He sighed miserably. "Squire's in such a state, he'd likely take my inn away, hypothecation and all, if he thought I had hands on you and didn't bring you to him."
He frowned, chewed his lip, and looked all the more distressed as he went on:
"Now, as to where I found you-if the question ever comes up, as I hope it doesn't, but if, as you might say, it arises, ah, there's no need to put Farmer Tench into it. To go at it another way, he should be kept out of it. Altogether out of it. In other words, in a manner of speaking, you weren't there. And neither was I."
"If you're ashamed to admit you helped me-" began Mallory.
"Well, well, you see-it's more a matter of my hypothecation. A question of-vegetables, do you see? Vegetables, here, is the case in point."
Mallory, straining her eyes for a sign of the enchanter, was in no mood to discuss this mixture of hypothecation and vegetables. However, as she said nothing, Mr. Parsel's discomfort sharpened:
"Well, you see, in terms of my agreement, I'm to buy my victualization from Squire's tenants. Now, Farmer Tench doesn't stand that way with Squire, exactly. That is, he's not a tenant. On the other hand, his prices are very reasonable. On still the other hand, Squire's aren't reasonable. The fact of the matter, he's gone and raised them.
"I'll afraid," Mr. Parsel gloomily continued, "my hypothecation is going to pinch. If I buy only from Squire's tenants, I'll pay too dear to make a profit. Now, Mrs. Parsel that woman's mind is quick as a trap she put it into my head, in the way of suggesting the possibility, without Squire having to know about it, to buy my victualization from the freeholders on more favorizing terms. To put a fine point to it: on the cheap."
"It won't do you any good," answered Mallory. "Not for long. What happens when Scrupnor adds up his tenants' accounts and sees you've bought nothing?"
Mr. Parsel's face went chalky. "Eh, so he will. I never thought of that. Nor did Mrs. P. Ah, Mallie, no disrespect to Squire, you understand, but I'm afraid he's got me well skewered. My fortune? That hypothecation's my ruin!"
Mr. Parsel seemed on the verge of tears. For the first time in all the years Mallory had drudged for her benefactors, it occurred to her that Mr. Parsel might have been as unhappy as she was. Now, between the two of them, she wondered which was the worse off. Before she could reply, as Mr. Parsel once more began moaning over his hypothecation, Mallory believed she glimpsed a pale flicker of movement through the hedgerows further down the lane.
"Hurry," she urged Mr. Parsel. "That might be the pig."
"Pig? I thought you were after your friend-"
"It's the same oh, never mind, only hurry!"
Doing as she urged, Mr. Parsel vigorously slapped the reins. The startled horse plunged forward, the wagon lurched from side to side. Trying to control his animal and his vehicle, Mr. Parsel now pulled up so sharply that the horse stopped in its tracks and the wagon came to such a sudden halt that Mallory went pitching headlong over the side, Mr. Parsel along with her.
Half-stunned, Mallory picked herself up, impatient to set off again. Mr. Parsel was still sprawled in the middle of the road. She ran to help him, then gasped in alarm. His cheeks and brow had gone ashen, he lay awkward and motionless.
As Mallory tried to raise him and prop him against a wagon wheel, she saw that a large lump was beginning to swell where Mr. Parsel had struck his head in falling. Alive though he was, she could not guess how much harm the blow had done. She loosened his collar and chafed his wrists, but none of her efforts roused him.
She glanced anxiously down the lane and across the fields. If indeed it was Arbican she had seen, there was no longer any sign of him. Without knowing which direction the enchanter might take, she realized her only course was to strike across the fields and hope somehow to run into him. However, much as she urged herself to let the prostrate Mr. Parsel come to his own senses and make the best of his way home, she could not bring herself to do it. As often as she started off, as often she came back, furious beyond reason at the would-be innkeeper, as if being knocked on the head were his fault; and furious at herself for being unable to leave him by the roadside.
At last she decided, whatever the cost in time and risk, to cart him to the Tench farm. Though Mr. Parsel was a mere wisp in comparison with the proportions of his wife, he was nevertheless heavier than Mallory had supposed; only with difficulty was she able to hoist him to the back of the wagon. Worse, she quickly discovered that turning the vehicle in the narrow lane was an even harder task. The horse balked and shied away from her, quite aware that Mallory was not its customary driver.
No sooner had she managed to calm the animal than the wagon foundered in a deep rut at the edge of the road; while the horse pulled as willingly as it could, Mallory pushed and heaved, set her shoulder against the rear wheel, and gripped the spokes with her rapidly blistering fingers. The wagon, tilting alarmingly, finally rolled free onto the road again.
During all this, Mr. Parsel had not stirred; but as Mallory, shaking from her efforts, was about to climb to the seat, she heard a feeble moaning. Mr. Parsel had half-opened his eyes.
"I'll driving you to Farmer Tench," Mallory said, as Mr. Parsel cautiously ventured to sit up. "You can stay there until you feel better. Or you can ask his boy to take you the rest of the way to the village."
Mr. Parsel, fingering the black and blue swelling at the side of his head, turned a grateful glance on Mallory. "You could have been long gone," he murmured, "and taken wagon and all if you'd wanted. Oh, Mallie, do come home with me. I don't care if Squire finds out I was buying victuals on the sly; I'll tell him how well you behaved, that's bound to count in your favor. He'll deal with you fairly."
"Yes," Mallory answered. "As fairly as he dealt with you. He knows perfectly well Arbican's no criminal and neither am I. If anything, Scrupnor himself did away with Squire Sorrel."
"Good heavens," replied Mr. Parsel, "what a thing to say about a man of progress and vision. True, my hypothecation cuts rather deeper than I reckoned. But business is one thing, foul play another."
Mallory did not answer, more anxious to be unburdened of Mr. Parsel than to discuss her suspicions with him. The Tench farm should be close by, and she wondered if Mr. Parsel might now be recovered enough to go the rest of the way alone.
Suddenly, she pulled back on the reins. A little distance ahead, she caught sight of Bolt, on horseback; afoot beside him were one of the grooms from the Holdings and the stable boy, Wakeling. While Mr. Parsel peered over the side of the wagon, cradling his head with one hand and with the other shading his eyes to see what was amiss, Mallory sprang down, ready to take to her heels.
A moment later, she halted. With Bolt and the others, hands roped behind him, was Arbican.
CHAPTER 11
The gamekeeper saw Mallory at the same instant and kicked his horse to a gallop. With Arbican a prisoner, Mallory gave up any thought of escape. Instead of heading for the cover of the woods, she ran straight to the enchanter and threw her arms around him, stammering questions. Horn, the groom, seized her and pulled her away. Bolt, having immediately turned his mount after her, jumped from the saddle.
"Hold fast, Hom," he called. "She's tricky as Old Scratch here. Wakeling, get hold of her arms. Mind what you're about. The wench kicks worse than donkeys."
The gamekeeper at the same time pulled a length of cord from his jacket and hastily lashed Mallory's wrists. Her struggles, however, were not to break free but to stay close to the captive enchanter. Arbican's face was haggard, his cheeks a sickly gray, and his beard hung limp. At first sight of Mallory, he had brightened; but now he eyed her with deliberate severity. In spite of his bedraggled appearance, his voice and words were tart as ever:
"I gave you credit for better sense. By the vernal equinox, girl, you could have outrun these idiots. You can't help me this way, and you certainly can't do yourself any good."
Mallory paid no attention to the enchanter's pretended irritation. He looked ill and exhausted and she feare
d his time was growing dangerously short. "Scrupnor can't do anything to either of us," she said with more assurance than she felt.
"Oh, can't he?" put in Bolt, overhearing their exchange. "He'll have this old lag hanged for murder, that's one thing. And for you helping him escape, who knows what he'll do? You're for prison, at the least of it." Bolt grinned at her and clamped her cheeks between his fingers. "Unless I was to tell him how repentant and agreeable you are."
Mallory twisted her head from his grip and spat at him. Cursing, Bolt struck her across the face with a blow that nearly sent her spinning to the ground. Arbican, weak though he was, lunged at the gamekeeper, only to be held back by Horn.
Mr. Parsel, meanwhile, had gathered enough strength to draw up his wagon amid the captors and their prisoners. Shakily, still unsteady on his legs, he tried to clamber down, at the same time calling out:
"Here, Bolt, none of that! She's my servant and she's still in my charge."
Bolt strode up to him and seized him by the jacket front. "Charge your nose to keep out of this, you milk pudding. Afraid you'll be done out of the reward? Well, you make your claim to Squire after we get them to the Holdings."
With Bolt's jaw thrusting at his face, Mr. Parsel shrank back and murmured: "Now, now, Mr. Bolt, no cause for quarrel. She did me a good turn. I shouldn't want to see her abused."
"She won't be." Bolt laughed scornfully. "I'll care for those two like tender babes. They're money in pocket, especially Old Nick here. He's mine, that one. Sorry sight he is, but he's worth his weight in gold."
"It wasn't only you that found him," protested Horn. "I collared him, didn't I? I have a share coming to me." Bolt loosened his hold on Mr. Parsel's jacket and faced the groom:
"What's that, you muckraker? I say I saw him first, and that's what counts. You'll get your part of him. I'll be openhanded with you for your help, such as it was. I won't stint. Only you try telling a tale different from mine, I won't stint, either." Bolt put a hand to the musket slung at his saddle bow and glared ferociously at the groom, who dropped his eyes and turned away, muttering under his breath.
Mallory, during this, had drawn closer to Arbican. "I was looking for you," she whispered. "You were better off being a pig. Couldn't you have stayed that way?"
Arbican shook his head. "Something was going wrong when I lost my voice. Since I didn't know what might happen next, it seemed wise to depart as rapidly as possible. Ham and bacon, indeed! If it hadn't been for you, no doubt I'd be curing in a rustic smokehouse. My magic failed me. Fortunately, yours didn't."
"Mine?" said Mallory. "I have no magic. I wish I did. I'd have given anything in the world if I could have snapped my fingers and turned us both invisible. Or sent us flying off on a broomstick."
"Broomstick?" replied Arbican. "That sounds like another of your irrelevant appurtenances. Me, straddle a broomstick? I'd feel like an utter idiot. No, I was not referring to my variety of magic, but yours, call it what you will. You could have had your throat cut. You weren't bluffing! Very brave; though not without an element of foolhardiness."
The enchanter's usually stern glance had softened and it seemed to Mallory that he was watching her with an affection and admiration he had not shown before. Almost immediately, however, Arbican assumed his familiar scowl as he went on:
"In any case, I couldn't have stayed a pig even if I'd wanted. I couldn't hold the shape. After a time, it slipped away and there I was, back to myself again. I thought if I could change into a bird, I could find you more easily. That's what I was trying to do when that oaf took me by surprise. Too bad. Another minute or so and I might have done it. I could almost feel the pinfeathers sprouting."
Arbican said no more, for the stable boy, Wakeling, had sidled up to Mallory.
"Who's the old codger?" Wakeling asked out of the corner of his mouth, eying Arbican with frank curiosity. "How did you ever come to tangle with him? He's an odd one, for sure. You should have seen him when Horn and I came up on him. Standing on a stump, he was, flapping his arms like he was about to fly off at any moment. Squire says he's a vicious mad dog, but if you ask me-" At that, Wakeling tapped his forehead with a finger.
"Listen to me," Mallory whispered, "he's done no harm to anyone. Help us get free. He's an enchanter, a wizard-"
"One of them conjurers?" replied Wakeling. "Like at Castleton Fair? Take a penny out of your nose quick as winking! I saw one make a fellow's watch disappear and never brought it back again, though. Eh, imagine that, an old Hocus Pocus!"
"He's not a conjurer," Mallory tried to explain. But Wakeling, more fascinated than ever, stared closer at Arbican.
"Is that so, Hocus?" the stable boy asked. "You can do all such tricks? And here you are, trussed like a prize turkey?"
Before Mallory could make a further plea, Bolt left off his browbeating of the groom and shouted for the prisoners to be put into Mr. Parsel's wagon.
"You come along, Hocus," Wakeling said. "You too, Mallie. I'm sorry for you, but what's to be done? If I tried to set you loose, Bolt he'd have my hide and Squire the rest of me."
"Get a move on," called Bolt, mounting his horse. "I don't mean to be soaked to the skin while you stand there maundering."
The sky, in fact, had begun turning the same color as Mr. Parsel's bruise, and Mallory heard the first mutterings of thunder. Wakeling boosted Arbican into the wagon but before Mallory could follow the enchanter, Mr. Parsel held her back and put a hand almost shyly on her arm.
"It's a shame things have come to such a pass," he murmured, "as knotted up as me and my hypothecation. But you'll find some way, if you look-"
"Have done, damn you!" cried Bolt, motioning for Mr. Parsel to set off, as Wakeling hopped into the back with the two prisoners. On the wagon seat, however, Mr. Parsel so complained of pain and dizziness that Horn pulled the reins from his hands and gave the horse a savage slap. The animal started ahead at a good pace, though not quickly enough to satisfy Bolt, who continually turned back to urge more speed from the laboring nag. Even so, the company had gone less than a quarter mile when large raindrops pattered into the dust of the lane.
Arbican, huddled in a corner of the jolting wagon, had closed his eyes and bowed his head, withdrawn into himself.
"What's the matter with Hocus?" Wakeling asked. "He was lively enough when we found him."
"He's sick," answered Mallory. "If he stays here much longer, he may die."
"Nothing catching, is it?" Wakeling drew back uneasily. "Please, please untie us," Mallory begged. "There's nobody watching, you won't be blamed for it."
Wakeling grinned. "That would be one in the eye for Squire, wouldn't it? And I can't say I'd mind seeing Bolt whistle for his money. Share the reward? If I get so much as a penny in my pocket, that'll be a better trick than Old Hocus could pull off."
Wakeling seemed almost willing to do as Mallory asked. Just then, however, the wagon tilted so sharply that all three passengers went tumbling against the side, and Horn and Mr. Parsel nearly skidded off the seat. At Bolt's urging, Horn had recklessly ignored bumps and pot-holes; and this, added to all the other strains, had loosened one of the rear wheels, which now went spinning into a ditch.
Bolt reined up, cursing Mr. Parsel and his wagon alike. Wakeling scrambled down to retrieve the wheel, undamaged except for a couple of broken spokes. The angry gamekeeper ordered his prisoners to the side of the road and while Hom, Wakeling, and Mr. Parsel did their best to right the vehicle, Bolt unslung his musket and fired a shot in the air.
"Squire's hunting hereabouts," the gamekeeper said. "This should fetch him. He and I can ride double to the Holdings and get these two under lock and key."
"That's right, Bolt," retorted Horn. "Leave us to do the donkey work. The axle's bent. There's two good hours of labor in this muck, with dusk coming on. It's Parsel's cart; let him have the joy of mending it. I say march them across country, that's quickest."
Bolt thought for a moment, then nodded. "Unhitch Parsel's nag. You and I c
an both ride."
Hearing this, Mr. Parsel began bitterly protesting at being abandoned with a broken wagon as well as a broken head. Bolt turned to him:
"Pull it yourself, then. Or go to the devil, if that suits you better."
Neither suggestion pleased Mr. Parsel, who renewed his complaints all the louder, reproaching the gamekeeper for leaving a sick and prominent tradesman at the mercy of the elements, and vowing to report such behavior to the squire.
Hunched next to Arbican at the roadside, Mallory took no interest in the plans and counter plans for conducting her and the enchanter to the Holdings. While her captors turned their attention from their prisoners to their own disputes, she had not ceased to strain against the cords binding her wrists. At the same time, she weighed the risk of choosing an unguarded moment to spring up and dash for the woods. Arbican, she feared, would be too weak for that venture, and so she went back to tugging at her bonds, deciding that if she could break loose her only chance was to seize Bolt's musket. And that, she admitted to herself, would be far from easy.
In addition to the chafing of the cords, she grew aware of something uncomfortably jabbing into her side. The pocket of her dress had been empty; she could not remember putting anything in it. Puzzled, she cautiously twisted around until she was able to slip her hand into the pocket and draw out the contents. Even then, she could not bend enough to see what she had found; to her numb fingers, it felt smooth and flat.
"Arbican," she whispered, "can you tell what's in my hands?"
"Nothing I've seen in my day," replied the enchanter. "It looks made of tortoiseshell, apparently with a blade tucked into it. Hardly a formidable weapon, though it does seem to be a kind of folded-up knife."
"Of course it is! Mr. Parsel's! He always carries it, he pares his nails with it. It couldn't have dropped into my pocket by accident. He must have put it there." Astonished as much by Mr. Parsel's good deed as by finding the knife itself, she managed finally to unclasp the blade and cautiously began sawing away at the cords. However, her awkward posture and the need to work unnoticed made the task next to impossible. Although the rain had stopped, her bonds were wet, her fingers slippery; and Mr. Parsel, she realized, had gone to no pains to keep a sharp edge on his implement.