The gruel they served was good, and there was a bit of fish, fresh caught from the sea.
“When I have eaten,” I told them, “I had best be off, for I’d not bring trouble upon you.” Briefly as I might, I explained how we had been set upon and what manner of folk they were.
He filled a glass with ale. “Aye, there’s sons of the gentry who raid and roust about with no care for anything but themselves. Worse than thieves they are, and brutal to all they can abuse. But do not worry, lad, you have come further than you think and they will not come down on this side of the mountain.”
“Be careful of him,” I said, “for bully that he is, he is also a rarely fine hand with a blade.”
“From what you said he was both taller and stronger than you. A man grown, and you but a lad.”
“Aye, brute he may be, but I’ll not take from him his skill. Height and reach are important. I could have handled them, but not his skill. The man from whom I learned was considered among the best, yet I had no chance.”
“Rafe Leckenbie,” the woman said. “There is no other fits the description.”
“Leckenbie? Aye … it could be. He’s a bad enemy, lad, and a worse man. He comes not here, but stays there where his family is important, but he has killed a man or two and it is said he will be off to the wars soon. For they wish to be rid of him, I think.”
There I spent the night and the weariness fled from my muscles. When the morning came I was refreshed, yet weary still, for I had been long in fleeing and long without food.
“Where will you go?” Andrew asked, for that was his name, and hers was Mary, but their other names I never heard, neither then nor after.
“I would go to London, but I am far from there. If I could find some fisherman, some boat that plies to Scotland, I would go there and be free of this place.”
“These are bad times and no highroad is safe. Men’s goods are seized, and often as not by gentry. And there is no appeal. The times are bitter, and he is at his wit’s end who must live upon the roads, for there are none there but peddlers, herbalists, mountebanks, and jugglers mingling with thieves and outlaws. No man is safe upon the road unless with a large company and all armed.”
“But it grows better,” Mary protested. “I have heard you say as much yourself.”
“Aye … better, but not better enough. There is much to be done before the roads are safe for travel.”
Andrew glanced at me. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Fourteen! And you have seen so much! And already a swordsman!”
“But not good enough. I must go where I can learn more.”
“Italy, then. Or Spain. Although they do say the French are excellent swordsmen.” He studied me. “Are you then so anxious to fight?”
“That I am not, but my father warned me I would have enemies, and to survive I must be prepared. I hope never to fight,” I added, in all sincerity, “but experience has taught me that wishing to avoid a fight will not always be enough.”
“It is all very well to wish for peace, but while there are such people as this Rafe Leckenbie there will always be wars. A man can convince himself that others want peace as much as he, but he will only be fooling himself, for it is the last thing many men want … unless they can take all they covet without having to fight.”
We talked long. He was a man keenly aware of conditions in his country, although I could not place his role. He had a goodly farm here, but did not seem a farmer, albeit most of the farmers were of the gentry and some owned vast estates. That he was curious about me I knew, yet the long months upon the highroads had taken much of my accent and I had picked up words or phrases here and there. Kory, especially, had taught me a lot other than what I had learned of the blade.
“You have read much,” Andrew said, finally, putting down his glass. “Your father was your teacher, you said?”
“He was a fine classical scholar,” I said, “but he taught me much else, besides. Along the roads,” I added, “I have learned much of herbs and their uses.”
“Aye, learn what you can. There is naught that will not but be useful.”
He was a friendly man, a gentleman obviously, and if I was not mistaken, of the nobility. There were many such who had a living but little else, younger sons or those who inherited impoverished estates or none at all. Even the King of Scotland had to borrow a coat from a friend to wear before a visiting ambassador. The possession of a great name did not always mean great wealth, and indeed, the visit of a king and his entourage might be sufficient to impoverish even a well-off man.
From the way he referred to “the hall” I suspected he was a younger son or a cousin, perhaps. The house was a good one and old, of squared gray stone and stout oak timbers. The cobbled passage down which we had come opened into the living room where we now were. The kitchen was beyond the passage and I had only a glimpse of the huge fireplace as we entered. There was little furniture and that quite heavy.
We talked of Greene and Philip Sidney, of Chaucer, and of Tacitus and Livy. Yet I listened more than I talked, for much as it reminded me of home, weariness lay heavy upon me, and it was his good wife who called Andrew’s attention to my worn-out state, and soon I was off to bed, in a small chamber of my own. Worried as I was, I fell soon asleep.
My eyes opened suddenly and for a time I lay still, trying to recall all that had transpired. At last I arose. There was water in the room, hot water. Evidently whoever brought it had awakened me, yet had left before my eyes opened or I became aware. I bathed, combed my hair, and made myself as presentable as might be.
As I bathed and prepared myself, I thought over my fight with Leckenbie, if such indeed was his name. My memory for such things had always been good, and now I reviewed that fight in detail. His reach had helped him, and his longer, stronger blade, yet he had skill of a rare kind, and a genius, I thought, for the sword. Yet such genius breeds confidence, and confidence may well become overconfidence, if fed by continual success.
Mentally, I reviewed his moves, trying to discern a pattern that might be circumvented. I began to see that he had been surprised by my skill. Again and again I had warded off his most serious attacks, even though most of the time he was simply enjoying his command of me. He had won, and he would surely have killed me, but still I had come off not badly.
“All right,” I said aloud, “he beat me once but he will not beat me a second time.”
Very well to say such a thing, but before I could meet him I needed to learn much more.
There was a shout from outside. Opening my door, I went down the stair. The front door stood open, and Andrew was before it.
In the yard were at least twenty horsemen, led by Rafe Leckenbie. “We want him,” Leckenbie was saying, “and we will have him.”
“I think not,” Andrew said quietly. “Think what you do, Leckenbie. I know your father well and he would not permit such a scene as this.”
“Give him up,” Leckenbie replied, “or we will take him.”
Mary went around me and pressed something into her husband’s hand. It was a pistol.
“I will go with Leckenbie,” I said to my host. “I will not be the cause of trouble for you who have been so kind.”
Andrew glanced at me. “This is no longer your affair,” he replied. “They have come here, onto our land, to use force and make demands. I would not permit you to leave now.”
“You have heard me,” Leckenbie said. “I will have your house down around your ears, but I will have him!”
Coolly, Andrew brought his pistol from behind his back, and at the same time there was a rustle of feet.
Glancing to my right, I saw a half-dozen men armed with pikes, scythes, and halberds. Two men suddenly appeared on the stable roof, both with bows and arrows ready.
“You may try,” Andrew said quietly, “but you will die. Also,” he smiled a little, “you have yet to get yourselves home. I am considered a mild man. My brother is not, and he will be here this day. I think you will be fortunate if you get home at all.”