“You are still a maimed man, sir. To be foiled would be worse than to let it pass.”
“There, fellow, I’ll spare you, so you ask pardon of me and the lady.”
Perhaps they thought they had gone too far, for there was a sulky growl that might pass for an apology, and Ridley’s counsel was decided that Pierce had better not pursue the matter.
What had been said, however, alarmed him, and set him on the watch, and the next evening, when Hardcastle was walking along the cliffs beyond the castle, the lad who acted as his page came to him, with round, wondering eyes, “Sir,” said he, after a little hesitation, “is it sooth that the lady spake a spell over your arm?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Pierce smiling.
“It might be without your knowledge,” said the boy. “They say it healed as no chirurgeon could have healed it, and by magic arts.”
“Ha! the lubbard oafs. You know better than to believe them, Dick.”
“Nay, sir, but ’tis her bower-woman and Madge, the cook’s wife. Both aver that the lady hath bewitched whoever comes in her way ever since she crossed the door. She hath wrought strange things with her father, mother, and brothers. They say she bound them to her; that the little one could not brook to have her out of sight; yet she worked on him so that he was crooked and shrivelled. Yet he wept and cried to have her ever with him, while he peaked and pined and dwindled away. And her mother, who was once a fine, stately, masterful dame, pined to mere skin and bone, and lay in lethargy; and now she is winding her charms on you, sir!”
Pierce made an exclamation of loathing and contempt. Dick lowered his voice to a whisper of awe.
“Nay, sir, but Le Tordu and Ned of the Bludgeon purpose to ride over to Shields to the wise, and they will deal with her when he has found the witch’s mark.”