He scooped up the five dice, closed his fingers about them and rattled them gently. Horace was sure this was how you handled dice, but he didn’t comprehend what difference it made.
“Off yer goes then,” Borrows urged, “turn up that thirteen and you’ll be home in a thrice.”
Horace was convinced in that moment that Borrows was right. His father would throw these dice onto the boards and at least one of them would work out. He watched as his father glanced uncertainly at Borrows before tossing the dice into the back of the cart. They rattled across the wooden boards, almost as far as where Horace sat. He pulled his legs up quickly, as if a wild animal was about to take a bite out of him. As they came to rest his father anxiously scurried around to the side of the cart where he could best see what the outcome was. Borrows sauntered around to the opposite side and peered over.
At first, Horace couldn’t believe it. He searched from die to die and then looked again. There was a raven, no—two ravens, a skull, a dagger and one of the odd crosses. There was no thirteen.
“Well that’s bad luck, that is,” Borrows declared, “it’s a good job yer has another go.”
“Two more goes, Bill,” his father reminded him, apparently concerned that Borrows was going to change the rules, “yer did say three goes.”
“Aye, Gil, that I did. Don’t be concernin’ yer self. I wouldn’t ’ave thought yer be needin’ the third, that’s all I was meanin’.”
His father bent over the side of the cart to gather up the dice once more. This time he rattled them rigorously as Borrows leered across at him. He threw them down again and they watched the paths they took until they were still once more. Horace scanned them hurriedly, eagerly seeking the result which would end this nightmare. Stars this time, a pair of the blasted things. Two skulls as well, and a dagger!
Borrows whistled to himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like, Gil. That’s just downright poor luck, that is.”
Horace continued to stare at the dice, as did his father, but the little images carved into their upturned faces did not waver, would not transform, no matter how he willed them.
“Last go, Gil,” Borrows stated flatly. “Why don’t yer try yer luck from the end of the cart again?”
Their father looked weak now, as if he might collapse at any moment. He appeared to bolster himself, though, perhaps in an effort to appear strong for Connie and him, no matter what the outcome. He collected the dice again and made his way to the rear of the cart where Bill was waiting. Horace watched on as his father studied the small bone-white cubes, turning each die around, presumably until the number thirteen was staring upwards from each of them.
“I’m surprised yer didn’t check earlier, to be honest,” Borrows conceded, “they’re all there though, ain’t they?”
Their father nodded sorrowfully, looking up at Connie who had turned about to discover what her fate would be. He closed his hand around the dice for the last time, not caring to shake them. Horace let a small prayer run through his mind, please, God, and decided to shut his eyes tight before his father sent the dice flying onto the boards again, this time with considerable vigour, as he heard more than one of them bounce off the side panels of the cart. He could hardly bring himself to look but no one else had made a sound, so he opened his eyes and searched them out. A cross, a dagger, a skull, a raven and…another skull. He couldn’t believe it. Connie was crying once more. “No, please no,” she gasped in between her sobs. His father stood there, shoulders sagging, looking every inch the beaten man. Horace remained silent, waiting for whatever would come next.
Borrows was chuckling to himself. “Oh, they don’t call me Lucky Bill for nothin’, that’s for sure.”
There would be no mercy now, surely—the whole thing had been no more than a charade played out for the other man’s pleasure. But then, without warning, their father flung himself towards Borrows, arms outstretched, reaching for the vagabond’s throat. He never made it. He came up short of Borrows’ neck, could only steady himself on the other man’s shoulders, puzzlement filling his eyes as to what had halted him so abruptly. Horace looked down to see several inches of narrow, gleaming steel between Borrows’ gloved hand and his father’s stomach. He could only watch as his father’s eyes slid back in his head before he slumped first to his knees and then onto his side in the middle of the muddy track.
Connie screamed. Horace began to rock back and forth, drawing his knees up to his chin, unable to accept what had just transpired in little more than the blink of an eye. He watched Borrows wipe the still dripping blade on his trouser leg, stride around to the front of the cart and pull himself up onto the box where he reached out and grabbed Connie by the forearm before she could climb down the other side. “And you, boy,” he shouted over his shoulder, “you stay put too. Don’t be thinkin’ yer can make a run for it. I’d hunt yer down like the little pig yer are in no time at all!” Horace was certain of the truth in that, but he felt sick and stunned and knew that he would barely be able to put one foot before the other.
“Right, missy,” Borrows said, “let’s get this cart off the track. Privileged is what ye are,” he treated Horace’s sister to a toothy grin and she attempted to squirm away, “you’re gonna be makin’ camp with Lucky Bill for a while.”
Second Parte—Ned
Borrows cuffed Horace around the ear for what must have been the third time that morning. “Oi! Keep yer bloody ’ead down!” he whispered. Keeping his head down had, of late, been turning into something of a career for Horace. They had been hunkered down in the undergrowth beside the track for the past half hour, listening to the cheery, yet tuneless, whistling of the approaching rider. It was no nervous whistle either, not the kind you might employ to convince yourself that all was well. Horace imagined that some folks would be spooked by these trees, by the silence and the solitude. Perhaps that was what had skewed the mind of their captor. He had surely lost much of his reason. Whoever was approaching down the track, however, was whistling away merrily as if it was a bright summer’s day and he hadn’t a care in the world.
“What kind of loon is he?” Borrows muttered, “it’s colder than a witch’s tit.”
Horace had to agree. He could barely feel his fingers and hadn’t felt his toes for days, let alone be able to pucker his lips to issue a cheery ditty.
Connie and he had been the unwitting guests of Bill Borrows for the best part of two months. On numerous occasions they had attempted to plot their escape, but Borrows was vigilant and apparently mindful of how desperate they might become. Having grown suspicious of their whisperings he had beaten them soundly and now they were never left together. He kept them separated whilst at the camp and, when he decided to venture out, he took Horace along. One of them lurching around was more than enough to cope with, Borrows said, especially when he smelled there was a prize at hand. And he had made it clear that if Horace attempted to make a run for it he would be forfeiting the life of his sister. At first Horace had wondered if he would be killed outright, as Borrows’ intent was solely focused upon having his way with Connie. Unsurprisingly, she was not well-disposed towards the robber but, with her brother’s continued existence in the balance, she’d had little choice in the matter.
And, to Horace’s disgust, Borrows had found a further use for him, drawing him close for shared warmth during the icy frosts that came before the dawn. His sister, by comparison, was waif-like, and he had become worried that she may not survive the remains of the Winter. Borrows appeared considerably less concerned. Perhaps the novelty of having her at his disposal had worn off and he would as soon see the pair of them dead.
The volume of the whistling had increased noticeably and, as Borrows parted the foliage, Horace spied a man’s bald pate, bobbing up and down to the rhythm of his mount’s footfalls. As the traveller came around a bend in the track, however, Horace saw that he was actually astride a donkey.
“We’ll ’ave some fun and games with this one, more than lik
ely,” Borrows said, as he rolled through the vegetation and rose up to present himself in the centre of the icy road with his customary doff of hat. Horace stayed put, as was expected of him. As he watched Borrows straighten up to receive his latest ‘customer’, Horace was amused to see that no attention was being paid to the rogue whatsoever. He had to summon up a loud “harrumph” to announce himself before he was run over by the ambling beast of burden. Its rider, seemingly lost in his own little world, reined in the animal and gazed down with a wide grin to rival Borrows’ own, which may have been a fairly disconcerting experience for the thief.
He was no youngster, this newcomer, seemingly past middle age. His wispy hair, what was left of it, was golden and shone in the meagre sunlight that penetrated the canopy. He wore a jerkin and leggings of well-worn leather, his boots appeared sturdy and were near enough knee length. His face was creased and ruddy, a short blond beard concealing his jawline. His twinkling blue eyes were firmly focused upon Borrows.
“A good mornin’ to you,” the rider said, his broad smile unwavering, even though Borrows had already drawn back his cloak to reveal the presence of his prized muskets.
“Aye, it’s a good mornin’ now, for I’ve been waiting in yonder ditch without hope of reward for far too long. But here, at long last, ye is.”
The rider cocked his head as if to consider the figure confronting him anew. “Is you a highwayman, is that it?”
“Well, let us see now,” Borrows scratched his beard whilst he appeared to mull over the question, “I is a man and I live besides the highway, so yes, I guess you could say so. Bill Borrows is the name. Some calls me Lucky Bill.”
“Glad to be makin’ your acquaintance, Bill,” the rider said with a nod of his balding head, “for what it’s worth, they calls me Ned, Ned Withershank, on account of this,” and he bent forwards to rap his knuckles upon his lower leg, the resoundingly solid tap indicating the wooden limb which obviously hung there. “Could you help me out, mayhaps, Bill? You see, I’m headin’ for Kinnerton but ever since I’ve entered this forest I’ve been unsure as to whether I was pointin’ in the right direction. Am I on the right track?”
Bill nodded eagerly. “Oh, aye, Ned, yer on the right track, don’t worry on that score. Unfortunately though, I’m gonna need yer to climb down off that donkey for a short while.”
“And why might that be?”
“A little game I’d like us to play, Ned, that’s all it be. A nice friendly game. Won’t hardly hold yer up at all.”
But could well end up costing you your life, Horace added silently.
Withershank seemed to consider this for a short while before rather awkwardly climbing down from his donkey and taking three limping steps towards where Borrows stood. “I ain’t mindin’ that, Bill, on account of you so graciously helpin’ me out with directions an’ all. What kind of game do you have in mind?”
Bill reached into his cloak and withdrew the leather pouch. “Just a simple game o’ chance, Ned,” he said as he spilled the dice out into his palm.
Ned, however, had become distracted. “Is he with you?” He pointed towards the bushes at the side of the track where Horace crouched, only partly concealed. Oh, no.
“Yeah, he ain’t mine though. He’s me ’prentice. Learnin’ the ropes so to speak.” Then Borrows called out to him. “Oi, get yerself out here. Yer about as well hidden as a tart’s cleavage!”
Horace pushed his way through the undergrowth and sauntered sullenly onto the track, head hung low in anticipation of the customary clip round the ear.
“He’s a grubby urchin, Bill, if you don’t mind me sayin’?”
“That he is,” Borrows replied, concern writ across his face, “he ain’t been eatin’ well, yer see.” Then he changed tack. “I’ve been eyein’ up that saddlebag of yours, Ned, and I’m thinkin’ we’ll be havin’ a small wager on this game of ours.”
“Oh, you were, were you?” Ned didn’t even flinch. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Hold onto Ned’s donkey for ’im, boy. Make sure it don’t make a break for it! Here you go, Ned. Yer can throw these dice for us. All yer gotta do is roll ’em out and find the number thirteen. It’s written right there on each of ’em, so it ain’t much of a challenge really, is it?” As Horace took charge of the donkey he watched Borrows drop the dice into Ned’s hand, who proceeded to turn them over one by one, studying them intently.
“And what are we wagerin’, Bill?”
“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout that, Ned. How about, if yer win yer can ride out of ’ere on yer donkey. But if yer loses, then yer saddlebag is mine?”
“I don’t know, Bill, its contents are quite precious to me, you see. I’m not certain I’m willing to wager them.”
Borrows laughed out loud, clutching his sides. “Yer missin’ me point, Ned. I’m havin’ that saddlebag either way. What I’m offerin’ is a chance for you to ride out of these woods alive. Yer get me? As a bonus, I be lettin’ yer keep your peg leg, too. And yer can ’ave three goes at rollin’ me dice. How’s that?”
“Generous of you, Bill,” Ned continued to scrutinise the dice that lay in his palm, “mighty generous.”
And so, as Borrows stood over him, and Horace watched on, Ned rolled out the dice onto a patch of the frozen track which Borrows had scraped flat with his boot. Ned gathered them up and then threw them down again before repeating the process a third and final time.
“No good, mate,” he handed the dice back to Borrows.
“I ain’t surprised to be honest,” he tipped them back into their pouch, “them’s me lucky dice, yer see. I ain’t never lost at this game.”
Ned chuckled to himself. “Is that what you thinks, Bill? That they’re lucky?”
“That they is, Ned. The dice is lucky and I’m lucky, too. That’s all there is to it.”
“They ain’t lucky, Bill,” Ned whispered conspiratorially, as if the dice might hear, “they’re magic. There’s a spell on them.”
Horace’s ears pricked up at this surprising statement, but Borrows eyed Ned suspiciously. “And what makes yer say that?”
“Let’s just say I’ve seen the like before. A man sees a lot of strange things travelling the seas, Bill. And I’ve been doing that for longer than I care to remember.”
“Well, it don’t matter none, either way. Oi, unstrap that saddlebag for us and bring it over ’ere.”
Horace fumbled with the straps that held the bag in place, eventually managing to free it and carry it over to Borrows, who grabbed it and proceeded to wrestle with its clasp. Ned watched him cautiously.
“Well, look ye here!” Bill exclaimed upon opening it, “there’s more coin ’ere than has crossed me palm in years! Where did this lot come from? You with a wooden leg an’ a donkey? How did yer manage to rob this?”
“Take a closer look,” Ned urged.
Bill dug his hand into the bag and withdrew a fistful of coins. Horace was astounded by their brightness. No dull coin from the marketplace was this. “They’s gold, Ned, ain’t they?”
“Aye, gold doubloons is what they are. There’s enough right there to keep you in comfort for a few years, I daresay.”
“You’re not jokin’. I’m sorry, Ned, but I’m gonna be relievin’ yer of these and,” he drew a musket, “I don’t think I can really be lettin’ yer go. I think I’ll be keepin’ this little secret to me self. Oh, and the boy of course. I be buyin’ ’im some vegetables, maybe.”
Ned Withershank didn’t as much as waver in the face of his impending demise. “How about a proposition before you blows me head off, Bill? It won’t cost you anything to hear me speak, will it?”
Borrows appeared to consider this whilst he fingered the gold coins lovingly. “I don’t suppose it would hurt. Be quick about it though, I’m freezin’ me knackers off.”
“I was on me way to Kinnerton, Bill, as you know. I’m looking for help, you see. The ship I was crewing on was wrecked yesterday. It’s grounded on its br
oken back in a cove some miles back and this here is just a sample of the riches that’s stowed aboard.”
Borrows scratched his whiskers, thoughtfully. “And what of yer crew mates? Where be they?”
“There ain’t no other survivors, Bill. And I can’t be getting all that gold away. I need a partner and some muscle and I be needing it quick, before someone else happens upon it. I bought the only mount available from the first farm I came to and took direction to the nearest town.”
“How much gold be there, exactly?”
“Crates full of it, Bill, more than one man could ever have need of. And it’s there for the taking. But I needs a gang, and a cart too.”
Bill chuckled to himself as he pulled his cloak tight about him, concealing his muskets from view once more. “Well, Ned, maybe it’s yer lucky day after all. I think I be the partner yer lookin’ fer. An’ the lad ere, well, ’e be yer muscle.” Horace’s eyes grew wide.
Ned looked at Borrows, sceptically. “A cart, Bill. We’ll need a sturdy horse and cart.”
“What’d ya take me fer, Ned?” The highwayman laughed, “we’s fully equipped ’ere, we is.”
Thyrd Parte—Jetsam
’Twas no more than an hour later and they were seated on their old cart again. Horace had reclaimed his usual place in the rear, mindful that it was the first time he’d done so since he’d borne witness to his father’s unwarranted murder. Connie sat once more upon the box, the reins clutched grimly in her hands. To one side of her sat Lucky Bill Borrows and upon her other the newcomer, Ned Withershank.
Before long they had left the depressing darkness of Dankmere behind as the woods gave way to farmland bordering the track on either side.
“Remember, girl,” Borrows warned his sister, “not a word from yer if we comes across anyone on the road, d’ya ’ear me?”
She nodded sullenly, not deigning to speak to their tormentor.
“An’ that goes double fer you, boy,” Borrows hollered over his shoulder at him.
Lucky or Unlucky? 13 Stories of Fate Page 2