Philip lay across the mare's neck as she thundered down the road, her rider oblivious to the direction they were flying. His head was bloodied from a shower of stones thrown at him from ambush...
Tiring, the horse slowed up and dropped her head to crop some clean grass over a stone-wall bordering the road. A shrill yell made her jump and in doing so, dump her limp rider onto the ground.
When Philip at last opened his eyes his battered head had been bandaged. Sighing, he made to sit up. A gentle hand caught his shoulder and pushed him back.
“Rest, Avenger...you are safe.”
Philip looked over, but could tell little about the speaker except that she was dressed in the habit of a novice nun and was rather young.
“Where am I, Sister?” he asked.
The girl laughed, “I'm not a Sister...but you are within the walls of the Wishire Abbey.”
Philip sat up then, against the girl's remonstrances.
“Wishire Abbey? How did I get here? Last I remember I was in Durbin.”
“Durbin? Is that not fifteen miles from here? My, but your horse carried you a good way!”
At Philip's glance, she continued, “See, Sister Marta was out in the alfalfa and some lad let his mare stop to eat...only she didn't realize that the lad was hurt and the Avenger. She called for help as soon as she saw you fall. We had quite a time catching that mare of yours!”
Philip grinned, “She's full of spirit, 'tis true. But why call me the Avenger?”
An older woman's voice responded from the doorway, “Because, m'lord, when a young, one-armed man dressed all in black, replete with face mask and keen rapier falls onto our doorstep wounded there is no other conclusion to come to.”
The girl scrambled to her feet and stood respectfully as the Mother Abbess entered. Philip dropped his head in salute.
“Faith,” the Abbess spoke to the girl, “Constantina desires your assistance with tending to Frank's wound.”
Philip noted that the girl seemed to catch her breath and then hurried out of the room with something like eager restraint.
As soon as she was gone, the Mother Abbess chuckled softly, “That one is not meant for the cloister, but to marry and bear many sons and daughters...and that Frank...” She shook her head, “They think no one can tell, but it's clear as daylight.”
Philip grinned, not unsympathetic, “Who is this Frank?”
The Abbess looked startled, “I...I really didn't mean to speak that aloud. But Frank is a fine fellow...the son of Lord Timborne. He had an ugly accident when hunting with Warren Thackery.”
“Accident?”
Philip's tone spoke great doubt.
The Abbess looked annoyed with herself. Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the bed, “I say nothing against any man, but if it were an actual accident I would somehow surprised.”
“I believe,” Philip ventured, “that Lord Timborne died rather suddenly of late.”
“'Tis too true,” the Abbess responded dolefully. “He was indeed a good friend to the Church and the people.”
Philip nodded, “And were Frank to die...Thackery would seize his land.”
The Abbess cut shrewd eyes over at the young man who was rubbing his chin pensively.
Suddenly, Philip turned and looked her straight in the eye, “And the girl, Faith? Who is she? She told me she was not a Sister and you yourself have admitted as much.”
The Abbess looked out the narrow window and responded slowly, “She is an orphan...but of good family. There would be no disparity of rank if she and Frank were to wed.”
Philip hesitated, then demanded, “Might I see her again?”
The Abbess seemed to grow larger, somehow indignant at the question. Philip remained calm and faced her down until at last she relented, wordlessly. Walking to the door, she spoke softly to a waiting nun.
The minutes passed silently, until Faith reentered the room, quizzically. She made her greeting to the Mother Abbess, who pointed to Philip.
“The Avenger wishes to see you.”
“Me?” Faith's eyebrows rose under her wimple and one half of her face wrinkled in puzzlement.
Suddenly, both women started, for the youth on the bed gave a great, gasping sob and put his head down into his hand. They rushed to him simultaneously, the Mother Abbess demanding, “What is this? What is this?”
Faith quickly got the young man laid down and was speaking softly to him, when she suddenly likewise gasped and looked up at the Abbess. The Abbess, now thoroughly flummoxed, demanded, “What is it?”
Faith bent over the tear-streaked face on the pillow and breathed, nearly inaudibly, “Philip?”
He shot her a look that demanded silence and she straightened up, suddenly regal. The Mother Abbess had not heard, but it was like that she would guess. Faith drew up and addressed the Abbess, “Reverend Mother, what passes in this room goes no further.”
The woman nodded and said, “I shall leave you.”
As soon as she was gone, Faith seized Philp by the shoulders and demanded, “It is really you? Truly?”
“Yes, yes...it is I, Faith! Praise God you are alive and not in the clutches of the Thackery's!!”
“You are so grown, so mature...so...so big.”
She sounded absurdly like a little girl. Philip laughed and buried his sister into a one-armed bear-hug. Putting his chin on the top of her head, he retorted, “So are you, little Faith...so are you.”
By the end of half an hour, the two youngest of William Gage's children had told one another their stories. Faith had managed to escape in the melee and had wandered footsore and weary until the sisters of the Wishire Abbey had taken her in. Her story told, they quickly forbade her from telling it to anyone else and had treated her as a novice from that day forth in order to hide her under the wimple.
“And what of Frank Timborne?” Philip queried.
Faith blushed, “He knows I'm an orphan of good family. Nothing else. When I first saw him again last year, I knew he did not recognize me.”
Philip recalled briefly the occasional sport that he and Frank Timborne had enjoyed as boys and grinned. Frank had never seemed to notice the existence of girls in those far off days of rabbit hunting.
“That's not exactly what I meant,” Philip teased.
“I know what you meant!” Faith flared slightly. “But Frank hasn't spoken and so I can't.”
“Bah...” Philip grunted. “Frank always was a bit hesitant to speak his mind straight. Go on back to him...and tell him that in a day or two, an old friend wants to see him.”
“Is that wise?” Faith said doubtfully.
“If Frank is the Frank I remember, he's as steady as they come. He'd go through torture without giving up a friend.”
“Wouldn't your friend Thad be jealous if he heard you say that?” Faith teased.
Philip laughed. “I don't know...but no one can beat Thad for loyalty! He's as jolly as the day is long...but also is completely sober. Sounds odd...but Thad is a complex man...and right now he is in the throes of love and a rumbling belly. The combination makes him rather grouchy.”
It was Faith's turn to laugh. Kissing her brother, she slipped away.
Two days later, Philip's head allowing him to move about without dizziness, he strapped on his sword and headed off to find the infirmity where it was rumoured that Frank was laid up with a dangerous gash in his leg.
Faith was waiting on Frank when Philip stepped through the door. He took the picture in with a little smile—Frank was looking up at Faith with a clear case of adoration which Faith just as ardently returned, only perhaps more discreetly.
Philip cleared his throat softly and both glanced up. Faith murmured something to Frank and drifted from the room. Frank looked across the span of empty beds to the doorway. The light was behind Philip, outlining his thin, mid-height figure.
Frank spoke first. “I take it you are my expected visitor. Please, come nearer.”
It was clear from his speech and demeanor that he was accustomed to being in authority. Philip grinned as he came nearer, Frank had surely grown up.
“Frank Timborne, I have a proposal to make.”
Frank looked his visitor over calmly, though clearly somewhat surprised by this greeting, or lack thereof. He inclined his head, as if giving the other permission to continue.
Philip sat down lightly on the edge of the bed and said, “I do not know if Sister Faith told you, but you probably have already guessed my identity by now.”
Frank gestured to the missing arm, “The Avenger.”
“Right. And I have a favor to ask of you...”
He leaned in and spoke softly for some minutes, Frank at first looking incredulous and then eager.
“Surely!” he exclaimed when Philip had ceased speaking. “Surely! At once!”
He was practically bouncing up and down, which quickly recalled to him the state of his leg. He gestured to the appendage... “Well, soon at any rate.”
Philip grinned and nodded, “Good man. I will be counting on you.”
As he got up, Frank suddenly reached out a hand and seized the other's arm, “But one thing puzzles me still...Faith said you were an old friend?”
Philip smiled wryly. “Ah that...yes. But for now, I think we'll just keep it mum...as we used to do while rabbit hunting.”
Frank looked startled, but wisely kept his lips together.
Just then, a bit of commotion was heard from the hall. Both young men tensed and Frank blurted, “It's that accursed Warren!”
As if he had been announcing him, in through the door stepped Warren Thackery the Younger. Behind him, the nuns clustered, fearfully.
Philip had loosed his sword at the first sounds of distress in the hall and now he stood, rapier drawn, waiting calmly in the middle of the room.
Warren let out a roar when his eyes clapped on the infuriatingly possessed form before him. Frank cringed and heartily wished he had some sort of weapon handy other than a basin.
“The Avenger!” Warren's voice was furious and mocking simultaneously, “Dare you to meet my sword a second time?”
“I dare.”
“FOOL!!!”
Warren rushed upon him, intent on bearing him down with his extra height and weight. Philip merely stepped aside and laid a stinging rap across his adversary's rump as he passed by. An unusual tactic, but calculated to enrage Warren further. It was a rousing success.
Warren whipped around and lunged headlong at the one-armed youth before him. Once again, Philip side-stepped—but this time he followed it up with the point of his blade, not the flat. The rapier bit deeply into Warren's left shoulder. Leaping backward, Philip pulled his blade loose and dove into the attack with speed and precision. Frank gaped at the skill with which Philip struck, paried, indeed, danced around his much larger opponent. Each strike darkened Warren's senses with further furor and rage, causing him to strike more blindly, trusting in his superior height and strength to defeat his foe.
Philip was at last hit, a slicing stroke that nearly flayed the skin off the side of his face. He staggered back, the pain searing through him. As Warren bore down on him triumphanty, Frank let out a bellow and flung the copper basin beside him at Warren. The throw was not without effect, for it smashed into the back of Warren's head and set him off kilter.
Taking advantage of this unexpected attack, Philip forced himself to ignore the screaming pain in his face and plunged his sword, for the last time, into the faltering body before him. Warren gasped, choked, and dropped his sword. He reached out vain fingers for Philip's throat and fell, dying, at Philip's feet.
Immediately as he fell, the nuns rushed in and began to tend to the bleeding Avenger, binding his face securely so that it could heal neatly.
Over the next few hours, Faith would be found nowhere but between her brother and her suitor, tending to one or the other. The nuns, meanwhile, had braved the wrath of Warren the Elder and drug his son's body quite a piece down the road and released the his horse to carry ill-tidings to the father.
When he came demanding, later that day, if Warren had ever arrived, the nuns informed him that he had...but had left shortly thereafter. Warren the Elder snarled and decried the sharp sword of the Avenger—who he swore must be behind this.
Then, he suddenly seized one of the nuns by the front of her habit and demanded roughly if they had taken in any one-armed men over the last week. The poor woman's eyes grew wide and terrified, and Faith, leaning on the infirmary door listening cringed and held her breath, waiting.
“A-a one-armed man, Sir??” the terrified nun finally gasped.
“YES, nitwit...ONE-ARMED.”
“Ah...why...no, Sir!
He then gestured toward the infirmary door, “Who have you there?”
Beginning to enjoy her defiance as much as it was possible to enjoy it, the nun said, “Naught but poor Lord Timborne, m'lord. Him that your poor lad was hunting with but last week when a rabid boar charged them!”
Warren, self-appointed Royal Governor apparently believed the woman, for he released her suddenly, so suddenly in fact that she fell in a heap at his feet. Without a word, he turned and stalked out and left the Abbey.
The poor nun was not quite herself for two days afterward—bursting out alternately between hysterical giggling and weeping at the most inopportune times—like Vespers. The Mother Superior put her under careful supervision until she returned to normal.
Meanwhile, Philip insisted on leaving the confines of the Abbey the day after he had killed Warren—it was not safe, he concluded, in case Warren the Elder decided to mistrust the nuns and come back. Thus it was, at the close of the day, with his sister's help, he slipped away into the darkness.
“I shall tell our father, Faith,” he whispered just before he mounted, “that you are alive and well...and are to be wed to Frank Timborne.”
“But am I?”
Philip laughed, “We settled it this afternoon when you went to fetch the broth.”
Faith looked indignant...then laughed, “When is he going to tell me?”
“Oh, probably quite soon—even if you have to pry it out of him with his soup spoon. Terrible thing, being shy.”
Faith clucked reprovingly at her brother, kissed hims swiftly and darted back indoors to look lovingly at a sleeping young lord.
Philip eased his horse along the road, heading, as directly and discreetly as he could back to Duffly. He would finish healing there.
~~~~~~~~
Strangely enough, there was a quietness in the following weeks. A quietness felt very keenly by the Gage and Simms household. Even Thad, who regained the use of his fractured jaw during this time, was unusually quiet.
Neither William nor Philip slept heavily at all. Both could frequently be found pacing in the wee hours of the morning. Gloria looked on anxiously...only the child went about his life in a usual fashion.
Justin Thackery broke the ominous silence around the supper table one evening. Scraping back his three-legged stool, he heaved up, towering over the rest of the diners. Placing the knuckles of both hands squarely on the table, he looked around and spoke.
“It's about time we stopped whispering to each other about the oddity of my father's behavior. The silence is unnatural. I, of anyone, ought to know this. He favored my brother quite highly and I expected, upon hearing the news of his demise, that Father would have been tearing the countryside apart ruthlessly.”
A number of nods and murmurs of assent greeted this declaration. Justin continued, “The destruction—that we could have handled—that we could have fought back against. But this? This silence that stinks of a plot fouler than any I have yet heard of! How do we combat it? I know that is what you are all thinking. Philip here has not been out on a raid since he returned.”
Philip nodded along to his brother-in-law's words—and implication. He was frightened; more frightened than he had ever been.
“We are all sitting about, waiting for the hammer to fall—where? We don't know. So we cower. Yes, we cower! And I, Justin Thackery, am sick of being a coward!”
Gloria leaped to her feet and seized his arm pleadingly, but he shook her off.
“Men! How long are we going to cower? I propose that we retake the governorship for his excellency, Sir William Gage—in the same fashion that it was stripped from him! Philip, my Lord, I know that you have connections amongst the common people—not only that, the Avenger has their loyalty. Call upon them to rise up—and they will!”
Philip was on his feet now, staring across the table at Justin.
Justin's fist crashed against the table, slopping mead from mugs.
“Will you wait until he has hunted us out? There is nothing else that explains his silence and apparent inaction. He is working, just underneath the surface and you may rest assured that when he discovers us, he will kill all mercilessly.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when the men stood up with a chorus of assent and caution.
In the end, Justin had his way and by the end of the week, Philip had begun the underground work of stirring the pot of uprising stew. Carefully consulting with the five remaining men who were aware of the Gages' well-being, he began to weave a network of peasantry and the gentry who had yet to be pushed out of their lands or bought off by the bribes of Warren Thackery. There were not many remaining, but with Frank Timborne's unassuming help, the tentacles reached out.
The Avenger made sporadic appearances in various places, occassionally having a brief run in with Thackery men. However, his main focus was strategic organization of villages one with another.
One village councilman pulled the young masked man aside after a late night meeting and asked the question that, regardless of how enthusiastic they were, nearly all the men were wondering.
“Ah so, m'lord...what happens if we cannot defeat the Governor? And how's the king going to think?”
Philip reached up and pulled his mask off, startling the man, who stared at him as if he had seen a ghost.
“You won't be defeating the Governor, my man, but restoring him. As for the King, we shall leave Governor Gage to deal with explanations. He is already engaged in correspondence with a number of officials. Do not fear, but trust the Lord for justice.”
The confidence with which the young man spoke and the very name of “Gage” seemed to thrill determination and confidence into the villager...and Philip smiled grimly as he overheard the man repeating his words to others. Suddenly, he was startled by a very firm declaration from the same man, “The Avenger...the Avenger is none other than Governor Gage's son!”
Turning at the doorway in complete surprise, Philip faced a room full of eager peasants. The councilman saluted him gravely and took a step forward, “M'lord—I went to war with your father, the Governor, when he and I were lads like yourself—and no face ever matched his in look, determination, and courage as does your's. God bless ye...”
So saying, he turned and ushered the rest of the men out. As the passed by him, each man made their proper obeisance.
To be continued....
Tiring, the horse slowed up and dropped her head to crop some clean grass over a stone-wall bordering the road. A shrill yell made her jump and in doing so, dump her limp rider onto the ground.
When Philip at last opened his eyes his battered head had been bandaged. Sighing, he made to sit up. A gentle hand caught his shoulder and pushed him back.
“Rest, Avenger...you are safe.”
Philip looked over, but could tell little about the speaker except that she was dressed in the habit of a novice nun and was rather young.
“Where am I, Sister?” he asked.
The girl laughed, “I'm not a Sister...but you are within the walls of the Wishire Abbey.”
Philip sat up then, against the girl's remonstrances.
“Wishire Abbey? How did I get here? Last I remember I was in Durbin.”
“Durbin? Is that not fifteen miles from here? My, but your horse carried you a good way!”
At Philip's glance, she continued, “See, Sister Marta was out in the alfalfa and some lad let his mare stop to eat...only she didn't realize that the lad was hurt and the Avenger. She called for help as soon as she saw you fall. We had quite a time catching that mare of yours!”
Philip grinned, “She's full of spirit, 'tis true. But why call me the Avenger?”
An older woman's voice responded from the doorway, “Because, m'lord, when a young, one-armed man dressed all in black, replete with face mask and keen rapier falls onto our doorstep wounded there is no other conclusion to come to.”
The girl scrambled to her feet and stood respectfully as the Mother Abbess entered. Philip dropped his head in salute.
“Faith,” the Abbess spoke to the girl, “Constantina desires your assistance with tending to Frank's wound.”
Philip noted that the girl seemed to catch her breath and then hurried out of the room with something like eager restraint.
As soon as she was gone, the Mother Abbess chuckled softly, “That one is not meant for the cloister, but to marry and bear many sons and daughters...and that Frank...” She shook her head, “They think no one can tell, but it's clear as daylight.”
Philip grinned, not unsympathetic, “Who is this Frank?”
The Abbess looked startled, “I...I really didn't mean to speak that aloud. But Frank is a fine fellow...the son of Lord Timborne. He had an ugly accident when hunting with Warren Thackery.”
“Accident?”
Philip's tone spoke great doubt.
The Abbess looked annoyed with herself. Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the bed, “I say nothing against any man, but if it were an actual accident I would somehow surprised.”
“I believe,” Philip ventured, “that Lord Timborne died rather suddenly of late.”
“'Tis too true,” the Abbess responded dolefully. “He was indeed a good friend to the Church and the people.”
Philip nodded, “And were Frank to die...Thackery would seize his land.”
The Abbess cut shrewd eyes over at the young man who was rubbing his chin pensively.
Suddenly, Philip turned and looked her straight in the eye, “And the girl, Faith? Who is she? She told me she was not a Sister and you yourself have admitted as much.”
The Abbess looked out the narrow window and responded slowly, “She is an orphan...but of good family. There would be no disparity of rank if she and Frank were to wed.”
Philip hesitated, then demanded, “Might I see her again?”
The Abbess seemed to grow larger, somehow indignant at the question. Philip remained calm and faced her down until at last she relented, wordlessly. Walking to the door, she spoke softly to a waiting nun.
The minutes passed silently, until Faith reentered the room, quizzically. She made her greeting to the Mother Abbess, who pointed to Philip.
“The Avenger wishes to see you.”
“Me?” Faith's eyebrows rose under her wimple and one half of her face wrinkled in puzzlement.
Suddenly, both women started, for the youth on the bed gave a great, gasping sob and put his head down into his hand. They rushed to him simultaneously, the Mother Abbess demanding, “What is this? What is this?”
Faith quickly got the young man laid down and was speaking softly to him, when she suddenly likewise gasped and looked up at the Abbess. The Abbess, now thoroughly flummoxed, demanded, “What is it?”
Faith bent over the tear-streaked face on the pillow and breathed, nearly inaudibly, “Philip?”
He shot her a look that demanded silence and she straightened up, suddenly regal. The Mother Abbess had not heard, but it was like that she would guess. Faith drew up and addressed the Abbess, “Reverend Mother, what passes in this room goes no further.”
The woman nodded and said, “I shall leave you.”
As soon as she was gone, Faith seized Philp by the shoulders and demanded, “It is really you? Truly?”
“Yes, yes...it is I, Faith! Praise God you are alive and not in the clutches of the Thackery's!!”
“You are so grown, so mature...so...so big.”
She sounded absurdly like a little girl. Philip laughed and buried his sister into a one-armed bear-hug. Putting his chin on the top of her head, he retorted, “So are you, little Faith...so are you.”
By the end of half an hour, the two youngest of William Gage's children had told one another their stories. Faith had managed to escape in the melee and had wandered footsore and weary until the sisters of the Wishire Abbey had taken her in. Her story told, they quickly forbade her from telling it to anyone else and had treated her as a novice from that day forth in order to hide her under the wimple.
“And what of Frank Timborne?” Philip queried.
Faith blushed, “He knows I'm an orphan of good family. Nothing else. When I first saw him again last year, I knew he did not recognize me.”
Philip recalled briefly the occasional sport that he and Frank Timborne had enjoyed as boys and grinned. Frank had never seemed to notice the existence of girls in those far off days of rabbit hunting.
“That's not exactly what I meant,” Philip teased.
“I know what you meant!” Faith flared slightly. “But Frank hasn't spoken and so I can't.”
“Bah...” Philip grunted. “Frank always was a bit hesitant to speak his mind straight. Go on back to him...and tell him that in a day or two, an old friend wants to see him.”
“Is that wise?” Faith said doubtfully.
“If Frank is the Frank I remember, he's as steady as they come. He'd go through torture without giving up a friend.”
“Wouldn't your friend Thad be jealous if he heard you say that?” Faith teased.
Philip laughed. “I don't know...but no one can beat Thad for loyalty! He's as jolly as the day is long...but also is completely sober. Sounds odd...but Thad is a complex man...and right now he is in the throes of love and a rumbling belly. The combination makes him rather grouchy.”
It was Faith's turn to laugh. Kissing her brother, she slipped away.
Two days later, Philip's head allowing him to move about without dizziness, he strapped on his sword and headed off to find the infirmity where it was rumoured that Frank was laid up with a dangerous gash in his leg.
Faith was waiting on Frank when Philip stepped through the door. He took the picture in with a little smile—Frank was looking up at Faith with a clear case of adoration which Faith just as ardently returned, only perhaps more discreetly.
Philip cleared his throat softly and both glanced up. Faith murmured something to Frank and drifted from the room. Frank looked across the span of empty beds to the doorway. The light was behind Philip, outlining his thin, mid-height figure.
Frank spoke first. “I take it you are my expected visitor. Please, come nearer.”
It was clear from his speech and demeanor that he was accustomed to being in authority. Philip grinned as he came nearer, Frank had surely grown up.
“Frank Timborne, I have a proposal to make.”
Frank looked his visitor over calmly, though clearly somewhat surprised by this greeting, or lack thereof. He inclined his head, as if giving the other permission to continue.
Philip sat down lightly on the edge of the bed and said, “I do not know if Sister Faith told you, but you probably have already guessed my identity by now.”
Frank gestured to the missing arm, “The Avenger.”
“Right. And I have a favor to ask of you...”
He leaned in and spoke softly for some minutes, Frank at first looking incredulous and then eager.
“Surely!” he exclaimed when Philip had ceased speaking. “Surely! At once!”
He was practically bouncing up and down, which quickly recalled to him the state of his leg. He gestured to the appendage... “Well, soon at any rate.”
Philip grinned and nodded, “Good man. I will be counting on you.”
As he got up, Frank suddenly reached out a hand and seized the other's arm, “But one thing puzzles me still...Faith said you were an old friend?”
Philip smiled wryly. “Ah that...yes. But for now, I think we'll just keep it mum...as we used to do while rabbit hunting.”
Frank looked startled, but wisely kept his lips together.
Just then, a bit of commotion was heard from the hall. Both young men tensed and Frank blurted, “It's that accursed Warren!”
As if he had been announcing him, in through the door stepped Warren Thackery the Younger. Behind him, the nuns clustered, fearfully.
Philip had loosed his sword at the first sounds of distress in the hall and now he stood, rapier drawn, waiting calmly in the middle of the room.
Warren let out a roar when his eyes clapped on the infuriatingly possessed form before him. Frank cringed and heartily wished he had some sort of weapon handy other than a basin.
“The Avenger!” Warren's voice was furious and mocking simultaneously, “Dare you to meet my sword a second time?”
“I dare.”
“FOOL!!!”
Warren rushed upon him, intent on bearing him down with his extra height and weight. Philip merely stepped aside and laid a stinging rap across his adversary's rump as he passed by. An unusual tactic, but calculated to enrage Warren further. It was a rousing success.
Warren whipped around and lunged headlong at the one-armed youth before him. Once again, Philip side-stepped—but this time he followed it up with the point of his blade, not the flat. The rapier bit deeply into Warren's left shoulder. Leaping backward, Philip pulled his blade loose and dove into the attack with speed and precision. Frank gaped at the skill with which Philip struck, paried, indeed, danced around his much larger opponent. Each strike darkened Warren's senses with further furor and rage, causing him to strike more blindly, trusting in his superior height and strength to defeat his foe.
Philip was at last hit, a slicing stroke that nearly flayed the skin off the side of his face. He staggered back, the pain searing through him. As Warren bore down on him triumphanty, Frank let out a bellow and flung the copper basin beside him at Warren. The throw was not without effect, for it smashed into the back of Warren's head and set him off kilter.
Taking advantage of this unexpected attack, Philip forced himself to ignore the screaming pain in his face and plunged his sword, for the last time, into the faltering body before him. Warren gasped, choked, and dropped his sword. He reached out vain fingers for Philip's throat and fell, dying, at Philip's feet.
Immediately as he fell, the nuns rushed in and began to tend to the bleeding Avenger, binding his face securely so that it could heal neatly.
Over the next few hours, Faith would be found nowhere but between her brother and her suitor, tending to one or the other. The nuns, meanwhile, had braved the wrath of Warren the Elder and drug his son's body quite a piece down the road and released the his horse to carry ill-tidings to the father.
When he came demanding, later that day, if Warren had ever arrived, the nuns informed him that he had...but had left shortly thereafter. Warren the Elder snarled and decried the sharp sword of the Avenger—who he swore must be behind this.
Then, he suddenly seized one of the nuns by the front of her habit and demanded roughly if they had taken in any one-armed men over the last week. The poor woman's eyes grew wide and terrified, and Faith, leaning on the infirmary door listening cringed and held her breath, waiting.
“A-a one-armed man, Sir??” the terrified nun finally gasped.
“YES, nitwit...ONE-ARMED.”
“Ah...why...no, Sir!
He then gestured toward the infirmary door, “Who have you there?”
Beginning to enjoy her defiance as much as it was possible to enjoy it, the nun said, “Naught but poor Lord Timborne, m'lord. Him that your poor lad was hunting with but last week when a rabid boar charged them!”
Warren, self-appointed Royal Governor apparently believed the woman, for he released her suddenly, so suddenly in fact that she fell in a heap at his feet. Without a word, he turned and stalked out and left the Abbey.
The poor nun was not quite herself for two days afterward—bursting out alternately between hysterical giggling and weeping at the most inopportune times—like Vespers. The Mother Superior put her under careful supervision until she returned to normal.
Meanwhile, Philip insisted on leaving the confines of the Abbey the day after he had killed Warren—it was not safe, he concluded, in case Warren the Elder decided to mistrust the nuns and come back. Thus it was, at the close of the day, with his sister's help, he slipped away into the darkness.
“I shall tell our father, Faith,” he whispered just before he mounted, “that you are alive and well...and are to be wed to Frank Timborne.”
“But am I?”
Philip laughed, “We settled it this afternoon when you went to fetch the broth.”
Faith looked indignant...then laughed, “When is he going to tell me?”
“Oh, probably quite soon—even if you have to pry it out of him with his soup spoon. Terrible thing, being shy.”
Faith clucked reprovingly at her brother, kissed hims swiftly and darted back indoors to look lovingly at a sleeping young lord.
Philip eased his horse along the road, heading, as directly and discreetly as he could back to Duffly. He would finish healing there.
~~~~~~~~
Strangely enough, there was a quietness in the following weeks. A quietness felt very keenly by the Gage and Simms household. Even Thad, who regained the use of his fractured jaw during this time, was unusually quiet.
Neither William nor Philip slept heavily at all. Both could frequently be found pacing in the wee hours of the morning. Gloria looked on anxiously...only the child went about his life in a usual fashion.
Justin Thackery broke the ominous silence around the supper table one evening. Scraping back his three-legged stool, he heaved up, towering over the rest of the diners. Placing the knuckles of both hands squarely on the table, he looked around and spoke.
“It's about time we stopped whispering to each other about the oddity of my father's behavior. The silence is unnatural. I, of anyone, ought to know this. He favored my brother quite highly and I expected, upon hearing the news of his demise, that Father would have been tearing the countryside apart ruthlessly.”
A number of nods and murmurs of assent greeted this declaration. Justin continued, “The destruction—that we could have handled—that we could have fought back against. But this? This silence that stinks of a plot fouler than any I have yet heard of! How do we combat it? I know that is what you are all thinking. Philip here has not been out on a raid since he returned.”
Philip nodded along to his brother-in-law's words—and implication. He was frightened; more frightened than he had ever been.
“We are all sitting about, waiting for the hammer to fall—where? We don't know. So we cower. Yes, we cower! And I, Justin Thackery, am sick of being a coward!”
Gloria leaped to her feet and seized his arm pleadingly, but he shook her off.
“Men! How long are we going to cower? I propose that we retake the governorship for his excellency, Sir William Gage—in the same fashion that it was stripped from him! Philip, my Lord, I know that you have connections amongst the common people—not only that, the Avenger has their loyalty. Call upon them to rise up—and they will!”
Philip was on his feet now, staring across the table at Justin.
Justin's fist crashed against the table, slopping mead from mugs.
“Will you wait until he has hunted us out? There is nothing else that explains his silence and apparent inaction. He is working, just underneath the surface and you may rest assured that when he discovers us, he will kill all mercilessly.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when the men stood up with a chorus of assent and caution.
In the end, Justin had his way and by the end of the week, Philip had begun the underground work of stirring the pot of uprising stew. Carefully consulting with the five remaining men who were aware of the Gages' well-being, he began to weave a network of peasantry and the gentry who had yet to be pushed out of their lands or bought off by the bribes of Warren Thackery. There were not many remaining, but with Frank Timborne's unassuming help, the tentacles reached out.
The Avenger made sporadic appearances in various places, occassionally having a brief run in with Thackery men. However, his main focus was strategic organization of villages one with another.
One village councilman pulled the young masked man aside after a late night meeting and asked the question that, regardless of how enthusiastic they were, nearly all the men were wondering.
“Ah so, m'lord...what happens if we cannot defeat the Governor? And how's the king going to think?”
Philip reached up and pulled his mask off, startling the man, who stared at him as if he had seen a ghost.
“You won't be defeating the Governor, my man, but restoring him. As for the King, we shall leave Governor Gage to deal with explanations. He is already engaged in correspondence with a number of officials. Do not fear, but trust the Lord for justice.”
The confidence with which the young man spoke and the very name of “Gage” seemed to thrill determination and confidence into the villager...and Philip smiled grimly as he overheard the man repeating his words to others. Suddenly, he was startled by a very firm declaration from the same man, “The Avenger...the Avenger is none other than Governor Gage's son!”
Turning at the doorway in complete surprise, Philip faced a room full of eager peasants. The councilman saluted him gravely and took a step forward, “M'lord—I went to war with your father, the Governor, when he and I were lads like yourself—and no face ever matched his in look, determination, and courage as does your's. God bless ye...”
So saying, he turned and ushered the rest of the men out. As the passed by him, each man made their proper obeisance.
To be continued....