Flynt watched from a distance as the lone rider approached.
He had found an ideal vantage point among the rocks to survey the moorland surrounding them. Those who had rebelled centuries before had chosen their refuge well, for there was an uninterrupted view and it would be impossible during daylight hours for anyone to approach without being detected. He had studied the man on horseback through his spyglass but he was not yet close enough to make an identification. He glanced down to the enclosure, saw that Gabriel was stretched on his blanket, his head on his saddle, his hat over his eyes. He was the very picture of leisure, with his feet crossed at the ankles and his fingers threaded together on his chest. His slumber would be light, but Flynt decided to let him bide there until he could ascertain if the rider was friend or foe. He settled against the rocks, the aches from his beating little more than a memory now, thanks to whatever was in that concoction of Masilda’s. However, there was still a little power left in them and he was grateful to have some leisure.
As he watched the figure make his way across the fells, Flynt thought of the situation in which he had found himself and whether he could have done anything to avoid it, apart from following Gabriel’s advice to flee this land – an opinion that he had again shared following the gathering the previous night. His life had a way of leading him into such situations whether he wished them to or not. Certainly, had he not chosen to travel the path of the highwayman he might not have given Colonel Charters the opportunity to hold a baseless charge over his head, a charge he now knew was also being held, with some merit, over Gabriel’s. Flynt had not yet decided what he would do in that regard. Men and women were condemned on spurious evidence of crimes they did not commit with some regularity, for any laws that were created by man could easily be subverted by man, so the fact that he was innocent of the assault mattered not a whit. Lord Gallowmire was an example of this. From all reports he had danced free of any repercussion for his crimes thanks to his position and influence. And so he would continue. Unless he was stopped.
It occurred to him that had he not dragged Charters from the mud and blood of Malplaquet he might also have avoided this current situation, for then he would not have drawn the man’s attention and therefore would not have been recruited to the Company of Rogues. However, such speculation was pointless for, as a saying of his homeland would have it, what’s for you, won’t go by you. Call it fate, call it destiny, call it the will of a God in which he didn’t believe, this was the way it was and he had to deal with it the only way he knew how.
He squinted through the spyglass again and saw it was Andrew Drummond who approached, and at a fair pace, too. Whatever had brought him here in broad daylight, it was important.
Unease caused his flesh to tingle. Something had occurred. And whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
Drummond’s expression when he drew level confirmed his fears.
‘You’d better come with me,’ he said. ‘It’s Masilda…’
The first thing they saw as they crossed the stream to approach Oak Beck Farm was the door lying ajar. Nothing stirred. No smoke floated from the chimney. Flynt scanned the hill beyond the farmhouse to where the stones marking the graves of the Chilcott family stood and saw no movement.
‘Perhaps she isn’t here,’ Drummond said with more hope than conviction.
It was possible, Flynt thought, but something told him it was not the case. She was here, he was convinced of that, but given what Drummond had told them, she might not be alive.
He drew a pistol and Gabriel did the same, then wheeled his horse towards the barn. Drummond reached under his coat and came out with a third.
The innkeeper saw his quizzical expression. ‘It’s time I did something. I can no longer allow things to simply occur. After today’s events, I have to take a stand. I can only pray I am not alone.’
Flynt gave him a brief nod of thanks and nudged Horse ahead, alert for any sign of ambush. Gabriel had pulled the barn door open without dismounting and peered inside. He shook his head and headed back to rejoin them.
‘Masilda!’ Flynt called out. ‘It’s Jonas and Gabriel, we’re with Andrew Drummond.’
There was no response, just the song of birds and that gave them no clue. If any Fitzgerald men lurked then they were in no hurry to make their move. Flynt swung down from the saddle and moved to the farmhouse door, drawing his second pistol. He halted, listened for sound from within, heard nothing. He pushed it open further with the toe of his boot, peered inside. The small room beyond was in shadow, a square of sunlight falling through the window to land on the stove, which appeared dead. A bench sat before it and a crude table with two chairs sat in the centre of the room. A large wooden cupboard that had perhaps been handed down for generations took up the other wall. He moved his position slightly to peep round the door, his eyes resting on a curtained area opposite. That would be where Masilda and Will slept, he presumed, and if she was here that was where he would find her. He already knew where the boy was. He stepped inside.
He motioned Gabriel and Drummond to keep watch and stepped across the threshold before again coming to a standstill on the earth floor. Still no sound greeted him, the only movement a slight flutter of the curtain ahead, the result of a window allowing in the summer breeze. He moved forward again, fearful of what he might find beyond that makeshift doorway. He held his breath, counted to three, then, using the barrel of one pistol to flick the fabric aside, stepped into the bedchamber, ready to bring down any of Fitzgerald’s men he found there.
It was Cooper he saw, but he was beyond shooting. He lay on his back on the bed, his mouth open as if screaming, his eyes wide but seeing nothing, his body peppered with puncture wounds, a blade buried in a throat that oozed blood like a crimson neckerchief.
‘What do you find, Jonas?’ Gabriel’s voice, yelling from the farmyard. Flynt took a final look around the room, then one more at Cooper’s body, feeling no sadness at the man’s passing, and walked back out to the sunlight.
‘Masilda’s not here,’ he said.
A horse approaching the farmhouse from the rear made them all whirl, pistols at the ready. Drummond’s hand trembled and he was obviously fearful but he didn’t run, which was heartening. The horse walked into view and relief flooded through Flynt’s body.
‘I’m here,’ Masilda said from the saddle. ‘I had to catch this beast, for it had bolted.’ She paused, her eyes filling with tears but she held them back, her face tight. ‘They took Will.’
‘We know.’
That was what Drummond had come to tell them, that Fitzgerald had arrived in the village with the boy held captive and two strangers forming part of his company. He had left immediately for Masilda’s farm but had seen one of the riders standing guard so had ridden to fetch Flynt and Gabriel.
‘Cooper?’ Flynt had no need to say anything further.
Masilda’s lips thinned. ‘He entered my bedchamber uninvited. I saw to it that he will not do so again.’
Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Flynt but it was plain he understood what had happened. Drummond, though, was perplexed.
‘I killed him, Andrew,’ Masilda explained. ‘There is another of Fitzgerald’s brutes out back, who I shot with this.’ She held up her musket. ‘I was not so accurate as I was with my blade so wounded him only as he fled. Samson it was who brought him down and finished him off.’
They all looked at the dog now standing between her and them, his muzzle still stained with blood. Flynt took note not to irritate the animal in the future.
‘I caught this horse because mine is a cart horse and not saddle trained,’ Masilda continued. ‘Fitzgerald’s men all have fine steeds. That devil has my son and I will get him back.’
She spurred the horse into motion and whistled for Samson to follow. Flynt gave the interior of the house a final look and climbed back into the saddle, as if expecting Cooper to rise from the dead.
Drummond looked ill at ease. ‘What about the dead men?’
‘Let them lie,’ Flynt said, his voice flat. ‘They’re not going anywhere and they are beyond caring.’ He jerked the reins a little to turn Horse to follow Masilda, who was crossing the brook. ‘We must look to the living.’