“Haven’t you heard what’s gathering round us all?”
“I hear little up yonder, thanks be, save crying of the ewes, and stillness, and the wind. They’re better gossips than your village-folk down hereabouts.”
Rebecca had an old fondness for the shepherd, and the ale that Wiseman had clamoured for in vain was brought.
“It’s cold up yonder on the heights,” she said, filling a wide mug for him. “Dark and lonesome, too, after sundown, with ghosty Brown Men of the Heather and what not flitting by you. But you were never one to come with your knees a-wobble.”
“Meaning me?” said Geordie.
“Meaning you, or any other man that thinks he’s fitted with his proper cap.”
“What’s it all about, Master?” asked Brant. “Is Geordie just in his cups, with his tale of what’s gathering round us?”
“Half in and half out. He’s himself most days of the week,” said Hardcastle dryly. “There’s trouble brewing, though, as he says. An arrow-head was left on my gate last night, and on Geordie’s. It will come to yours when they’ve time to get up to your cottage on Gaunt Fell.”
“Let it come,” said Brant, his face hard and bright on the sudden. “I’ve wanted that for many a year.”
“You would,” Rebecca nodded. “I’ve heard you speak time and again in this same kitchen of their sheep-stealing tricks. Theft of a sheep to you is almost like what murder is to other folk.”