“Didn’t you hear me calling, then?” Lindley was reining in his own steed to keep pace with the white horse.
“Surely I heard your halloo”—the boy’s hand drew his hood closer about his face—“but I did not know that it was addressed to me.”
“You’re servant to Master James Ogilvie, are you not?” Lindley’s tone implied a statement rather than a question, but the lad denied him.
“No, you’re wrong. I’m no servant of Master James Ogilvie’s.”
“But it’s Mistress Judith Ogilvie’s horse you ride!” Again Lindley made an assertion.
“Ay, you’re right there,” answered the boy. “Once wrong, once right. Try again, my master.”
“It’s you who’ll be tried, I’m thinking,” said Lindley, once again laying his hand on the scarlet bridle of the white horse. “What do you with Mistress Judith’s horse at this hour of the night, if you’re not Master Ogilvie’s servant?”
“I might be servant to Mistress Judith,” hazarded the lad.
“No insolence, boy,” quoth Lindley, working himself into a fine rage. “Mistress Judith has no servants that are not of her father’s household.”
“Ah, that proves that you’ve not seen Mistress Judith Ogilvie.” A faint ripple, that might have been laughter, shook the boy’s words. “All men are servants to Mistress Ogilvie, all men who have laid eyes on the lady.”