‘‘Just come peaceful,” Scarface said, “and we’ll take it easy on you.” He stood straighter, widened his stance, and put one hand on his own short sword.
“You know who I am,” Gallen said softly. “I’m a lawman, just like you-a licensed guard with my oath-bond posted at Baille Sean. You’re fifty miles out of your jurisdiction. Now, the law says you can arrest me if you’ve got a warrant,” Gallen said softly. “But if you don’t have it, I can defend myself from wrongful arrest, if need be.”
Scarface signaled to a man behind him, and the fellow produced a wooden scroll case, painted in thick lacquer.
“Here it is.” The Inquisitor spoke from behind Scarface, taking the tube in his own hand. Gallen was surprised at the softness of his voice. He sounded like some gentle monastic brother who tended lambs, not the fearsome torturer he was reputed to be.
“There should be no need for all of this posing, for hiding behind legal technicalities,” the Inquisitor told Gallen softly. “Sir, you have grievous charges leveled against you. A priest has died, and this is a matter of deep concern to the clergy. I should think that you would welcome the opportunity to clear your name. After all, if it were commonly believed that you were guilty of witchcraft, your family’s reputation would be stained.…” He looked meaningfully to Gallen’s mother. Gallen was not fooled by such soft words. This man was hinting at retribution against Gallen’s whole family.
“If there are charges against me,” Gallen said, “then they’re leveled by false witnesses, and I’ll fight those charges as best I can. I’ll have a look at your warrant.” Gallen stepped forward and took it from the torturer’s hand, carried the paper over to the wan firelight. His mother got up and looked over his shoulder with Orick. The Inquisitor and his men shifted uneasily.
“This paper isn’t legal,” Gallen realized. “You can’t take me north without the signature from the Lord Sheriff at Baille Sean.”
Scarface said forcefully, “We were on our way to Baille Sean for the signature when we met that bear friend of yours! He came to warn you. We couldn’t just let you go running off into the night!”
Gallen shrugged, handed the paper to Scarface. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Baille Sean and talk to Lord Sheriff Carnaghan. And say hello to him for me. He’s a good friend. I once saved his son from some highwaymen.”
Scarface shook his head angrily, growling from the back of his throat. “Damned southerners! How am I supposed to execute a warrant against you?”
“Legally-” Gallen said, “or not at all.” He rested his hands on his knives. If the man was going to attack, now would be the time.
Scarface studied Gallen, eyeing the knives that he wore. Gallen almost hoped that he’d make his move. But the Lord Inquisitor backed up a step, told the men, “Surround the house. I’ll go to Baille Sean and speak with Lord Sheriff Carnaghan personally.”
He backed out slowly, and Scarface closed the ruined door. Gallen let them go. Gallen’s mother shoved the door tight, bolted it. “That sheriff is a blackguard, sure,” she said. “The nerve, breaking into an old woman’s house and knocking her off her feet!” She looked at Gallen disapprovingly, as if he should have come to her rescue.
Orick hurried to Gallen’s side. “Gallen, you’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?”
Gallen looked from his mother to Orick. There was little that he could do. A moment later, Thomas Flynn pushed his way through the door, followed by Gallen’s cousin, Father Brian from An Cochan. The sheriffs were so thick around the house-tree that the two men could hardly get through. Thomas Flynn seemed unperturbed by the whole affair, but Father Brian looked about with wide eyes. The young priest had obviously rushed to get out the door at his own house. He had on his black frock, but without the white collar. His face was red from the night air.
“They’ve got Maggie,” Thomas said to Gallen. “They say they’re taking her north as a witness against you. They’re already filling out a subpoena.”
“Those … rascals!” Father Brian said. “They’re low, dirty rascals, that’s all I can say of them! The thought of it-holding the girl hostage!”
“They only took her to keep Gallen from running,” Thomas said. “And she gave one of them a bloody nose for it. I like that.”
Gallen clenched his fists, looked about. There was nothing he could do to stop them from taking Maggie. They couldn’t arrest Gallen without a warrant signed by the Lord Sheriff, but they could subpoena a witness, and they could hold her in prison for questioning for weeks.
“It’s that damned Patrick O’Connor,” Father Brian said. “He’s been telling everyone false tales about you! I should have had you kill him!”
“Patrick O’Connor?” Thomas asked.
Gallen was deep in thought, so Father Brian offered, “He’s the son of a sheep farmer, Seamus O’Connor, from An Cochan. Two weeks ago, Seamus hired Gallen to escort him home, and they were set upon by robbers. Gallen fought them, but the robbers had him down and would have slit his throat, when the Angel of Death came and rescued Gallen and Seamus, too. The next day, Gallen and I caught that blackguard Patrick with soot on his face and blood on his shoes. We discovered that the boy had set the robbers on his own father, hoping for a cut of the money! I thought to have Gallen kill the boy, but Gallen is a merciful sort, so we outlawed him from County Morgan. But now Patrick is mucking about the countryside, telling stories on Gallen, causing trouble!”
“It wasn’t just Patrick who caused the trouble,” Gallen said, grateful that the priest was willing to bolster Gallen’s good name by claiming that it was his idea to show some mercy to the lad. In truth, neither of them had thought of killing the boy. “He’s down south telling his tales. But some other robbers from up north escaped. They must have heard of Patrick’s efforts to smear my name. Now Orick says that they’ve put a story together and plan to testify against me.”
“Like as not,” Orick grumbled, “some of those sheriffs out there are relatives to the robbers!”
“Granted, I’ll give you that,” Father Brian said. “Some of those northerners are an inbred lot, but a man can’t choose his kin.” He thought a moment, pacing nervously, and said, “I could raise the town in your behalf, Gallen! Most everyone is awake already, circling the house. We’ll show these northern sheriffs!”
“If you do,” Gallen said, “there will be bloodshed. We don’t want that. I can’t think of a man in town who I want to see dead. Besides, even if you won, you’d find yourself on trial.”
Gallen’s mother sat heavily on the sofa before the fireplace. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. Gallen wondered at how small she’d become in the past few years. When he was young, she’d seemed beautiful and tall and strong. But over the past few months, since the death of Gallen’s father, she’d gone into decline in a terrible way. Now she was a mere potato, a lumpy, frail woman with graying hair.
Her jaw trembled. “You’d better get out of here, son,” she said, as if the words were bitter on her tongue. “You can fight your way past these sheriffs, I’ll wager.”
“I won’t do that,” Gallen said, wondering. His prowess with weapons seemed to be growing to legendary heights if even his own mother thought he could fight his way past dozens of well-armed opponents. The really frightening thing was, Gallen was tempted to give it a try. “I won’t play the outlaw. I couldn’t make a run for it without a fight first, and I’d have to kill some of them. And even if I won through, Maggie would still end up in their prison, and there’s no telling what the Inquisitor might do.”
“If the girl loves you, nothing would make her happier than to help you, whatever way she can,” Gallen’s mother protested. “No,” Gallen said. “I won’t play their game. We have to fight them legally.”