Midnight at Mallyncourt

by Jennifer Wilde

  “’Ey, lassie, what’s your ’urry?”

  The voice startled me. I dropped my parcel. The wildflowers scattered over the ground at my feet.

  “She’s a ripe ’un, ain’t she, Burt? Ain’t never seen ’er around these parts before.”

  “I ain’t either. Maybe she’s a new maid at th’ big ’ouse. Yeah, that’s it. I ’ear th’ dandy nephew got ’im a new wife. This ’un’s probably ’er maid.”

  Completely lost in thought, I hadn’t heard them approaching, and now it was too late. There were two of them. The blond was tall and muscular, a leather jerkin hanging open over his coarse white linen shirt, his faded tan breeches tucked into the tops of tall, muddy-brown boots. He looked at me with good-natured blue eyes, but there was a smile of anticipation on his sensual pink lips. His companion, similarly dressed, was thin and wiry with a pale, ugly face pitted with pock marks. A fringe of thick black hair fell over his brow, and his black eyes were sullen. They were yokels, obviously illiterate, and I blanched as I remembered the tales Susie had told me about their like. Rowdy, usually out of work, they rojmed the countryside getting into fights, stirring up trouble, and any girl who fell into their hands was considered fair game.

  “What’s your name, lassie?” the blond asked.

  I tried to speak. I couldn’t. My throat was dry. My heart began to pound.

  “She’s shy, Burt,” the other replied. “My name’s Charlie, lass, ’n this ’ere’s Burt. We’re a couple-a sparks, we are, always lookin’ for a bit of fun. You like a bit of fun?”

  “Don’t pay no ’tention to ’im, lass,” Burt said, grinning. “’E’s full of talk, nothin’ but talk. Me, I’m a man of action. ’Ow’s about a friendly little kiss? Hunh? The girls ’round ’ere, they say there ain’t no one can plant-a kiss like Burt Brown, ’n that’s me!”

  “Don’t—don’t come near me,” I stammered.

  “’Ey, Charlie, she don’t wanna be friendly.”

  “That don’t matter to me. It don’t matter at all. She’s a beauty, she is. I ain’t waitin’ for no invitation.”

  I was terrified, positively terrified. During the past four years I had grown very adept at dealing with men—rowdy students, fresh salesmen, pseudogentlemen who had had too much to drink—but I had never been confronted with this sort. Burt was like a great, overgrown puppy who could turn vicious at a moment’s notice, and the other, Charlie, had a sharp, mean look. Rape would be second nature to either of them, a bit of frolic all in a day’s fun. I tried to still my pounding heart. I tried to think. Burt grinned. Charlie glared at me with smouldering black eyes.

  “You—you’re making a big mistake,” I said. There was a tremor in my voice. I fought to control it. “You—you’d better go on about your business. You don’t know who I am.”

  “Yeah? Just who are ya?” Charlie asked in a mocking voice.

  “I’m Edward Baker’s wife. You know who he is, surely?”

  “Yeah, I know. A regular bastard. ’N I know about ’is wife, too. She’s a fine lady, I ’ear, all elegant ’n swell. She don’t go traipsin’ across th’ fields in no grass-stained cotton dress.”

  “I am Jennifer Baker,” I said coldly. The tremor was gone now.

  “Yeah, ’n me, I’m th’ Prince-a Wales.”

  “Charlie—” Burt’s voice sounded rather nervous. “I ’eard she ’as red ’air. Angus Crow, ’e saw Baker ’n ’is wife gettin’ off th’ train. ’E said she ’ad red ’air.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe—”

  “You gonna let some lyin’ wench cheat-ya outta a bit of fun? She ain’t no swell Edward Baker’s grand wife. Look at ’er! You’re a maid, ain’t-ya, lass? You work at th’ big ’ouse. Come on, Burt, we’re wastin’ time standin’ ’ere talkin’.”

  “Look, if she works at th’ big ’ouse, maybe we’d better lay off. Them footmen, they’re a rough bunch. One of ’em’s bound to ’ave ’propriated ’er for ’imself already. That George—I tangled with ’im last month at th’ pub. I ain’t lookin’ forward to no rematch.”

  “Go on, then. Run ’ome to your mother. I can ’andle this ’un all by myself.”

  “’Ey,” Burt growled. “You sayin’ I’m scared?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. You wanna stand there gawkin’, it’s fine with me. I got better things to do. Yeah, I’m feelin’ real randy. Come on, lass, you ’n me ’re goin’ in that barn.”

  Frantic, I backed away. Charlie advanced, his eyes glowing like angry black coals. He seized my arm, but I managed to pull away. That made him even angrier. His mouth turned down at the corners. He lunged at me, flinging his arms around me, and both of us tumbled to the ground, Charlie on top. The impact of the fall knocked my breath away, but I was possessed with fury and a strength born of desperation. I fought. I pushed. I shoved. I caught my nails against his cheek, raked them down the length of it, and Charlie rolled off of me, yowling like a madman as blood poured from those four long gashes on his face. Burt was delighted. He stood there with his legs spread wide apart, balled fists planted on his thighs. Deep laughter rumbled from his chest as I climbed to my feet, panting. Charlie grabbed at my ankle and missed. I kicked him squarely in the face, putting all the strength I possessed into that kick.

  Burt stopped laughing. He scowled.

  “’Ey now, you play rough, little lady. That ain’t no way to treat my friend Charlie. Looks like I’m gonna hafta teach you a lesson—”

  “You—you’ll be sorry. My husband—”

  “You ain’t gotta ’usband, lassie. Charlie was right. You’re just a maid. A lady, she would-a swooned. You’re a regular wildcat. I don’t care if you do work at th’ big ’ouse, I’m gonna teach you a lesson. Poor Charlie—he’s plumb out cold.”

  “Stay away from me!”

  “I ain’t scared, little lady. Me, I like ’em to fight a bit. Makes it more interestin’ like.”

  Slowly, heavily, he moved toward me. Half veiled by drooping lids, his blue eyes were filled with lazy anticipation. An amused smile played on the sensual pink mouth. As he reached for me, I swung my hand back and sent it forward in a vicious slap. Burt caught my wrist in midair, giving it a savage twist that caused me to cry out in pain. Chuckling now, he pulled me into his arms. He was much larger than Charlie, and much stronger, too, those muscular arms like steel bands wrapping around me. I tried to hit. I tried to kick. It was futile. Swinging me around, Burt seized me by the hair, curling his other arm around my waist in a crushing hold. Chuckling with lusty glee, he started toward the gaping barn doors, half dragging, half carrying me along with him.

  There was a great pile of moldy hay just inside. He set me down. I was so weak and frightened I could hardly stand, but, nevertheless, I tried to push past him and run back out into the sunlight. Burt scowled and then slapped me across the cheek with such vindictive force that my head snapped back and I fell hurtling into the hay. Stunned, my head whirling, I sank against the hay, half-conscious. Everything seemed to shimmer and blur before my eyes. The barn was dim, filled with shadows beyond the patch of sunlight slanting through the doors. I saw rotten wooden rafters, cobwebs, huge sacks of spoiled grain spilling onto the hard earth floor. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare, a horrible nightmare, and I would surely wake up.

  My heart was pounding, pounding, like horse hooves, it sounded like horse hooves pounding on the turf, and the barn was spinning around me and the damp, ancient hay clung to me, claiming me, and I tried to wake up, tried to end this tormenting nightmare, but it was real, no dream, real, the barn, the terrible odor of sweat and manure and moldering hay, and the man was real, too, standing there with those strong legs spread apart, his chest heaving, hands fumbling awkwardly as he tugged at his jerkin to pull it off. Someone was sobbing, low, frantic sobs that were hoarse tormented gasps, and I realized I was making those sounds. I tried to get to my feet. His arm shot out. His palm hit my shoulder, shoving me back, deeper into the hay.


  “Please—” I whispered hoarsely. “You can’t—”

  “Shut up!” he snarled.

  “You can’t. You mustn’t—”

  “Stop whinin’. You’re gonna luv it, lass. All th’ girls do. There ain’t no better man than Burt Brown, not in th’ whole bloomin’ county. Me, I know ’ow to make a lass feel real—”

  He broke off abruptly, an incredulous expression on his face. The haze before my eyes was thicker than ever now, shimmering like bright mist, but I saw him tense, saw the muscles in his face tighten. Struggling into a sitting position, fighting the hay, I heard the horse hooves pounding and through the door I saw the great black beast racing toward the barn, clods of earth splattering beneath its hooves. With a mighty jerk of the reins the rider brought it to a sudden halt a few yards away from the door, flew off its back, came hurtling into the barn like one possessed. Burt gave a yell as that body ploughed into his, sending them both crashing to the floor with a deafening thud. I heard painful grunts, the sound of breaths knocked out of bodies, the sound of bones crushing against bones.

  My heart was beating furiously, my head whirling, and I felt sore and bruised all over, too weak to move, yet I climbed to my feet, showers of hay falling around me, clinging to my skirt, my hair. I backed up against the wall, flattening myself against it. Panting, my bosom rising and falling, I fought back the fluttering black wings that seemed to beat inside my head, threatening a total eclipse. I couldn’t faint. Not now. Dazed, tears streaking down my cheeks, I watched the two men groping and grappling and rolling over the floor, a tangle of thrashing limbs.

  Burt was stretched out on the floor now, and Lyman was on top of him, sitting on his chest, a knee on either side of his opponent, his fingers caught up in Burt’s tawny hair. Yes, it was Lyman, his white linen shirt damp with sweat, his lips drawn back over his teeth, his dark brown eyes crackling with murderous rage as he jerked Burt’s head up, pounded it back against the floor, again, again, raven locks spilling over his eyes as he dealt those punishing blows. Burt heaved, thrashed, arms flailing, and he threw Lyman off, sent him rolling against the sacks of grain. Both men scrambled to their feet, panting. Burt’s fist swung through the air like a mighty hammer, catching Lyman across the jaw. I heard the crushing impact of that blow, saw Lyman’s body banging against the opposite wall, his arms flung out.

  I cried out, horrified. Neither man heard me.

  Staggering, his knees seeming to give way beneath him, Burt almost crumpled to the floor, managing to catch himself just in time. Like some great, crazed animal, he shook his head, then reeled toward Lyman, fist drawn back to deliver another powerful blow. I saw the fist swing again, flying toward Lyman’s jaw, saw Lyman throw himself to one side. Burt let out an anguished scream as his fist crashed against the wall, wood splintering beneath his knuckles. Leaping up, Lyman threw his arm out, slung it around Burt’s throat, jerking upwards and back. Burt gurgled and gasped as the arm wrapped tighter and tighter in a crushing stranglehold. His face turned red, redder, and Lyman was almost bent over backwards now, putting more and more pressure on that throat caught between his bicep and forearm. Burt threw his feet against the wall, pushing violently, and they both fell to the ground again, Lyman losing his hold.

  It was over very quickly then. Half choked, his strength gone, Burt was no match for the other man now. Eyes closed, blond hair plastered over his forehead, he held Lyman in a loose grip, but Lyman broke away quickly, springing to his feet. On his knees now, reeling from side to side, Burt managed to stand, only to fall again as Lyman delivered a knuckle-bruising right. Burt toppled against the sacks of grain like a giant rag doll, limp, sliding slowly to the hard packed earth floor in a crumpled heap, completely unconscious. Lyman stood over him, his chest heaving, fists hanging at his sides, trying to catch his breath.

  Several long moments passed. Burt didn’t stir. Lyman breathed deeply and stood up straight, shoving the damp raven locks from his forehead. His shirt, half-pulled out, clung to his chest in wet patches. His black doeskin breeches were streaked with dirt. I was still leaning flat against the wall. I stood up, brushing the hay from my skirt. Lyman looked at me, his dark brown eyes expressionless, his mouth set in a tight line. There was a deepening violet bruise on one broad cheekbone.

  “Are—are you all right?” I whispered.

  He nodded brusquely.

  “There’s another one—outside.”

  “I saw him. He was on his knees, moaning, holding his jaw. It looked broken. How did that happen? They fight over you?”

  “I—I kicked him in the face. They were going to—it was—”

  “Don’t,” he said gruffly.

  “I didn’t hear them. I turned around and there they were. I—if you hadn’t—”

  “I was working in one of the fields. I happened to look up and see you walking along the horizon. A couple of minutes later I saw the two of them following you. I ran for my horse, got here as fast as I could. Did anything happen? Did he—”

  “No,” I said.

  I was calm, perfectly calm, and my voice was level. I looked at him, so calm, and then the haze was there again, shimmering in front of my eyes, and I was trembling, shivering, my body icy cold. I felt the wetness on my cheeks, and things were blurring. I seemed to be crying. Why should I be crying? It was over now. I was perfectly calm. I felt his warmth, the hard solid strength of his body. My cheek was buried against his damp shirt and he was holding me, supporting me. My knees were like water, and I would have fallen if those arms hadn’t been fastened around me so securely. Sobs wracked my body. I continued to shiver, and everything seemed to hang suspended in a vague, hazy darkness. I could hear his heartbeats, smell his sweat and the pungent male odor of his body, and that strength was there, protecting me. One large hand was stroking my hair, brushing away the bits of hay.

  “Don’t,” he said. His rough, husky voice was tender and incredibly soothing. “You’re all right. Don’t, Jenny, don’t cry. It’s over. I’m here. Hush now. Do you hear me? Don’t cry—”

  Time passed. I stopped sobbing. The shivering ceased. Lyman held me against him, and I moved in his arms. He released me, stepping back. I couldn’t bring myself to look in his eyes.

  “You all right now?” he asked. His voice was flat.

  “Yes. I—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Shock. It was a perfectly natural reaction.”

  I looked up at him. His face was impassive, his features granitelike. I might have imagined that tenderness in his voice.

  “Come on,” he said tersely. “We’d better get you back to Mallyncourt now.”

  We stepped out into the sunlight. Charlie was gone. Back in the barn, Burt was beginning to stir. I could hear him moaning. Lyman’s horse was a few yards away, grazing on the short, stiff grass. Lyman stepped over to it and gave it a swift slap on the buttocks. The horse snorted indignantly and then galloped off down the slope, disappearing from sight.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, puzzled.

  “He’ll go back to the stables by himself. We’ll walk. You need some more time to compose yourself, Mrs. Baker.”

  It had been Jenny a few minutes ago, I thought ruefully. Lyman tucked his shirt more securely into the waistband of his tight doeskin breeches, brushed a few stray locks from his forehead. He was calm, unperturbed, his manner coldly severe. He exuded strength and self-confidence. It was difficult to believe he had half murdered a man less than ten minutes ago. Had I imagined that tenderness when he was holding me? Had that soft, crooning voice, those gentle hands been an hallucination? It seemed incongruous now. Now he was the terse, rude Lyman of old.

  I stepped over to pick up my parcel. The wildflowers were still scattered on the ground where I had dropped them. Arms folded across his chest, Lyman waited for me to join him, and together we set off across the fields, both silent. Clouds continued to drift across the sun, casting large shadows that floated over the fields like misty gray veils. The barn was soon far
behind us, out of sight behind a knoll, the woods ahead, dark green and shadowy under the deepening blue sky. The wind whipped at my skirts, causing them to billow behind me. Strands of hair blew across my face. Lyman restrained his normal brisk stride, keeping pace with me, yet he might have been alone, immersed in thought, a grim expression on his face. Once I stumbled over a rock, tottered. He grabbed my arm, supporting me, but still he didn’t speak.

  He loathed me. That much was obvious. He had disapproved of me ever since I arrived at Mallyncourt, resenting my presence, and I could understand that under the circumstances. I was in league with Edward, and Edward was his arch rival. He had come charging to the rescue back there, true, but that was no more than any man would have done, and he had comforted me, because I was in a state of shock, holding me in his arms, murmuring quiet words of reassurance, but it had meant nothing at all. It had been an act of charity, and he probably despised me all the more for my weakness.

  Reaching the woods, we walked down the shadowy green tunnels, thick black-brown trunks on either side of the pathway, spreading branches making a leafy canopy above through which only a few rays of sunlight slanted like hazy yellow-white fingers. When the woods began to thin, when through the trees we could see the stables on the east side of the house, Lyman stopped and turned to me. His rough-hewn features were still like granite, his dark eyes expressionless.

  “What happened back there isn’t the sort of thing you’d want to have bandied about,” he said sternly. “We’ll say nothing about it to anyone. You were badly frightened and shaken up a bit, but you’re unharmed. I have a couple of bruises, but I’ll live. None of it ever happened, all right? No one else need ever know about it.”