The Highwayman's Curse Read Online Free PDF

from the yard as she waited for me to wake.
    But she had some more to tell me: the sheep had disappeared and the men talked of reivers – raiders and sheep thieves. Tam had been helping his great-grandfather that evening; they had planned to stay in the shepherd’s hut that night – much against Jeannie’s wishes. But the men were not sure if we were reivers: some said that, since we were English, we must be stealing sheep. Or we could be from one of the landowners to the east, sent to raid and steal during the night. Others talked of someone called Douglas Murdoch, a name which they seemed to hate. And they said if we were from Douglas Murdoch, we would die a horrible death.
    Whatever the reason for our being there, the old man was murdered, the sheep were gone and the only witness, an injured boy, was struck speechless with fear of us. We were enemies.
    And we could expect their rough justice.
    â€œAnd the boy? Tam?” I asked. “Why does he not speak?”
    â€œI know not. Each time one of them tries to ask him, he cries and gibbers and seems as if he will fall into a swoon.”
    â€œHave they set his arm?”
    â€œI know not. Nor do I care!” snapped Bess. “He has brought us nothing but trouble. We should have left him, as I said. You should care nothing for him.”
    â€œThere is good reason to care,” I replied, my voice level, my eyes still closed against the dizziness. “If they do not set his bones properly, his arm may rot and he may die. If he dies, what will they do to us then? But if I can set his bones and save his arm, perhaps his life, then it will stand us in good stead with his family. He could be our passage to safety. If I even seem to try, it could help us.”
    â€œHow can you think you can save his life? What do you know of such things as setting bones?”
    Little enough, I must admit, and what I did know came from half-remembered things my father’s stablemen had taught me when a dog had broken its leg. She was perchance right: that I could not save him.
    â€œSo we should give up?” I asked. “We should let them kill us?”
    â€œWhat choice do we have?” When Bess said this, I stared at her through the gloom. Her face hung, sad. I could not see her eyes, but she caught her bottom lip with her teeth, as if forcing tears away.
    This was not the Bess I knew. The Bess I had met only a few weeks ago would never give up. The Bess I knew would act with impulse and bravery, with spirit. She had killed a redcoat in cold blood, through the heat of her hatred, for she had sworn death to redcoats after they had killed her father and mother. She had spat in a soldier’s face when he insulted her, without thought of her own danger. She had acted with passion and fury after the death of the young soldier boy, Henry Parish, whom the redcoats chased and killed for the theft of some flour. When we had ridden across the countryside afterwards to bring money to Henry’s starving mother and sister, she had urged me on when I was tired – she would, I think, have ridden to the ends of the earth to fulfil our promise to Henry Parish. And when we had robbed my father’s coach and then again another corrupt gentleman’s carriage near Carlisle, the fire in her eyes, her contempt for danger, her strength, would have put the strongest man to shame.
    Where was that fire now?
    â€œBess?”
    After a moment, she lifted her head and looked at me. Then I saw her eyes.
    â€œBess, where is your spirit? Your father’s spirit?” She simply shook her head, then turned aside, to look at nothing. Her lips tightened as she fought to control herself and twisted the tears away.
    This was not Bess. Surely not!
    â€œWe can overcome this. We will find a way,” I urged.
    She shook her head. “It is pointless to try.”
    â€œThink of Henry Parish! Think of your father and mother! Think of the