“The devil take us, Master,” grumbled Brant.
“It’s likely he will, all in good time—but why just now?”
Brant scratched his wiry beard and pondered. Hill silences had taught him to be wary of speech when deep-hidden feelings sought outlet. “Because we’re content to let this shame go on,” he said at last. “It’s hard to unravel, this fear of the Lost Folk. I’m small myself, but most of our men—yeomen, and hinds, and what not—could make a meal of any two such lean swine as they breed Garsykes way.”
“Yet they don’t, Brant. They just unfasten their pockets and give tribute.”
“They’ll be asking tribute of you one day soon,” said the shepherd, after another restless silence. “And what then?”
“They’ve asked it, Stephen. Hadn’t you seen my face was a trifle out of shape?”
“Oh, I’d seen; but it was not my place to ask what private diversion you’d been finding Norbrigg way.”
Hardcastle laughed outright at Brant’s gravity, that hid a dry humour of its own. “I gave more than I took, Stephen.”
“Then a bonny mess t’others must be in. Who were they, Master?”
“Long Murgatroyd and two I didn’t know.”