by Cindy Anstey
“I got rid of the problem. I were handlin’ it. I don’t know why you had to pack up. He wouldn’t have survived. It’s been two days in the freezing cold—”
Kate gasped and swiveled her head to stare at Rolland. “What did you do?”
“Nothin’, nothin’ at all. Didn’t have to do nothin’.”
“But where is Johnny?”
“The last time I saw him, he was sittin’ in a barn. We grabbed him in the mews, took him out to the old Bidford farm while we was decidin’ what to do. When I gets back, he was gone.”
“Gone?” Kate clearly did not believe the lout.
“Yup, ropes shredded an’ he were gone. Thought we were in the suds, but then nothin’ happened. Just you two askin’ around.”
“But … where…”
Rolland shrugged. “There’s mantraps and wolves in the woods. Or he could have frozen to death.”
Matt would not believe it. No. Johnny may have the devil’s own luck, but he was like a cat with nine lives—rising again and again … or was that a phoenix? “He could have found shelter. A cave, perhaps,” Matt said.
“None here that I know of.” Rolland looked pleased to disagree.
“He might have built a shelter.” Matt would not accept Johnny’s demise without proof—not just this villain’s say-so. “With branches and bushes … and the like…”
“What’s he goin’ ta use to start a fire? No. He’s a goner fer certain.” There was glee in his tone.
Matt was incredulous. “Are you truly that much of a monster that you can find pleasure in some else’s suffering?”
With slow, deliberate steps, Rolland crossed the room and drew so close to Matt that Matt could smell the villain’s sour breath. Rolland jabbed his finger into Matt’s chest. “Don’t push it, mate. No one’s comin’ lookin’ for you, and I’d just as soon drop you into Dame Symon’s pigsty as look at you.”
“Rolland,” Niven said wearily. “Leave him alone; you are a monster.”
Rolland shrugged, moving to the door. He leaned casually against the doorjamb and smiled, a sickening, weasel-like smile. It churned Matt’s stomach.
“There are much more interesting subjects,” Niven continued, still standing with his back to the room, warming his hands. “Such as Lord Bobbington, and why he is in Tishdale. You see, Lord Bobbington works for the Home Office. I know that. I heard of him in the war. After smugglers then. But those in the Home Office, they go after counterfeiters, too. So I say again, why is he here now?”
“You will have to ask Lord Bobbington. I do not know the man.”
Scrubbing at his face, Niven huffed in frustration and then turned to face the room. “This is pointless. We have to plan.”
“I’m staying. I have my customers, my forge, my shop…” Belcher sat with a thump on the newly righted chair.
“Like Australia, do you? ’Cause that’s where they’ll send you.”
“This is your fault for panickin’.” Rolland’s eyes were pinpoints of anger, and they were trained on Niven.
“It’s yours for using a coin so close to where they are made.”
“Idiocy abounds!” Belcher shouted, and then he huffed a sigh that almost sounded like resignation. It was a most disconcerting sound … for it had a feeling of finality to it. “What about them?” he asked, waving toward Matt, studiously not looking at Kate. “They will have to come with,” he said, answering his own question.
“We can’t take them to—We can’t take them with us all the way,” Rolland argued. “They will go to the authorities first chance they get.”
“I won’t have her killed.” Belcher shook his head, now staring at the floor. “I did not agree to that. Not now, not ever.”
“I’ll get the wagon, drive it into the shop.” Niven started toward the door. “We’ll leave them in the Bidford barn. It will take several trips to get everything to … the city. By the time we are done, we will know what to do with them.”
Belcher nodded and then shifted to stare into the fire. Rolland watched Niven step back outside, and then he sauntered over to Matt when the door was closed once again. He leaned toward Matt, placing his mouth by his ear. “You will have starved to death by then,” he whispered, and then leaned back so that Matt could see his smile.
* * *
KATE AND MATT did go through the small door at the back of the cottage eventually, but it was not in the manner in which Kate had imagined. They were not rushing to escape, thugs hard on their heels. No, indeed not. Plodding would be one way to describe their gait—being dragged might be another. For whatever was demanded of them, they did not do willingly. The fear of mortal danger was tempered whenever Belcher was present. The other two might not agree, but they were not about to argue with the large man. They knew not how to melt lead and make the plugs or plate them to look like silver—their criminal enterprise depended on the blacksmith. For now, they would not upset him.
And so Kate and Matt set out to be contrary as often as possible. Had Rolland wished for them to remain in the cottage, they would have contrived to go to the shop. When it was decided that they should move to the shop, Kate refused to budge from the cottage. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to antagonize, but they had so little recourse, so little control over their own fate, it was the only way to protest.
After being hauled across the dirt floor to the far side of the shop, Kate and Matt were unceremoniously dropped beside a pile of broken tools. Whether they were to be repaired or melted, there was no indication. But Kate noticed irregular edges and tried to fall closer to a hole-riddled plow blade. Unfortunately, Belcher snorted in recognition of her attempt, and shifted them nearer a stack of buckets waiting for replacement staves.
“Out of the way, an’ outta mischief,” Belcher muttered as he turned and hurried back to the wagon.
Kate righted herself, pushed her skirts down her calves, and looked around. The converted barn was cavernous, large enough to house several carts or wagons and their teams within its walls. Across the entire back, tools—rusty, blackened tools of the trade—hung off brackets in chaotic confusion. The hearth still glowed, offering a modicum of heat to those nearby—nothing to those on the far wall. The anvil had been shifted next to the tailboard of the wagon and the bellows, various tongs, farrier snips, and hammers were placed in and around the already loaded wine barrels. It was a strange collection, melding the two incongruous trades. Then, of course, there were the small but excessively heavy chests that jingled as they were shifted.
“I do beg your pardon. I apologize most profusely,” Matt said, drawing Kate’s gaze for a moment.
Startled, Kate considered why Matt felt the need to ask for forgiveness and could think of nothing. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the trio packing up their Tishdale lives.
“I nearly hit you when I went after Rolland.”
Smiling weakly, Kate shook her head. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had, and I can hardly hold you to account for something that didn’t happen.” Lifting her cheeks in a better approximation of a smile, she added. “Yell duck next time.”
“Perhaps drop. Then I could swing at will. Or something unexpected … such as look up! and then you drop.” He huffed, a sound more akin to exasperation than a sigh. “I would really appreciate another opportunity to try,” he added.
“To hit me?”
“No. Rolland,” Matt answered as if Kate’s question had been serious.
Kate turned to find Matt staring across the shop. His eyes were locked on one figure, and they followed that figure as he lifted and loaded. Rolland. All of Matt’s frustration and anger were engendered in the red-haired young man. It was not surprising, for Kate felt the same way. Rolland was the one enjoying their struggles and their predicament; he alone advocated their untimely end.
As if aware of their scrutiny, Rolland turned, glared back in their direction and then disappeared through the adjoining cottage door. He was back within a moment
and, even as Belcher protested, Rolland tore a pillow cover in two. Marching over to where Matt and Kate sat, he stuffed the ripped cotton strips in their mouths and tied them behind their heads.
Gagged. It was most undignified.
chapter 15
In which Saint George slays a dragon
For all their rushing about, it took an inordinate amount of time to load the wagon. Perhaps the process would have been faster had the villainous trio not continued to argue over every little bit of space and what should be left behind for the next run. There was an underlying possibility that circumstances might prevent a next time—such as a sudden need to flee Lord Bobbington. And so the value of every item had to be weighed and then, horror of horrors, a portion of that precious space had to be given over for the likes of two meddlesome persons. It was the only thing they agreed upon—a general disgust with Kate and Matt for their interference.
Listening to the bickering, hearing their persons likened to goods, and facing an unknown future churned Kate’s stomach. Equal parts of fear, loathing, and dread stirred into helplessness. Only Matt’s presence offered Kate a modicum of relief. His leg was pressed against hers, their fingers entwined as much as was possible with tied wrists, and the occasional bump of his shoulder reminded her that she was not alone. They would tough this out together.
With a sharp stone digging into her right hip, her mouth dry from working at the gag, and her wrists chafed from tugging at the ropes, Kate was in a sorry state. Listening to the three men, Kate knew beyond a certainty that she and Matt had to get away before they were tossed into the back of the wagon. Mr. Belcher was not going to accompany them; he would meet Rolland and Mr. Niven at the barn. Whether he truly had something to pick up at a neighbor’s or he was simply distancing himself from the fate of the prisoners, Kate couldn’t say. But Mr. Belcher was their protection from Rolland. Mr. Niven didn’t care; he would rather leave the problem in Rolland’s hands, and he said so … whenever Mr. Belcher ducked back into his cottage.
If they left town, hidden in the back of the wagon, Kate knew they would never arrive at the Bidford barn. And so, while watching the three villains make preparations, Kate and Matt held hands in the guise of offering each other comfort. Matt was, in fact, trying as unobtrusively as possible to untie Kate’s bonds. Their hands half-hidden in her skirts, Matt clawed at the rope, and he was making some progress. The knot had proven to be unyielding, but the ropes themselves were fairly loose and Matt had worked one loop up her thumb. Half an inch more and it would be over her nail; with the ropes looser still, they could—
Kate murmured a warning to Matt as Mr. Niven looked their way. Matt stilled; Kate stilled. Both held their breath.
Niven frowned. “Do we have enough rope?” he asked, staring across at them. “For the cargo and our guests.” His lack of hostility was nearly as chilling as Rolland’s menacing. “We need to tie their feet or they will run away as soon as we get out of the shop.” He almost sounded bored.
Rolland glanced their way with a nasty smile. “Indeed. Plenty.” Reaching into the wagon, he produced a coil of rope; grabbing a knife from the shaft of his boot, he cut two lengths. Then he dropped his weapon back into his boot and sauntered—yes, sauntered—with supreme confidence to where Matt and Kate sat with their hands no longer together.
With a shove, Rolland pushed Matt onto his back and then sat on him. He was not gentle, laughing as Matt kicked and struggled and twisted, trying to delay the inevitable. Scooping a handful of dirt from the floor, Kate threw it in Rolland’s face and surged to her feet. She slammed her shoulder into Rolland’s chest while he thrashed blindly, knocking him off Matt.
Grabbing Matt’s hands, Kate tried to give him the leverage he needed to get to his feet, but just as he found his balance, Rolland—face streaked with filth—grabbed Matt’s leg and pulled it out from under him. Matt fell hard, grunting in pain. Furious, Kate pulled her leg back to kick out at the redheaded fiend, but she was suddenly grabbed about the waist and lifted into the air.
“Now, now, Miss Darby, that’s not polite,” Mr. Belcher said as he held her off the ground.
Kate twisted and turned, but his hold was too tight and too strong; she could not break free. She panted past her gag, trying to drag in the air she needed; her thrashing slowed and then stopped as the shop darkened. When he released her, Kate fell in a heap, still breathless, but her vision started to clear.
In a deft move, Belcher and Rolland bound her feet and then did the same to Matt. In retaliation for what he called their antics, Rolland punched Matt in the ribs as he lay unable to defend himself; Rolland would have struck a second time had Mr. Belcher not barked at him. All Kate could manage was a muffled scream from behind her gag.
When Belcher lifted Kate into the wagon, he placed her on her side, facing away from the center, a wine barrel at her back. Rolland laughed most unpleasantly as he pulled her arms above her head and attached the ropes to a metal ring secured to the side of the wagon; it was usually used to tie down a canvas or cargo … but wait, she was cargo.
Kate heard grunting and felt the wagon floor bounce slightly as they loaded Matt on the other side of the wine barrel with as much kindness and consideration as they had offered her. She muttered a wordless question. Are you all right? He hummed that he was. Or that was how Kate interpreted the sound. It provided some comfort.
After the canvas had been secured over them and the rest of the goods, Niven and Rolland climbed onto the driver’s bench while Mr. Belcher opened the wide doors of the blacksmith shop. Kate could hear it all, listening with great concentration to their conversation and movements. As the wagon started to roll, Kate felt sick. They had to get someone’s attention before they left town because, after that, Rolland could do his worst with impunity and leave their bodies to rot until someone came across them in the spring.
* * *
MATT SAWED HIS hands back and forth across the ring that secured his bindings. He prayed that the ring’s roughness—for it caught and pulled as he did so—would fray the ropes to the point that he could break them. He knew it to be a faint hope, but to do nothing would be unconscionable. He had to save Kate.
Kate. Kate. So wonderfully impulsive. The dirt in Rolland’s eyes would have worked had Belcher not intervened. It was excessively discouraging; the big man could have looked the other way or reacted slowly. Matt had thought that Kate’s charm had worked on him—but apparently not.
Anger fed Matt’s frenzy as he sawed his hands back and forth. Focus—he had to remain focused. If allowed to grow, Matt’s rage would cloud his thoughts, and if ever he needed to think, and think clearly, it was now.
Suddenly, Matt felt a stinging smack on his hands through the canvas, likely from a whip.
“Don’t do that,” Rolland said in an offhanded manner. There was no menace to the tone—which seemed odd until Matt realized there were footsteps nearby.
“Fine evening, Mr. Niven,” a male voice called. “Now that the snow has stopped.”
Niven grunted and Matt squinted, trying to hear, trying to understand where the voice was coming from. When he thought the man might be beside the wagon, he lifted both his legs, kicking out at the canvas and shouting past his gag.
“Got yerself a live one there.”
“Cat. Gone wild on me,” Mr. Niven offered. “Taking it out to the woods.”
Matt waited with expectation. Surely the person would question the need to take a cat, wild or otherwise, out to the woods as the sun was going down, would puzzle over the size of said cat to move such a large canvas, and he would find Niven’s behavior odd.
Nothing happened. The wagon continued to roll up the road at a lazy pace. The equipage rattled and squeaked, the wheels crunched and scraped against the gravel … and Matt was forced to admit that his shout had sounded very much like a distressed cat.
A bump against his foot brought Matt’s attention back under the canvas. He lifted his head, then using the metal ring to brace
, raised his upper body. In the half-light, Matt could see that Kate had shifted; she was now on her back, legs stretched out. It had been her boot that had knocked against his. He couldn’t see her face; it was hidden behind the wine barrel between them, but the contact of their feet, slight though it might be, offered reassurance.
Matt swallowed in distress, discomfort, and disillusionment. He could do nothing other than shake his head and huff a sigh as he returned her tap. Still, even knowing it pointless, Matt tried twice more to capture someone’s attention when he heard walking nearby, and yet the wagon continued to roll unimpeded. It turned right sooner than Matt expected; he surmised that they were not heading toward Shackleford Park but taking another way out of town. The soft clink of a bell, buffeted by the wind, might mean they had turned down the road that led past the church, but there was no way to tell.
Occasionally singing could be heard in the distance, as well as cries for Dr. Quack to restore Saint George to health. It would seem that companies of carolers and mummers were taking advantage of the slightly drier conditions to travel about, asking for charity—or as they called it, “contributions from their audience.”
And all too soon the sounds of a town of fifteen hundred souls became fewer and far between. They had reached the edge of Tishdale and now would only be passing the occasional cottage. Next stop, old Bidford barn, although who the Bidfords were and why they would allow a wine merchant to use their barn as if it was his own was not even worth contemplating … unless, of course, the Bidfords could be worked upon to help free them from their captors. Oh yes, not all was lost; they could look to the—
“Bloody Hell! What are you doing?” Niven shouted as the wagon came to a sudden stop. “You don’t step in front of a team like that. What if I hadn’t seen you?”
“I’m carrying a lantern and I’m a dressed as a large green dragon, Mr. Niven,” a raspy voice answered. “You could hardly miss me.” There was amusement in his tone.
Matt felt the wagon bounce and felt Kate hit his foot again. She was jiggling about—perhaps trying to get the mummers’ attention.