Page 113 of Feathers in the Wind
“Please don’t fire.” The voice sounded young and frightened.
A boy stepped out from the narrow space formed by the buttress and the wall, holding shaking hands above his head. He fell to his knees and looked up at Luke. He could not have been more than about thirteen, a scrawny youngster, his dirty face streaked with the tracks of tears.
Luke lowered his pistol. “It’s all right, lad. I’m not one of Farrington’s men. We’re from the garrison at Kinton Lacey.”
The boy gave a choked sob and slid down against the wall. He wrapped his arms around his legs, lowered his head on to his knees, and began to rock back and forth.
Luke crouched down next to him. “I don’t need to ask you any questions, lad. I’ve eyes in my head. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy sniffed and said in a muffled voice, “Toby, sir. Toby Brown.” He raised his head. “They’re all dead, aren’t they? I heard them screaming.” His face crumpled. “I hid meself. I should’ve been out there with them.”
Luke laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And you would be dead too. Nothing you could have done would have changed anything, Toby. You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
The boy continued to rock back and forth, locks of red hair covering his face.
Luke squatted down. “You wouldn’t be related to a Lovedie Brown would you?”
The boy stopped his rocking and looked up. “She’s my sister. What’s happened to her? I thought her safe in Ludlow with our aunt.”
Luke regarded him for a moment. “Why would you think that?”
“She escaped from here not long afore the final assault.”
Lovedie had not made it to safety. Farrington had caught her.
“Is she dead?” The boy looked up at him, his face stricken.
Luke held up a placatory hand. “Don’t worry. She’s safe at Kinton Lacey.”
How she had got there and the grim message she carried was for Lovedie’s telling, not him.
The boy closed his eyes. “I prayed for her so hard.” He raised his face to the ceiling. “Thank you, Lord.”
He held out his hand, raising the boy to his feet.
Toby swallowed and ran a hand through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Where are they? I’ve got to see for meself,” he said.
Luke knew he meant his murdered friends and he didn’t argue. He followed the boy down the stairs and out of the stinking ruin. His men had laid the bodies of the slain out and it made grim viewing. Luke told the corporal about the blankets in the tower room and the man nodded, gesturing for two of the men to fetch them.
The boy looked down the line of slain men. The women knelt beside the bodies of their menfolk, the keening of their grief almost too much to bear. Luke placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and Toby turned to look up at him.
“Can I go to Lovedie?” he asked.
“Of course, but first tell us who the dead are so we can give them proper burial.”
Toby nodded, and they walked the line of the dead, giving the grisly corpses the humanity of their names. These men who twenty-four-hours earlier had walked, talked, and laughed with the boy. Luke had little time for monsters like Charles Farrington. He would see him dead before this affair was over.
They could no more than lay the bodies back in the bottom of the ditch and cover them with earth. Sergeant Hale said prayers over the dead, and with the morning sun high, the men mounted their horses and turned back for Kinton Lacey.
An uneasy feeling prickled at Luke. It had all been too easy. It gnawed at him that Charles Farrington had apparently just walked away from Byton. The dramatic flourish of dumping Lovedie with her message only made him more suspicious. He wondered if this was what trout felt after it had been tickled and had taken the bait.
Dearly as Luke would have loved to have put his heels to his horse and ridden hell for leather back to the safety of Kinton Lacey, a soldier’s natural caution held him back. Small party though they were, he sent a scout out in front and proceeded at a leisurely walk. An hour’s ride would take a little longer, but he had to ensure they all arrived back in one piece. He could not afford to lose a single man.
He rode with every nerve on edge. Behind him, his men rode in single file down the narrow country lanes, each man lost in his own thoughts. The horror of what they had dealt with that day reflected in their grim faces and their silence.
To reach Kinton Lacey, they had to cross the River Teme. They were a quarter of a mile from the bridge when the forward scout came galloping down the lane toward them. He drew rein, his face white.
“Soldiers,” he said. “Farrington’s men cutting off the bridge.”
