Flynt eyed the black-clad men lined up on either side of the village’s main street. He counted ten but wasn’t certain how many others were threaded on foot around the village. On the cart, Will twisted round to watch him, his eyes understandably round with terror, but he managed to present at least some measure of calm. Good lad, Flynt thought, never let them see the fear, for in that they can sense victory. The noose draped about his neck was loose, not tightened, so that was something. He gave the lad what he hoped was a reassuring smile as he had Horse walk at an easy pace towards the inn.
Fitzgerald emerged, placing his hat upon his head and carrying his cane, followed by Moncrieff and the man Gabriel said had many names.
‘Jonas Flynt,’ said Fitzgerald, squinting up at him against the sun, ‘you have been something of an inconvenience.’
Flynt came to a halt. ‘My apologies, for it was my intention to be considerably more than a mere inconvenience.’
‘It would take better than a Scotch gutter rat with ideas above his station in life to discommode me in any serious way.’ He rested the cane on his shoulder as if it were musket while making a show of looking back along the road. ‘And where is the one named Gabriel Cain?’
‘Gone,’ Flynt said.
Fitzgerald’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He has deserted you?’
Flynt shrugged. ‘The quality of friendship these days is not what it was. He decided this was not his fight and so he left.’
‘After all he has done for you? Broken you free from my custody, helped you burn my barn, ambush my men?’
‘When we came upon your men’s handiwork at the lady’s farm, he decided this struggle was not for him.’
Fitzgerald considered Flynt’s words. ‘If you lie and he interferes it will not go well for the boy, you do understand that?’
The man with Moncrieff had amended his stance slightly, his eyes roaming to the hill beyond the village, a tiny frown striping his brow for a moment then vanishing. His hand drifted towards one of the pistols in his belt. The movement was marginal, little more than a flinch, but Flynt caught it and knew he must move the conversation away from Gabriel.
He ignored Fitzgerald and addressed his next words to Moncrieff. ‘What occurred on that farm was unnecessary.’
Moncrieff had the good grace to look away for a moment, his jaw tightening, and when his gaze returned to Flynt, he saw something that might have been regret.
‘My man Cooper thought it most necessary,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘He won’t be joining us, nor will his friend.’
‘You killed them?’
‘Let’s say they will not trouble ladies further with their unwanted attentions.’
‘And the, eh, lady?’
Flynt allowed a long moment to stretch. ‘She won’t be joining us either.’
Fitzgerald feigned sorrow and he stared across the green to the boy on the back of the cart. ‘Such a pity, the poor lad be orphan now. That is a circumstance we share.’
‘You share something else. You were the prime mover in the death of both your mother and his.’
Fitzgerald’s mournful expression vanished to be replaced with what might have been a fond smile, as if he was momentarily reliving the moment of his mother’s death. ‘We all have skills, Flynt. Now, I would have you step down from that fine steed, for we have business to which we must attend. I have not eaten since breakfast and am extreme gutfoundered.’
Flynt climbed down and tied Horse to the hitching post.
‘I forget my manners, however,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘Be you two acquainted? This handsome fellow is Lord James Moncrieff, the man who sent you to my domain.’ He made a show of looking from Flynt to Moncrieff. ‘By God, there be a strong resemblance, I think. Both dark-haired, both of similar height and build. You might be brothers.’
‘We do not share blood,’ Moncrieff said, flatly. Flynt couldn’t tell if it was because he was weary of making such a denial or due to antagonism between he and Fitzgerald, for he sensed something brittle in the air not explained simply by his own presence.
‘Of course not, such a notion be unthinkable,’ said Fitzgerald.
‘I do not know this other gentleman,’ Flynt said, nodding towards the bespectacled man at Moncrieff’s side.
‘You may call me Mr Lester,’ he said in a curiously high voice.
They studied one another as if each were predator and the other prey as Fitzgerald crooked a finger at one of his men. ‘Henry, be so good as to relieve Mr Flynt of his weapons. We wouldn’t want him to consider any form of aggression, would we? That would be most unpleasant and ill-advised, for if he did, it would be my pleasure to choose three random villagers and have them shot.’ His stare was level as he said to Flynt, ‘You do know I am capable of that, don’t you?’
Flynt handed the man Henry his pistols, then raised his arms to allow him to check his pockets, stealing a glance towards the watching villagers. His eyes locked with Old Ralph, who had emerged from his doorway, and the old man gave him a nod. Henry’s hands emerged from his pockets with Flynt’s tinderbox and dub, and then ran his fingers under his coat and down his legs, where he found Gabriel’s dagger thrust into his boot.
‘My,’ Fitzgerald said, ‘you do not travel light, do you?’
‘It’s a dangerous world.’
Fitzgerald lowered the cane from his shoulder. ‘This fine piece was, until recently, yours too.’ He examined it closely then twisted the handle to free the blade within. ‘A cunning device, to be sure.’
Flynt amended his position so he could look towards the elderly dyke builder who was now taking a casual walk away, exchanging a word or two here and there. ‘As I said, it’s a dangerous world.’
‘It is indeed, but that is something that will not concern you much longer.’ The blade was hidden once more and he tapped the cane against his neck.
‘I shall wish that returned,’ Flynt said.
Fitzgerald smiled. ‘Where you are going you will have no need for it.’
Flynt’s lips tightened. ‘Wherever I’m going, Lord Gallowmire, I’m confident you’ll be there ahead of me.’
Fitzgerald laughed, genuinely amused. ‘By God, I almost regret having to hang you. But hang you I will and right smartly.’
‘I thought I was to be tried,’ Flynt said, noting that Ralph had said something to Martha Harland as he passed and she and her husband were easing back towards the door of their home. Ralph disappeared behind a clutch of villagers in the direction of the church. Flynt looked for him no further. He knew where he was going.
‘You have tried my patience, sir, and that is sufficient for sentence to be passed.’
‘So, due process is to be ignored?’
A sigh, then Fitzgerald turned to a rotund little man who kept himself to the twilight between the sunlight and the inn’s exterior. ‘Justice Black has heard the evidence and sentenced you in absentia. Is that not so?’
The little man hesitated but then nodded and retreated immediately back to the darkness of the inn.
‘As you see, all proprieties have been observed.’ Fitzgerald waved to his man. ‘Bind him well for he is a tricky customer, then take him to the gallows pole.’
Pulling a length of rope from his pocket, Henry moved to do his master’s bidding, as Moncrieff asked, ‘And what of the boy? Where will he go, for he has no family now?’
‘That is not my concern, nor will it be the boy’s much longer. For it is my intention that he watch this man dangle and then he will follow. I want that half-blood whelp to witness his fate before he suffers it.’
Flynt fought the urge to lunge at Fitzgerald, knowing he wouldn’t get far before he was brought down and couldn’t risk being in any way incapacitated. He was gratified to see Moncrieff’s look of horror as he stepped forward. ‘You said you would set him free.’
‘I said I do not make empty threats.’
‘But Flynt has presented himself…’
Fitzgerald’s good humour vanished in an instant. ‘God’s teeth, Moncrieff, I have warned you before about questioning my authority on my own land. I will not allow the boy to live so that he may become a menace towards me in a few years. He is gypsy and the blood feud runs deep with his kind. Now, if you have no stomach for what has to be done then feel free to leave this place and allow me to bring this interlude to its belated conclusion.’
Moncrieff’s fury was clear in the tight set of his mouth and the continuing tension in his jaw but his eyes, when he dragged them from Fitzgerald to meet Flynt’s, were deeply troubled. It was obvious that he was unhappy with the turn of events. Had he not been the one who had set this entire plan in motion, Flynt would have felt sorry for him.
‘Blood feud also runs deep with my race,’ Flynt said, observing other villagers almost casually melt away to their homes. ‘As you shall see presently.’
Fitzgerald laughed. ‘By God, such braggadocio is impressive. I hope you die as well as you talk, sir.’
His arms now secured behind his back, Flynt was propelled across the green towards the gallows pole. The boy watched them approach, still scared but his eyes questioning as to what was occurring.
‘Fear not, boy,’ Fitzgerald strode ahead of them waving Flynt’s cane like a banner, ‘your saviour is here!’
Flynt craned his neck to address Moncrieff walking behind. ‘I trust you are pleased with your handiwork. Fitzgerald is not of right mind, so he at least has some form of excuse, not that it will assist him when the time comes, but you are motivated only by self-interest and hatred. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, you should pray that it is sufficient salve to your conscience for the evil you have wrought.’
Moncrieff blinked a few times but couldn’t meet Flynt’s gaze. Beside him, Lester remained alert, his head turning this way and that as if expecting attack. Ahead of them all, Fitzgerald seemed to be enjoying himself.
The man holding the cart horse’s bridle jumped up beside Will, slipped the noose from around his neck and carried him from the cart. Flynt glanced to his left to where the bulk of Fitzgerald’s forces had ranged themselves, seeing a new rider emerge from a small passageway between two houses to join them, but keeping a distance, his hat down low, his shoulders hunched. Flynt hid a smile, then gave the pale, solemn-faced boy a wink.
‘Keep the faith, Will,’ Flynt said. ‘All is not lost yet.’
That provoked a laugh from Fitzgerald but Lester caught something in Flynt’s tone that made him come to a halt, one hand resting on Moncrieff’s arm to hold him back, the other finding the butt of a pistol as he continued to cautiously take close note of all around them. His presence and reaction proved three things to Flynt: that he was a professional, and that he was employed by Moncrieff and not Fitzgerald.
The third was that, if what Jonathan Wild had told him was true, he was not the Wraith.
Henry pushed him onto the back of the cart then climbed up to take the noose in his hand. The skin of Flynt’s neck began to itch, an unpleasant sensation, and for the first time he grew anxious, even though he knew this was the way it was to be. Even though Henry had not yet draped it around his neck, he had never before been this close to the hemp, had always feared its touch, believing that one day it would take him, and here he was, gambling that this was not that moment.
Fitzgerald himself took hold of the bridle of the horse and rested the cane on its flank. ‘As you be a stickler for the proprieties, Flynt, it is customary for the condemned to say some final words. Do you have any?’
Flynt looked away, as if taking a moment to consider, but searching for the black rider he had seen before. He had left the line of horsemen and was ambling towards them, his hat still low. The villagers’ numbers had depleted considerably, as if they had an urgent appointment to attend. Old Ralph would have reached his destination by now. It was time, he thought.
‘Well, Flynt? What final utterance do you have?’
Flynt settled on the nobleman. ‘Hell’s fury, Fitzgerald.’
‘You promised that before and yet, there you are, staring into the abyss,’ he raised the cane slightly, ‘and here I am with the means of plunging you into that abyss in my hand.’
Flynt forced a smile. ‘Are you acquainted with the words of the poet John Donne, Lord Gallowmire?’
Fitzgerald was puzzled. ‘Poetry, Flynt, is that what fills your mind at this moment?’
‘All life is poetry, Fitzgerald…’
And that was when the church bell rang out, causing Fitzgerald to whirl in shock in shock.
‘Send not for whom the bell tolls, you mad bastard,’ Flynt said, ‘it tolls for thee…’