One grasped wildly at my shoulder and my shirt tore under his hand. Yet I was briefly free of them and I went up the bank and swung over the wall, sprawling on the earth beyond. My hands closed over dirt and I came up quickly, frightened. They came over the wall at me and I flung the dust into their eyes.
One man let a fearful yowl out of himself and both men grabbed for their eyes. At that moment I saw a stout stick, a twisted branch broken from the hedge nearby. Catching it up, I swung hard on the nearest man and caught him alongside the jaw, and he went down. Then I closed in on the second, whose eyes were busy blinking the dust away. He threw up a hand as I swung my cudgel but I brought it down, striking him on the kneecap.
Then I ran.
Across the pasture into which I’d fallen, past a barnyard and into the lane beyond. On I ran until I thought my lungs would burst, when suddenly before me there loomed a patch of woods bordered by a wall. I went over that wall and into the woods, pausing, my breath tearing at my lungs, to look back. There was no one in sight.
I plodded on into the forest. I was sick of running and desperately worried, for in all this broad land there was no friend to whom I could turn. Nor had I a place to go. It was lonely and tired I was when at last I seated myself on a fallen tree and began to cry.
Shamed am I to confess it, but so it was. Lonely and sick with the fear of all that was about me, with enemies all on every hand, I cried. My dear father was on my mind, and my lost home, and the knowledge that I’d no place to go nor anybody to go to anywhere that was friend to me.
“Are you hurt?”
It was a girl’s voice, and I sprang to my feet, putting a hand across my eyes to wipe the tears.
She was standing there, not a dozen feet away, with a great dog beside her, a huge bull mastiff with great jowls.
“I said, are you hurt? There you sit, crying like a great booby. What sort of boy are you, anyway?”
“I was not crying!” I protested. “I was tired.”
“What are you doing here in my forest?”
“Your forest?”
“Yes, mine it is, and I did not invite you here. You are nobody I have ever seen. Are you a gypsy?”
“I am not!”
“Well, do not be so proud. I think it not a bad thing to be a gypsy. I have often thought it would be a great thing to go riding about in a red and gold wagon, eating beside the road. I would have white horses, four of them, and I’d have Tiger with me, and—”
“Who is Tiger?”
“My dog. Tiger is his name.”
“It is a cat’s name. Tigers are cats,” I said scornfully.
“It is not! Tiger can be a dog’s name, also! My father said it could, and my father knows. Anyway,” she added, “Tiger does not know it is a cat’s name.”
“He’s a large dog,” I said. And then more politely, “I am sorry I am in your wood. I—I wanted to rest.”
“You are not poaching? If you were and the gamekeeper found you—”
“I do not poach,” I replied proudly. “I am sorry I disturbed you. I will go now.”
Yet I did not go. I did not want to go. I had talked with no child of my years in many months.
She was a pretty child, with large dark eyes and soft lips.
“Have you come far?” she asked.
“From very far away,” I said.
“Your shirt is torn,” she said, “and you have skinned your knee.”
Looking down, I saw that my stocking was torn and my knee bloody. “I fell,” I said.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I—I have just—” I stopped in time. If I admitted to eating at the tavern all would come out, and for all I knew the tavern keeper was her friend. The tavern could not be that far away. Suddenly I realized they might still be searching for me. “I must go,” I said.
“It will be night soon,” she said. “Where will you sleep?” She looked at me curiously. “Will you sleep in a haycock? Or beside a hedge?”
“It does not matter.” I edged away. “I must go.”
I turned and took a step, then stopped. “It is a nice wood,” I said. “I did not mean it harm.”
“I know you did not.” She stared at me. “I think you are frightened of something, and I think you should talk to my father. He is very brave.” And she added, “He was a soldier.”
“I must be going.”
I started away and then stopped, for there was a man standing there. He was a tall, slender man with fine features and brown eyes.
“I do not know that I am very brave, my dear,” he said, “but I always hoped to be. Who are you, lad?” My eyes went down the way through the trees by which I had come. I needed to be away from here. I did not want to answer questions, nor to have them discover there had been trouble at the tavern, even if it was none of my doing.
“I was just passing by,” I said, “and wished to rest. It seemed better off the road than on it.”
He was regarding me very seriously. The girl came up and stood beside him, taking his hand. My father had held mine just that way, sometimes. The thought made tears come to my eyes and I brushed them away quickly and turned to go.
“Wait.” He did not speak loudly but there was command in his tone. Involuntarily, I stopped. “I asked who you are.”
“I am nobody,” I said. “I was just passing. I—I must go.”
“Where is it you go to?” he asked. “My daughter is concerned.”
“To London,” I said, desperately, wishing to be away.
“I do not think you will reach London tonight,” he said quietly. “You had better come along with us.”
“I cannot.”
He waited, just waited, saying nothing. At last I said, “Some men at the tavern are looking for me. They will rob me.”
“Rob you?” He smiled. “Are you rich, then?”
“No. I do not think it matters if one has much. They would take whatever I had.”
“Who were these men?” he persisted. Reluctantly, I explained what had happened, and how the man with the white hair had stopped the tavern keeper from overcharging me.
He frowned thoughtfully. “A young man, with white hair? Was it a wig, perhaps?”
“It was his own hair. His face was white, too. Like polished marble. Only his eyes seemed alive.”
“And he spoke for you?”
“Do you know him then?”
“I do not. I think I know who he might have been, but why he is here, in this place, I do not know. That he even was moved to speak to you, or act in your favor is amazing.”
“He did not actually speak to me.”
The man changed the subject. “Come with us, lad. At least you can have some supper before you go. And we have a good woman here who might do something for that knee.”
“But if they find me—”
“Do you think they would come to my house? Lad, do not mistake them. Thieves they may be; cowards, also. Fools they are not … at least not so foolish as that.”
He turned and started back, his daughter beside him, and I walked along with them. A bird suddenly flew up.
“What was that?” the maid said.
“A goldcrest,” I replied, not thinking.
“Do they have them in Ireland then?” Her father spoke so casually that I replied quickly:
“Yes …” then realizing what I had said, “and in Scotland as well.”
He was amused, and it angered me. “The goldcrest likes a place where there are evergreens. He chooses to nest among them.”
“Are you a Scot, then?”
I did not wish to lie, and suddenly I realized I did not have to, for long ago were the Irish not called Scots?
“It is a loose term,” I said, quoting my father. “For some Scots were Pictish and some were Gaelic, and some—” I stopped suddenly, and was silent.
We had come to the path’s end in an open place covered with gravel where horses could gather for the hunt.
The manor before us was old, but gracefully built, and I liked it much. Great old oaks and beeches stood about, and there were stables to one side. They started toward the great steps but I hung back. The man turned and beckoned me on, but I shook my head. “I cannot,” I said, “my boots are muddy and I am not dressed—”