Alan’s horse refused the muddy pools and backed, bracing its front legs and snorting. Alan pulled on the reins and called out, “You’ll doubtless know the way to Weymouth, my good man. Will you tell me which path to take from here?”
The man smiled, still sitting back on his heels. “Aye, I’ll tell you, but it’ll cost. And it’s worth a penny or two, seeing as the wrong way will take you straight to my brothers, and there’s six of them and all hungry.”
“Shit,” said Alan very softly. Then aloud, “And your price? You’ll see I lead a party of defenceless females, and want no trouble nor mean to make any. I ask only a pointer to the right road, and don’t find that a task worth too demanding for a local.”
“Ten shillings, nor a farthing less,” called the man, still grinning. “It’s the cost of knowing the road and a deal more, for the wrong road sees you dead in a field and all your pretty mistresses on their backs with their skirts up to their necks, for me and my brothers ain’t had nor a decent meal nor a decent fuck in a week or more.”
Alan braced his shoulders and reached for the hilt of his sword. “No need for that language, since we’ve not threatened you, nor refused to pay.” His feet were out of the stirrups, but his hands remained tight on the reins.
Old Bill followed the lead and tumbled from the saddle, but he kept well back. Close behind and her voice trembling, Emeline whispered, “Mister Venter, I don’t have ten shillings. I have barely two. But we have a little jewellery between us, and though I’d hate the loss, I will gladly pay rather than risk such danger.”
Alan dug in his spurs and forcibly edged his horse one step nearer to the cross’s shadow. “We’re not rich travellers,” he called to the man. “Will you accept what we can pay? We’ll cause no trouble, I promise you.”
“But it’s trouble I want, seeing as it amuses me,” chuckled the man, “and I’ve no objection to a good fight, and welcome a brawl. You, my friend, I can kill in an instant, between me and my hound here, and I’ll soon have you swinging dead from the rope. Then I’ll do what I like with the women, and take from them whatever I wants. So you’ve nothing to bargain with, man. Pay, or fight.”
Bill heaved, exhaled, summoning courage, and called, “Two of us to one o’you, and though looking old maybe I does, but I fought in battles afore you was born, and can still wield a knife and throw a good aim.” But the dog sprang forwards, pulling against his leash, and started to bark.
Petronella was crying, her ungloved fingers fidgeting at the reins, ready to turn and gallop for her life. But the man laughed and stood, short, square shouldered, large hands still holding to his horse. He had pulled the dog back and now held to its collar, his sword now thrust through his belt and his eyes hidden beneath the old straw hat. Alan frowned. “Since your brothers aren’t here, it’s you against me and my friend here. Maybe your hound’s a mauler, but these ladies have husbands not far off, who will hear any call.”
“You’ve asked the way to Weymouth, being plenty far enough away for no folks to hear no girl’s screams.” The man shrugged, as if tired of the argument. “But my brothers, well they’d hear my whistle if I cared to make it, and would come running before Varmint here had you by the throat, mister. So make your choice, and if you means to pay, then make it quick before you tries my patience.”
The horses snorted and the wind shuffled in the trees beyond the clearing. The threadbare noose swung a little in the wind, then settled. Emeline whispered, “I’m not frightened, Mister Venter. He’s alone and we could be long gone before his brothers come running. If you judge that unwise, then offer the jewellery. My little broach is worth far more than ten shillings.”
Alan said, “My lady,” but paused. One of the horses, urged forwards with two small feet to its flanks and a screech that startled them all, pushed past then stopped suddenly and reared, panicked, hooves to the edges of the muddy pools. The halt was so abrupt that its rider, unseated, hurtled into the air, skirts flying, and landed heavily in the dirt. So Sysabel sat up in the slush, her little headdress of gauze netting toppled over, half blinding her, and her gown spread around. She scrambled to sit upright, gazing back then forwards. Twice she tried to rise to her feet but the weight of mud stuck to her skirts and she lost balance and fell more heavily into the boggy swill. The man on the opposite side was laughing loudly. His dog growled, but was held back.
Old Bill groaned and stumbled forwards as Alan Venter leapt from his saddle and stood, boots to the slime, reaching out, both hands stretching towards Sysabel. Too far out of reach, she tugged at her skirts, lost footing and slipped. The mud was more bog than pool. “Mistress,” Alan called, “it’s a quagmire. You struggle, you’ll be held ever tighter. Stay calm if you can, mistress, and reach out to me.”
Emeline gasped and dismounted, cautiously feeling her steps. Old Bill took her elbow. “Careful mistress, ’tis marsh, it is, and more dangerous than it looks.” Avice was silent, staring ahead, and Petronella and Hilda clung to their mounts, crying and terrified.
Sysabel turned, frantic, grabbing at nothing, sucked ever deeper. She kicked and the bog sucked again, great gulping dark mouths of slime embracing her. She began to scream, pummelling at the surface mud as the wet earth splashed back, coating her face and arms in filth. The thief continued to laugh. Alan stepped further into the swamp, each step cautious. He nearly touched her. Sysabel stared, mouth wide and screeching.
Emeline led her mare forwards. “Mister Venter,” she called, breathless, “if you hold to me and I hold to my horse, then we are braced. Can you go a little further then, even into the muck, and grab her? Then we can haul you both back.”
Avice jumped down beside her. “I’ll help. I’ll hold the horse and lead it backwards.”
The stranger beneath the cross called, “No, little mistress, come to me, for now I’m nearer. And ready I am, for my little house stands close, and there I’ll have you naked as a babe and wash your flesh clean enough for bedding. One little push more, and come to Varmint and your friend Reggie, seeing as both of us is hungry.” The dog was barking, straining against its master’s hold. It snapped and snarled, dripping saliva. Sysabel’s screams broke as her breath deserted her.
“The murderous thief can no more come to you through this bog, than we can, or be caught as the bastard he is,” Alan shouted. “Take no more account of the fool, and do as I say ladies. It’s calm will save us all.” He turned to Emeline. “Yours is the best solution, mistress, but rather than your hand, I’d sooner take Bill’s in case I pull you in.”
Bill stepped forwards, holding tight to his reins and reaching for Alan’s hand. Sysabel’s screams wheezed, her face white, and she heard nothing but the sucking squelch. She managed to find her knees, attempted the crawl, hands flat, one knees forwards, and with a gurgle of turgid water fell flat on her face. “Heaven help us,” cried Emeline, “she’ll drown in mud.”
Alan took Bill’s clammy grasp and inched into the mud, each step a slow laborious struggle against the weight of deep wet marsh. The watching stranger stood, legs braced to grab, one hand outstretched. But Sysabel was unreachable by either, her screams silenced, though her hands scrabbled to wipe the thick paste from her nose and mouth. The dog pulled against restraint. “Mindful of the bog I is all right,” chuckled the man, “but not my Varmint. Light enough, he is, to take a good bite from them fair plump tits. My pup to them puppies.”