Midwinter

The road which had begun as a rutted cart-track sank presently to a
grassy footpath among scrub oaks, and as the boughs whipped his
face the young man cried out impatiently and pulled up his horse to
consider. He was on a journey where secrecy was not less vital
than speed, and he was finding the two incompatible. That morning
he had avoided Banbury and the high road which followed the crown
of Cotswold to the young streams of Thames, for that way lay
Beaufort's country, and at such a time there would be jealous
tongues to question passengers. For the same reason he had left
the main Oxford road on his right, since the channel between Oxford
and the North might well be troublesome, even for a respectable
traveller who called himself Mr Andrew Watson, and was ready with a
legend of a sea-coal business in Newcastle. But his circumspection
seemed to have taken him too far on an easterly course into a land
of tangled forests. He pulled out his chart of the journey and
studied it with puzzled eyes. My Lord Cornbury's house could not
be twenty miles distant, but what if the twenty miles were
pathless? An October gale was tossing the boughs and whirling the
dead bracken, and a cold rain was beginning. Ill weather was
nothing to one nourished among Hebridean north-westers, but he
cursed a land in which there were no landmarks. A hill-top, a
glimpse of sea or loch, even a stone on a ridge, were things a man
could steer by, but what was he to do in this unfeatured woodland?
These soft south-country folk stuck to their roads, and the roads
were forbidden him.

A little further and the track died away in a thicket of hazels.
He drove his horse through the scrub and came out on a glade, where
the ground sloped steeply to a jungle of willows, beyond which he
had a glimpse through the drizzle of a grey-green fen. Clearly
that was not his direction, and he turned sharply to the right
along the edge of the declivity. Once more he was in the covert,
and his ill-temper grew with every briar that whipped his face.
Suddenly he halted, for he heard the sound of speech.

It came from just in front of him--a voice speaking loud and angry,
and now and then a squeal like a scared animal's. An affair
between some forester and a poaching hind, he concluded, and would
fain have turned aside. But the thicket on each hand was
impenetrable, and, moreover, he earnestly desired advice about the
road. He was hesitating in his mind, when the cries broke out
again, so sharp with pain that instinctively he pushed forward.
The undergrowth blocked his horse, so he dismounted and, with a
hand fending his eyes, made a halter of the bridle and dragged the
animal after him. He came out into a little dell down which a path
ran, and confronted two human beings.

They did not see him, being intent on their own business. One was
a burly fellow in a bottle-green coat, a red waistcoat and corduroy
small clothes, from whose gap-toothed mouth issued volleys of
abuse. In his clutches was a slim boy in his early teens, a dark
sallow slip of a lad, clad in nothing but a shirt and short leather
breeches. The man had laid his gun on the ground, and had his knee
in the small of the child's back, while he was viciously twisting
one arm so that his victim cried like a rabbit in the grip of a
weasel. The barbarity of it undid the traveller's discretion.

"Hold there," he cried, and took a pace forward.

The man turned his face, saw a figure which he recognised as a
gentleman, and took his knee from the boy's back, though he still
kept a clutch on his arm.

"Sarvant, sir," he said, touching his hat with his free hand.
"What might 'ee be wanting o' Tom Heather?" His voice was civil,
but his face was ugly.

"Let the lad go."

"Sir Edward's orders, sir--that's Sir Edward Turner, Baronet, of
Ambrosden House in this 'ere shire, 'im I 'as the honour to serve.
Sir Edward 'e says, 'Tom,' 'e says, 'if 'ee finds a poacher in the
New Woods 'ee knows what to do with 'im without troubling me'; and
I reckon I does know. Them moor-men is the worst varmints in the
country, and the youngest is the black-heartedest, like foxes."

The grip had relaxed and the boy gave a twist which freed him.
Instantly he dived into the scrub. The keeper made a bound after
him, thought better of it and stood sullenly regarding the
traveller.

"I've been a-laying for the misbegotten slip them five weeks, and
now I loses him, and all along of 'ee, sir." His tones suggested
that silver might be a reasonable compensation.