Try as she would, Mallory had barely cut through the first few strands when Bolt hastily mounted his horse and spurred to meet a pair of rapidly approaching riders. One, she saw with dismay, was Scrupnor on his bay mare, galloping in answer to the signal shot; but her spirits rose at sight of the other. It was Rowan.
Bolt soon joined his master and the notary; by the time the three reined up at the broken wagon, Mallory surmised that the gamekeeper had already given his own account of matters. Yet the squire's face was more grim than triumphant; and Rowan, as soon as he saw the two prisoners, jumped down from his horse and went straight to Mallory and Arbican.
"You'll answer for this, Bolt," the notary declared angrily. "Look at the state the old man is in; and the girl doesn't seem much better off."
"Stand away, Rowan," Scrupnor ordered, dismounting and hurrying after the notary. "They're both under arrest, by my authority as squire."
"I don't question your authority," answered Rowan. "But if you mean to use the law, you'll have to follow it yourself, as I've been telling you. Do you accuse this man of murder?"
"Accuse him?" cried Scrupnor. "I do more than that! I'll hang him!"
"Perhaps you will," replied the notary, "but only if you have evidence enough. Were stolen goods in his possession? Were there witnesses? Has he admitted his deed?"
"You're a bigger fool than I thought, notary," Scrupnor burst out. "As if this rogue would admit to anything! Do you think he'd carry the loot in his pockets? He's hidden it. Witnesses? My word's witness enough."
Rowan shook his head. "That won't do, Squire. Unless you have better proof, there's no true case against either of them. That's the law, Squire, and you'll set them free here and now."
CHAPTER 12
Hearing this, Mallory started eagerly to her feet as Wakeling and Mr. Parsel stepped forward to carry out the notary's order. Scrupnor, however, put himself in their way:
"Not so fast, Rowan. There's no law going to quibble this scoundrel out of my hands. You'll see proof when the time comes."
"That may be, Squire," said Rowan. "Until then, you've no grounds for holding anyone."
"Haven't I?" answered Scrupnor. "If coldblooded murder isn't grounds enough to suit you, I'll give you another to serve in the meantime: common trespassing, and burglary on top of it. These two broke into my counting room. There's Bolt and all the household to stand witness. So, notary, go back to your law books."
"We didn't break in," Mallory protested angrily. "It wasn't that way at all-"
"You'll have a hearing," Rowan told her, making no attempt to hide his own distaste for Scrupnor's new accusation. "I can assure you of that much. For the rest-" He shook his head: "The squire's position is correct, if trespass is the charge he means to bring against you."
Mallory's heart sank as the notary turned away. Scrupnor, glowering, waited until Rowan had ridden out of sight, then curtly nodded to the gamekeeper:
"You've done well, Bolt." He glanced at Mallory and Arbican as if they were no more than a brace of trussed partridges.
"Let's have this pair up at the Holdings. You and I will take them. Let Horn and Wakeling see to the wagon."
As Bolt seemed about to disagree, Scrupnor cut him short:
"That's only fair, wouldn't you say, Bolt? You can't think of leaving one of our fine tradesmen stranded in the road, and badly injured into the bargain."
He climbed astride the bay and motioned for the gamekeeper to follow him with the prisoners. As he led the way across an open field toward a stretch of woodland, Mallory supposed he intended taking the shortest path to the Holdings. With Bolt walking his horse behind her, Mallory dared no further attempt at cutting her bonds. She was glad she had at least kept the knife instead of throwing it away during her moment of hope, and she held it hidden in her clenched palm, awaiting a chance to start the painful task again. Silent, Arbican trudged beside her.
Mallory had expected Scrupnor to be better satisfied by his victory over the notary, but his heavy jaw was clamped shut and his scowl had only deepened. Bolt, on the other hand, was in the best spirits; his face was flushed, his eyes glinted, and he seemed scarcely able to curb his impatience. While his master stayed moody, almost sullen, Bolt grew all the more talkative, telling again and again how, single handed, after fierce struggle, he had overcome the assassin:
"At risk of life and limb, Squire," he declared. "Mortal danger, nothing less. I'll not say anything against Horn and Wakeling, though one's a coward and the other a fool, and bunglers both. Well, forgive and forget; but if I was you, I'd send them packing. As for Parsel, he's sure to come snuffling and whimpering for a reward. As if he deserved it! The vixen could've run off any moment, and so she would have done if I hadn't come along when I did. But that's business between you and Parsel, and not my concern."
"Quite right," muttered Scrupnor. "Not your concern." The squire's tone showed little willingness to pursue the question. Bolt, however, cheerfully pressed on:
"In the matter of reward, Squire, as it just happened to pop into my head. Now, there was that thousand in gold you put up after old Sorrel got killed. But here's the fine point of it, Squire, and I wouldn't have you think I'm asking more than what's rightfully mine: But do you count that thousand apart and extra, or do you count it in with the Holdings?"
At this, the squire turned in the saddle to fix his eye on the gamekeeper: "What the devil are you talking about?"
"Why, you know, Squire. At Parsel's table, Rowan himself was there, and you had him bear witness. You even wrote it all down and put your name to it, how you'd gladly give the Holdings to the fellow who caught Sorrel's murderer."
Scrupnor's face tightened, and he replied in a distant voice:
"Yes, Bolt, I might have done something like that."
"Might?" said the gamekeeper, frowning. "It's sure you did. I was in Parsel's kitchen and heard you with my own ears. And wouldn't the notary have that paper itself, all signed and sealed?"
"So I should think," Scrupnor nodded vaguely. "You forgot, Bolt, that I was the one who apprehended the felon."
"And lost him," said Bolt. "As you didn't keep him, in a manner of speaking you might say you didn't truly catch him at all." Scrupnor grimaced. "An intricate question. It will have to be studied out."
This answer seemed not altogether satisfying to Bolt, and Mallory had the impression the gamekeeper wished to continue the matter. Scrupnor, however, turned his mare and spurred the animal off the path. She saw he was heading for a small cottage whose plaster walls showed a spider web of cracks, and dark stains below the narrow windowsills.
"Hullo, there's my lodge," exclaimed Bolt. "With all this talk between men of affairs, and my mind on those intercut questions, as you call them, I could have passed it by and never noticed."
"We'll rest here, Bolt," said Scrupnor.
"Rest? Why, Squire, we're hardly a skip and a jump from the Holdings. Those two don't need a rest. If they lag, I can liven them up a bit."
"No doubt," said Scrupnor. "Even so, we'll stop a moment or two."
Disregarding Bolt's protest that his lodge was at the moment unprepared to receive such an honored guest, Scrupnor dismounted and beckoned for the gamekeeper to bring Mallory and Arbican inside.
The main room of the lodge was close and damp, with a rank odor that caught at Mallory's nostrils. A rumpled cot stood against one wall; by the fireplace hung string of gutted hares and pheasants, suggesting to her that Bolt was not unwilling to poach a little of the game he was charged to protect.
Scrupnor, however, chose to overlook the hares and pheasants. If Bolt appeared ill at ease and put out of face by his uninvited visitor, Mallory noticed the squire's mood had changed for the better as he glanced around the room and nodded his approval.
"Very snug," said Scrupnor in a cordial tone, "very nicely fitted out. Where can you store those two and keep them out of the way for a little while?"
Bolt shook his head. "Why, I don't know, Squire. We don'
t want Old Nick too far out of hand, do we? Nor the wench, slippery as she is." He pointed to a trap door near the fireplace. "There's the root cellar."
"Splendid," replied Scrupnor, motioning for the gamekeeper to lock up his charges immediately.
Bolt was none too gentle in bundling Mallory and Arbican down the few wooden steps. For Mallory, however, the root cellar could not have been more welcome. No sooner had Bolt dropped the trap door back in place than she began cutting at her bonds again. The dank earthen walls around her and the flood boards above her head gave no room to stand, and she could only crouch, making herself small as she could. Arbican was hunched in a corner, his legs cramped under his chin. The cellar, at least, was not entirely dark; some light came through the cracks in the planking and, by pressing her eye against them, she was able to catch glimpses of Scrupnor and Bolt near the hearth.
"Now, Bolt," she heard Scrupnor go on in a low, cajoling voice, "you know me as a man of my word. You've served me well in this business and I'll be openhanded with you. A thousand in gold? Not half enough, not for a fine fellow like you. No, double that. Two thousand, I say. Perhaps a bit more if all goes as it should. That's a fat purse, wouldn't you say? More than enough to satisfy any reasonable man. Think of it, Bolt. You could travel anywhere you please, set yourself up very handsomely someplace-"
"Why, Squire," broke in the gamekeeper, "I don't have a mind for travel, that's not my nature. A fat purse, as you say. But not so fat as the Holdings."
"Wait a minute, Bolt," said Scrupnor. "You go too fast. As you remind me, I did endorse a certain statement. But the circumstances must be taken into account. I made my offer in good faith, at that moment. A moment of pure grief. I was carried away in a paroxysm of turmoil. I'm softhearted, Bolt, as you well know. I'd have given all I owned in this world-and still would, if only it were possible. Alas, we cannot always follow the urgings of our hearts. We must, painful and incommodious as it may be, temper our desires with practicality." Scrupnor paused, sighed heavily, then quietly added:
"Tell me, Bolt, do you seriously think I'd give up the Holdings? To you or anyone else?"
Bolt grinned. "Of course you wouldn't, Squire know that. Don't take me for a fool. All those crocodile tears and signing and witnessing-a bit of play-acting, Squire, since you couldn't get out of it. No, you wouldn't give away all the Holdings. But I think you'll give me half, and be glad and grateful I don't take more. Now, there's that coal pit you mean to put down; and all the trade to come from that road of yours; and old Parsel's inn, and all the rest. That part of the business, we share and share alike. Partners, you and me."
Mallory pressed her eyes closer to the crack. Scrupnor, she saw, was looking narrowly at the gamekeeper. She felt the first of the cords begin to give way and she doubled her efforts as she heard the squire say:
"Come, come, Bolt. We're men of the world. Justice is beyond price, as I'm first to admit. But the cost of applying it, something else again. Partners? Share alike? No, Bolt, you can't expect me to half-beggar myself for the sake of hanging a common criminal."
"Oh, he's not a common criminal," Bolt answered. "He's no criminal at all."
"What?" cried Scrupnor. "That murderer-"
"Him?" The gamekeeper laughed. "Him, strangle a man? He doesn't have strength to squash a fly. He's not the one, you know that as well as I. Now, Squire, if it suits your purpose to say he killed Sorrel, I'll play your game along with you, to be friendly and obliging. As for the fellow who really killed the old gent-less said about him, the better, if you take my meaning. Justice? No. Where you get your money's worth is: silence."
"You're sharp, Bolt," Scrupnor said quietly after a moment. "Sharper than I thought. A gold mine of sharpness. A man could do worse than have you for his partner. Indeed, as I think of it, I wouldn't want it otherwise. I'll need to keep an eye on you, from now on."
"And the other way round, too, Squire."
"Quite right. We'll both look out for each other. That's twice as safe. Settled, then? Now that we have our-little understanding?"
By this time, Mallory had cut through the last of the strands. She turned hastily and freed Arbican from his bonds. She put her eye to the crack again. Bolt, she saw, had come to stand near the trap door:
"We do understand each other, Squire, and that's a pleasure for two gentlemen to know each others mind. As for Old Scratch, if Rowan must have his hearing all legal as it should be, he'll have to be there. That's only proper. But the less he says, the better. Best yet, he says nothing at all. In short, Squire, I doubt we'll want him there alive."
"My conclusion exactly," replied Scrupnor. "If Rowan wants proof he's a born murderer, he shall have it. It seems to me that Old Scratch, as you so nicely call him, would do well to try to escape; a fatal error in judgment on his part. It would simplify matters. We should then be able to answer for him much better than he can answer for himself."
"The wench, too." Scrupnor sighed. "Yes, that would be best for all concerned. As I don't know what she saw in the counting room, I think it safer for her to participate in a serious accident."
"What she saw?" said the gamekeeper. "Come, Squire, no secrets between us."
"Nothing to trouble you, Bolt," said Scrupnor. He rubbed his hands briskly. "Now, I'm afraid we have an unhappy task ahead of us. A cold business, at best. I should enjoy a fire. And a little drop of something."
Mallory stared, too terrified to move, as Bolt took a bottle and two chipped glasses from the cupboard. Setting them on the table, he indicated that Scrupnor should have the honor of pouring, then knelt at the hearth and began laying the fire. Scrupnor had picked up the bottle, but now put it down again and came to watch the gamekeeper.
"Excellent," said Scrupnor. "That will do nicely. Though it may need kindling there in the back. Spread it a little more. Here, let me show you."
Smiling blandly, Scrupnor took a poker from the stand of fire irons. As the gamekeeper busied himself with the kindling, Scrupnor, still smiling, raised the poker and with all his might brought it down on Bolt's head.
Mallory could not stifle her scream as she saw the gamekeeper pitch forward across the hearth. With a thoughtful look, Scrupnor calmly struck once more, then stooped to peer at the body. Satisfied, he threw aside the poker and wiped his hands on Bolt's packet. Sick with horror, Mallory saw him return bottle and glasses to the cupboard, where he stood a moment, whistling softly through his teeth. His hand went to the pistol at his belt; then, thinking better of it, he replaced the weapon and again picked up the power. Mallory shrank back as he strode to the root cellar, bent, and flung open the door.
"Come out," Scrupnor ordered in a flat voice.
In the moment he took to realize Mallory's hands were free, she leaped up the steps, grappled Scrupnor around the legs, and sent him tumbling back Flailing the poker, Scrupnor tried to fight her off, while Mallory shouted for Arbican to run from the lodge.
By force of weight and strength, Scrupnor tore himself loose from Mallory's hold. He gripped the poker in both hands and swung it downward. Helpless, Mallory could only shield her head with her arms. Behind, her, she heard Arbican's voice cry out words in a strange tongue.
The poker, that instant, flew from Scrupnor's grasp. It spun through the air and whirled in circles around him, belaboring him at every turn.
"Get out!" Arbican commanded Mallory. "Quick! The spell won't last."
Instead of obeying, Mallory seized the enchanter by the cloak and pulled him, protesting, through the door. Untethering Bolt's horse, she boosted Arbican into the saddle and ran to leap astride the mare.
No sooner had Arbican crossed the threshold than the poker ceased its drubbing and fell clattering to the floor. Bruised and battered, roaring furiously, Scrupnor burst from the lodge, pistol in his hand.
Galloping for the woods, Mallory heard the shot ring out behind her. Arbican slumped forward in the saddle.
CHAPTER 13
The enchanter clung to the horse's mane. Drawing
alongside, Mallory caught the reins he had dropped and pulled both mounts to a halt.
"Blast those pistols or whatever you call them," Arbican muttered. "Despicable devices. In my day bows and arrows went far enough."
Mallory could hear Scrupnor crashing through the brush, bellowing in rage. Hastily examining Arbican's wound, she could only see that the bullet had struck him in the side and he was bleeding heavily. She sprang down from the mare and remounted behind the enchanter. Hoping Scrupnor would follow the wrong trail, or at least be misled for a time, she slapped the flanks of the bay and sent the animal plunging in a different direction.
She pressed on half-blindly in the gathering dusk, urging the already lathered horse to a faster gait. Arbican sagged and grew heavier in her arms as she tried to keep him from toppling out of the saddle. For a while, he had been silent, not even grumbling; now he begged her to stop and rest. She halted, helped the enchanter to the ground, and sat him down in a pile of leaves, his back against a tree trunk.
This appeared to ease him. He gave a long sigh, opened his eyes, and murmured:
"I've been trying spells against sword wounds, spear thrusts, even snake bites. Nothing answers. At this point, I doubt I have power enough to heal myself of a bee sting. Well, no matter. I'll sleep for a while; that certainly, should be easy enough to do."
"We can't stay here," Mallory insisted, as the enchanter closed his eyes and turned his face aside. "We'll find our way to the village. You'll need bandages and medicine-"
"I'm quite aware of that," replied Arbican. "Are you able to conjure them up? I'm not. Besides, my time is running out; I can sense that. So, this is as good a place as any."