The King's Marauder Read Online Free PDF Page B

cream?”
    “Aye, thankee,” Lewrie agreed.
    “I always wondered,” the girl breezed on after fetching more cream, “why your father called his house Dun Roman. ”
    Lewrie chuckled, then explained the “Done Roaming” pun, which made Abigail groan. “The old tower, well … before the Romans came, ancient Britons built wooden hilltop forts, and they called ’em duns, and some folk think the tower was a Roman watchtower, but it’s too far from the Guildford, Chiddingfold, or Petersfield roads to do ’em any good. Most-like, it was some Norman lord who planned t’run him up a castle and tower, and went broke before he could finish it.”
    “That, or our people ran th’ French bastard off,” Cony hooted.
    “The church, Saint George’s, came later, maybe in the 1500s,” Lewrie speculated. “The tower? Maybe five hundred years before that.”
    “ That old? Lordy!” Abigail exclaimed in surprise.
    “And, if ya’d seen th’ tavern afore me an’ Maggie re-did it, you’da known that the Old Ploughman’s nigh older than the church!” Will Cony said with a laugh. “It ain’t called th’ Old Ploughman fer nought.”
    “As old as me coffee, Abigail!” an elderly follow cried out, raising a laugh, and the girl went to his table to begin joshing with him and his mates.
    “Ya been doin’ th’ sword-play ev’ry day, too, Cap’m Lewrie?” Cony asked as he stirred some of the fresh cream into his tea.
    “In the afternoons, after a good long rest,” Lewrie told him, scoffing his attempts. “Heavy Navy cutlasses, against Desmond or Furfy, for about a half-hour. All I can manage, yet,” he said with a shrug. “Yeovill, Pettus, and Jessop have taken up the drill, too. Bored, I expect. Since my father keeps such a large staff, even when he’s not here, there’s little for them t’do, and Yeovill can’t even get within smellin’ distance of the kitchens, ’less Mistress Furlough’ll take a meat chopper to him. It’s a damned pity, ’cause she’s only a passable cook. Roast, fry, boil, repeat if necessary, hah! Takin’ breakfast here’s the best meal I see.
    “Then, I’ll have t’saddle up that fractious damned horse, and trot back uphill,” Lewrie gravelled between bites. “Like today, Anson has been ridden so little since I sent him up to Father’s stables that he just won’t go at a walk. Trot, lope, canter … ouch!”
    “Speakin’ o’ ancient Britons, sir,” Cony slyly said, “ya ever hear of an ambler? They were very popular, back when yer tower and th’ church, and th’ village were young. Ya don’t see ’em much anymore … but, there’s a smallholder a few miles from here who still breeds ’em, an’ sells one, now an’ again.”
    “What’s an ambler?” Lewrie asked, perplexed.
    “Why, it’s a horse, sir!” Cony said with a grin. “They’re stout an’ cobby, sorta shaggy-lookin’, with big hooves like a Clydesdale, an’ just as plumy-hairy round th’ fetlocks, but they’re not over eleven or twelve hands at the withers, and as gentle as baa-lambs. Best of all, they’ve got a peculiar gait like no other horse. They pace at a fast walk … how they got their name … and can go for hours an’ hours, an’ th’ rider might as well be sittin’ in a rockin’ chair for all ya’d know, steady as a rock.
    “Now, it may be ol’ Mister Doaks’d rent ya one for a few weeks, just ’til yer strong enough t’manage yer own horse,” Cony suggested. “What say I ride over this afternoon an’ speak with him, sir, and if I can strike a deal, I’ll bring one up t’th’ house t’morra mornin’ for you t’try.”
    “We could try one out, aye,” Lewrie agreed after a ponder. “Do ye think a pound note’d suit him?”
    “Bring ya change back, Cap’m Lewrie,” Cony promised.
    *   *   *
    “’Tis good I didn’t bet ya a shillin’, sir, for I’da lost,” Cony said as they stopped by a gnarled old oak tree. “That’s a full mile ya done