Part 33 (1/2)

My mind was busy going over all the memories of the last three days. I tried hard, but in vain, to skip the black part, the thought of which made me flinch as if the branding-iron was white-hot against my cheek. Mentally I saw double--Jack's red blood with one eye and Margaret's amber hair with the other. As I rode I fought memory with memory, mingling gall and honey, now mumbling broken prayers and now singing s.n.a.t.c.hes of country love-songs, and so got on as best I could. In the journey of life a man pays for what he calls for. Life had given me what I wanted, and the price thereof had been death.

Not only was the night dark but the countryside was empty. I rode past dim outlines of houses and through vague, dreamlike villages without seeing a soul or hearing a sound. Once I saw a light ahead by the roadside, but out it went as the rattle of Sultan's hoofs told of my coming. It was no wonder, for these poor folk were living between two armies and wanted neither, friend nor foe. For them it was only a choice between the upper and the nether millstone. At last I came to a wayside ale-house where lights were showing. I rode up, dismounted, ran the reins over the catch of the shutter, and went in.

In the low, untidy room I found a man and a woman, bent over a miserable fire, with their backs to a table whereon were set out mug and platter and other things useful for a meal. They rose to greet me, and their faces told me that they were expecting some one and supposed that I was he. When they saw their mistake, the woman stepped smartly in front of the man and said, ”Lord, sir, how you frighted us! What can I get for your wors.h.i.+p?”

”A mug of good mulled ale,” said I. ”Give me good mulled ale and a little information, and you shall have a crown for your pains.”

I spoke pleasantly, having no need, as a mere pa.s.ser-by, to do otherwise, but if I had been obliged to have dealings with them, I should have begun by distrusting them outright. The man was of the common sort of ale-house keeper, ugly, beery, and stupid, and old enough to be the father of his wife, as I call her on account of the wedding ring on her finger. She was, for the place and post, a complete surprise, being a jaunty, townish, garish woman, dressed in decayed finery. He would have slit my throat for a groat, she for a grudge. They looked that sort.

The woman went into another room, beyond the little bar where the drinkables were stored, to get the spices for the mulling, and the man shuffled grumpily after her. Hanging on the wall behind the bar was a fly-sheet, the very same I had read in the ”Swan with Two Necks” at Ashbourne.

”Swift Nicks” was a much-wanted gentleman, and evidently a tobie-man with a wide range of activities. Out of mere vacancy of mind I walked near to read the fly-sheet again, and, by a curious chance, among the drone of words from the other room, the only one my quick ear could pick out distinctly was ”Nicks.”

This made me wary, and when the woman came out and busied herself at the fire, and called me to see what a prime mull she was brewing, I stood over her, to all intent watching the process but ready for anything. And not without need, for her dirty husband crept softly out after her, thinking to catch me unawares. I flashed at him like a jack at a minnow, wrenched a wretched old blunderbuss out of his hands, and with the b.u.t.t of it knocked him sprawling back into the other room.

The prime muller merely cackled with false laughter and went on with her mulling. I fetched him in by the scruff of the neck, stood him up against the bar, and said, ”I think you're in for the soundest thras.h.i.+ng you've ever had in your life.”

”Sarves yer right, sawney,” said the woman. ”Plase let him off, sir. He thought yow was Swift Nicks.”

”Yow b.i.t.c.h!” he growled. ”Yow set me on!”

”Yow'm a ligger!” she retorted. ”I towd yow the gen'leman was nowt like Swift Nicks.”

”How do you know that?” I asked.

”By the print,” was the quick reply. ”It tells yow all about him.”

I fetched the fly-sheet down, held it out to her, and said sharply, ”Read it to me!”

I thought this would clean beat her, but she said, simply enough, ”I canna rade it mysen, but I've heard it read lots o' times.”

”Have you heard it read?” I asked the man.

”Lots o' times,” he echoed surlily, and I saw the woman's fingers twitch as if she longed to furrow his ugly face with her nails.

”Then why didn't you know?”

I spoke to him but turned sharp on the woman, and saw h.e.l.l in her face.

She was almost too quick for me, and answered fawningly, ”The thought o'

the money made a fool on 'im, sir. Plase let him off. I've mulled th' ale prime for her honour.”

This was true and I enjoyed it greatly. I sent the man out to rub Sultan down while she prepared for him under my eyes a warm drench of ale and meal.

”Be y'r honour going far?” she asked.

”That depends how far it is to Ellerton Grange. Do you know it?”

”Oh aye, y'r honour. Sir James Blount lives there. It's three miles out'n Tutcheter on the Burton road.”