I didn't order confinement. He seemed genuinely apologetic that he'd attacked the wrong person. Ordinarily, you know, I'd order strict confinement for a fight with lethal weapons, but under the circumstances ...

"Yeah," Kit said heavily.

"I'll confine him if You'd p refer."

Kit glanced up. "No. No, don't do that He was shaken and scared. Battle does strange things to a man's mind, as it is, never mind falling through a gate into La-La Land. What's his name, anyway?"

"Kynan Rhys Gower."

"Poor bastard."

"Yeah. It's rough on the down timers. Buddy's already had a long session with him. He says it's the usual reaction: he's confused, scared, convinced he's in hell. I wish. to God the government would come up with some sane policy regarding them, but chances are it'd be worse for 'em than leaving 'em here."