“Aye, talk at me, now you’re two to one. Beat an old woman down. But when you’ve killed a lone pedlar—one that’s shared Logie’s salt—don’t run to my apron for comfort. I’ll give you none.”
“We shouldn’t look for it,” said the Master dryly.
Rebecca, taut as a bow-string, was at war with herself and every living thing about her, because peril did not come. The lad who had trysted her at the gate these forty years, had told her yesterday of havoc brewing up. And instead there was a wet breeze sobbing round the house, and Brant with the ale-froth about his stubbly beard and Hardcastle, dour and tall and thinking of Causleen. She knew that he was thinking of her, and heard children, of his getting, shout in play. Forlorn, alone and jealous, she sought for a grievance, and found it speedily.
“Your knee’s dripping, Master, and so much for my bandages. A careless man at all times, you.”
She went to the cupboard near the hearth, and got out a store of lint, and herbs that staunched the bleeding. The Master was hers for a little while, before Causleen stole him from her.
“It hurts, as I rub it in?”
“Like the devil, Rebecca. But have your way.”
A bark sounded down the gusty corridor, and Brant cocked a hairy ear.
“If Storm wasn’t dead, I’d have sworn I heard him.”
“His ghost barked,” said Rebecca. “No wonder he’s haunting you from this to the end of all. Are you sure you killed him?”