Philip's shoulder ached. Leaning on the door post of a seedy tavern, his tawny hair ruffled and matted with a copious amount of dirt, a smear across his nose, and a daub of muck upon his chin, he looked every inch a peasant groom. He lazily held the reins of a gigantic black beast. The horse didn't like him much, that was easy to tell. It kept trying to bite him. Likewise, he kept punching it in the nose.
Inside, a roaring voice was demanding of the inn-keeper and all patrons if they had seen black-cloaked, masked man—a little man with a reedy voice and only one arm??
Not a man responded in the affirmative. One rather talkative fellow inquired if his lordship thought he was going to catch the thief? The response was another roar, this time of pure rage, and the questioner found himself thrown headfirst out the door into a muck puddle.
“Thackerys!” he hissed as he picked himself up and hurried into the growing dusk.
Moments later, Warren Thackery and his son tramped out and mounted their animals. As Philip handed up the reins to the Elder, the missing arm concealed beneath a short brown cloak of rough wool, he kept his eyes on the ground, as if in humble submission. Thackery snatched the reins out of his hand and road off without so much as a second look. Warren the Younger followed suit.
Immediately they were out of sight, a transformation happened. Philip's head came up, his shoulder's were thrown back, and he ducked his head into a bucket of water. Finished washing his hair out, he strode into the tavern and straight up to the inn-keeper. The room was practically empty, but still he spoke low.
“Well done, Munford. I think I may safely say that he will not be back tonight. Might I rest myself in one of your rooms?”
Munford grinned, “Of course, m'lord...with or without currency.”
Philip grinned in turn and fished in his script for a couple gold coins, which he discreetly slipped into his host's hand as Munford came around the counter.
Half-way up the stairs to the second floor, Philip paused, listening. A furious thunder of hooves sounded from the road. Quickly, Munford shoved his young lordship into the nearest room and hissed, “Under the bed! I'll let you know if it's safe.”
Sliding under the bed, Philip loosened his saber and breathed as softly as he could in hopes of hearing through the stout oak floor boards.
If there had been any question of hearing, it was soon assuaged. The thunderous voice, issuing from the lungs of a six-foot-five man of war, was easily heard.
“A peasant down the road swore that he saw a black-caped, one-armed man ride in here! Why did you lie, Master Munford??”
Munford's voice was indistinct, but the sound of a falling body was heard well enough to inform Philip that the good inn-keeper was being brutalized. He knew, without being told, that the man would want him to stay put, even if he himself was killed by Thackery. Munford, one of six men who knew who he was and what he was up to, was loyal and would take any information he had to the grave.
Further voices and noises soon alerted the hiding young man that Thackery was not satisfied with whatever he had heard and...and he was setting the place a-fire!
Philip slipped out from under the bed upon hearing a girl's scream from an adjoining room. Sword in hand, he cautiously peered out the door. Clearly, Thackery had collected a few more men-at-arms from someplace. Three were down on the first floor breaking everything they could and firing the place. Two more were upstairs breaking into the rooms and taking whatever they wanted from the few guests. That included a young lady who was screaming as one of the men started hauling her off.
Black fury swept over Philip. Too clearly he remembered this self-same act and his sister's screams rending the air. Swiftly, and silently, he swept forward and skewered the man in the back. The girl fell to her knees as the dying man dropped her.
“Quick! On your feet!! Stay behind me!”
Philip's commands did not fall on deaf ears. The girl scrambled to her feet and slid behind him as the other man came rushing toward her rescuer, bellowing.
His bellows died with him.
With unaccustomed strength, Philip heaved one of the dead men up and down the stairs into the advance of the reinforcements. Snatching his saber back up, he herded the girl before him into the room she had just recently been drug from.
“Help me with the bed,” he gasped.
Grasping the idea, the girl seized the other edge of the bed and the two of them hurriedly slid the heavy bedstead against the door.
Glancing around quickly, Philip noted a woman sprawled across the floor in front of the fireplace.
“My nurse,” the girl said.
A quick nod and Philip was by her side. He exclaimed angrily.
“She's dead. Foul fiends!”
Then to the girl, “Any other of yours here?”
“No,” she seemed to wilt at the sight of her deceased nurse, “My father left me here until he returned from Dunburr; he thought Munford an honest, upright man—and the rooming was not exorbitant.”
The pounding on the door was more violent now.
“Quick, put some clothes on,” Philip ordered as he stripped the linen from the bed and began arranging it at the window.
The girl obeyed quickly and by the time that Philip was ready, so was she. Coming to him at the window, she observed the drop and his one arm. He felt her look and forced a smile.
“You climb down first...I'll toss my sword down and then follow.”
She looked down nervously, then took a deep breath and started down the makeshift rope. Philip dropped his sword to the ground and twisting his arm in the sheets, he began an awkward decent. Half-way down, he let go and dropped the rest of the way down. Snatching his sword, he urged the girl quickly down the road. He whistled sharply and a whinny answered him. His black mare came dashing out of the wood; high stepping and cheerful. In moments, the two young people were astride the mare and dashing off down the highway.
~~~~~~~~~
Morning eased over the tree-tops to peer down at the figures of two rather small and lonely looking persons. One was that of a girl in a grass-green gown of medium weight woollen stuff. Her brown hair was rather messily splayed about her head, catching the sunbeams as they danced through the leaves.
The second figure sprawled a little ways off, on the opposite side of the tiny clearing. Laying flat on his back, one leg propped across the other, he stared into the lightening sky. A tiny scowl of concentration creased his face. Drumming his fingers along his ankle, he murmured to himself.
“And what, O Philip, are you going to do with the girl? What's her name anyway? She looks a little familiar...”
He lifted his head a bit to peer across at the sleeping girl. Shaking his head, he went back to his musing: “I imagine they've gotten out of Wishire by now...though I don't know where they would go. I guess we should have had a discussion on that at some point.”
He laughed rather mirthlessly, then sighed, “The poor father! When he comes back and finds the inn burnt...What am I going to do with her?? The mare can't take both of us for long and I cannot do my work with a maid along.”
“Good-morning.”
Philip's feet went down and his head up simultaneously.
“Good-morning!”
His greeting was more hearty than he felt, but he was determined not to let the girl feel herself a burden.
In the morning light, they looked at each other thoughtfully, neither liking to mention the delight that they would have taken in a hearty breakfast.
Suddenly, they both demanded at the same instant, “Do I know you?”
The unexpectedness of the joint query put the girl into giggles and Philip grinned a little sheepishly.
“You first, ma'am,” he gestured across to her.
Pleased at being addressed as “ma'am” the girl sat a little straighter and readjusted her dress about her knees.
“I am Sylvia Humphries, my father is Hector Humphries, merchant in textile goods.”
“Ah!” said Philip, remembering. He grinned wider, flourishing a bow, “Ph—Jamie Wage, at your service.”
“Jamie!” Sylvia exclaimed, “Why of course! You are Thad's best friend!! I should have known you...”
Suddenly, she got a little pink, “Thad...how is he?”
Philip laughed heartily then. He remembered four years hence, the last parting of Thad and Sylvia (the Humphries having been house guests of the Simms for a number of months). The two of them hadn't even said 'good-bye', but it was clear that they found each other mutually attractive. Philip had teased his friend mercilessly for days afterward; until Thad had knocked him flat and informed him gravely that he was going to marry Sylvia one day. All snarking had ended then and there. Over the past years, a letter had occasionally passed between them.
Sobering, he responded honestly, “Last I saw him, he had just been knocked down by the same scoundrels who attacked Munford's last night.”
“Why?? Was he hurt??” the girl's voice rose.
“I could not say if he were hurt or not...as to why? Well, I suspect that the Thackery's suspicions have attached themselves to the Simms since I was seen at Thad's elbow last Christmastide.”
“But...why...what suspicions? I don't understand!!”
Philip sighed, trying to figure the best way to explain without giving away his secret.
“Surely you have heard of the Masked Man—or bandit, depending on whom you're listening to,” he grinned.
She nodded dumbly.
“Well, he is rumoured to be missing an arm, just as I am--I believe it's even on the same side. So, seeing as he has been wreaking havoc, I suppose they have begun delving into every one-armed man and his friend that they can locate...”
Sylvia almost scowled, “And you're not him?”
“Who? The Avenger?”
And he laughed. And he hoped that she took it as a negatory and believed him.
To be continued...
Inside, a roaring voice was demanding of the inn-keeper and all patrons if they had seen black-cloaked, masked man—a little man with a reedy voice and only one arm??
Not a man responded in the affirmative. One rather talkative fellow inquired if his lordship thought he was going to catch the thief? The response was another roar, this time of pure rage, and the questioner found himself thrown headfirst out the door into a muck puddle.
“Thackerys!” he hissed as he picked himself up and hurried into the growing dusk.
Moments later, Warren Thackery and his son tramped out and mounted their animals. As Philip handed up the reins to the Elder, the missing arm concealed beneath a short brown cloak of rough wool, he kept his eyes on the ground, as if in humble submission. Thackery snatched the reins out of his hand and road off without so much as a second look. Warren the Younger followed suit.
Immediately they were out of sight, a transformation happened. Philip's head came up, his shoulder's were thrown back, and he ducked his head into a bucket of water. Finished washing his hair out, he strode into the tavern and straight up to the inn-keeper. The room was practically empty, but still he spoke low.
“Well done, Munford. I think I may safely say that he will not be back tonight. Might I rest myself in one of your rooms?”
Munford grinned, “Of course, m'lord...with or without currency.”
Philip grinned in turn and fished in his script for a couple gold coins, which he discreetly slipped into his host's hand as Munford came around the counter.
Half-way up the stairs to the second floor, Philip paused, listening. A furious thunder of hooves sounded from the road. Quickly, Munford shoved his young lordship into the nearest room and hissed, “Under the bed! I'll let you know if it's safe.”
Sliding under the bed, Philip loosened his saber and breathed as softly as he could in hopes of hearing through the stout oak floor boards.
If there had been any question of hearing, it was soon assuaged. The thunderous voice, issuing from the lungs of a six-foot-five man of war, was easily heard.
“A peasant down the road swore that he saw a black-caped, one-armed man ride in here! Why did you lie, Master Munford??”
Munford's voice was indistinct, but the sound of a falling body was heard well enough to inform Philip that the good inn-keeper was being brutalized. He knew, without being told, that the man would want him to stay put, even if he himself was killed by Thackery. Munford, one of six men who knew who he was and what he was up to, was loyal and would take any information he had to the grave.
Further voices and noises soon alerted the hiding young man that Thackery was not satisfied with whatever he had heard and...and he was setting the place a-fire!
Philip slipped out from under the bed upon hearing a girl's scream from an adjoining room. Sword in hand, he cautiously peered out the door. Clearly, Thackery had collected a few more men-at-arms from someplace. Three were down on the first floor breaking everything they could and firing the place. Two more were upstairs breaking into the rooms and taking whatever they wanted from the few guests. That included a young lady who was screaming as one of the men started hauling her off.
Black fury swept over Philip. Too clearly he remembered this self-same act and his sister's screams rending the air. Swiftly, and silently, he swept forward and skewered the man in the back. The girl fell to her knees as the dying man dropped her.
“Quick! On your feet!! Stay behind me!”
Philip's commands did not fall on deaf ears. The girl scrambled to her feet and slid behind him as the other man came rushing toward her rescuer, bellowing.
His bellows died with him.
With unaccustomed strength, Philip heaved one of the dead men up and down the stairs into the advance of the reinforcements. Snatching his saber back up, he herded the girl before him into the room she had just recently been drug from.
“Help me with the bed,” he gasped.
Grasping the idea, the girl seized the other edge of the bed and the two of them hurriedly slid the heavy bedstead against the door.
Glancing around quickly, Philip noted a woman sprawled across the floor in front of the fireplace.
“My nurse,” the girl said.
A quick nod and Philip was by her side. He exclaimed angrily.
“She's dead. Foul fiends!”
Then to the girl, “Any other of yours here?”
“No,” she seemed to wilt at the sight of her deceased nurse, “My father left me here until he returned from Dunburr; he thought Munford an honest, upright man—and the rooming was not exorbitant.”
The pounding on the door was more violent now.
“Quick, put some clothes on,” Philip ordered as he stripped the linen from the bed and began arranging it at the window.
The girl obeyed quickly and by the time that Philip was ready, so was she. Coming to him at the window, she observed the drop and his one arm. He felt her look and forced a smile.
“You climb down first...I'll toss my sword down and then follow.”
She looked down nervously, then took a deep breath and started down the makeshift rope. Philip dropped his sword to the ground and twisting his arm in the sheets, he began an awkward decent. Half-way down, he let go and dropped the rest of the way down. Snatching his sword, he urged the girl quickly down the road. He whistled sharply and a whinny answered him. His black mare came dashing out of the wood; high stepping and cheerful. In moments, the two young people were astride the mare and dashing off down the highway.
~~~~~~~~~
Morning eased over the tree-tops to peer down at the figures of two rather small and lonely looking persons. One was that of a girl in a grass-green gown of medium weight woollen stuff. Her brown hair was rather messily splayed about her head, catching the sunbeams as they danced through the leaves.
The second figure sprawled a little ways off, on the opposite side of the tiny clearing. Laying flat on his back, one leg propped across the other, he stared into the lightening sky. A tiny scowl of concentration creased his face. Drumming his fingers along his ankle, he murmured to himself.
“And what, O Philip, are you going to do with the girl? What's her name anyway? She looks a little familiar...”
He lifted his head a bit to peer across at the sleeping girl. Shaking his head, he went back to his musing: “I imagine they've gotten out of Wishire by now...though I don't know where they would go. I guess we should have had a discussion on that at some point.”
He laughed rather mirthlessly, then sighed, “The poor father! When he comes back and finds the inn burnt...What am I going to do with her?? The mare can't take both of us for long and I cannot do my work with a maid along.”
“Good-morning.”
Philip's feet went down and his head up simultaneously.
“Good-morning!”
His greeting was more hearty than he felt, but he was determined not to let the girl feel herself a burden.
In the morning light, they looked at each other thoughtfully, neither liking to mention the delight that they would have taken in a hearty breakfast.
Suddenly, they both demanded at the same instant, “Do I know you?”
The unexpectedness of the joint query put the girl into giggles and Philip grinned a little sheepishly.
“You first, ma'am,” he gestured across to her.
Pleased at being addressed as “ma'am” the girl sat a little straighter and readjusted her dress about her knees.
“I am Sylvia Humphries, my father is Hector Humphries, merchant in textile goods.”
“Ah!” said Philip, remembering. He grinned wider, flourishing a bow, “Ph—Jamie Wage, at your service.”
“Jamie!” Sylvia exclaimed, “Why of course! You are Thad's best friend!! I should have known you...”
Suddenly, she got a little pink, “Thad...how is he?”
Philip laughed heartily then. He remembered four years hence, the last parting of Thad and Sylvia (the Humphries having been house guests of the Simms for a number of months). The two of them hadn't even said 'good-bye', but it was clear that they found each other mutually attractive. Philip had teased his friend mercilessly for days afterward; until Thad had knocked him flat and informed him gravely that he was going to marry Sylvia one day. All snarking had ended then and there. Over the past years, a letter had occasionally passed between them.
Sobering, he responded honestly, “Last I saw him, he had just been knocked down by the same scoundrels who attacked Munford's last night.”
“Why?? Was he hurt??” the girl's voice rose.
“I could not say if he were hurt or not...as to why? Well, I suspect that the Thackery's suspicions have attached themselves to the Simms since I was seen at Thad's elbow last Christmastide.”
“But...why...what suspicions? I don't understand!!”
Philip sighed, trying to figure the best way to explain without giving away his secret.
“Surely you have heard of the Masked Man—or bandit, depending on whom you're listening to,” he grinned.
She nodded dumbly.
“Well, he is rumoured to be missing an arm, just as I am--I believe it's even on the same side. So, seeing as he has been wreaking havoc, I suppose they have begun delving into every one-armed man and his friend that they can locate...”
Sylvia almost scowled, “And you're not him?”
“Who? The Avenger?”
And he laughed. And he hoped that she took it as a negatory and believed him.
To be continued...