​

The following evening, sitting alone in his cottage at Stanbury, the steward thought about the events of the previous night. He stared into the fire, annoyed at how matters had unfolded. It should have been a profitable evening. Instead, he found himself counting losses.

He disliked seeing common folk walk away with coin. The rat baiting had been his idea from the beginning. Every manor court brought villagers carrying the few shillings they had managed to scrape together for payne, fines and dues. Most handed over their money reluctantly, but some always kept a little back for wagering. Why should he not relieve them of it before it found its way elsewhere?

For years, the arrangement had served him well.

A shilling for the rat catcher. A shilling for the dog owner. A small portion to those who helped organise matters. The rest found its way into his purse. Together with the pennies and shillings he quietly skimmed from the fines and dues collected on behalf of his lordship, it provided a handsome income beyond the stipend paid for tending manor business.

The lord rarely concerned himself with small sums, but the steward knew better than most that fortunes could change quickly. If the lord's coffers ran low and his temper rose with it, questions would soon follow. Questions had a habit of becoming punishments, and punishments had a habit of becoming ruin.

No, it was always better to stay one step ahead.

That was why the previous night had been so important.

Weeks earlier, whilst in Bradford, he had seen a dog unlike any he had encountered before. The beast had torn through a pit of rats with astonishing speed and ferocity. It was cunning, relentless, and seemingly tireless. He had lost money wagering on it that night, but he had arranged for the dog to be brought to Haworth, convinced he would win back every penny and more.

At first, fortune appeared to favour him.

Before the baiting had begun, he had charmed his way into a card game with two travelling coney-catchers. He had watched them fleece several locals before approaching their table. Outsiders always irritated him. If anyone was going to take money from the people of the parish, it ought to be him.

The pair were clearly experienced.

Experienced enough, he noted, that both still possessed their ears.

They welcomed him warmly and allowed him to win the first few hands. One raised the stakes while the other folded. Their cards were always just weak enough to lose. Each victory encouraged him to wager more. Every now and then they allowed him another win, feeding his confidence while quietly draining the weight from his purse.

Looking back on it now, he realised how expertly they had played him.

By the time he began to suspect their game, the watchman was already ringing the bell for a count of eight.

The steward shifted uneasily in his chair.

He had lost more than coin that night.

Sitting before the fire, he could not shake the feeling that something had slipped beyond his control.

He simply did not know what.

By the time he began to suspect their game, the watchman was already ringing the bell for a count of eight.

The steward shifted uneasily in his chair.

He had lost more than coin that night.

For the first time in many years, he had been made to look a fool.

He stared into the fire, replaying every hand, every wager, every smile exchanged across the table. The more he thought on it, the more it troubled him.

Somewhere in those hours, he had missed something.

And until he discovered what it was, he would find little peace.

The steward leaned forward and held his hands toward the fire.

One thing was certain.

He intended to recover every penny.

But as the flames danced before him, another thought crept into his mind.

What if the money was the least of what he had lost?

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                                                                -XI-