“Naught that would trouble you if I told it. You’re past caring how an old woman fares, though she’s skin and bone for your sake—wearing her life out, cooking and scrubbing. And, ‘What is it?’ asks the Master. It’s this, if you must know. Brant’s not come back, and I’m tired of guarding my kitchen with a rolling-pin against yond lean swine from Garsykes. If Brant’s gone, some o’ them are lurking in the stable-yard.”
Hardcastle put Causleen from him gently. The new peril was harsh enough, but he was quick these days to face unexpected happenings.
“Stay here, child,” he said sharply.
She stayed for one snatched moment to stoop above her father and give his soul a God-speed. Then she followed Hardcastle, and he felt a hand steal into his.
“Oh, get back, child,” he said. “There’s trouble.”
“So my place is with you.”
She would not be denied; and when they came into the kitchen, Brant the shepherd was crossing the doorway.
“Spared us the need to go in search of you, have you, Stephen?” snapped Rebecca. “You look moiled, and fuzzy in your wits.”
“So you’d look,” grumbled Brant, “if you had forgotten there were two ends to a blunderbuss—one that spat at the Garsykes sort, and t’ other that knocked me heels over head with the back-kick. I struck against a rock in falling, and lay silly for a time.”
“Well, it would be no new feeling to you, Brant.”