Chapter 8: Over a Barrel
Merlin looped the nag's reins to a root jutting out from the bank, a hundred yards and around a bend from Leon's ranch house, left his broad-brimmed hat hooked over the saddle-horn and continued on foot after stopping to scoop a drink from the creek.
Unless Arthur had galloped most of the way from Emmett's Creek and left again before Merlin was even close, he would have seen him in his few halts to peer above the creek bank – which didn't flow so far from the dirt track that he couldn't make out a rider, even with the dust being well settled with last night's rain – so it stood to reason he was still ahead of the agent.
There were no ranch hands in sight when Merlin reached the point in the creek bed nearest the house, where Leon had smoothed steps into the bank for his wife's ease in drawing water. There was the barn, and the house, though, a two-level board house with shutters hooked back from the glass windows and a wraparound porch – no telling if any eyes would find him if he broke cover to approach. There were three young colts in a corral between Merlin and the barn, however, and only Leon's wife and two young boys were likely to be around the house.
He was still lying flat-bellied against the earthen stairs in the creek bank when a rider appeared on the track from town, rounding the far side of the barn. The two little boys dashed into view from behind the house, followed by the black-and-brown farm dog, and one man sauntered out from the open barn door, too thin to be mistaken for the barrel-shaped ranch owner, even at this distance. Leon's wife came out on the porch from the kitchen door, facing the corral. She was wiping her hands on her apron and looking toward Arthur. And away from Merlin.
There'd never be a better chance than this. He pushed himself up from the creek bank, casually but not wasting time, and moved to the opposite corner of the house, putting its bulk between him and Arthur, who would surely attract everyone else's attention. The only one he thought at all likely to see him would be Arthur himself, and Merlin hoped that he'd be taken for another ranch hand about his chores. He was still too far to distinguish features or dress.
Reaching the porch, he removed his boots and ghosted along the wall, stopping to peer in the windows. Even if Leon had been home, he could be expected to have risen from his place already to see about an approaching guest. Merlin found the room Leon used for an office, with a large polished desk and two tall bookshelves, a large iron safe in the corner, not quite concealed by the cloth draped over it or disguised by the houseplant sunning itself on the top. Two large armchairs flanked a circular braided rug fully four paces across in the middle of the floor. This would be the room where Leon would bring Arthur.
The window was already open; Merlin crouched not quite beneath it, his back to the wall, and settled in to wait. His body still ached like one immense bruise, but the ribs only sent quick arrows of pain through him when he stretched or pulled.
A bigger concern was tonight. He could skip sleeping – he'd done that before often enough – to avoid the dreams that would come if he wasn't exhausted enough. But even if he remained active all night, scouting the by-now familiar ins and outs of the town and farms, fields, orchards, and ranges, the silence and loneliness and darkness would inevitably draw him into thinking, something he would avoid almost as much as dreaming. Especially after his conversation with –
A door slammed somewhere in the house behind him, and he heard a man's boots thudding into the hall, followed by the softer shuffling of a woman's house slippers.
"Just finished pulling a loaf of bread from the oven," Leon's wife said, her voice carrying through the study and out the window to Merlin's ears. "You can sit down in there, and I'll bring you a couple of slices with some fresh-churned butter, and some tea."
Arthur's voice, then, thanking her. The boot-steps came into the room, muffled as he reached the braided rug.
Merlin remained still. Even if the agent decided to stand at the window instead of seating himself in an armchair, it would be highly unusual for him to crane his neck to the side and press his face into the glass to peer down at Merlin's position. Far more likely he'd look straight out into the distance, at the herd of broad white cattle on the hill across the creek, moving slowly, cropping what little dry grass there was left after the scant summer moisture, some lying in the shade of scrub trees like lopsided dumplings in cold yellowish gravy. Not very interesting. Wouldn't be long before Arthur turned his attention back to the room – bookshelves, maybe.
"Here you are," Leon's wife said, returning. "Fresh-baked, like I said." Merlin relaxed a little; Arthur would now be turning back from the window for sure.
"Thank you," Arthur said. Slight clatter of tin tray on wooden desktop. "Smells good."
"You're not from around here, are you?" the woman asked, and Merlin grinned slightly. Leon's wife was one of those women who lived for gossip; he expected she'd give as much or more information than Arthur could get from the rancher.
"No, just on the move," Arthur replied. "I'm looking for a job. Met a man who said I might find work here. Padlow was his name." The silent moments stretched tension noticeable even to Merlin outside the window. At the corner of the covered porch, an immense ragged gray cat jumped up from the yard and landed with a thud – coolly covering the activity by beginning to stroll down the porch, ignoring Merlin even as it approached obliquely.
"Friend of yours?" the woman said, her voice cooled considerably.
"No. Just another man thirsty at the same time and place as I was," Arthur said; Merlin recognized his attempt to put her back at her ease. "Why? If he lied – I came a long way for nothing."
"You might find work in the Creek," the woman conceded. "But if Leon don't hire you, I wouldn't tell anyone else that you talked to Padlow. He ain't exactly well-liked around here."
"Oh?" The agent's voice held the right note of curiosity. This was all the invitation Leon's wife needed.
"He collects taxes from Emmett's Creek folk," she said. "Ain't a one of us doesn't believe he's a cheating, lying thief."
"Taxes are high?"
Again an opening as wide as a barn door. She snorted. "Way too high, mister. He taxes almost every last blest cent from everyone. Can't nobody make a decent profit in this town; you ask my husband if you don't believe it from me. And if you don't pay him what he wants…" She paused significantly.
"What?"
"Things – happen." Another pause, this time more hesitant. "Early on, Leon tried to go against him, trying to call his bluff. Trying to get other folk in town to refuse to pay, too. Only it weren't no bluff, and our barn got burned to the ground, and–"
"Lida," a lower masculine voice chided. Leon had only been into town, and Percival's place, half a dozen times in the months since Merlin's arrival, but he recognized the rancher's voice. Even, and careful. "Spreading rumors?"
"More than rumors," his wife grumbled, not quite under her breath. "As you well know." She had more to say, but she said it on her way out of the room, and Merlin couldn't make any of it out. The cat paused by the nearest upright support of the porch roof, leaning against it and twining its tail in the air; it deigned to look at Merlin directly for the first time.
"I apologize if my wife offended you," the rancher said to Arthur. "My name's Leon. I understand you're here about a job?"
"In a way." Merlin could hear the quiet smile in Arthur's voice. He also heard the rustle of paper that would be the writ coming out of Arthur's wallet. "I'm Arthur. I'm here on government business."
"An agent?" The big leather chair behind the desk squeaked slightly as Leon settled in.
"Yes. It's come to my attention that the honesty of your regional tax farmer is being questioned. I need to know what you know of that."
Leon hummed. "It's about time. That bad apple has been souring our barrel too long."
"What do you mean?"
Slight pause. The cat ventured close enough to sniff Merlin's trousers at his bent knee; he held very still.
"Agent Arthur, do you know many honest men?"
"I know a few."
"Well, let's stretch it a little, and say you've got a whole town of honest men, more or less, keeping each other honest. Now you bring someone along who hasn't got an honest bone in him, someone who can pick a man's pocket clean and there's nothing an honest man can do about it. Then you have your local lawman start taking a little extra from the folk who want a good word put in so this one won't strip them bare, and you have your local lawman taking straight from the rotten apple, too, to turn a blind eye to his violent ways of collecting. Then you've got a third, who never learned right or wrong, willing to take a club to man, woman or child, willing to burn down buildings and poison livestock, getting paid by this one who's out to get as much as he can."
"I see," Arthur said.
"Not quite, you don't," Leon responded, not unkindly. "You let this barrel of apples sit too long, you get the rest of the honest town turning. Some betraying their neighbors so this one will go easy on them, and most trying to lie to him and everyone else about almost everything – how bad harvest was, how many calves are stillborn, even down to how many hens aren't laying. Keep every cent you can for yourself."
"You're speaking of Padlow. And Burton and Reeve Whatley?"
"I'm not speaking of anyone," the rancher returned mildly. "Just discussing the state of a barrel of apples."
Outside the window, Merlin grinned, reaching to gently knuckle the cat's skull. Everyone hated Padlow, but everyone feared him as well, and none would brave the reeve and Burton in his absence. Unless they believed that Arthur would take action before any retaliation could harm them, and could best the three of them without a doubt, it wasn't likely they'd put their mark to a statement any more specific than Leon's. The cat rubbed against his fist, and rumbled feline approval.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The next day, Merlin was still moving stiffly, but he knew the pain would fade more quickly than if he rested.
Elyan didn't say much, which wasn't unusual for him, Merlin knew from observation.
"Wear this," the blacksmith told Merlin tersely when he noticed him lounging in the doorway. He tossed a battered and scorched leather apron to him, to protect his clothes from the forge's flying spark and soot; he wore a similar one himself.
Over the course of that day, by various bits of sentences jerked from the taciturn blacksmith, Merlin learned that Kendall, the stable attendant and smithing apprentice, had learned enough to be trusted with simple repairs at the second anvil, with his own tools – old hammers and tongs that Elyan no longer used. Merlin, however, though he was strong and willing and a quick learner, was directed to each task by a nod and a grunt, and Elyan's sharp eye was never off him long.
Merlin's lip twisted wryly; he figured Elyan didn't trust him, not many of the townspeople would. But it was work, and it was pay, even if he fetched and carried and drew water and pumped bellows til he was breathless from the pain in his side, soaked in sweat, and singed from the fires. He already knew how to shoe a horse adequately, having learned that much from his father on the farm, but when he tossed a casual question out, Elyan answered, "Farrier's two streets over, at the other end of town."
In spite of this, they were requested to shoe two horses that week – one had a broken shoe-nail and the other had a worn shoe – emergency cases. Elyan let Merlin take care of them and didn't hover, but grunted each time when he finished. Not much escaped the smith's eye in his own forge, Merlin guessed.
Mostly Elyan kept Merlin too busy for his attention to wander – which he appreciated – or for him to be able to notice much beyond the open doors of the forge, which he rather regretted. Not much of a loss, though, Emmett's Creek was small and the majority of daily life was repetitive. He caught fleeting glimpses of wagons lumbering by, a boy darting into the street after a stray ball, Shasta or Freya sweeping the sidewalk that also served as a porch in front of the tavern.
Not that he was watching for her, at all.
But the forge was directly across the street, almost, much closer and with a better line of sight than Gaius 's roof. From these brief glimpses Merlin refined his general idea of the daytime chore schedule at the tavern. After he'd grown accustomed to the rhythm of Elyan's work, he found that his stray glances outdoors often coincided with Freya coming out or going in, basket on arm or broom in hand, or just sitting on the porch watching the town life in the street, hands busy with needlework. It was as if his head and neck, sensing her in view, moved of their own accord.
It puzzled him, and it angered him. If Freya had ever noticed his glances, she would have been sure to wonder at his immediate scowl. No, Merlin was sure that Freya wasn't lingering to catch his attention; she wasn't one to shirk her duties to indulge in a flirtation inappropriate for her as a married woman.
But as days passed, and then weeks, Merlin found it harder to think of her as Padlow's wife. From what he'd learned of the man, he was Freya's exact opposite. Merlin could find no point of similarity at all. Padlow was a murderer and thief; Freya was quiet, sweet, and kind.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Shasta had taken Freya's plea not to discuss their disagreement to heart, but the older woman often shot her meaningful looks, or clucked her tongue and grumbled under her breath, and Freya didn't have to ask what she was thinking.
One thing Freya didn't mention to anyone was her resolve to keep her distance from Merlin – for both their sake's. She wasn't sure if Shasta's suggestive comments about the revenger stemmed from her own conduct or not, but she was determined to be no more solicitous of him than anyone else – than of Arthur, say.
That was easy enough to do. The agent asked for more than Merlin ever had, was more talkative, and spent more time in the tavern's front room. He treated her politely, respectfully, but distantly, too, which suited her. It felt awkward to try to talk to him, knowing he was secretly investigating her husband for crimes she'd never heard of, and didn't want to know about. It seemed to her that he would be weighing each word she spoke for evidence, so she kept her comments to the agent to a minimum.
But as Arthur became known to more and more of Emmett's Creek, ostensibly searching for work and asking questions, their respect for him and his mission – which many were aware of and yet no one mentioned – the hope was growing that he would effect a change, and the curious scrutiny of himself and his habits translated into the slightest lessening of hostility toward Freya. Those who had hated openly now ignored her, and those who had ignored her now occasionally favored her with stiff and uncomfortable condescension. She couldn't decide if this was to be considered an improvement, or not.
All except Burton and Reeve Whatley. There was something in the air of Emmett's Creek, everyone could sense it. Something that had to do with the two strangers who had ridden in together from Camelot, but who both professed not to know the other. Whatever it was, Freya guessed that the people could sense a line being drawn.
It made Burton more quarrelsome than usual, Freya thought, and Percival even threatened to escort him from the premises more than once – but both of those times were when Merlin was absent. Burton ought to have been out hunting, maybe scouting his trapping lines, or whatever it was that he did when he left town, but he was never out of sight for more than a day at a time.
Freya wondered if he was waiting for Padlow's arrival, and didn't want to risk being gone when that happened.
Reeve Whatley was nervous and belligerent, as though sensing the people were beginning to question or resist his position and authority, and so kept closer company with Burton than usual. If the revenger had been looking to retaliate for that late-night beating, he'd had no opportunity to do it away from the eyes of the law, and Freya knew that Merlin wouldn't want to spend a week or two in jail by starting a fight with Burton while the reeve was near.
It was like the subtle and almost imperceptible ripening of a field of wheat. There was less fear in the townspeople toward the two, a bit more courage. It was like a crack in the dam.
It gave Freya hope for the future of Emmett's Creek, but it made her afraid as well. Her own position was precarious here, depending entirely on the goodwill of a few.
Autumn cooled, the air brisk, the sky overcast. The leaves had all turned and were falling, and the tang of cider presses in the orchards was faint in the air. Housewives were busy morning, noon, and night, preparing the produce of the region for storage and use during winter months, preparing clothing and bedding for their households, racing against the season's first snowfall.
Freya finished drying the breakfast dishes, before taking the broom to the front sidewalk; the last of the season's rain had been falling all week, and only now was the mud on the boardwalk dry enough to sweep. Shasta and Gwen were in the kitchen busy with the day's canning project, and Percival had taken himself out to the wood pile.
She closed her eyes to sniff the coolness of the air, and untied her scarf to run her fingers through her hair, which had grown to her shoulders. Still not long enough to braid – Padlow had seen to that when he'd sliced her braid in a fit of anger before leaving earlier that spring, but Shasta had done a good job of trimming it neatly, and the curl was more pronounced with the longer length. Maybe she could even tie it back with a ribbon… if she had a ribbon. She tucked it once again underneath her scarf.
The clang-clang-thud of hammer on anvil rolled through the familiar sounds of wagon wheels on hardened dirt roads, shouts of drivers at mothers, mothers at children, and children at play. She could hear Percival chopping firewood, and noted when the rhythmic noises ceased. There was no fear for her this morning, no angry mutters in the jumble of noises. She smiled for the sheer pleasure of being alive, a pleasure that was rare for her to feel. She began to hum; the straw bristles of her broom scratched over the rough boards of the walkway.
She had just passed the doorway of the tavern when the door squeaked open and Shasta ambled out, red and damp from canning – long beans this time, Freya thought. The older woman leaned against the lintel and watched Freya for a moment.
"Gwen and I will be busy all day, finishing the beans and starting the peaches," Shasta said. "Percival said he'd take you along this afternoon to Mal's orchard if you'd like. You can pick the barrels we lay in for the winter."
Freya's smile grew. "Really, Shasta?" she said. "You trust me to do that?"
"You know good cider," Shasta allowed. "Or at least you should by now." The corners of Shasta's mouth turned up into her plump cheeks, before she ducked back into the tavern, leaving the door open to the cool breeze.
Freya swept her way to the end of the sidewalk, humming again. The past gave her bad dreams, sometimes, the future brought more nervous apprehension than hope, but she had learned to enjoy a good day for what it was. And who knew? Perhaps changes would come from the visit of Agent Arthur, and odds were even that those changes would be for the better.
As she jammed the straws of the broom against the base of the upright post supporting the porch roof, in an attempt to remove the dirt collected there, she glanced up and across the street, down toward the dry-goods store.
Her heart faltered an uneasy beat. Reeve Whatley prowled slowly down the opposite sidewalk, walking stick swinging, his gaze intent on her. She felt herself flushing; he turned to scan the street deliberately, as if making sure no one was taking notice of him. Or of Freya, maybe.
And in that instant, a hand thrust itself into her field of vision from the side, a hand with dirt encrusted in the lines of the palm.
She drew in a startled gasp of breath, then the hand snatched at her dress and yanked her back into the alley between the tavern and the next building. She heard the cloth rip and felt her sleeve pull away from the bodice. The hand slammed her against the side of the tavern, and a body leaned into her from the side, so close and sudden she couldn't immediately recognize who had accosted her so roughly.
But she smelled cheap tobacco, whisky, and the stench of old sweat and dirt, unwashed body, hair, clothing. So she wasn't surprised when it was Burton's voice she heard.
"My, don't we smell pretty, now," he jeered.
"Leave me alone," she gasped, her shock beginning to roll in her stomach, toward fear. "You know I'm married to Padlow. He'll–"
"Not according to him, you're not," Burton rasped, his other hand wandering down to her hip to bunch her skirt up in his fist. "He said to help myself if I ever had a mind to."
This Freya seriously doubted. Padlow was jealously possessive and even if he had professed indifference to whether or not Burton 'helped himself', would no doubt beat her senseless if anything had ever taken place during his absences. Still, it was the biggest reason Freya spent no time at the cabin alone when Padlow was gone. She pushed against the trapper with the broom and her free hand, swaying him backward for just an instant.
He shoved himself against her more insistently. "No-no, little girl," he growled. "Me and you are gonna have a good time – and then you're going to tell me all about those two strangers staying with you here." He groped at her skirt again, trying to pull it up while still holding her against the tavern wall with one hand.
In a panic, she craned her neck to see who might be on the street to help if she yelled – and saw only the reeve, hurrying across and toward them with such a vile, eager grin that her heart rose in her throat with such force that it threatened to choke her.
Only one thought occurred to her – she must break Burton's grip before the reeve reached them, or together they could carry her off into the stand of trees past the tavern outhouse. Percival was probably back inside, and she had no illusions that the reeve would offer any help at all. At least to her.
She laid her free hand on the broom's wooden length, twisting it and bringing it up as hard as she could. Her aim was blind, but sufficient. Burton's hands and body fell away from her; he cursed foully and danced a step or two, hands now busy with protecting himself. Reeve Whatley, halfway across the street, began to run.
Freya tumbled around the corner, losing her grip on the broom. Burton, half a step behind her, tripped on it and cursed again.
With her first lungful of air, Freya shouted, "Percival! Shasta! Help me!" She wasn't a screamer like other girls – fright made her gasp air in, not scream out – but her heart, still in her throat, added an odd note to her voice. She was seized with the conviction that she had not made her words loud enough for anyone to hear, had in fact only whispered them, so she tried again, "Percival! Shasta!"
A sob closed her throat as she clawed for the open doorway, only to be pulled violently backward. She stumbled off the sidewalk into the street, her whirling vision barely registering the fact of several people appearing outside to gawk.
"What's the meaning of this!" Reeve Whatley hollered, his hand fisted in the material of her dress.
The garment, already torn, succumbed further to this manhandling and ripped clear through her collar. Burton limped around the corner just as Percival, then Shasta, appeared in the tavern doorway.
"She attacked me!" Burton blustered. "Hit me with her broom!" He too observed the few townspeople gathering to give their attention to the scene and embellished, "Like she was trying to kill me!"
"Attempted murder!" Whatley declared, the pretended outrage in his voice tinged by satisfaction. He brandished his walking stick. "I'll have to lock you up for that – you'll want to be pressing charges?" he added to Burton, who nodded vigorously.
"Hold on a minute, there!" Percival protested, coming off the sidewalk.
"No!" Freya found her voice. "He attacked me! He tried to–" She couldn't finish the sentence for the embarrassment.
Reeve Whatley didn't bother to address her counter-accusation. He hauled her around swiftly to meet his open-handed slap, which sent her stumbling to one knee with tears in her eyes and a ringing in her ears. And just as swiftly he yanked her away from Percival's outstretched hand.
"No, you don't, Percival," he smiled. "She's in the hands of the law, now."
"Don't be so stupid!" Percival said. "Any fool could see there isn't any truth to the claim of a little girl like this trying to beat on a hulking mean man like him for no reason."
Burton began to sputter indignantly, but was interrupted by the sound of swift hoof-beats approaching down the street. Freya had never been so glad to see the agent, though the reeve didn't know he was one. Arthur on his light brown gelding reined to a stop and dismounted in one fluid movement; he smiled without warmth, taking in the three men and Freya with torn dress and burning cheek.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Arthur said.
"I'm arresting this girl for attempted murder," the reeve said belligerently, "not that it's any business of yours."
"She attacked me," Burton muttered, not meeting the agent's keen gaze.
"No," Freya denied, her words coming out in a sob, "no!"
"That's ridiculous," Perival proclaimed. "He probably grabbed her – he's always trying to do that when he's been drinking."
"Well, Reeve, you seem to be suffering from a lack of evidence," Arthur said smoothly. "And your character witness sides with the girl. Why don't you let her go?"
Freya felt Whatley's grip on her wrist tighten maliciously. It was obvious that he was looking for a way to resolve the issue and keep his dignity and authority intact – and it seemed he couldn't do that if he dragged Freya to the jail in front of half a dozen people.
"This time," he allowed sulkily, releasing her with such roughness that Percival had to use both hands in catching her to keep her from sprawling flat in the road. "And you," he added to Arthur with a momentary return of bravado, "if you intend on spending any more time in Emmett's Creek, remember – don't start any trouble."
Arthur's expression didn't change, but Freya found herself glad that she wasn't standing in the reeve's boots.
As Whatley and Burton moved off down the street and Arthur watched them, hands on his hips, Percival helped Freya back to the porch of the tavern. Shasta met them there, taking Freya's slimmer frame in her strong arms – but her gaze was directed over Freya's head, straight across the street instead of turned slightly to focus on Arthur or the two other men grumbling together as they headed for the jail. And an odd smile played over her face.
Freya tried to turn to see what Shasta was smiling at, but the older woman gently maneuvered her inside.
"Come on, darlin'," she said to Freya. "Let's get you something else to wear, and a nice hot cup of tea."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The first hint Merlin had of trouble was the odd, high-pitched cry for help, coming as it did just as he stepped to plunge the red-hot horseshoe into the cooling barrel of water. It rose with the hiss of steam, "Percival! Shasta! Help me!"
He didn't immediately recognize the voice, but the call for help was so very out of the ordinary that his grip on the tongs slackened momentarily as he raised his head to glance out the open doors toward the street, and the horseshoe hit the bottom of the barrel with a thump.
The first detail to register was Freya's bare shoulder showing through her torn sleeve.
Then the fact of Burton's presence, stumbling toward her as she reached for the tavern door – there was such desperation in her movement, in her second call for help from her friends, that he moved without thought to the door of the forge. There was a feeling of fierce eagerness at the thought of facing Burton again, on his own two feet with his hands free to wreak all kinds of damage.
Elyan the blacksmith hadn't entered his mind at all, so the tree-limb arm thudding into his chest with enough force to make him draw breath again yanked his eyes from the scene in the street. Instinctively he stepped back from the arm and its owner, catching the thick wrist in his free hand, twisting to pull whoever had accosted him off-balance. It was like pulling on a branch - there wasn't much give - but when his eyes met the dark gaze of the blacksmith, he stopped and released Elyan's arm.
"The reeve will handle it," Elyan said, and jerked his head to indicate that individual laying hands on Freya.
At that, Merlin took two more steps forward, bringing the tongs up, grip changed to hold it as a weapon rather than a tool. As he'd been taught, he weighed his options with lightning speed, and killing the reeve – because he'd be jailed for starting the fight if he left Whatley alive – seemed a good choice at the moment; he thought he could accomplish it easily with a single blow of the heavy iron tongs. Maybe two blows. Then he'd have it out with Burton –
Elyan reacted almost as fast, grabbing the bib of Merlin's borrowed leather apron and swinging his shorter but solidly muscular form in front of him, dark skin shiny with sweat.
"It's no affair of yours," he grunted. "I said I wouldn't put up with your scrapping when I took you on, and I meant it."
Percival stepped forward into the street and Merlin relaxed the slightest bit, enough to stay his first instinct to lay the tongs into its owner. He let his eyes drop to Elyan's face once again, and the blacksmith's eyes narrowed.
"You want to take me on first, have at it," he growled. "I'll teach you to think twice next time, I will."
Merlin's lips twisted. Unafraid as he was of any man or any bodily pain, he found himself believing Elyan's determination and respecting him. He glanced up to continue monitoring the situation in the street before making the decision to tangle with the blacksmith or not – just as Arthur rode into view. The agent dismounted and addressed the reeve, but they were too far to hear the words exchanged. Merlin waited the outcome, and within moments Whatley had released Freya, however ungently, and Percival was walking her back to the tavern.
And he noticed that Shasta, waiting on the porch, was watching him, her expression knowing and slightly amused. Tongs still upright, he deliberately reversed his grip to the proper smith's hold, and raised his eyebrows at Elyan, who stepped back.
"Good enough," was all the blacksmith said, before returning to his own work, but as Merlin bent to fish the unfinished horseshoe from the water barrel, he heard the other mutter quietly, "Fightingest devil I ever saw."
Merlin ignored him. He could afford to wait for another chance at Padlow's accomplices.
All that night in the tavern, Freya never once left the kitchen. Shasta and Gwen did what serving there was – Gwen without her usual flirtations, saved as they now were for the agent. Shasta shouted out what orders for fresh rounds were ready and demanded that those who'd ordered the drinks or meals come to the bar themselves to get them. Many grumbled good-naturedly at Shasta, but none asked after Freya.
Arthur came in shortly after Merlin, and ate the stew of the day at the bar before sitting down to the card game already underway. Merlin didn't expect either the reeve or the trapper to make an appearance, and they didn't. He shrugged and smirked to himself. Plan and scheme as they might, he and Arthur were more than a match for their wits, and Percival and Leon and a number of others were likely to be ready to step in if serious trouble started. The balance of power was slowly shifting.
Blacksmithing was harder and hotter work than laying shingles, and while Merlin hadn't dreamed at all since the night Burton had ambushed him, he liked the feeling of being sure his sleep would be unbroken, due to physical fatigue. He knew the land, and he knew the people. He had countless well-rehearsed plans, and Arthur was doing the legal footwork of proving his enemy guilty, deserving of the death that Merlin planned.
Little need, then, to sit up watching and listening and putting pieces together.
But Gaius had sown some very persistent seeds of doubt in debating Merlin about the satisfaction of revenge. It made him question the last few years of his life. The longer he sat up, the more likely it would be that his mind would find these little seeds and begin to consider, to measure their growth. Like weeds, every time he believed he'd ripped them ruthlessly out, his mind would return to find them sprouting again. But like weeds, ignored and unchecked, he was afraid they would soon overwhelm his resolve.
Leaving his dishes on the table in the corner, he took the stairs two at a time to the room he had used since his arrival in Emmett's Creek; returning to it rather than the platform, since Arthur had joined him in town.
Merlin had doused his face and hands before eating, but one of the inn's women always made sure the pitcher on his commode was full of clean water at the beginning and end of every day. He had never questioned which one, in case he found himself further indebted to the wife of his enemy. Why didn't she keep her distance?
He wondered if she'd recovered from the afternoon's ordeal.