“You can do what you like with your own skin; but I tell you, plain man to man, you’d no right to bring all your tenants into this. Better have given those three all you had in your pockets than us be murdered in our beds.”
“As well have given them my soul.”
“Your soul?” sneered Wiseman, chill with fear.
“Just that. If I’d bartered it to the Lost Folk, there’d have been the end of pride for me. And the end of pride is hell.”
“Then it’s hell either way, it seems; for you’ve brought it close to one and all of those who farm under you. You didn’t stop to think of that when they asked tribute?”
“I didn’t think at all, Wiseman. I just saw the three lousy rogues, straddling the road in front of me, and I hit them, true and hard.”
“You had your frolic—and soon they’ll be having theirs. You’ve no wife to think of, Master.”
“No,” said Hardcastle, recalling sharply the might-have-been that had ended long since.
“I’ve a wife and children myself, like many another they’ll have lain the token on. If your time at the pinfold came again, you’d remember it meant war about Logie-side?”
“I would,” said Hardcastle, as if a clean, lusty wind blew through him, driving out all dread—“and hit the three men true and hard again. Now, listen to me. I’ve brought you all into this trouble, and I’ll see you through it. Take my word as bond for that. You’re needing ale, Rebecca tells me.”