By morning, the smell of pottage filled the cottage.

Weak sunlight crept through the cracks in the shutters while the fire settled low upon the hearth. 

The stranger lay where Thomas and William had left him, the linen around his head stained brown where the blood had dried. The two mastiffs lay beside the hearth, their chins resting upon their paws. Rex lifted his great head each time the stranger stirred.

Then came a groan.

Margery looked up from the pot.

The stranger's eyes opened slowly. For a moment he stared at the smoke-blackened rafters as though he did not know where he had awakened. Then he reached carefully towards the back of his head.

His fingers found the bandage.

He winced.

"Where am I?" he whispered.

"Hall Green," Thomas replied. "Near Haworth."

The man tried to sit, but pain caught him halfway and he fell back against the straw.

"Easy now," Margery said, lifting the pot from the fire. "Tha's had a fair crack to thy skull."

William folded his arms.

"Aye. And brought half the ditch home with thee."

The stranger looked from one face to the next before lowering his eyes.

Margery filled a wooden bowl with pottage and placed it gently into his trembling hands.

"What's thy name?" Thomas asked.

The man swallowed before answering.

"John Hargreaves."

Margery paused almost imperceptibly before returning to the pot.

"I owe thee my life," John said quietly.

No one answered.

Only the fire spoke.

Thomas pulled his stool a little closer.

"What happened?"

John stared into the rising steam.

"I'd been waiting fer Agnes."

He rubbed his forehead carefully.

"She were finishing her duties at the manor. I thought I'd climb the hill fer an ale while I waited."

William smiled faintly, "There's many a man who's said the same."

John managed a weary smile, "So I discovered."

He shifted uncomfortably.

"One ale became two. Then a pair o' strangers asked if I'd ever seen rat baiting."

"The cellar?"

"Aye."

John's eyes settled on the flames dancing beneath the pot.

"Rotten wooden steps. Smoke thick enough to sting thy eyes before tha reached the bottom."

John looked into the fire.

"The smell hit first."

He grimaced.

"Stale ale. Dead rats. Dog piss."

William pulled a face.

John nodded.

"Men were packed shoulder to shoulder round the pit, shouting wagers loud enough to shake the beams."

His voice softened.

"There were one little terrier..."

"...called Billy."

Thomas smiled.

"The little thing tore through them rats like he'd been born to it."

John held up a finger.

"Seventeen."

Another.

"Eighteen."

"Nineteen."

A tired smile crept across his face.

"Then twenty."

William pushed himself away from the wall.

"Twenty rats?"

"Aye."

"I'd wagered on twenty."

"And won?" Thomas asked.

"For a while."

"The two men paid me winnings. They'd been taking the wagers all evening."

He lowered his eyes to the bowl.

"After that I bought ale."

Margery shook her head, "Fresh coin attracts thirsty company."

John nodded.

"It surely does."

He breathed quietly before continuing.

"I bought a round."

Another pause.

"Then another."

He gave a faint, embarrassed laugh.

"By the end o' the night every man near enough to hear me name seemed eager to call me friend."

The fire cracked between them.

Outside, somewhere across the fields, a rook called into the morning.

John's fingers tightened around the bowl.

"I remember laughing."

He frowned.

"My purse felt heavy upon me belt."

His gaze drifted towards the cattle door.

"The strangers walked with me when I left."

Thomas leaned forward.

"They left together?"

John nodded slowly.

"So I believe."

He frowned harder, chasing memories that refused to settle.

"I remember the mist."

His voice became little more than a whisper.

Silence settled over the cottage.

Thomas waited.

"So tha saw who struck thee?"

John closed his eyes.

"No."

He touched the bandage again.

"Only darkness."

He opened them once more.

"Then nothing."

William broke the silence first.

"You should tell the steward."

John let out a weary laugh.

"The steward would sooner fine me fer drunkenness than help recover me purse."

Margery looked across at him.

"Had much in it, did thee?"

John lowered his eyes.

"Enough."

John turned the empty bowl slowly between his hands.

"I've replayed it over and over."

He shook his head.

"The strangers?" Thomas asked.

John nodded.

"They saw me as far as the old lane."

He frowned.

"One kept talking. The other hardly said a word."

"What did they look like?" William asked.

John closed his eyes, searching the darkness of the previous night.

"One had a face no man could mistake." He touched the bandage gently. "Black patch over one eye."

Thomas glanced towards William.

John looked surprised.

"Tha's seen them?"

"The same two strangers we saw at the manor."

William nodded.

"I reckon they were."

John frowned, searching the memory.

"Aye... I think so."

Thomas stared into the fire.

"They walked thee as far as the lane?"

"Aye."

"Then turned back."

John nodded slowly.

"That's the last thing I remember clear."

"I never even saw the blow."

The room fell quiet again.

Only the bubbling pot and the crackle of the fire disturbed the silence.

"I've taken enough o' thy kindness."

He pushed himself upright, wincing as the room swayed around him.

Margery was beside him before he lost his footing.

"Steady."

"I'll manage."

"Tha'll manage badly," William said.

A faint smile crossed John's face.

"Perhaps."

He reached for his cloak where it had been drying beside the hearth.

"It'll still be wet," Thomas warned.

"So am I."

John slipped it over his shoulders anyway.

"I've a wife and daughter wondering whether I'm dead or alive."

The smile disappeared from Thomas' face.

"Agnes?"

"Aye."

John looked towards the cattle door.

"I've kept them worrying long enough."

Thomas crossed the cottage and lifted the wooden bar.

Cold morning air drifted inside carrying the smell of wet earth and fresh grass.

"Safe journey, Mr Hargreaves."

John stopped in the doorway.

If ever tha needs help, you'll find me on Moorehouse Lane, toward Oxenhope.

He looked at each of them in turn.

"I'll not forget what this family has done for me."

Without another word, he stepped into the morning.

Thomas stood in the doorway until John disappeared beyond the hedgerow.

The lane glistened with the night's rain. Mist drifted slowly across the lower fields while sheep grazed quietly beyond the dry-stone walls, lifting their heads only briefly as the wounded man passed.

For a while Thomas could still make out the uneven rhythm of John's walk.

Then the mist swallowed him.

Thomas drew the cattle door closed against the morning chill.

William stirred the fire with the poker.

"Think he'll reach home?"

Thomas nodded.

"He'll get there."

Margery said nothing.

She gathered the empty bowls and tipped the last of the pottage into the pot before hanging it above the dying embers.

Outside, another shower rattled softly against the shutters.

The dogs settled once more beside the hearth.

Bess closed her eyes.

Rex did not.

Thomas climbed the ladder to the loft, but sleep would not return.

He found himself thinking about the ditch.

The blood.

The black patch.

Thomas lay staring into the darkness above him.

The strangers had seen John safely as far as the old lane.

Yet someone had been waiting beyond it.

He closed his eyes.

Somewhere between those two memories lay the truth.

Thomas could not shake the feeling that the men who had done this had not gone far.

​

                                                                      -VII-