An Honourable Estate (22 page)

“What’s happened?” he asked as his arms closed around his
sister and he glanced from William to the small boy perched on the horse and
then back again.

“We ran into a hunting party,” said William briefly. 
“Who let the Scot out and gave him a weapon?” he demanded, looking past Harry
to where the man had paused and was watching warily.

“I thought it was time he earned his keep,” said Harry. 
“He’ll do no harm.  But what of these hunters?  Are you all right?”
he asked his sister who nodded her head as she regained her composure. 
“And where did you find your horse?”  Harry asked in surprise as he
recognised the stallion.  “And Calab?”  he added, staring at the
hound that stood beside William.

“Well if Sir Peter Lymesey thought that he could ride my
horse and hunt with my hound, this day has proved him wrong.  We came
across them in the forest and I took back what was rightfully mine,” he
explained.

“And the boy?”

William glanced up at the thin figure clutching the pommel of
the saddle and reached to lift him down.  “This is Dicken,” he said.

“Dicken, lad!” exclaimed Ned Kemp as he came up.  “I’m
pleased to see you safe!  You’ll not send him back?” he asked William, who
shook his head as he ran a hand over the boy’s hair.

“I will not.  The boy is in my care now.”

“What happened?”

“Sir William saw a hawk circling and realised there was a
hunting party,” explained Martha.  “We tried to get back but they caught
up with us.  Then the dog recognised Sir William, and the horse tipped off
his rider who turned out to be Lymesey.”

“Surely he wasn’t alone?”

“His men ran when they saw Tegg and Scallard,” laughed
William.  “They thought it was an ambush and probably expected another
dozen outlaws to leap out from behind the trees.”

“And Lymesey?” asked Ned Kemp with a frightened look. 
“Where is he?”

“Lying where I left him I should think,” said William.

“You killed him?”

“I don’t think so.  But I gave him a beating he’ll not
quickly forget.”  His laughter faded as he saw Ned’s concerned face.

“They’ll come looking for you,” he said.  “They’ll not
let that go unpunished.”

“They have been looking for me for months and have not found
me yet,” boasted William, though he did not feel as confident as he tried to
sound.  The beating of Peter Lymesey had been done in anger and he had not
been able to stop himself.  On reflection it may not have been the wisest
thing to do, he had to acknowledge.  If it brought the sheriff’s men to
Chorleigh then he would have done a disservice to the women and children and
those who were trying to help them.  It was not unlikely that the
rebuilding would be broken down again as an excuse to search for outlaws and
that the few stores they had gathered from the generosity of the surrounding
villages would be plundered.

“The forest is already full of the sheriff’s men,” said
Stephen Scallard as he came up.  “I doubt it will take them long to find
us.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Harry Palmer, “it would be better if we
were not all in the same place.”

“A good point,” said William.  “But you must stay here
with your sister.  Ned you can stay if you like, but it may be safer for
you and Will and Stephen to keep moving rather than wait to be run to ground
here.”

“And you?” asked Harry. 

“I will stay to give you what protection I can, for a while
at least,” said William, though it was the Scot he was watching.  He was
not prepared to let the man get away until he was sure he was of no further
use.   “I have my horse, and Calab will give warning if anyone comes
near so I will have time to escape.  But the others on foot will need a
head start and it may be safer if you go now and keep moving through the
forest.”

He watched as Scallard looked at Tegg and he nodded his
approval.  “I’d rather take my chances out there than sit and wait for the
bastards to find me here,” he said. 

“Ned?” asked William.  “Will you go with them?”

“If I go with your blessing, my lord, for I would not like to
be taken by them again.”

“Then make haste, and take whatever you might need,” said
William with a backward glance down the track, as if he expected to see armed
men coming even as they spoke.

“And the boy?” asked Ned.

“Dicken stays with me,” said William firmly, his hand on the
boy’s shoulder.  It was partly because the boy was so young and partly
because he had made him a promise that he would care for him.  But as he
looked down at the frail youngster beside him he knew that it was mostly
because Mab had cared for the boy, and that he felt he would be letting her
down if he didn’t take personal responsibility for him now.

With a brief nod, William Tegg and Stephen Scallard gathered
more arrows, some food and blankets, and taking Ned with them they crept off
into the forest.  William prayed that they could outwit the sheriff’s men
and that they would stay safe until things changed enough for them to go safely
to their homes and get on with their lives.

“And take the axe off that damn’ Scot!” he cried in
irritation as he led Hengist away in search of some shelter for the
stallion.  “And feed the child!” he said as Calab followed him and Dicken
stood and stared at the strangers who surrounded him in bewilderment.

“Douglas?”
asked William staring at the boy in genuine mystification a few days
later.  “Who the heck is Douglas?”

“The Scot,” explained Dicken and William wondered why he had
never thought before that the man might actually have a name.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay well away from him?” he
reprimanded the boy and immediately regretted his harsh tone as he saw the boy
cower, as if preparing himself to submit to a blow.  “All right,” he said
more gently.  “What did he want?”

“He wants to talk to you,” explained Dicken.  “He says
he has something that might help you.”

“Has he indeed?” asked William, wondering what trick the Scot
was up to now.  As he had recovered, the man had begun to exude an
unexpected charm to which only William seemed to remain immune.  Even
Martha, who had been adamant that she wanted him dead on the first evening of
his capture, seemed to have been taken in by him, allowing him to assist with
the rebuilding of her house and allowing him to handle hammers, nails and all
manner of implements that would suffice as weapons should the man prove
unfriendly after all.  William had argued that he should be kept
restrained and confined but the women had said that as there were so few men he
should help with the rebuilding of the village to prove that his words of
regret at being one of those who had burnt it down were genuine.  Even
Harry, whose good judgement William had always relied upon in the past, had
quickly trusted the word of the Scot and unbound his hands to allow him to
work.

“Go to Martha and see if your supper is ready,” William told
Dicken with a gentle push and then he walked around to the back of the church
where the Scot was sitting on the ground with his back against the thick stone
of the wall waiting for him.  He struggled up when he saw William. 
The wound to his thigh obviously still pained him although he no longer
complained.  He had not shaved and several days’ growth of beard showed a
sandy red colour over his face and throat.  He was only short, even when
standing, and his fierce blue eyes looked up at William who waited to hear what
he had to say.

“Whoever would beat a bairn like that is beneath my
contempt,” he said at last and turned to spit on the floor to show the depth of
his feelings.

“You mean Dicken?” asked William.

“Aye.  I had a bairn about the same age.” He
hesitated.  “The boy showed me his back.  I’d kill a man who did
that.”

“I did my best,” replied William.  “But I’ve heard they
found him alive and he still lives.”

“Lymesey,” said the Scot as if it were a foul taste in his
mouth.  “He’s one of the Earl of Lancaster’s men?”

“He is.  He’s been given my lands since I’ve been
declared an outlaw,” said William.

“Then who do you fight for?” asked the Scot.

“For the king,” he told him.  “For right; for justice. 
I fought against the Scots for many years.  I fought at Bannockburn and
saw many of my fellow Englishmen cut down.”  He paused as he saw the Scot
shake his head.  “You deny it?” he asked, feeling his temper rising and
his fist clench.

“Nay, it was a sorry battle, but a man must fight for his own
country.  You’ll not argue with that?”

“What is it you want?” asked William impatiently.  “I’ve
better things to do than discuss the finer points of patriotism with you. 
No!”  His hand closed around the Scot’s wrist as the man reached into his
tunic.  He should have made sure the man was thoroughly searched when they
first took him, realised William.  Stephen Scallard had relieved him of
one knife but that did not mean he hadn’t concealed a second.

William glared at the man as he leaned all his weight into
him and pinned him against the wall. 

“If ye’ll let me go I’ll show ye the letter,” breathed the
Scot.

“Letter?”

“The letter I carry for Sir Edmund Neville, for Thomas, Earl
of Lancaster – signed and sealed by king Robert the Bruce of Scotland.”

William did not relinquish his grasp but continued to hold
the Scot firm.  “That’s a pretty attempt at trickery,” he told him. 
“Do you think I look that stupid?”

“Then take it for yourself.  It’s concealed in a pouch
sewn inside my shirt.”

William hesitated.  He didn’t really want to slide a
hand inside the Scot’s clothing, but if what he was saying were true then it
would provide him with the proof he needed of Lancaster’s treachery.

“And why did you not show it to me before?  Why did you
say it had been delivered?”

“Because I hoped to escape and deliver it and warn Edmund
Neville that you were still alive.  Ye make the simple mistake of thinking
that I am either deaf or sleeping when ye talk,” grinned the man.  “You
should learn to guard yer tongue.  I know who you are, Sir William
Bradshaigh, and I know that you’re a wanted man.  In fact I expected to
reap quite a bonny reward for your capture.”

“I should have cut your throat that first night,” growled
William in return.  “I show you compassion and this is how you repay me?”

“Compassion?  Nay, Sir William.  You kept me alive
to use me, no more than that.”

“And now I have used you?  What good are you to me
now?  If I cut your throat I can take either letter or knife from you with
ease.”

“And what will ye tell the bairn, wee Dicken?”

William relaxed his hold on the Scot just enough to allow him
to slip a hand inside the man’s clothing.  Sure enough it closed around a
hidden pouch and he ripped it out, leaving a strip of the Scot’s torn woollen
undershirt to hang tattered over the top of his tunic.  With one hand
William shook it and a rolled parchment fell to the ground.  He bent to
retrieve it and in the twilight saw that the Scot was telling the truth. 
It was held by the Scottish seal that it would have been impossible for the man
to fake.

“What does it say?” he demanded.

“It says what I told ye before.  Tis a safe pass for the
Earl of Lancaster to meet with Robert Bruce to discuss a joint assault on the
English king, Edward.”

William quickly pushed the letter inside his own shirt and
searched the Scot thoroughly for any hidden weapons.  The man stood with
his back to the wall and offered no resistance.

“What’s in this for you?” asked William.  “You must
realise that I won’t run the risk of letting you leave here to betray me.”

“Then kill me and finish it,” said the Scot.  “My wife
and bairns are dead, starved or struck with the fever.  And if I canna go back
then at least I can go ta God knowing that I’ve done some good, for I’ll not
support a man who’d allow a bairn to be beaten.”

William drew his knife from its sheath and held it to the
Scot’s bare throat.  “You spin a fine tale,” he said, “but it’s a tale
that changes its shape to suit your purpose...”  He stopped as he heard
soft footsteps behind him.

“Sir William?” said Martha.  “What do you mean to do to
Douglas?”

After a long moment William lowered the knife and heard the
audible sigh of relief from behind him.

“You wanted me to kill him not many days past,” he remarked
to her.

“And you showed him mercy.  Show him mercy once more, I
beg you,” she said.  “He has proved himself to us by his hard work and
sorrow for what was done.”

“But did you know that he still harboured a letter for the
sheriff and that he meant to betray me for a reward?” asked William, still
glaring down at the Scot.

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“He has just told me.”

“And would he have told you if he meant to carry through his
plans?” she reasoned.

William looked around at Martha’s worried face, illuminated
by the gentle golden light of sunset and he stepped away from the Scot. 
“On your conscience be it, my lady, if he betrays me!” he snapped as he walked
past her, brushing against her arm and wishing that he did not keep giving her
reason to dislike him.