"Just pass me that pistol and there'll be no trouble. It's hotheads like you that make this necessary." Morris reached into Briggs' belt and deftly extracted the long flintlock, its gilded stock glistening in the candlelight. He shook the powder out of the priming pan and handed it to one of the infantrymen. "The name with this one is to be . . ." He glanced back. "Briggs, sir, I believe you said?"
"Damn you. This treatment will not be countenanced. I need that pistol." Briggs started to move forward, then glanced warily at the infantrymen holding flintlock muskets.
"We all regret it's necessary, just as much as you." Morris signaled to the three infantrymen standing behind him, their helmets reflecting the dull orange of the candles. "While I finish here, search the back room. And take care. There's apt to be a musket hiding behind a calico petticoat in a place like this."
Winston settled back onto his chair. "I wouldn't trouble with that if I were you. There're no other guns here. Except for mine."
Morris glanced at him, startled. Then he saw Winston's flintlock lying on the table. "You're not giving the orders here, whoever you are. And I'll kindly take that pistol."
"I'd prefer to keep it. So it'd be well if you'd just leave now, before there's trouble."
"That insubordinate remark, sir, has just gotten you put under arrest." Morris moved toward the table.
Winston was on his feet. The chair he had been sitting on tumbled across the floor. "I said you'd best be gone."
Before Morris could respond, a woman appeared at the rear doorway. "I'll save you all a search. I'm not afraid of Cromwell, and I'm surely not frightened of you."
"Katherine, no!" Jeremy's voice was pleading.