Chapter 5: Evidence
So it was that Merlin found himself riding his old nag between the physician's gangly filly and the agent's sturdy gelding, while the other two traded stories around him. Mostly he tried to ride out of earshot, but Arthur didn't trust him far, and Gaius stuck close to Arthur.
"Padlow, he's a bad one," Gaius was musing one afternoon as they neared their destination. "No doubt about it. He's got our Reeve Whatley in his pocket, and his partner is an unscrupulous trapper called Burton. Between the three of them, they've got the town tied up tight. It's a pretty fair guess he's working the other towns he's responsible for the same way."
Yes, it was, and the proof rested snugly in his saddlebags – well, in Arthur's saddlebags, now. Proof, written right there in the murderer's handwriting.
"No one has reported him?" Arthur asked.
"Any whisper of it brings Burton and Padlow calling – and not on a polite social visit, either. Livestock poisoned and butchered, crops and houses burned–"
"Your office?" Merlin suggested quietly. "Your arm? Is that why no one would help you rebuild?" Gaius grimaced, and didn't answer. Merlin could feel Arthur's gaze rest on him momentarily, and knew the agent was thinking of the work he'd done, the damage mended almost entirely by the arsonist's enemy. Merlin didn't allow his expression to change, but he too found that ironic.
"But surely Padlow is gone most of the year, and Burton has his own business to tend to?" Arthur asked, after a moment.
"Not so much as you'd think," Gaius answered. "He's like a fox or a wolf, you see him move from the corner of your eye, but gone by the time you turn your head. Sneaky, that one is. And Reeve Whatley knows just about everything going on in town. Most folks don't want to believe that he's taking from Padlow, and pretend his visits and questions are honest reeve-work."
"He turns a blind eye – is that all he does?" Arthur's tone was thoughtful, quiet, not really directed to Gaius for an answer.
"Not only that, he turns the blame on the victim for making trouble. Couple of the boys got together to try to hire Merlin here to take him on, but he wouldn't even hear them out."
Merlin's quick sideways glance met an ironic twinkle from the physician's eyes. Arthur chuckled; Merlin didn't respond. If an opportunity had been wasted because he hadn't cared to talk to Cedric, he had none to blame but himself.
In hindsight, it wasn't the longest five days of Merlin's life, but it was close. By the time they finally approached the outlying farms around Emmett's Creek, he figured the other two had compared each note they had on him. Some even twice.
Gaius headed for his own home – a small house that he shared with Alice on a lane somewhat removed from the main street – and Merlin silently agreed to lead Arthur to a place where he could get a meal and a room. If the town had been large enough to support two taverns, for sure Merlin would have taken Arthur to the other one. As it was, Percival's Place would have to be big enough for the two of them, at least for a while.
He could feel trouble in the air, though, like a midsummer thunderstorm, a heavy restless feeling. Two things bothered him as they rode down the street, the interest of every curious passerby. First, the look on Freya's face as they rode past the physician's office, where she stood conversing with Alice, basket on her elbow, as the older woman locked the door behind her for the day. And second, the look on Burton's face as the trapper caught first the girl's expression, then followed her gaze back up to the two men riding past the jail where he stood with Whatley.
Arthur noticed, too. "Gaius never said you had a woman," he remarked. His tone was casual, but a rising inflection turned it into a question.
Merlin looked at him. "That's Padlow's woman," he said, keeping his own tone neutral.
Arthur's eyebrows – a few shades darker than his blonde hair – drew together, one up and one down, to display surprised or displeasure, or both. Freya's expression had been similar to that of a woman welcoming her man home after some days' absence, and the pity of it was she probably didn't know it, herself. Merlin expected the agent to question him further, but Arthur said only, "And on the right?"
"Reeve Whatley in the red shirt. And Burton in deer-hide." Neither man gave the pair in front of the jail another look. The horses' hooves and the noise of other traffic on the street would cover their conversation, but a second glance would give away the subject.
"The partner? Whose ear you pierced with the dart?"
"You heard that one," Merlin said, not really a question. He felt a wolfish grin stretch his lips.
"Your Gaius is a talkative man," Arthur observed with some humor. "You, on the other hand… I have to figure you out from what you do, not what you say. Or don't say."
The uneasy truce between them had deepened almost imperceptibly into grudging respect on both sides during their trip. They'd even boxed a little together, something Merlin hoped would continue. He was a little rusty from being on his own, and he needed to be in peak condition to face Padlow. Merlin was even starting to feel that Arthur was closer to understanding him than any in Emmett's Creek. And so found himself in conversation with the agent more often than he was used to.
"What do you figure?" he asked.
The sign was missing from the livery stable, the wooden plank unhooked, but no one really needed the sign to know the establishment for what it was. They reined in, and Elyan's young son came out to take their horses. "Hey, Merlin! You're back!"
Merlin ignored him.
"I figure you've got more than one decent bone in your body," Arthur said, sparing a glance for the boy. "I figure you for more passion than you let show. I figure you have a conscience, though you wouldn't admit it. I figure you for an honest man, which is rare."
Merlin didn't respond, didn't allow himself any reaction. As his father's son, he would have been more than pleased to be characterized so. As a revenger… were these observations complimentary?
"Shasta will have stew for dinner," he said only. He nodded across to the tavern as Arthur turned from gathering his saddlebags.
"I figure Burton will want to have it out with you before too long, by the look of him," Arthur continued, staying in the stable as Merlin strode across the street.
In the plate-glass of Percival's front window, he could see the agent turn to speak to Elyan's son, probably giving instructions on the care and boarding of his gelding.
Merlin figured on Burton's antagonism showing again, too. Like most bullies, Burton was a coward when it came to someone who'd stand up to him, and that was the biggest reason he hadn't come after Merlin since that day with the axe. But if looks could kill, the glare Burton had given him coming down Main Street would have been the death of Merlin. He figured Burton would want to have it out with Freya, too – it was her expression of happiness and relief focused on him that had drawn the trapper's attention.
Did he care? She had made a very poor choice in a husband – a murderer who didn't protect her from his own partner. But did she deserve abuse and punishment as consequences of her choice?
His own empty saddlebags over his shoulder, he entered the tavern. The few customers at the table were tended by Gwen, who flirted with them casually, her back to Merlin. Percival and Shasta were nowhere in sight – back in the kitchen, Merlin guessed, as he took the stairs two at a time. The tavern's rooms were never filled, so Shasta kept his room open for him, though he slept most nights in his treetop platform. But after five days traveling in the company of talkative Gaius and wily Agent Arthur, Merlin wanted to be alone, wanted to lie in more comfort than the uneven branches afforded, wanted to rest. And to think.
He lay on his cot, booted feet crossed at the ankle, hands behind his head, staring at the rafters, but didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. He feared the dreams would come, in spite of the physical weariness of their last day of travel. And when a pattering of rain sounded on the roof – random at first, then increasingly steadier – he knew there would be no additional work to block them out that night, either.
But he could plan.
In the course of his training with Morgana, they had once followed a quarry to an illegal duel, and one of their regular informants had passed information a handful of times at a public boxing match. A duel was usually scheduled days, even weeks in advance, to allow the two duelists to examine the field, to guide their training and practice in the chosen weapon. A boxing match, however, forbade the contestants entering the square til moments before the match, and was often the result of last-minute pairing and appointment.
It was all about advantage. The duelists were given an equal chance to learn and study the chosen ground; the boxers were prevented from the same, also for reasons of equality. A fair fight.
This fight would be on Padlow's home ground. Like a duelist, Merlin was taking the chance to learn the area, the woods and streams and fields where he might possibly meet his enemy, because like a boxer, he might not have the chance to study and learn his opponent before they met. Too many people already knew, or had guessed at, his purpose in Emmett's Creek – the town was just too small to hide anything for long. And Padlow would be made aware of him before too long, once he arrived. An advantage for Merlin lay in seeking his revenge immediately upon Padlow's return, perhaps even choosing the site himself, if he could so manipulate the murderer.
Like a duelist, Merlin could practice with the weapons at hand, and like a boxer, he could build his endurance, the better to survive.
Merlin's mind ran over the several plans that had been forming, to cover every circumstance he could foresee – a different strategy for the many places he could meet the murderer, for the possibility that Burton or Reeve Whatley would join in, the reactions of various others that might be present. For the weather, the time of day.
Now he had to factor Agent Arthur into his plans.
And he still hadn't decided what to do about Freya.
The thought of Freya– her slender form turning as he rode past, the casual brush of her short black hair over her shoulder, the expression in her warm brown eyes that he'd never seen in a woman's eyes looking at him, the way Morgana sometimes looked at Gwaine – disrupted all other thoughts.
He rolled off his cot and left his saddlebags beneath it, descending the stairs to the common room.
More than one curious glance was directed toward the newcomer during Shasta's call for soup, during the drinking games and darts and music and dancing that evening. Merlin sat in his place alone in the corner; they'd all become so accustomed to his silent presence that he expected no attention aside from Freya or Gwen bringing his dinner and drink – it was Gwen tonight, but she murmured her "You're welcome" response to his thanks absently, her eyes on the blond agent.
A few of the ranch hands and one farmer's son involved Arthur in a game of cards, and before Merlin could wonder what he would say of himself to them, Reeve Whatley in his red shirt pushed open the tavern door, brushing raindrops from his shoulders and tipping a tiny stream of water from the brim of his hat, tapping the walking stick against the toe of one boot.
Over the rim of his mug, Merlin watched the reeve take in the card game with the stranger, then search the room – he dropped his gaze a moment before Whatley could make eye contact. He deliberately ignored the other's scrutiny, and under the pretense of giving a bored glance at the next dart throw, saw the reeve insert himself belligerently into the card game.
Several pairs of dancers had taken to the small space cleared of tables, began stamping and whirling energetically to the music provided by a skinny young fiddler. Even through the moving obstacles between his table and that of the card players, it was obvious that the reeve lost no time in embarking on an interrogation of Arthur concerning his relationship with Merlin – not unexpected, since Whatley had seen them ride into Emmett's Creek together.
Arthur was dealing, and answered cheerfully enough, without raising his eyes from the deck. Merlin caught the phrase "met on the road." So he and Arthur were to be passed off as strangers with no interest in each other. Good. He could play that hand. But whether Reeve Whatley – and all of Emmett's Creek, for that matter – bought their bluff, remained to be seen.
He concentrated on the crowd, seeing many familiar faces in the tavern. The one person conspicuous by his absence was Burton.
Merlin figured Burton was still bent on revenge for his damaged ear. He wasn't a planner, that one, but he was smart enough to take an opportunity. Merlin was smart enough to take care that none should arise; his quarrel was not with Burton, this time. He could learn what he needed to of Padlow's partner without having a conversation – or another fight – with the trapper. He wasn't afraid of Burton, he just didn't want to give Reeve Whatley an excuse to jail him again. He'd risked that already, fighting with the cowhand, and with Cedric.
Burton's presence kept Emmett's Creek in line while Padlow was gone on his tax circuit, even though the trapper's own trips took days and sometimes weeks at a time. Evidently he had no qualms about using violence to keep the people intimidated enough to obey Padlow with little more than a brief dissatisfied murmur, an occasional attempt at hiring a passing stranger who looked willing to fight for pay. While Reeve Whatley covered it all with the pretense of legality.
He wondered if Burton was also guarding Padlow's stash, the sums he forced from the people in addition to the taxes he handed to the government agents in Camelot. There was no hint of luxury in that hovel Padlow shared with his wife, but was Burton more trustworthy than Freya? Maybe to a man like Padlow.
Or maybe no one else knew where the profits were hidden. Surely he hadn't banked them – banks kept records that Padlow couldn't explain away, were any with enough authority to ask.
But tonight, when all of Emmett's Creek was curious about the new arrival, and even a tenuous connection with Merlin would make Burton suspicious of Arthur and his business in town, Burton hadn't shown his face at the tavern. It made Merlin nervous, as if he were sitting with his back to the window. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
Freya came to retrieve his empty bowl, and lingered. "Did you have a good trip?" she asked shyly, in a low voice, not meeting his eyes. She didn't want to draw attention to their conversation; he grunted noncommittally.
He wondered if she'd noticed Burton across the street at the jail, earlier. He wondered if she had made the connection between their conversation in the rain on his platform, and his trip to Camelot. He wondered what she would do with that information, if she had.
"And Gaius? He came back with you?"
So she had known that the old man had intended to accompany him. "Yes," he said shortly.
Her eyes flicked briefly over his face. "I'm glad your trip… went well. Alice – was glad to see you back."
When he didn't answer, she moved away again, and he was glad for that. There was a strange warmth in his middle that had nothing to do with soup or beer. Something that might confuse him if he thought about it further. Confuse, and distract.
He pushed the table away from him, standing with an explosive movement, then headed straight for the bar without stopping for the dancers, brushing Gwen and a full tray of drinks out of his way, banging his hip on the back of a chair that some round farmer scraped back at the wrong moment.
Percival saw him coming, and reached a new mug under the tap of the keg on the bar.
Merlin seated himself at the corner of the bar, his back to the wall, as he had his first night in Emmett's Creek.
One part of his mind, the part that always stayed active and processed sensory information automatically, the part that raised hairs on the back of his neck and sent his hand springing to his belt for his knife before he had time to think consciously, stayed open to the talk at the card table behind him to his right. It stayed open to the dancers, to the fiddle player, to Gwen with her tray weaving in and out.
But he thought. Sometimes very hard, about things Gaius had said, and Arthur, and… Freya. Sometimes he tried not to think at all, just stared across the noisy room and swallowed his beer – and a second, and a third – folded in on himself and his familiar misery. The sorrow. The grief he'd never given in to, the shock he'd never quite overcome.
Deliberately he let the face of his father come before his mind's eye. Revenge was something Merlin wanted, desperately, needed. And Balinor? Would he approve, be proud of the man his son had become? No – but would he accept that this was the way Merlin had to be?
His mother had done her best, raising him; he recognized her efforts to overcome her grief at losing the two daughters between Merlin and the two babies to illness, to strive for cheerfulness for the sake of her husband and son. How would she look at him now? Would she even recognize him? Would she understand? Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window, the hard defiance, the deep angry eyes, unshaven face, travel-worn clothes and scuffed boots, he knew that one look at him now would have his mother telling his sisters to run and hide.
He didn't think of his baby sisters – he'd seen fear often enough in the eyes of youngsters to know how his sisters would react.
While his gaze was turned inward, he remained aware that the tavern had slowly been emptying as the hours passed. Arthur stood, stretched, and stepped away from the card table, leaving his saddlebags slung over the back of his vacated chair, to lounge on a bar stool and nurse another drink, several places down from Merlin and without a glance for him.
Reeve Whatley left soon after, still shooting suspicious glances at both of them, and Shasta collected the last empty soup bowl and disappeared to wash them. Gwen remained, chatting with the fiddler, but casting frequent looks at the agent sitting at the bar. Soon it was just the four of them and Percival in the common room as the last ranch hand helped his more tipsy friend out the door. Arthur slid another stool closer to Merlin, where they could hear each other without speaking too loudly, but still leave doubt in an onlooker's mind as to the extent of their familiarity.
"Gaius said Percival could be trusted, so I've told him why I'm here," Arthur told him, keeping his voice low. "Your reeve was asking questions, but I said only that I'm looking for a job, and fell in with you on the road."
Merlin nodded, but his attention had turned sideways to the saddlebags over the chair. The closing flap was turned back, and the weight of Padlow's record journal caused that side to gape open slightly. Merlin frowned; it wasn't like an agent to be careless with evidence, and this was the best they had.
"You'll want to keep that hidden," he said, and Arthur turned to see what he was referring to, "considering the trouble I had acquiring it."
Arthur snorted. He knew perfectly well that Merlin had essentially stolen it, but he bent over the table to adjust the saddlebags, muttering under his breath, "Thought I had that shut…"
Percival flipped a dish cloth off his shoulder and moved toward them, wiping the bar-top as he came. Freya appeared out of the kitchen behind him, looking tired but content, not paying much attention to Arthur and Merlin at the bar with Percival between them; Gwen caught her eye and laughingly drew her over to the dance floor and the fiddle player, with another glance toward the agent.
"Who should I see first, do you think?" Arthur asked Percival, meeting Gwen's eyes briefly before focusing on the big bartender.
The cloth in Percival's hand rubbed a slow repetitive circle as he considered. "Start with Leon," he said. "He owns the biggest ranch around – seven leagues or so north of town. He's always complaining about Padlow, and he's got sixteen hands who'll tell you all about their tax troubles, too."
Out on the open floor, Gwen had persuaded Freya to dance a few steps, and the slender girl had caught something of her friend's exuberance. Both girls whirled through the forms of a complicated air; Freya's light steps gave her an appearance of floating in spite of the shoes Merlin knew to be too big for her. Her arms lifted into the air to weave in time to the rhythm – she was a very good dancer, Merlin was surprised to note.
The fiddler shuffled a few steps, laughing as he quickened the tune. Percival was giving Arthur more detailed directions to Leon's ranch, drawing an invisible map on the bar with one big forefinger. And, because Gwen abandoned her efforts to keep up and fell back to the fiddler's side to clap her hands in time to the tune, Arthur was paying full attention to the bartender.
The music swirled brightly, the extra beer Merlin was unused to drinking warmed in his blood. Freya danced faster and faster, turning and spinning, her body swaying, her hands dipping like birds, her feet a light blur in their oversize shoes. The fiddler ended the song with a flourish and Freya sank into a curtsy, laughing, smiling, flushed with uncharacteristic happiness, while Gwen applauded her.
So happened the song had ended with Freya more than half-facing the bar. So happened she looked directly into his eyes while still laughing, smiling, flushed – happy.
His breath caught.
She was so beautiful.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Life was dull for Freya, even at the best of times. Staying at the tavern, helping the friends who took her in every time she needed it, who protected her and respected her and treated her with the gentleness and caring otherwise so lacking in her life, made existence worthwhile. Her talks with Gaius and Alice, Percival and Shasta and Gwen, were an encouragement, but there was too much dislike and disapproval in Emmett's Creek for her to feel much joy.
"Let me finish these up," Shasta told her, plunging her arms elbow-deep into Freya's soapsuds, and bumping her out of the way with one broad hip. "You go out and rest a while. Relax a little, you look like you need it."
"If you're sure," Freya said. It would be nice to sit for a moment and listen to the music. She knew it was late enough that the common room would be mostly empty.
"Go on," Shasta ordered, flicking dishwater at her, and Freya smiled as she obeyed.
The common room was almost empty; Merlin and Percival stood on either side of the bar, talking quietly with the stranger who'd ridden into Emmett's Creek earlier with Merlin – a man with straight blonde hair and blue eyes that had given her a searching look – but her attention was captured by Gwen, who dragged her out to the area cleared for dancing.
"Play us a tune," Gwen ordered the fiddle player. "Something lively."
Freya noticed her friend's brown eyes were focused over her shoulder on the stranger at the bar, in conversation with Percival, and smiled to herself, shrugging. It didn't really matter if Gwen had ulterior motives, did it? Her playfulness was infectious, and Freya hardly ever had the chance at unreserved fun.
Her feet sped up of their own accord, and she forgot her shyness. She forgot her tired muscles, forgot the floor still needed sweeping, forgot the other men in the room. She forgot her drab, oversize clothes and the angry, distasteful look of the townspeople, the fact that Burton was back in the Creek, and Gaius's repeated warning concerning Merlin and his intentions.
There was freedom in the music, and she abandoned herself to the rare treat wholeheartedly.
Gwen dropped out after a few bars, but kept time with her hands, laughing with Freya as she accepted the challenge of the increased tempo, dancing til she was giddy, and breathless as the fiddle vibrated on the last trill. She grinned at Gwen's laughter and turned her head only slightly, her eyes crossing the distance between them instinctively.
Merlin smiled.
It began with one side of his mouth, pulled sideways in a twitch of answering merriment, then spread spontaneously across his face, flooding his deep blue eyes with warmth. She'd never seen Merlin smile. In the few months since he'd come to Emmett's Creek, she didn't think anyone had seen him smile.
He's beautiful, she thought disjointedly. And young, younger than he looked with that perpetually fierce glare.
She'd never know what expression came on her face, what reaction to his smile she'd betrayed, but his features suddenly froze as if in shock, and he turned his head – deliberately, as though it were an effort, the muscles of his neck unnaturally stiff.
Without a word to his companions, or another look in her direction, he stalked to the door and out into the night.
Aware again that Gwen was offering the fiddle player leftover biscuits and cheese as payment for remaining later than the rest of the customers, leading him into the kitchen, Freya sent a quick glance at Percival and the stranger, still in deep conversation over the bar. Neither seemed to take much notice that Merlin had gone.
Sighing, Freya went for the broom.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
What was he thinking? What was he doing, losing control like that? Lowering his guard. Merlin cursed himself silently.
He should spend the night alone, in his treetop shelter. Far from everyone. Reminding himself why he was here.
The rain will clear my head, he thought, as he stepped out to the street from under the boardwalk's overhang.
Three raindrops had pattered into his hair when something heavy and hard slammed into the back of his head, knocking him sprawling dizzily into the dark mud of the street. He twisted to face his attacker – whose body blocked the light from the tavern's front window for a swift instant before Merlin took a boot to the side of his face and lost consciousness.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The rain woke him and set his head and right shoulder throbbing so brightly he had to blink rapidly several times before realizing that he was still somewhere in the dark and there was nothing he could see. Still outdoors as well – the rain was dripping down his collar, soaking him through. Merlin shook his head with difficulty and sodden strands of hair clung to his cheek and forehead.
But the motion had set his body swaying inexplicably; the tense muscles in his back and shoulders tightened painfully in response. He tried to draw his hands toward him, to wipe his face, to ease the agonizing tension, but couldn't.
And then his sense of equilibrium reasserted itself, and he found he was suspended in midair by a strong cord tied around and burning into his wrists.
"Ah, you're awake, huh?" rasped an unfamiliar voice, so close that Merlin jerked in reaction, then wished he hadn't as his shoulders protested silently. The man misunderstood the movement. "You won't get down as easy as that," he growled. "Me and you have got a score to settle."
Without warning, a blow came to Merlin's right side, a blow that might've cracked one of his lower ribs; his body lunged against the rope at his wrists.
Burton, Merlin knew then, and counted himself lucky that it wasn't the axe the man had hit him with from behind, this time. And he wouldn't free Merlin for the pleading, wouldn't free him while he still had strength to fight back. Might not free him while he still breathed… He'd waited til Merlin's guard was down – Merlin cursed the fiddler, Gwen, and Freya all roundly in his head, cursed himself lastly because it was his fault – then tied him up like a chicken in a butcher's window, where he could strike at him at leisure, probably in some location where he wouldn't expect to be disturbed. Which could be just about anywhere, this time of night during a rainstorm.
Merlin focused on survival, then, for the present. Escape would come later, when Burton had taken his fun and was tiring. To fight back, as every instinct strained to do, would be pointless; he'd keep silent, conserve his energy – and grunted with another quick blow to his ribs.
"You think you're smart, don't you?" Burton snarled from the darkness in front of Merlin. "You and your partner. You've got Padlow's journal – what are you gonna do with it?"
Merlin was slightly surprised at that, but decided it was more likely the reeve had seen the pages in Arthur's possession, and had given orders or at least permission for this night's activities, than Burton had the intelligence to discover that on his own. But that meant Burton wasn't just after revenge for his ear. Merlin's eyes began to adjust to the not-quite-absolute blackness.
"Answer me!" Burton said, and cursed Merlin vilely, jabbing his weapon – club, maybe, a length of board or log comfortable to a man's grip – into the pit of Merlin's stomach. His body tried to curl up reactively, yanking at his wrists again. "You're trying to get into our setup, is that it? Or were you just after the money?"
Hurting as he was, Merlin still recognized the opportunity. Burton – and therefore Reeve Whatley – had jumped to the wrong conclusion. They had guessed that Merlin and Arthur were outlaws and thieves. Merlin could use that, he was sure, if he could just persuade his mind to think clearly.
"She told you, didn't she?" Burton went on, taking a swing at Merlin's knee – that fortunately landed on his thigh. He was immediately grateful that the darkness of the night and Burton's disinclination for illumination prevented him from more accurate blows. "She's gone and double-crossed us – but you can be sure she won't get away with it, either!"
She – Freya?
"What are you talking about?" Merlin said, speaking with difficulty – one side of his face felt swollen.
"I'll do the asking!" Burton raged, slamming the end of the club into Merlin's left side – a glancing blow, swinging him around.
A lighted rectangle caught his attention, only a few yards away – a window. If he shouted – they'd never hear him over the rain beating on the roof. And Merlin didn't fancy shouting for help and being rescued, either.
"You answer me!" Another blow. "Did she sleep with you, too? Give you what she's been denying me for years?"
Merlin drew a hot, painful breath – but he'd had worse beatings, and survived. Come to think of it, he'd had worse training sessions with Gwaine, and gone back for more the next day. "What are you talking about?" he spat again.
"Freya!" The next swing landed across the small of his back, and as he arched his arms burned at wrists and shoulders. "She showed you where to find that journal, didn't she? Told you about the money? Did she tell you that no one knows where it's at, except Padlow? She'll get what's coming to her, too." Burton's evil chuckle sounded in Merlin's ear, and the trapper began to describe what he had in mind for the girl's fate.
Freya hadn't known she was betraying her husband in that treetop conversation, and even if she had, no woman deserved the pain and degradation Burton described with whispered glee.
"You've lost your mind," Merlin said loudly with what breath he could gasp in around the throbbing ache of his body. "Never even talked to her – I didn't have to, did I? Padlow left that book right out in the open for anyone to see."
Belatedly he thought, Should've led with denial. The club connected heavily with his midsection again, and again – he grunted in pain but kept on.
"She's got nothing to do with it – we wouldn't share with her anyway –" a blow, another grunt, and Merlin panted, "And as for sleeping with her, I'd rather spend my coin on a real woman, and get a good time while I'm paying!"
Two thuds in quick succession, on either side of Merlin's already battered ribcage, and his body swung from his wrists like a weighted pendulum. But he was determined to turn Burton's attention and exhaust his sense of vengeance.
"You're both idiots, you and Padlow!" he shouted hoarsely toward Burton's shadow against the dimly lit window – of the tavern? "Stupid and clumsy – you're just waiting for someone to come along and rob you blind!"
He sensed Burton's frustration was near the breaking point. Merlin spat out a mouthful of blood, but feebly, and swallowed hard. Burton hadn't demanded the return of the journal, and Merlin could only hope the less-than-intelligent trapper would forget about it, or at least neglect to claim it in ransom for Merlin's life. However, the night could end with a knife in Merlin's ribs, otherwise, and he couldn't have that, not when his quarry was so close and there was even a chance that he could kill him legally.
Merlin hoped he'd at least spared Freya from Burton's spite.
Burton hit him twice more with the club, rough wooden blows that made little difference through the steady thumping pain throughout Merlin's entire being. He was panting himself, and the rage was abating in his voice as he taunted, "Had enough yet, you sonuva –" and went off on a string of foul names.
Every muscle and nerve was alight with agony, but the trapper was definitely tiring, and Merlin decided in sheer stubbornness that he was tough enough to withstand a second such beating. Or – recklessly – a third. He cleared his throat to be able to continue breathing, and coughed a little when he tasted blood again.
"Had enough, have you?" A half-hearted thump across Merlin's left hip. "You'll think twice before raising your hand to me again, won't you?" Taking Merlin's silence for defeat, Burton added, "You leave us alone, then!"
The trapper decided a parting shot was in order, and aimed high, catching Merlin crossways on his back, and the back of his head.
It was the last thing Merlin felt for some time.