Bond servants were supposed to have rights under English law, but Sarah soon learned that no one cared for the rights of a bond girl. She had naively believed the law would protect her when she fled King's Landing and reported the rape to the High Sheriff in Talbot Courthouse. But the sheriff had turned a deaf ear to her pleas, had returned her to her master, and then stood by dispassionately while Obediah beat her unconscious.
The second time she ran away, she got as far as Chestertown. That time, Obediah beat her publicly with a horsewhip and threatened her with branding. Already pregnant with his child, Sarah knew she couldn't survive another lashing. She gave up trying to escape.
Sarah stopped and stared. She had come to the end of the corn row. Behind her, the cornstalks lay scattered like so many fallen soldiers. With a low moan, she flung the corn knife away and ran across the stubble toward the riverbank.
For nearly an hour she sat by the river, letting the rush of the water ease her aching heart. Little by little the hurt and anger receded, replaced by a calm acceptance.
"No use crying over spilt milk," her father had always said. Sarah knew he had been right. The past was only that . . . the past. Thinking about Obediah and her stepfather served no purpose other than to bring her unhappiness. She had made a new life for herself and her son; that was what was important. She had survived. She and Joshua had both survived.
~~~
Dusk was already casting a violet mantle over King's Landing when Sarah stepped from the barn with a bucket of warm milk. Red-and-gold autumn leaves crunched under her feet as she strode toward the kitchen door, and the air was rich with the scent of ripe apples.
She paused for a moment, cradling the wooden bucket against one hip, and listened to the peaceful song of the coming night. The clear, sweet notes of a mockingbird's call blended with the resounding dirge of a deep-throated bullfrog on the riverbank. From the cornfield came the raucous cawing of two quarreling crows, wheeling and diving over the neat shocks of corn. The chickens had ceased their incessant clucking and were silent, already climbing onto their roosts and tucking their heads under their wings. Joshua had taken the mule; the only noises from the barn were the crackle of fodder as Bessie the cow pulled it from the manger and the rhythmic thump of her swinging tail against the back wall of the stall.
“Polly!" Sarah called. "Polly!" She listened, but there was no familiar honk. Where is that stupid goose? Sarah wondered. No matter how far Polly and her goslings wandered during the day while foraging for insects and tender shoots of grass, they usually returned to the farmyard well before dark. The woods were full of raccoons and foxes, even an occasional lynx or black bear. The forest belonged to the hunters at night; it was no place for a sensible goose and her offspring. "Polly!"
To Sarah's surprise, she heard an answering call.
"Hullo! Hullo, the landing!"
Flirt began to bark. She ran around the corner of the house, baying loudly, the pups in hot pursuit.
Sarah hurried into the kitchen, dropped the bucket on a chair, and covered it with a bit of clean linen. Taking Obediah's loaded pistol from her new hiding place and shoving it into the pocket beneath her apron, she went through the public room and out the front door.
A small sloop bumped against her dock. A stranger, wearing a seaman's black kerchief and worn petticoat trousers, was busy securing the sloop's lines to the mooring posts. Behind him, a second man, in a torn red-and-green military jacket, was climbing onto the dock. Sarah counted another three men in the boat.
"Weel," a man in the boat called as he spied Sarah. "Wha's this? A welcomin' party?" His accent was Northumbrian and so heavy that Sarah could hardly make out his words.
Flirt was still barking at the men. Sarah gave a sharp order and slapped the side of her skirt. Instantly, the big hound came to her side and crouched there. One pup followed. The others ran back toward the house.
Sarah watched uneasily as the rest of the men climbed from the boat. They were all dirty and unshaven; one had a bloody bandage wrapped around his arm.
"This be King's Landin'?" the sailor demanded.
"It is," she replied. Her uneasiness was fast turning to fear. The torn uniforms were English, but these men belonged to no regular unit. Where was their officer? "I am Mistress Turner," she said boldly. "My husband stands firm for the king."
"Weel, ain't thet nice?" the Northumbrian leered, showing broken yellow front teeth.
Sarah's hand tightened on the pistol in her pocket. There were five men, all heavily armed, and she was alone. "Are you Lord Howe's men?"
A young man with greasy blond hair laughed. "Howe's men?" he echoed. "Lord Howe don't wipe his hairy arse wi'out us'en's say so, eh, Gil?"
The man with the bandaged arm nodded and joined in the laughter. "Ye got good rum here, wench? Ye got more doxies in there with tits as big as yers?"
Anger surged through Sarah. "Mind your filthy tongue," she snapped back. "I'm a decent, married woman and no whore. My husband and his brother will be back from their hunting any minute. Food and drink I can offer you at a fair price, but that's all I sell." She motioned toward the open tavern door. "If you've a thirst, come in and sit."
"Ye be saucy fer a rebel slut," Gil said.
Sarah gave him a frosty stare. "I told you, we are Loyalists here."
"Aye, ain't they all," the sailor quipped.
Turning her back on them Sarah walked calmly away into the tavern. The big hound trotted close by her side. Sarah didn't have to look back to know that the men were following. It was important not to let them see her fear. They were like a pack of wild dogs; if she showed weakness or tried to run, they would be on her in an instant.
Five desperate men. Deserters all, unless she missed her guess. Sarah's mind scrambled to find a way to survive. These men would not hesitate to murder her. If they were deserters, they were under a death sentence if they were caught by either army. She glanced out a window toward the empty backyard. For once, she would have been glad to see Isaac's ugly face.
"I've hard cider and apple brandy," she announced loudly. The brandy was newly made and not likely to carry much of a kick, but there was no need to tell the men that. "Give me a few minutes, and I'll have a hot meal on the table."
"Beef!" the Northumbrian bellowed. "We've 'ad 'nough o' salt pork an' wormy biscuit!"
"Aye," the sailor agreed. " 'Twas more meat in ta bread t'an in ta peas."
"I've venison and fish if you don't favor the pork," Sarah replied, placing a small cider keg and wooden mugs on the table. To her distress, she counted only three men in the room. Where were the other two?
"None of yer cider," Gil protested. "Rum, we wants rum!"
"Then blame the bloody war," Sarah flung back. "I've had no shipments of rum in months. What ale I have is green and not fit to drink yet."
Gil put a dirty hand on Sarah's leg and brought his face close to hers. His breath was foul, and she tried not to gag as she jerked away.
"Time fer that later, eh?" he said suggestively.
"Shipmates share an' share alike." The sailor gulped his mug of cider and wiped his mouth on a bloodstained sleeve. "You'd not want to keep such a sweet bird t' yerself, would ye, mate?"
A musket roared outside and Sarah flinched. She would have run out to see who was shooting, but the Northumbrian caught her arm and spun her toward him.
"Give us a buss, luv," he demanded. Forcing Sarah's arm behind her back, he pulled her close and ground his mouth harshly against hers.
Sarah gave him a sharp kick in the shins, and he wrenched her arm harder. Tears of pain sprang into her eyes, and she struggled to free herself. Behind her, she heard Flirt growl a warning. "No!" she cried, but it was too late. Snarling, the hound bitch threw herself at the Northumbrian and seized his arm between her slashing teeth.
The Northumbrian screamed. He let go of Sarah and beat at the enraged dog with his free fist. The force of the animal's savage charge knocked him down, and they rolled over and over
on the floor. The sailor pulled a pistol from his belt and smashed at the hound's head. Sarah heard a pup give a yelp of pain as men pushed over the table to get at the hound.
Suddenly, the sailor fired his pistol. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of powder. Flirt howled once and fell back against the floor, thrashing helplessly with her front paws. Sarah dropped to her knees beside the wounded dog. "You shot her!" she cried out. "You shot my dog!"
The Northumbrian staggered to his feet, bleeding from a dozen places. A wide gash along one cheek lay open to the bone, and one mangled hand hung limp and useless. "Damn ye," he cursed. "Ye rebel bitch . . . "
Weeping, Sarah lifted Flirt's head. The dog's eyes were shut and she could detect no sign of breathing. Dark blood pulsed from the animal's side. "Flirt . . . Flirt," Sarah moaned under her breath.
"What's amiss?" The door from the kitchen was flung back with a crash. Sarah's head snapped around to see the missing two men standing in the doorway.
The first man entered the room, glanced from the injured Northumbrian to Sarah on the floor, and laughed. "On yer feet, woman," he ordered, "and cook this meat." He stepped aside and the second man tossed a bloody haunch onto the wide-planked floor.
With a shudder, Sarah recognized the fawn-colored hide clinging to the meat. Bessie . . . They had slaughtered her cow. Slowly, she released Flirt's head and rose to her feet. A red haze of fury clouded her vision as her fingers sought the cold steel of the flintlock pistol beneath her apron.
"Well, don't thet just—" The sailor stopped, mouth open, as he spied the pistol in Sarah's hand.
"So, the rebel slut has claws, does she?" Gil said. Menacingly, he pulled a knife from his waistband and took a step in Sarah's direction. "I likes a wench wi' spirit, I does."
The sailor jeered. "Take 'er, Gil. Cut 'er, but don't mess 'er up too bad. We'd not want our sport to end too quick, would we now?"
"I'll shoot," Sarah warned. "I'll kill the first man that takes a step toward me."
"Ye've only one shot." The Northumbrian's breath rasped as he glared at Sarah with murderous intent. "There be five of us, an' ye 'ave but one shot."
Sarah took a step backward, trying to keep the heavy pistol level. "One shot," she agreed. "But enough to send one of you straight to hell. Which one shall it be?"
Gil scoffed. "Ye haven't got the nerve."
"Don't I?" Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper. "Try me," she dared, edging toward the door that led to the entranceway.
"Take 'er," the sailor urged. "Be ye afraid of a whinin' slut?"
"She ain't got t' balls t' shoot," the Northumbrian wheezed.
"Cut her from ear to ear," the sailor in the doorway called.
"And spoil our funnin'?" his companion with the greasy blond hair asked. "What's wrong, Gil? Scared to take 'er pistol away? If she be too much fer ye, I'll tame 'er fer ye."
The men crowded close behind Gil. His eyes narrowed and he crouched low in a knife-fighter's stance, tossing the glittering blade easily from hand to hand.
Sweat broke out on Sarah's forehead and her breath came in ragged gasps. Her arms ached from the strain of holding the flintlock. For an instant, the image of Joshua's face flashed across her mind.
"Don't make me," she begged. "Please. Don't make me shoot you."
Gil lunged toward her, and Sarah squeezed the trigger.
Chapter Eight
War Comes to Sarah’s Tavern
The roar of the old flintlock was deafening. A puff of acrid smoke billowed up between Sarah and the angry men. She didn't wait to see Gil fall; she knew her pistol ball had taken him full in the chest. Instinctively, she dashed through the open door and out of the house.
Wood splintered inches from her head as someone behind her fired a musket. Clutching the smoking pistol in her hand, she fled across the yard directly into the path of a galloping horse.
Sarah screamed as the rider sawed at the reins. The horse reared, his thrashing forelegs barely missing her head. Sarah threw up her arms to protect herself as the horseman leveled a musket and fired.
A man shrieked, and Sarah snapped her head around to see the blond-haired deserter fall facedown on the grass. An iron hand closed around her arm and she was dragged up onto the plunging horse.
She struck out blindly at her attacker with her pistol, kicking and screaming, until a repeated word pierced her terror.
"Sarah! Sarah!"
Dangling head down across the front of the saddle, she twisted around to catch a glimpse of her captor's face. A black patch covered one eye. "Forest!" she cried.
Shots were flying around them like hail as Forest lashed the horse across the rump with the leather reins and yanked its head around. The horse gave a great leap forward and began to run.
The ground sped past Sarah's head at a dizzying rate. The edge of the saddle dug into her stomach, and she felt as though she was going to throw up. They had nearly reached the edge of the trees when the horse gave a mighty shudder and fell back on his haunches.
"He's hit!" Forest screamed. "Jump!" Forest jerked her up and flung her away from the staggering horse.
For an instant she was in the air, and then she hit the ground with stunning force. She knew she must get up and run, but her body refused to respond.
The horse reared again, the saddle empty and streaked with blood. Red-flecked foam sprayed from the animal's flared nostrils, and his wheezing cries of agony echoed through the farmyard.
Sarah's shocked mind slowly registered the empty saddle, and her lips formed a name beneath her breath. "Forest?" She reached for her fallen pistol, pushed herself up to a sitting position, and looked around.
"Are you crazy?" Forest grabbed her arm and dragged her behind the fallen horse. Without waiting for an answer, he shoved a dueling pistol and shot bag into her hand. "Reload," he ordered.
Sarah raised her head to peer over the back of the animal, and Forest shoved her face into the dirt.
"Keep your head down, damn it!" He raised a musket over the horse and fired.
A cry of pain came from the direction of the house, and Forest made a grunt of satisfaction. "What do you think you're doing, fighting this war single-handed?" He pulled the pistol from her hand and began to reload. "How many of them are there?"
"F-five, I think," she stammered. The heavy scent of fresh blood from the dying horse made her stomach lurch. "I . . . I think I'm going to be sick."
"Don't you dare." Forest glanced sideways at her. "Are you hurt?"
Sarah drew in a long breath and shook her head. Every muscle in her body felt as though someone had been pounding it with a hammer. A long scrape along her leg smarted, there was a raw place on her arm, and she'd bitten the inside of her mouth when she fell off the horse. "I'm fine . . . never better," she answered sarcastically. Without being told, she began to reload her own empty pistol.
"Easy on the powder," Forest ordered. "We want to kill them, not us."
Another musket ball passed overhead, and Sarah flinched.
"Keep down."
"Where have you been?" she asked, staring at him. Forest had shaved off the beard, and the face beneath it was younger than she had suspected. "Why did—"
"This isn't the time, Sarah." Forest fired again and reached for the newly loaded pistol. "You said there were five men?"
"Four."
He swore under his breath. "Is it five or four? This is important."
Sarah glared up at him. "There were five. I killed one."
"Are you sure?"
"I know a dead man when I see one."
"One's dead in the grass, and you say you killed another. That leaves three—one I wounded, I'm not certain how bad."
Sarah dropped the lead ball down the barrel of the musket. "Another one is hurt. Flirt chewed him up pretty bad—" She broke off. "They shot her. I think she's dead."
"Where's the boy?"
"Safe. He's with Martha at White Oaks."
Forest's single blue eye scrutiniz
ed her carefully from head to toe. "Did they hurt you?" he asked softly.
"No." She shook her head. "But they meant to. If you hadn't come—" She broke off. "I . . . "
"Shhh, none o' that now. Next you'll be weeping all over my dry powder." He pushed the loaded musket into her hands. "Can you shoot this?"
She nodded.
"Good. I'll take both pistols. I've got to get around behind them before they outflank us. I want you to stay here. Don't move and don't shoot unless they rush you. If they do come at you, pick out a target and don't fire until he's close enough for you to be certain you can drop him. You'll only have time for one shot, Sarah."
He caught her shoulder and pushed her down; then he rose and peered over the dead horse. There was an immediate burst of gunfire from the tavern. Forest threw himself down and cried out.
Sarah stifled a scream and her head snapped around. Forest was grinning at her. He put a finger over his lips, winked and began to edge away on his belly toward the trees.
Sarah looked back toward the tavern. Would the men fall for the trick and believe Forest had been seriously wounded or killed? Would they wait to be certain she was alone and helpless, or would they charge her before Forest had a chance to get around behind them? She felt certain she could stop one man with the musket, but the others would . . .
She took a deep breath, forcing back the terror that threatened to numb her mind. The men would wait. They would know she was armed. She had already killed one of them, and they knew she was capable of doing it again.
Minutes passed. Sweat trickled down her face as she waited. Another musket roared from the window, and she flinched. Where was Forest? Had he managed to work his way around the tavern, or had he abandoned her? She banished the thought as quickly as it came. If Forest had been the running kind, he would never have risked his life with the rebel militia the first day she met him.
Her fingers began to cramp from being locked around the musket stock. She began to tremble. Any second now . . .
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