Moncrieff had no wish to accompany Fitzgerald and his men that morning but the man threw his own challenge back in his face. He had entered his chamber unannounced and before any protest could be made of such a breach of hospitality, he informed him of his plan. Moncrieff had listened with mounting horror but Fitzgerald regarded him with scorn.
‘You instructed me to ensure that Flynt is returned to my custody forthwith, my lord,’ he had said, his mouth in a tight line, the emphasis on the words ‘my lord’ weighted heavily with disrespect. ‘This will bring him to us.’
‘This is a most drastic step you take,’ Moncrieff had protested. ‘A pretence of such magnitude would…’
Lord Gallowmire’s smile was crooked, raising only one side of his mouth. ‘What makes you believe it be pretence, sir?’
‘You would surely not…’
‘I assure you that I do not make empty threats, but I do make promises. If Flynt does not bring himself forward then I will do as I say. Remember, this course of action has been formulated in response to your own order and therefore I would think you would wish to be present.’
Moncrieff felt something within him break as that truth hit home once again but he reasoned that perhaps if he were present he might somehow contrive to prevent this lunatic from carrying out the dire act he had outlined.
And so they had set out when the sun had not yet lightened the sky, a line of twelve dark-clad men, Fitzgerald at their head, Lester beside Moncrieff, as silent as ever. They rode at a steady pace through an early morning mist that hung like a winding sheet around the countryside, stifling the clip of the horses’ hooves on ground made solid by many weeks of heat. The air gradually lightened as they travelled and he was able to make out the dark trunks and boughs of trees close to the trail but nothing more, though he knew the mist would soon lift. He fancied he already saw it begin to swirl a little as if the beams of sunlight forcing their way through had stirred them up.
An aged oak loomed ahead of them and two men cut themselves free of the company to trot into the mist. The remainder splashed across a brook to where the land rose gradually towards the slowly forming outlines of a small farmhouse and a barn. Fitzgerald motioned for his men to fan out on either side of him but did not order them to dismount. He sat easily in his saddle, his reins held in one gloved hand, the other resting in his thigh.
And so they waited, the mist continuing to thin and evaporate as the sun grew in strength. Birds sang. Behind them the brook bubbled over rocks. A trickle of smoke rose from the farmhouse chimney. One of the horses stirred a little, prancing out of line with a whinny, and the rider guided it back into place with a tug of the reins and a hoarse word.
And still they waited.
What on earth was the man waiting for, Moncrieff wondered? But Fitzgerald remained motionless as if posing for a portrait on horseback, his eyes on the door.
And then the door opened and a woman appeared. She was tall and slim, her dark hair loose about her shoulders, her complexion either naturally dark or the result of exposure to the elements. She levelled an aged firearm at them, a black and white dog emerging from the house behind, its stance betraying tension. The face of a young boy peered through the slightly open door, his eyes wide. Knowing what was about to occur, guilt again pierced Moncrieff’s chest. What on earth was he doing here? He should have taken his chances on the road south, to hell with Lester and his professional pride.
The woman risked a glance behind her and said something Moncrieff could not hear and the boy ducked back, closing the door. She returned her attention swiftly to the riders lined up like phantoms in the mist.
‘Good morning,’ Fitzgerald said, sweeping his hat off like a gallant, but to Moncrieff it was all artifice, for he knew of his dark intentions.
‘You are not welcome here,’ the woman said, wasting no time on niceties, her voice carrying an accent that was not native to this land.
‘Nonetheless, here we are,’ he said, returning his hat to his head. ‘Where is he?’
‘Where is who?’
‘Come, madame, let us not play games, we are too far down the road for that. We want him and we shall have him. He is long overdue to face justice.’
‘There is no justice in this place.’
Fitzgerald smiled. ‘Not justice then. Perhaps the correct word is vengeance. Now, madame, we shall delay no further. Where is Jonas Flynt?’
‘Who?’
‘Please, my dear woman, don’t be coy with us. He has taken refuge somewhere on my land and given he came to your assistance recently I believe it safe to assume that refuge is here.’
‘This is not your land.’
Fitzgerald chuckled. ‘Yet. It is not my land yet.’
‘It will never be yours as long as I draw breath.’
‘On that point we agree. Now, where is Jonas Flynt?’
‘If you speak of he who interfered in my conversation with your man Cooper then I have not seen him since.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I care not what you believe. Your men have already searched my farm and they found nothing.’
Moncrieff knew Fitzgerald had not expected to find Flynt here and so was unsurprised when he accepted her word easily. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘To other business then.’
‘What other business?’
‘You have already touched upon it, my dear. The current ownership, for want of a better term, of this land. It is by rights mine.’
‘It was given to my husband’s family by…’
Fitzgerald cut her off. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but I simply do not accept that the transaction was legal.’
‘Then have the law attend to it.’
This provoked a tut from him. ‘I could do that very thing and I would win the suit, but I find such formalities so very tedious. I much prefer a more direct approach.’
The woman’s smile was grim as she kept her barrel aimed directly at Fitzgerald. ‘So the day has come then?’
‘It has. I confess it has taken me longer than I had planned but I have been devilish busy of late.’
‘You may well speak of the devil, Philip Fitzgerald. They say the devil is the dark one but I know him to be reddish of hair and fair of flesh and to sport manners that belie his true nature.’
Fitzgerald shrugged away any suggestion that he carried satanic blood in his veins. Moncrieff could feign faith better than most men, even though he suspected it to be mere poppycock first generated by churches to control minds, but even he sensed something more than mere instability of reason in Fitzgerald. If there was evil in this world, he sat at its side this day.
‘Nonetheless,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘I have come to claim what I am due.’
‘The only thing you are due from me is the content of this musket.’
He laughed. ‘Ah, Masilda my dear, there is the reason I have not made my move until now. Spirit. A fine wildcat spirit, you have. But wildcats are dangerous and must be caught and dealt with.’
‘Come closer, I will show you my claws,’ she said, pulling the stock of the weapon tighter to her shoulder.
Still smiling, Fitzgerald made a show of a deep sigh then waved a languid hand. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said.
The men, apart from Fitzgerald himself, Moncrieff and Lester, all drew pistols and pointed them directly at the woman.
She seemed unimpressed. ‘That matters little, for I suspect you will kill me anyway. Whether I succumb to a pistol ball or the gallows pole it makes no difference. But you may rest assured that I will drop you from that saddle before I go.’
‘You may take me, you may not. I have seven pistols aimed at you and it requires only one to find its mark. That said, you are destined neither for pistol ball nor gallows pole.’
‘Then for what am I destined?’
‘Would it interest you to know that my man Cooper has expressed an interest in you?’
Her eyes ranged along the line of horsemen. ‘I see him not.’
‘Ah yes, how remiss of me. Joshua, be so good as to reveal yourself, will you?’
The door opened and Cooper emerged armed with a brace of pistols along with another man carrying the boy in one arm, his other brandishing a firearm which he aimed at the woman. The boy struggled but was held fast. Cooper aimed a pistol at the dog, which had whirled and was clearly preparing to leap.
‘Keep thy cur down, lass, or I swear I will end him,’ the man promised.
‘Shoot the damn creature anyway, Cooper,’ Fitzgerald ordered.
When the man made to comply, the woman emitted a low whistle and said, ‘Fly, Samson. Go to the hill.’
The dog was already in motion, darting to the left, so Cooper’s ball buried itself in the ground with a puff of dust. He bellowed and followed the animal as it sped around the side of the house, but before he could fire his second weapon, the dog had vanished into the mist. Cooper swung his pistol towards Masilda, who had trained the barrel of her musket on him.
‘Let’s not be foolish, Masilda,’ Fitzgerald said, as if bored by the proceedings. ‘You may take down poor Joshua but we will still have the boy.’
‘You came here for me, leave my son be.’
‘I don’t recall saying I was here for you. Cooper is the one who wants you. I confess I had entertained thoughts of lying with you myself, for you have a certain exotic appeal, but in the end it is most unbecoming for a man of my bloodstock to soil himself with a filthy gypsy. I am here solely for the boy.’
She seemed taken aback and took her eyes from Cooper to look over her shoulder at Fitzgerald. ‘What do you wish with my son?’
For the first time Moncrieff heard fear tremble in her words.
‘My intentions with regard to the whelp need not concern you. Now, put up your weapon and we shall proceed with our business with no further ado. I grow weary of this.’
Her resolve returned and she ignored his order, keeping her musket aimed directly at Cooper. Moncrieff could not help but admire her, for she had courage. How many men, when faced with such odds, would continue their defiance? He glanced at Fitzgerald’s face, but it betrayed nothing, no anger, no weariness. He was calm, his tone measured, as if he knew there was only one way this interlude would end. Unfortunately, Moncrieff also knew where all this was destined to lead and it did not bode well for this woman and her son. He swallowed back his revulsion, wishing he could think of something to do.
‘Very well,’ Fitzgerald said, his voice remaining conversational. ‘Cooper, be so good as to put a ball in the boy’s head.’
Cooper smiled, but before he could move the woman took a step closer to him. ‘Move that pistol, Joshua, and it will be the last you ever make.’
Fitzgerald sighed again. ‘Masilda, my dear, this is becoming dreary in the extreme. You have to see that your situation is hopeless.’
There was a long moment of silence, during which the woman must have weighed up her options. Yes, she could take Cooper if he edged his pistol any further in her son’s direction. But if she did, she would be dead and Fitzgerald would still have the boy. Moncrieff contemplated what he would do if he was in her position and when she reluctantly lowered her weapon he knew it was that. But then, he did not yet have a son to protect. Perhaps if he had, he would think differently.
Cooper moved swiftly to take the musket from her and jerked his head to his companion to take the boy to Fitzgerald. The lad struggled but, Moncrieff realised, had not made a sound throughout, leading him to believe that he was mute. The woman stretched out a hand towards him as he passed but a back-handed slap from Cooper sent her sprawling into the dirt.
‘I suspect Cooper is not a gentle lover, madame,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I regret that what lies ahead of you will not be comfortable.’
The blow had been powerful and painful but her eyes remained fiery as she looked up at him. ‘I will endure it.’
‘Endure it, perhaps. Survive it, perhaps not.’
Moncrieff could maintain his silence no longer. He leaned closer to Fitzgerald. ‘Good God, man, is this necessary?’
Fitzgerald’s cold eyes swivelled towards him. ‘Inevitable, I would say. My man Cooper has coveted this gypsy whore since she was brought here by her husband. She would die either way. He might as well take his pleasures first.’
Fitzgerald watched as the boy was handed to one of the men and draped unceremoniously across his saddle. The lad’s exertions to break free were rewarded with a heavy blow to the back of the head and the boy was still. Moncrieff winced. The woman Masilda leaped to her feet and darted towards the horses but Cooper was upon her with a few easy strides and brought her down with the butt of his pistol between her shoulders. Moncrieff winced again. With a cry of agony and frustration, she pitched forward on her hands and knees.
‘I would comply, if I were you,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘It will be so much easier.’ He turned his attention to Cooper. ‘When you have had your fill of her, attend to me in Gallowmire. We end this charade with the man Flynt today.’ He aimed a finger at the man who had carried the boy. ‘You remain here, too.’
He wheeled his horse and led his men back towards the brook. Moncrieff edged his horse closer to the woman who remained on all fours, watching them carry her son away, her face taut with the effort not to plead for mercy, but her eyes betraying her anguish, he suspected not for her plight but for whatever his lordship had in mind for the boy.
‘I regret this affair, madame,’ he said.
She turned her eyes on him and hatred kindled. She spat at the ground beneath his horse’s hooves. ‘To damnation with you and your regrets, sir. You ride with that devil so you are as bad as he.’
Moncrieff could think of nothing to say in his defence, for there was no defence. What she said was true. He turned his horse’s head to find Lester watching him. As he drew level with him, Lester said quietly, ‘You set this in motion, my lord. You cannot stop it now.’
The woman’s curses made him look back to see Cooper forcing her to the farmhouse. She writhed in his hands and clawed at his face, causing him to curse then deliver a powerful blow to her face. She fell limp and he half carried, half dragged her the rest of the way, telling his companion to stay where he was. Moncrieff felt bile rise and he looked away again. Lester, as ever, was unmoved.
‘Then she is correct,’ Moncrieff said, his voice strained. ‘I am heading for damnation…’