by Karin, Anya
The sheriff, of course, didn’t lift an eyebrow. Instead he just stumbled along, completely and happily oblivious.
“Mister Gavin, I do wish I had more time to admire the curvature of your arms,” Olga said as Gavin pulled away and focused on an unfortunate looking figure tottering around in the road.
“Sorry Olga, I was enjoying the massage.” Gavin grinned and squinted. “I think that’s him. Did you hear that sound? The whistle?”
“Oh yes Mister Gavin I did, and I would have said something sooner but I was too busy with-”
“Yes, right, with my...uh...muscles.” Gavin couldn’t help but laugh lightly under his breath. In the ten hours they’d known one another, he’d developed quite a fondness for the round German woman who took such good care of his lady love when she’d been stuck in Macdonald’s mansion. But still, her insistence on rubbing parts of his body was a little unnerving.
“Stay low,” Gavin whispered. “We canna alert him. Although judging from the way he’s walking, our friend is rather senseless at the present time.”
“How do you mean?”
“He appears to have a rather bad case of drunkenness.”
They had managed to get near enough to hear Alan grumble something, spit on the road, and then accidentally step in his own expectorate and then swear about it.
“What an ill-mannered creature,” Olga hissed. “To spit and use such language.”
“Ach, I couldna agree more, ma’am. Come on, quiet. Good, like that.”
To prevent her making any more noise than necessary, Gavin put his hand on Olga’s back, which made her giggle and turn back to grin at him, and then pushed her gently ahead of him. In this way they slowly, ever so slowly, crept forward along a low wall. Every few steps, Gavin poked his head up to make sure the sheriff had not gone anywhere, although he knew he had his doubts the sheriff was capable of such a thing.
“God damn shoe,” Alan grunted when he turned about in a circle and stepped in his spit for the third time, and then spat again. “How are my socks wet?”
Gavin couldn’t help but roll his eyes and shake his head. Olga, as scandalized as she was by the man’s poor public behavior, also seemed rather amused by the way he was slowly turning in a circle, carefully examining the wall beside him and running his hand along the lines of mortar between the bricks.
Reaching back, Gavin pulled the rope out of his belt that was intended to go around Alan’s wrists, and moved forward another few steps. “Wait here,” he said to Olga. “I’ll need you to stay here to make sure he doesn’t double back or get around me somehow.”
“Right, I can do that,” Olga said.
The next time Gavin looked over the wall, Alan had his back turned and was leaned against the side of a building with one hand, and wrestling with the buttons on his trousers. He dropped back down and sighed. He checked, grinning at Olga’s exaggerated forward lean. She was ready for whatever came her way, though Gavin didn’t think it would come to that. Down the narrow alley, Rodrigo crossed into his field of vision and signaled that they should jump over the wall. Gavin nodded, but signed to wait.
He scrunched down and wrapped the rope around his fist. His legs burned from the deep bend in his knees, but he knew he couldn’t go – not just yet. He had to wait for John’s signal. Rodrigo gave his, two of them were in place, but where was the third? Where was John?
Looking back at Olga, she was still in position, length of thick rope taught between her fists. She shot Gavin a smile. He nodded gravely.
“Right,” he said under his breath.
He glanced back to Rodrigo and saw him still waiting.
“Where’s John?” Gavin mouthed. Rodrigo shrugged.
Time to act, he knew. There was nothing else to do. Maybe John had taken a wrong turn. Maybe he had been distracted. There was no way to know and nothing else to do.
Time to act.
Tightening his rope, Gavin signaled to Rodrigo and all at once, both of them stood up, hopped over the short wall and charged the sheriff.
“Don’t run!” Gavin shouted. “You’re surrounded!”
Rodrigo shouted something incoherent and dove.
A miss.
Alan, almost falling over with his dodge, somehow managed to twist away from the flying Spaniard, who crashed to the ground and grunted in pain.
“Where’s Elena?” Gavin said through gritted teeth.
“With Olga, I sent her over to where you were,” Rodrigo shouted as he hopped to his feet. “Where’s John?”
Gavin shrugged and ducked a wild, sloppy punch from Alan. Though the sheriff was so drunk he could barely stand, he was still a thickly muscled bulldog of a man, and incredibly strong. He swung again and Gavin moved out of the path of his fist at the last second, turned and wrapped a loop of his lasso around the sheriff’s wrist.
“Who do you think you are?” he howled. “Let me go!”
“No one wants you here,” Gavin said, straining to snatch his other hand. “No one wants you here or in Mornay’s Cleft or in Scotland at all! Hold still!”
Alan threw an elbow and caught Gavin in the cheek, sending painful shocks through his face and sending him reeling backwards for just long enough that the sheriff was able to wrench himself free. He stumbled over a rut in the road, fell down, and somehow managed to spring back to his feet with agility only someone who is very used to being in his cups could possibly have.
Rodrigo rolled to one arm, pushed himself up and, bleeding, grabbed his skinned elbow. “Where is John?”
“I don’t know. John! John! Where are you?” Gavin called, and then remembered Olga. In case, somehow, the comically inebriated sheriff was able to continue dodging the two of them, Gavin thought it wise to at least herd him in her direction. He waved Rodrigo over.
“Good luck!” The sheriff yelled. “You two wretches couldn’t catch me if was asleep. Rodrigo? Is that you? Why have you fallen in with this riff-raff?”
Gavin noticed that Alan’s lip was bloody, and the rope was still looped loosely around one wrist. Other than that though, he was doing much better than either of the two of them, as embarrassing as that was. Gavin rubbed his jaw and felt a lump already rising.
“John!” he shouted again.
“Did you find him?” a nearby voice responded.
“Yes! Get over here! Where are you?”
“Tavern, I...” his voice bounced as he ran and when Gavin turned, he saw John was red-faced and his shirt was unbuttoned. “I, uh...” He grinned sheepishly.
“Never mind that now, though, I congratulate your timing. You go high, Rodrigo, go low – go for his ankles. I’ll try to tie him when you do.”
“Aye, on three?”
The sheriff stared at them, spat onto the road, and cracked his knuckles.
“Is he serious? He plans to fight all three of us?”
“It’s worked so far,” Gavin said with a bitter laugh. “One...two...three!”
All three men charged at once, John and Rodrigo trying to flank him. As soon as they were within striking distance, they dove just like they planned.
“How are you so stupid?” shrieked Alan as he hopped backwards and both missed. Gavin charged one last time, but carelessly. “How can three men not catch one drunk? I’ve had enough!” As Gavin charged, Alan dropped the rope from his wrist, turned, and ran.
Gavin grinned.
“He’s coming! He’s coming from the right!” Gavin shouted.
Alan hoisted himself over the short wall with a great deal of effort, and hearing what was said, ran in the opposite direction.
“What is...Ow!”
A tremendous crashing sound preceded an equally amazing quantity of sputtering, grunting and swearing. Gavin helped Rodrigo and John to their feet, barely able to keep himself from grinning ear to ear.
“What is so incredibly funny? He got away!” John said, going to run after the sheriff. Gavin stopped him and slowly walked the two of them toward the wall.
“Le
t me ask you something,” he said. “What is far more frightening than the three of us?”
John shook his head. Rodrigo, having realized what was about to happen, started laughing.
“That.”
Nodding in the direction the sheriff ran, Gavin braced himself against the little wall, doubled over, and almost exploded in laughter.
Olga, Elena and Lynne were all three standing above the hog-tied sheriff. Olga in particular had a very satisfied look on her face, but all three of them were grinning.
“Smart and muscled, Mister Gavin,” Olga called. “What a brilliant plan!”
“That was all planned?” John said with disbelief in his voice.
“No, not one bit,” replied Gavin, not once breaking his smile, as he waved to the women. “But if those three realize they just saved us from having to chase him through the entire city, we’ll never live it down, aye?”
“Aye,” John started to laugh. “But somehow I think they’ll figure it out at some point.”
Rodrigo shook his head. “Well, si, that’s probably true. But why not let it last as long as it can?”
The three of them threw their arms around one another’s shoulders and shared a laugh. “Let’s go. Kenna will be expecting me shortly. She’ll be as happy as a shorn sheep to see the rest of you,” Gavin said.
“Aren’t sheep usually very upset about being shorn?” Rodrigo cocked an eyebrow.
“Ach, well, not...in the summer?”
The three of them laughed again, made the rest of the distance along the alley and collected the bruised, squirming, angry sheriff.
“Well, that’s done,” Gavin said with a sigh as he threw Alan over the haunches of a mule. “Shall we make for the north?”
“Aye,” said John. “I wish Ben could go with us.”
“I think if he did that, Alice would kill him.”
“Have you brutes considered that maybe he wants to stay with his family instead of going off on a wild adventure?” Lynne sidled up beside John and gave him a playful elbow. “Some people actually like their lovers.”
“Ach, what’re you meaning? I like you just fine,” he said.
“I was referring to myself,” she said. “Let’s go, then.”
Olga and Elena nodded in agreement.
“I love you all,” Gavin said. “And I couldna have done it without you. But I have to say, I canna imagine missing anyone more than I miss Kenna right now.”
Within an hour, as the sun had just peaked for the height of noon, six horses and one mule were loaded with travelers. Six of the travelers were seated and comfortable. One of them was most decidedly not.
Eight
Mornay’s Cleft
August 17, Near Midnight
The rapping of Mayor Willard’s unused fork against the side of his crystal wine glass – conspicuously filled only with water since the beginning of the meal – sent a chill down Kenna’s spine.
Course after course of food had come to the table served by what seemed an army of waitstaff. Salads, both cold and warm, followed soup served inside of a pumpkin. After those two courses, a number of various meat pies, fatty meats and stews were brought. She ate only sparingly of everything, and even with how delicious and nearly sinfully rich every dish was, she couldn’t bring herself to have much of an appetite. She ate only enough to avoid rudeness.
Several times, Willard asked her if something was the matter, or if she was feeling poorly, but each time she said no, only that she was over-tired from travel, and not sleeping well since arriving in town. He left her alone for most of the rest of the evening, but every so often when she looked around the table, Kenna found him watching her with his eyes half open, as though he was asleep or in some sort of trance.
And then there were those scars on the backs of his hands...
“May I have your attention?” His voice, almost shadowy in its curling tone, so different from the courtroom, filled Kenna’s ears, shaking her concentration.
The low roar of conversation continued for a moment longer. Again he made chiming sounds with his fork on the glass. Around the table, the chattering Englishmen with all manner of accents shushed one another and eyes turned to the mayor.
“Thank you.”
Steven Marlowe Willard smiled, cleared his throat, and replaced his fork carefully atop his napkin, which remained, as it had for the entire meal, folded in a sharp triangle. Then he pushed his untouched plate forward. When he did, one of his sleeves slid backwards ever so slightly and underneath the cuff of a glove, Kenna once again saw the crisscrossed scars that had caught her mind several times already. She had to shake herself to stop staring at the ribbon-thin pink lines.
“We’re here tonight for a couple of reasons, both celebratory. First of all, as all of you know, we’ve just gotten – or you have, I suppose – finally received word to purchase my lumber. And so here’s to what I hope is a wonderfully fruitful future for myself and for the East Indies Company.”
It took all the will Kenna had not to fish her notebook out of her sash and start scribbling, but she already knew about the deal with the Company. What he said next put her teeth on edge.
“Aside from that, as you’ve probably noticed, we have a new guest at our table who you’ve not seen before. This is Miss Kenna Moore.”
Her cheeks burned. The effort it took for her not to start writing notes halfway through dinner was nothing compared to the concentration required for her to keep her eyes off the table.
“Kenna, greet everyone, don’t be shy. She’s a Scot, but she’s one of the good type. She keeps herself quiet most of the time.” Many of the men around the table chuckled at what he said, but Kenna just grit her teeth. She well knew that her first inclination – to fire off a witticism – was not the best idea.
“Hello gentlemen, nice to meet you all.” A quick glance around the table and a courteous nod did the trick of taking care of her obligation for courtesy.
“Oh, that’s fine, then.” Willard looked at her and made his approximation of a smile which was little more than him pulling his thin lips back over his small, square, hauntingly white teeth. “Miss Moore will also be staying with me here at the mayor’s manor for the remainder of her stay in Mornay’s Cleft.”
Kenna’s eyes shot wide open, and she racked her brain for an appropriate response to Willard’s audacious declaration. She wanted to politely decline, but had a sneaking feeling that almost nothing could be said to keep her from having to board with one of the strangest, most off-putting and utterly bizarre men she had ever met. Willard did not strike Kenna as a man that could be easily deterred once he’d made up his mind.
“I...I – suppose so, yes,” she stammered, resigned to the uncomfortable fact that any action she took would likely do more harm than good.
Immediately, a number of whispers began to circle the table. It was obvious what they were about. The mayor has a new concubine, she heard from a man to her left. From the other side, she heard a man titter and then remark that he must have gotten through his year of mourning at the death of his daughter in fine fashion.
“It should be mentioned that Miss Moore is also engaged to one Gavin Macgregor. He’s a fine man, but as you can see presently, he is indisposed through some difficulty that must be severe, else he wouldn’t have left his blushing bride-to-be in a place like this, so full of lusty, lonely farmers.” His voice took on such a strange, menacing tone that Kenna almost lost her resolve and ran from the dining hall, but somehow she held on and refused herself the indulgence.
Though the Englishmen at the table had initially been chuckling and laughing, they almost immediately seemed to become uncomfortable. As the mayor continued to speak, saying the same sorts of things, just slower, and softer as time went on, they got more and more uneasy until finally one of them asked for dessert.
“Dessert? Oh, of course, you’ll have to excuse me gentlemen, I’ve just been so excited about my guest that I completely forgot about everything else. Rol
lo! Get the dessert ready.”
“What’re we having?” one fellow from near the opposite end of the table from Kenna, asked.
“I haven’t any idea. Rollo! What’s for dessert?” The voice from the courthouse returned. It seemed to Kenna that he used completely different sorts of speech when he talked to subordinates and when he talked to equals – or in this case, superiors. Wasn’t all that strange, she thought, it was just the wild difference in the voices that struck her.
“Y – yessir,” said the short hunch-backed man as he shuffled to the table. He nodded respectfully to Kenna, which was the first respect she’d been shown since the whole awful dinner began. “We’ve got a rustic peach pie, two sorts of sweet pudding, and fruit porridge.”
“Fruit porridge? What is that? Oatmeal with fruits in it?” The man who asked about desserts in the first place cried. “So we’ve pie, pudding and oatmeal? Leave it to those savage Scots to be daft enough to call porridge dessert! Well, when in Rome, I suppose. I only thank God that you didn’t serve us haggis for dinner!”
The entire crowd began to laugh boisterously and someone knocked his glass on the table, then accidentally elbowed someone beside him who stood up sharply and knocked over his glass.
“Enough!” The mayor said again in his courthouse voice. “That’s enough! Rollo! Clean this mess, and get the staff to bring dessert!”
Kenna had no idea how that whole affair had gotten out of hand so quickly, but then it occurred to her that the uproar had nothing to do with dessert. It was likely the outcome of the mayor’s awkward behavior moments before, which had created an uncomfortable tension in all of these men, and not just in Kenna. Added to the constant supply of drink over too many hours, the tension had bubbled to the surface with the convenient excuse of the Scots’ unforgivable affinity for apparently unsophisticated desserts. What’s wrong with oats and fruit, anyway? She looked out the large window that was installed in the roof of the mayor’s dining room and saw that the moon was dangling directly overhead. Midnight, or past it, she thought. How much longer can this ordeal go on?