“There will be storms and danger. There will be bloody fighting. And the law is
upon my path, Lila.”
“I shall be no burden,” she replied calmly. “And I can cook better than the sort
of victuals you’ll be after having.”
“Come then, Lila, and if you cannot ride all night, do you stay behind.”
“I’ll ride the nights and days through,” she said firmly.
And so she did.
8
North and westward we fled through the wind and the rain, driving along lonely
lanes, plunging through the darkened streets of villages, our black cloaks
billowing out behind like wings of great bats, the hooves of our horses striking
fire from the cobbles.
Out of the night and into a village, then on again. At dawn we rested our horses
in a grove beside the way, and sitting under a tree, ate a bit of the food Lila
had put up, and it was good food, tasty and lasting. Meanwhile the horses
grazed.
“Be they hunting you then?” she asked, looking at me from under her thick brows,
“like Peter Tallis said?”
“They think the coins I sold were part of King John’s treasure, lost in the
Wash. It did no good to tell them nay.”
“We go to Bristol?”
“I did think of it. But now … no. I am for Ireland now, to one of the fishing
towns.”
She was silent for several minutes, and then said, “Do you know Anglesey?”
“I do know of it.”
“I am from there.”
I was astonished, for I had no idea her home was anywhere but London, and said
as much.
“My father was a friend to Captain Tempany, and worked for him. Before my father
died he found me a place with him. You wish to go to Anglesey?”
“I do, and to Ireland from there, and from Ireland to America.”
“It is an old old way,” Lila said, “but traveled often of an olden time.”
A mist lay upon the grass and wove itself in cobwebby tendrils among the dark
trees. The dawn was touching the mist with pink, but very lightly yet, as the
hour was very early.
“I spoke hastily when I said I knew Anglesey,” I explained, “I have not been
there, but my father was, and he told me much of it … an island of bards and
witches, where the Druids were a time long since.”
She gave me a straight and level glance from under her dark brows. “And live
yet, if you know to find them.”
“Druids?”
“Aye … and the bards, too.”
She was a strange woman, this Lila. Looking at her brooding face, I was minded
to think of the story of Boudicia, of huge frame, the fiery Celtic princess who
with flaming red hair and spear led the Iceni against the Romans, the Iceni,
some of whom it was said had been among my ancestors. But who could tell? That
was long ago.
We rested there, while the dawn painted the clouds with a deft brush. The warmth
felt good to my muscles, and at last I got to my feet. “It is time, Lila. We
have far to go.”
She mounted with ease, and we rode on, again keeping to the lanes and byways,
avoiding the traveled roads.
We walked our horses now and again not wishing to attract attention by seeming
pursued. We walked, trotted a bit when the way was easy, now upon the open moor,
then under the shade of old beeches.
At dusk of the second day we came up to Cricklade, following the old Roman road,
at times a mere path, often a lane, yet running straight as the eye can see. We
walked our horses beyond the town to Ashton Keynes where the Thames winds about,
a small stream there, of no size at all.
There was an inn, and it looked neat and clean. “We’ll try to sleep inside this
night,” I said. “I shall have a room for you if there be one, and I’ll make do
below stairs in the common room.”
A room there was. To preclude curiosity, I said, “The girl is tired, strong
though she is, and I’d not have her worn out for meeting the man she is to
marry.” Lila looked at me, but said nothing. “I am her cousin,” I explained,
“and she’s betrothed to a lad in Shropshire. A sturdy one, too!”
“Aye.” The innkeeper looked at Lila and shook his head approvingly. “That he’d
better be.”
There was some idle talk, and the innkeeper’s wife showed Lila to a room under
the eaves, small but tidy, and I rolled up in my cloak by the fire when the
guests had gone and it was bedding time. It was a small place, and there was but
one other there, a short, stocky man with a pleasant smile and a careful eye. He
worried me some, for he asked no questions nor made comment, but listened to all
spoken as he smoked by the fire.
When I was rolled in my cloak he said, “You’ve good horses there.”
“Aye,” I said, not wishing to talk.
“They’ve come far,” he said.
“Aye,” I repeated.
“And they’ll be goin’ farther no doubt. ‘Tis in my mind that you should have
fresh horses, sturdy ones, too.”
Now I was alert, for this was leading somewhere if only to a horse trade. The
man was no fool, and such worried me.
“Mine are strong,” I said. “They are good for the distance.”
“No doubt,” he said, “but what if they’re in for a run now? How long could they
last?”
“As long as need be,” I said, “and so they must. I’ve no silver for others.
They’ll go the way,” I said, “and to the green pasture when the run is over, to
rest awhile.”
“Aye, but you’ll still be needin’ others, or I miss my thought.” He leaned over
and knocked out his pipe at the hearth’s edge. And then, low-voiced, he said,
“You give your friends a de’il of trouble, man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Would the name of Feghany sound true? Or that of a man named Peter?”
“There is a Peter in the Bible,” I said.
“This is a different Peter,” he said dryly. “You’re in sore trouble, lad, for
they be askin’ questions in Oxford an’ Winchester an’ Bristol, too.”
“You were speaking of horses?”
“Aye.”
“Take them up the road to Cirencester … the old Roman road. Hold them there
and we’ll be along.”
He reached inside his shirt and handed me a sheet of paper. “Read it,” he said,
“and then put it in the fire, yonder.”
I read. Then I looked straight in his eyes.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“We almost didn’t,” he said grimly. “We were looking for a lone man riding, and
we’d men out at villages along every way northwest. Ah,” he said, shaking his
head, “that Peter! He should have been a general! He thinks of everything.”
“But here? In this place?”
“I was in Cricklade when you passed through, watering my horses at the river, so
I followed, saw you giving a look to the inn, so I came here before you.”
“My thanks.” I looked at him. “You’ve a name?”
“Call me Darby. They all do.”
We slept then, and when in the cold light of another day my eyes opened, he was
gone. The innkeeper was stirring the fire.
“Your cousin is awake,” he said. “What a woman she is! Why, she’d make two of
me!”
“And stronger than any three,” I said. “I do not envy the lad. He’d better be
one who keeps his eyes from the others or she’ll have him over her knee.”
He laughed. “Little thought he’ll have for others with her to take care of,” he
said. “I’ll put somethin’ on for you.”
An hour later, in a patch of woods and under the old beeches near the Thames, we
traded horses with Darby. There were saddlebags on my horses, and a brace of
pistols in case I had none.
“There be this, too,” Darby said, and from a roll of skins he took my own sword,
the blade of my father, than which none were finer. “How he got it from the gaol
I shall never know!”
“Nor I,” I said, “but I feel a new man now.”
I put out my hand. “Someday, Darby, in America mayhap?”
“Na, I be a busy one here.” He shook his head. “It has a sound to it, though.
America! I like it. Savages they tell me, and forests and land wherever you
look.”
“And running streams, Darby. Keep it in mind, if the worst comes. If you’ve a
thought of finding me, follow a river to the far mountains and ask for me
there.”
“Barnabas Sackett, is it?”
“Aye, and by the time you get there the name will echo in the hills, Darby. The