Dedicated Villain (13 page)

The mare was stubborn and resisted all attempts to urge her to a respectable speed. For one of the few times in his life, Mathieson wished he owned a pair of rowelled spurs rather than the short-necked pair he wore and that he seldom employed for even the lightest touch to Rump's sides. Fumingly abandoning his efforts to hurry the animal, he rode on, and half an hour
later was searching for the livery stable a farmhand had told him was “just down the lane, left at the signpost, and stay on 'crost the fields, due east a mile or so, like.”

His thoughts turned, as they so often did, to poor Bill Bond and some of the wild times they'd shared. There had been one particular leave in Dover … He sighed, and concentrated instead on his meeting with the tempestuous Lady Ericson. Now there was an interesting little creature. Likely she'd a lively past; certainly she had been a beauty in her day. He was convinced that she must have been pointed out to him at some time; in Paris, perhaps, for something about her was so familiar. She had— Ah! Here was the hamlet, and he could hear the ring of a smith's hammer.

He rode along the single street. A small girl in a faded blue dress stood watching him, a bright red ball clutched in her chubby little hands. An old man in a snowy smock sat outside the tavern smoking a long clay pipe which he lifted in a companionable greeting. A dog woke up as the mare trotted past, and rolled onto its back to remain thus, all four legs in the air. The only other person in sight was an extremely fat gentleman who stood in the open door of the smithy, apparently chatting with the smith while he waited for his horse to be shod. ‘Poor beast,' thought Mathieson. ‘With a load like that to carry, 'tis likely glad of a rest.'

That the fat man's mount was not the only one in need of a rest, he discovered to his horror. His horse sat down.

Scrambling from the saddle with neither grace nor elegance, Mathieson stumbled, swore heartily, and added to his humiliation by sitting in the road beside the hack. The sudden violent movements exacerbated his headache which was not at all helped by an outburst of delighted laughter. Furious, he peered upward. The fat man, may he rot, was convulsed, and clung for support to the grey-haired smith, who howled in a lower key, but just as raucously.

“You cannot know how glad I am,” snarled Mathieson, “to provide you with amusement, gentlemen!”

The smith straightened, mopping at his eyes with a grubby handkerchief. “No offense intended, sir,” he said in a great boom of a voice. “'Twere just as I hasn't never seen no horse sit down like that 'un.”

“Blister me!” moaned the fat man. “No more have I. A—a
rara avis
you've got there, sir! You might—might put her on exhibit and collect enough money to—to buy yourself a horse!” And he and the smith were off again. Uproarious.

Glaring at them, Mathieson turned when a shrill squeaking added to the assault on his battered head. Drawn by this unexpected entertainment, the small girl was nearby, jumping up and down. Her golden ringlets bounced and her dress swirled. In her innocent delight she clapped her hands and dropped the ball, which rolled down the hill toward Mathieson. He took it up, then tossed it to her, smiling, and she caught it and beamed at him, her joyous little face to some extent alleviating the gloom of this miserable morning.

He regained his feet, but his head throbbed so that he raised a hand to his temple involuntarily.

The smith's eyes sharpened. “Feeling a mite out of curl 'smorning, is ye, sir?”

Mathieson brushed dirt from his already disreputable breeches. “My horse is, certainly,” he said wryly.

“Gad, but you're a sportsman, sir,” chortled the fat man. “Admire a fella who can laugh at adversity. But you
are
a touch green about the gills. I shall buy you a tankard of ale, sir, deuce take me if I don't! Nothing like good English ale to put the spirit back into a man!”

“Thank you,” said Mathieson. “I only wish it might put my own horse back under me! I was robbed last night gentlemen. My stallion was taken and this poor old slug left in his place.”

The smith shook his head and clicked his tongue and said it was “sinful goings on.”

The fat man was more vocal. “By Gad, you don't say so!” he cried with great indignation. “Handled you roughly too, did they? Thieving gypsies, likely. Devil take it all, what is England
coming to? I ask you! Not a moment ago I was telling Enoch here I damned near hauled in an ugly little lot late last night, and would've by Gad, had we a constable in the village! Rogues, or I'm a Dutchman, sir! Three of the dirty bounders. Unshaven, sir. A disgrace! I doubt there was a groat betwixt the lot of 'em, yet they'd a—Zeus!” His round little eyes grew rounder. “What like was your horse, sir?”

Mathieson described the chestnut. The smith and the fat man stared at one another.

“Cor,” said the smith, awed. “White blaze and all! Sounds like the stamper, Mr. Reed.”

“The stamper?” snapped Mathieson, tensing. “My horse has the habit of stamping is he at stand. 'Tis why I named him Rumpelstiltskin. Have you seen him, then? Do you say these men had my horse, sir?”

Mr. Reed nodded with owlish solemnity. “Or I'm a Dutchman, sir!”

Mathieson seized his arm. “By God, but I'll buy
you
that ale, Reed! And you too, smith! Now—tell me where I can get a decent horse, but first—late last night, you said? Could you describe me these rogues and tell me where they were bound? Into the Forest, eh?”

“Dean, sir? No, sir! Devil a bit of it! Tall, skinny fella—gypsy, likely. Big rascal wearing a knitted green cap. Bigger rascal—forty-ish. And all riding
north
, sir. Most definitely north, sir.
North!
Or I'm a Dutchman, sir!”

Mathieson bought ale for Enoch the smith, and Mr. Reed. He also bought a black cloak and a fine grey horse and, although these transactions left him rather dangerously short of funds, he was pleased to find that the cloak was warm, and the grey was a good goer.

His further discussion with Mr. Reed had convinced him the
man was in the right of it, and that Rump had indeed been taken northward. Lady Ericson's coachman must either have been mistaken as to the thieves' route, or they had changed direction after he saw them, perhaps in an effort to confuse any pursuer. Knowing that they would put as much ground as possible between them and himself, Mathieson headed steadily northward. Despite their good progress, however, his mood deteriorated as the hours slipped away with no sight of his quarry, the dread that he might not find Rump compounded by his frustration because MacTavish had eluded him.

A light meal at a friendly farmhouse restored his nerves, and, his headache a little less vicious, he mounted up once more. He had scant hope of obtaining word of his horse from hamlets or inns, being convinced the thieves would steer clear of such places, but he asked nonetheless, of carters, pedlars, shepherds, blacksmiths, a man with a load of feathers, a tinker with an irascible donkey, sundry farmhands, and a dimpled dairymaid. He was answered variously with indifference, courtesy, garrulity, and (by the tinker) a curse. The farmhands scratched their heads and tried in vain to recollect such an animal as he described. The dairymaid blushed and fluttered her lashes, but could provide him with nothing more useful than a kiss, which he took without leave and returned when she dimplingly demanded it.

By late afternoon his hopes were fading into a fuming helplessness. The wind was warm but blustery, sending the clouds to racing the shadows they cast onto hill and dale. He had crossed into Shropshire, and, still avoiding main roads, was high in the hills with lush green valleys to either hand, and far below the sparkle of a river that he rather thought would be the Teme. Beautiful, unspoiled country. Ahead, the thatched roofs of a tiny hamlet peeped above the trees, and a few thin strands of smoke rose only a short way before they were whipped into invisibility by the hurrying wind. Mathieson spurred the grey to a gallop, then reined up frantically as a startled shout rang out, and a young boy with flaming red hair darted from the undergrowth
almost under the grey's hooves. He was clearly scared half out of his wits, but he stopped when Mathieson demanded it, and faced him, trembling.

Mathieson leaned forward in the saddle and surveyed him thoughtfully. The boy kept his hands behind him, but when he first had burst out from the long grasses he had been clutching a knife and a piece of wood. Hiding from his tasks, no doubt, while he whittled a wooden pistol, or a doll for his sister. Mathieson could sympathize with such truancy, and he smiled and said kindly, “My apologies did I frighten you.”

“Ain't f-frightened,” the boy gasped, his lips pale and the freckles standing out like small beacons all over his white face.

“Glad to hear it.” Mathieson was weary of his questioning, and it was doubtless a waste of time, but, “You've a fine pair of eyes,” he said. “Do they see well?”

The boy looked puzzled and a little less ready to swoon. “Yes, sir.”

“You've been—er, resting on this hill for some time—have you?”

Cautiously, the bright head nodded.

“If I was ready to pay—sixpence, say—for information, d'you think you could remember everyone you've seen?”

“Ain't seen any rebs, if that's what you means, milor',” said the boy, taking on a bold and swaggering air. “Else I'd have ambushed the dirty traitors and tied 'em up and drug 'em to the village constable.”

“I'm glad to hear you're a patriot. However, I'm not after Jacobites, but my horse. He was stolen by thieves last night, and I've been riding like fury trying to come up with the villains. Three men, and a chestnut stallion with—” Mathieson stopped, his heart giving a great leap, for the young face was suddenly alight with excitement.

“I saw 'em, your honour! A fine big horse with long ears, a white blaze on his face, and two white stockings—be that the one?”

“Your bright eyes just earned you sixpence!” Mathieson took out his purse. “Now, tell me—which way were they going?”

“Shrewsbury, I 'spect sir. Likely they'll try to sell your horse on market day.”

Mathieson spun him a coin. The boy caught it and gave a joyous squeal, but pointed out honestly, “You said sixpence, your honour. This is—”

Mathieson was already riding away, and his voice echoed after him. “Keep it! A bonus!”

The sun was setting before Mathieson caught his first glimpse of the thieves. Three of the filthy swine, just as Reed had said. And dear old Rump, moving with his peerless, silken stride, God love his hooves and hocks! By Beelzebub, but the big clod bestriding him would pay dearly for his villainy! Still, it would behoove him to take them by surprise, rather than to attack now, for two could keep him busy while the third rode off with Rump.

He kept them in sight, therefore, staying always in the shade or behind shrubs, as they journeyed on through the peaceful countryside. They were heading for Shrewsbury all right. He smiled unpleasantly and eased his sword in the scabbard. He'd see to it they never reached that bustling town!

The sunset was glorious and when it began to fade he edged nearer, determined that they not escape him, even if he had to take them on, all three. The wind had dropped to a fitful breeze on which was borne the tang of wood smoke. He rode past a farm where cows stood hock deep in the rich meadow grasses, chewing complacently. A tantalizing smell of cooking wafted from the open windows of the whitewashed house. Faint with distance a bell chimed the hour. Eight. Small wonder he was hungry. He dismissed such a minor annoyance and spurred the
grey eagerly as the three thieves skirted the edge of an area of marshland. Cover was harder to come by here, with fewer trees and shrubs, but he noticed that the thieves never looked behind them, apparently convinced they had been too clever to be followed. They passed into the woods where the thick branches screened out most of the crimson light, and without warning were lost to sight.