by Death
"Molly, tell me what you think of Lord James." That was the way to do it: ask her for an opinion she might have offered anyway if not for her damned rules.
"He's a nice enough sort," she intoned, a little flat, slurring her words.
"Do you like him?"
"Well enough."
"Anything bother you about him?"
She made a face. "'E does like to haggle the price. Spends more effort trying to save a penny than 'e puts into 'is bedding. Must think I don't 'ave to work 'ard for it, but I do. 'E won't find no better than me for the price. Skinflint."
That was interesting. From this I might deduce that Elizabeth need not worry about him squandering her dowry, though too much thrift can be just as burdensome.
"How does he treat you, Molly?"
"Well enough," she repeated. "'E's nice as it suits 'im. Not as nice as my Johnny boy, but all right."
"Thank you. Do you like him?"
"'E's a nice sort..."
"Do you like him?"
Her answer was long in coming. "Not really," she said with some reluctance.
"Why not?"
She shrugged.
"Then why see him?"
"I need the money, love."
A foolish question, that. Like any person in trade, Molly would have to deal with all sorts of customers and be polite no matter what. I could certainly admire and respect her dedication to her work. "Think he'll be coming back to you?"
"S'pose 'e will when 'e's a mind for it."
"Think he'd have a mind for it were he married?"
Another shrug. "Won't be able to tell that 'til it 'appens. Wouldn't be the first time, nor the last."
I wasn't about to question her experience there.
Molly woke out of things gradually, unaware of what had happened, ready to pick up where we'd left off as if no time had passed. My influence on her had put her into an even more receptive mood than before, but my own was considerably dampened. I'd fed heavily and had a lot on my mind. It took a bit more effort on her part to drag me back to the business at hand, but we eventually made a consummation that suited us both. She'd had a long day, though, and the extended pleasure my nature provided for us only added to her exhaustion. She was asleep almost as soon as I pulled my lips away from her firm, sweet throat. I dressed quietly, made sure the covers were pulled up and tucked about her, put out the candles, and left.
Late. Or early, since it was well past midnight. High clouds obscured the stars, but I could sense the hour more or less. No need to hurry, but no need to tarry, either.
The wind was worse than before, very hard, very gusty. Better not to vanish and travel on the air in these conditions. I'd tried often enough before and found myself being carried along out of control, which is a very vile feeling. I got my flapping cloak wrapped tight around me, held my hat in place, and started down the road leading home.
Miserable stuff, wind. It roars in your ears, deafening you to all other sounds. If cold, it cuts through your clothes with more surety than the sharpest knife. It buffets the body, stealing your balance, and it makes harmless things like trees and grass seem more alive than they should be. When it's really strong it makes them whisper and laugh to one another, mocking and vindictive to all who pass them.
I felt their rancor, or fancied I did, while trudging along. The road was full of ruts and icy, but it was easier than facing the banks of snow on either side. There was no point in complaining to myself about any of it, but I did so, since it kept my mind off the larger problem of Norwood. I grumbled and mumbled, though my voice was a small and fragile distraction.
Then another sound intruded upon me, at first so faint and uneven that I wasn't sure I heard anything. It was behind me, that was for certain, the wind saw to that. I waited, listening, and finally caught the jingle of bits and the crunch of wheels going over the frozen ground. There was a slight bend in the road, and soon a wagon came around it into sight.
There were no lanterns showing, which was odd but understandable. As unsettled as things were in the area, it was a wise course not to draw attention to oneself. I would have- had my eyes been normal-preferred to take a chance and had some light with me in case of trouble.
Though going at a good pace, I thought it might stop long enough for me to get a ride to my gate. It would be a poor Christian indeed who would deny so small a favor to another soul on such a night. I walked a little more, but slowly, and let it catch me up.
The driver crouched over his reins, urging his horses forward. He was not much more than a shape to me even as he came closer. He wore a heavy coat and his hat was tied to his head by a rag of a scarf, the ends of which snapped in the wind like some tattered banner.
"Hallo!" I called, when he was near enough to see me.
He must have understood what I might ask of him, for he pulled on the reins.
"Commun over," he called back, when they'd stopped.
I wasted no more time and scrambled up next to him. "Very kind of you, sir."
"Aye. M'name's Ash. Who're you?"
"Jonathan Barrett."
"Y'sure o' that?"
I thought it a strange question to ask, but made no comment since he was being kind enough to give me a ride. However, we were not moving yet, as he seemed far more concerned with introductions than anything else. "Yes, I'm quite sure."
"Barrett as lives down the road? This road?"
"Yes-"
His face split in a big grin and he made a sudden move with one hand. Before I knew it the muzzle of a pistol was in it and the business end was shoved into my belly.
"My God, man, what are you about?" My outrage was genuine. I was too surprised to be afraid.
He ignored me. "Now, boys!" he shouted in my face.
When reason fails, instinct takes over, if you're lucky. I ducked blindly, but a fraction too late. Dark shapes, I don't know how many, erupted up from the back of the wagon, hands reaching for me. One of them caught me by the hair and strongly dragged me backward and down. My head cracked far too solidly against the wagon seat, and for the first time in months I saw the sun. It seared right through my skull and out the other side in an instant and was gone, leaving behind the most horrendous pain I'd ever felt in my life. It crowded out all thought, all motion, all sound. Nothing else was in my world but the hideous, explosive agony clamoring between my ears.
"Ye've killed 'im!" someone cried.
"Nay, 'e's but stunned. Git 'im in so we can go."
Helpless, I felt myself being hauled up into the back of the wagon; at least, that's what I worked out somewhat later. At the moment I was too stunned to know what was happening or to care anything about it.
"1 got me a fine new 'at!" one of them sang out.
"Cloak too," added another. "See what's in 'is pockets."
Hands, prodding and rough, made a thorough search of me and grabbed away prizes, winners crowing in triumph. I didn't care, didn't have enough awareness to care. I wanted only to scream out from the pain, but was too paralyzed to do it.
Ash whipped up the horses. The wagon lurched forward.
If I could have moved, I'd have probably been sick, but nothing was moving, nothing at all. I might as well have been a corpse, but being drearily and inescapably shackled to my body, I knew I hadn't died.
Not yet.
We rattled quickly over the ruts. I lost track of time, drifting in and out of consciousness, perhaps. There was no way to tell, Some things were clear, others less so. The clear bits hurt.
"Easy now," said Ash. "Hessians quartered in a barn hereabouts, remember? Keep 'im quiet."
'"E ain't movin'."
"Good."
Barn? Our barn. We'd passed my gate. I was being carried right away from my home... safety... help.
The wagon rumbled on, the men heedless of my silent objections.
Why? The question bobbed up in my mind like a piece of cork. Why had they done this to me?
The answer took a bit longer, for I'd faded
out again, or sol assumed, since I was all too aware of waking up. The pain had dampened enough that I was better able to think, but only in a disjointed sort of way. I understood that I'd been attacked and had been robbed and was in the process of being kidnapped.
Why?
They'd been after me, not just any unlucky traveler on the road, but me.
Wh-
Then I didn't care why, couldn't think why. All I could do was...
... wake up again, some long time later. How long... ?
My eyes were open. They'd been shut before. I could blink.
But not much else. Fingers were cold. Couldn't move them. I'd forgotten to put on gloves again. Jericho would have something to say about that. No matter. The fellows here would have probably stripped them from me by now.
Now. What now? What was the time? I tried desperately to read the sky. It seemed lighter, but that might have been a normal reflection of the snowy fields on the low clouds. I didn't know the time, which was almost as hard to bear as my injury. Maybe they were linked. Whatever clock I had inside me had been thoroughly shattered when my head struck the wooden bench of the wagon.
Head. 1 could have done without the reminder. It ached abominably and I felt sick all over again, hot and cold at the same time. There was salty bile pooling at the back of my mouth, but I couldn't spit it out. Couldn't move yet.
Why... hadn't I vanished?
This hurt far worse than getting shot. I should have disappeared at the first shock. Were there splinters in my head where I'd... no, it didn't feel like that. This was different, duller, but no less forceful when it came to discomfort.
I tried to... vanish.
Nothing.
The effort left me shivering. And sicker than before. Overwhelmingly so. I lost track of time again, finding it I don't know how long later when the wagon gave an especially sharp jolt. This waking was a little better than the others. I knew what had happened, but still not why or...
Where were we?
Couldn't see anything but the sky and skeletal branches now and then when we passed under an occasional tree growing by the road. Couldn't tell if we were even on the same road. If we were, then I was being taken to Suffolk County. Despite the presence of all the troops, the place was crawling with rebels, absolutely the last spot on earth one of His Majesty's loyal subjects would want to be. I couldn't think of a worse place, unless it was in the middle of General Washington's camp.
Raving. Get hold of yourself.
Not raving. Righteously scared.
Get hold of yourself anyway.
Not being able to move my head yet, I couldn't see much of the others. The first heady feeling of victory had passed and now they were hunched against one another, probably feeling the cold. No one spoke or paid much notice to me. Only one face was visible, familiar, but still a stranger. I'd seen him... at The Oak... one of the other patrons. Not that that was much help. He continued to ignore me and remained silent. Who were the others? Or did it matter? Perhaps not. They'd all be strangers to me, or else they'd wouldn't have had to be so sure of my name before attacking.
Why? What had I done? Why should these strangers... Oh, God.
Now I did become sick. The pool in the back of my mouth filled and thickened into a foul mass. My guts were all watery as the realization seized me like a giant's hand. A nasty, bubbling sound issued from my throat like a death rattle. I shut my eyes tight and let the first wave of panic rush over and drown my thoughts. Fighting it wouldn't have done any good; better to let the body finish with its reactions, then let the mind take charge.
The wave passed. Slowly. It left me weak and worried, but not utterly frozen with terror. I swallowed and was surprised that the bile went down. And stayed there.
Better. I was feeling-very marginally-better. The pain was slightly less crippling than before. I could move my fingers; that was something.
I had also, with this small recovery, grown very angry. Instead of the burning heat or frosty chill running over my skin, it was simply warming. Comforting, like the taste of blood.
Blood... I could smell it. My own, of course. There was a cold patch on my head where the skin must have broken and bled when that fool had smashed my skull. The blood was cooling and drying in the harsh air. God, they might have killed me with that blow, though maybe it wasn't as bad as I... no. It was bad. Bad enough as I found when I tried to move more than my fingers.
"'E's come 'round," said one of the men, having noticed my feeble attempts to master my body again.
"Just keep 'im quiet," said Ash.
"Drummond got 'im good. Thumped 'is 'ead like a summer melon. 'E ain't goin' to make no trouble."
The big fellow closest to me laughed at the compliment. Drummond. He would pay for this, I thought.
"When do we get there?" whined another man from the back.
"Soon, Tully," came the weary reply. From that brief intonation I got the impression that Tully whined rather a lot.
"It's been hours. I'm freezin' sittin' 'ere like this."
"Then get out and walk."
The suggestion was not received very well, but it shut Tully up for the time being.
Arms. I could shift my arms a little. Legs, too, after a moment of concentration. Didn't want to try vanishing just yet. Too weak. Better to wait.
As some of the pain receded, other discomforts cried out for attention, like the ride itself. I was on the unprotected wood bottom of the wagon and its hard, harsh surface bumped and jolted me with every uneven turn of all four wheels. No wonder I was so sick. My head was bad enough, but combine that with the motion of our travel... ugh.
I gulped again and tried to think of something else.
Like the cold. Apart with the other discomforts, I was finally beginning to feel its bite. Even the warmth derived from my anger wasn't up to fighting it off now. The damnable wind clawed at my exposed skin and seeped beneath all my clothes. 1 wanted my heavy cloak back. Which one of the bastards had taken it? Couldn't see him from this angle.
I silently cursed them and prayed to God for an ending to our journey. The answer came surprisingly soon when Ash turned the horses off to the left. The clouds spun over me and my stomach objected until I shut my eyes. The road became much worse than before and I had to hold my teeth hard together to keep from crying out at the change. Pity I couldn't have slept through it all; I wouldn't have minded missing this part.
We creaked to a halt and the men stiffly crawled from the back of the wagon. I had another instant of panic, thinking they'd leave me to die out in the cold until someone grabbed my ankles and pulled. All in all, I'd have preferred freezing to death. I was just able to lift my head to spare it from scraping over the worn boards, but that was the extent of my control. The same hands that had thrown me in now carried me out, this time with much grunting and complaint.
I briefly saw the walls of a poor-looking house, then we squeezed through a door and there was some general activity as they sorted and settled themselves. A big grumbling man was sent to take care of the horses and wagon. I was hauled over to a rough bed and dropped into it. The mattress was sparsely stuffed and so thin that I felt the supporting rope lattice beneath. My captors would get no objections from me; it was heavenly compared to the wagon. I was out of the wind and though the house was cold, it was not numbing.
A wretched place it was, to be sure. It seemed to have but one room and the fireplace could have been larger. Tully was busy there with a tinderbox, muttering to himself while another man offered unwanted suggestions. A table teetered in the middle of the dusty floor, surrounded by a long bench and some crude chairs. Those things and the bed were the only furnishings. The walls were stripped of any decoration or tools, indication that no one actually lived here. My guess was that these men had simply found the place and taken it over.
Ash had been more successful with his tinderbox and had lighted two lamps. He brought one over to have a better look at me. I took the opportunity to have a bett
er look at him. I'd want to remember his face, all their faces. His was hardened by both the weather and a difficult life and possibly an even more difficult temperament. He grinned down at me with an evil satisfaction that might have been comical but for the grimness of my situation. I did not find him remotely amusing.
"'E's a soft'un, I'll warrant. Ye din't 'ave to crack 'im so 'ard, Drummond. We coulda tied 'im up wi' a piece o' string V led 'im 'ere like a lamb."