Speaks the Nightbird
Chapter Eight

OUTSIDE THE GaOL, the humid air and clouded light seemed the breath and glow of paradise. Woodward disdained the carriage, where Goode sat on the driver's seat whittling a piece of wood with a small blade, and began walking in the direction of the spring. Matthew followed close behind.
"That man galls me!" Woodward said. "I may be a servant of the law, but I'm not his slave and neither are you!"
"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir." Matthew got beside him and kept pace. "as much as his manner grates, however, I can understand his anxiety."
"Well, aren't you the generous soul!"
"I might be as eager for an execution if I'd put so much money into Fount Royal, and now saw my investment near ruin."
"To the Devil with his investment!"
"Yes, sir," Matthew said. "I think that's what he fears."
Woodward slowed his pace and then stopped. He mopped beads of sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve, looked up at the ominous sky and then at his clerk. "That's why you're so invaluable to me, you know," he said, his anger dissolving. "at a glance you see the picture, the frame, the nail, and the wall."
"I see only what's there to be seen."
"Yes, and surely we've today seen a bit too much of Madam Howarth. She was . . . younger than I suspected. Much more handsome, as well. One might say lovely, if in different circumstances. When she disrobed, I . . . well, I haven't judged very many female defendants. Never have I stood and seen a woman disrobe willingly before strangers."
"Not willingly," Matthew said. "She knew her clothes would be taken from her, so she elected to remove them herself."
"Yes. What does that say about the womani"
"That she wishes to retain some measure of control over herself. Or, at least, deny that control from Bidwell."
"Hmm." Woodward began walking west along Truth Street again, and Matthew walked alongside. Though the village still seemed very quiet, there were residents going about their daily business. Two women were crossing the street ahead, one of them carrying a large basket. a man at the reins of an oxcart passed, hauling bales of hay and a few barrels. "I should like to know," the magistrate said, "... what intrigues you have with Mrs. Nettles."
"Siri"
"You may wear that expression of innocent surprise with everyone but me. I know you too well. On this day, of all days, you would never have been late rising from bed. In fact, I suspect you were up early in anticipation. So why did Mrs. Nettles say such a thing to Bidwelli"
"I . . . promised her I wouldn't betray her confidence."
Woodward pulled up short again, and this time when he looked at Matthew his gaze was more penetrating. "If it has to do with Madam Howarth, I should like to be informed. In fact, it's your requirement as my clerk to inform me."
"Yes, sir, I know. But - "
"Promise her anything you please," Woodward said. "But tell me what I ought to be told."
"She did ask that I not speak a word to Mr. Bidwell."
"Well, neither shall I. Tell me."
"In essence, she requested that you and I both approach this case with an open mind. She believes Madam Howarth to be falsely accused."
"and she told you why she believes thisi"
"No, sir. Just that she fears our minds will be poisoned."
Woodward stared off across Truth Street at a small pasture where several cows grazed. a woman wearing a straw hat was on her knees in a beanfield, pulling up weeds, while her husband was at work nailing shingles atop their farmhouse. Nearby, on the other side of a split-rail fence, stood a farmhouse that had been abandoned by its previous tenants, its field now a swampy thicket. Three crows perched on the roof of the forlorn house, looking to Woodward like a trio of black-robed magistrates. Perhaps, he mused, they were awaiting the departure of the next-door neighbors.
"You know," he said quietly, "that if Rachel Howarth is a witch, then she has powers of influence that are much beyond our perception."
"Mrs. Nettles asked me not to mention our conversation to Bidwell, for the reason that he might think her so influenced."
"Hmm," Woodward said, a sound of thought. "Poison can be served from many cups, Matthew. I'd beware the one from which I chose to drink. Come, let's walk." They started off once more. "What did you make of Noles's storyi"
"Hogwash. He wants out of his cage."
"and the Devil's marks on the woman's bodyi"
"Inconclusive," Matthew said. "Such marks are common on most people." He didn't have to mention the blotches that marked Woodward's pate.
"Granted. What, then, of the poppetsi"
"I think you should see them for yourself."
"agreed. I'm sorry Madam Grunewald is no longer available."
"You should ask Bidwell for a list of witnesses who are available," Matthew suggested. "Then you should secure some place to interview them where Bidwell can't interfere."
"Yes." He nodded, then darted a sidelong glance at Matthew. "We will have to interview Madam Howarth again, of course. at length. She seems to be acceptable to your questions, but mute to anyone else. Why do you think that isi"
"I don't know."
Woodward let them stride a few more paces before he spoke again. "You don't think it's possible that she knew Mrs. Nettles would speak to you this morningi and that by only addressing your questions she might. . . how shall I put thisi. . . Win some favor from youi"
"I'm just a clerk. I have no - "
" - powers of influencei" Woodward interrupted. "You see my point, don't youi"
"Yes, sir," Matthew had to admit. "I do."
"and her unwillingness or inability to speak the Lord's Prayer is especially damning. If she would or could speak it, then why won't shei Do you have any theoriesi"
"None," Matthew said.
"Except for the obvious, that - as Paine said - her tongue would be scorched by mention of the Holy Father. It's happened before in witchcraft trials that the accused made an attempt at speaking the prayer and fell convulsed with agony to the courtroom floor."
"Has it ever happened that anyone accused of witchcraft spoke the prayer and was set freei"
"Of that I can't say. I'm far from an expert in these matters. I do know that some witches are able to speak the name of God without ill effect, being somehow shielded from harm by their master. That much I've read in court dockets. But if Madam Howarth did speak the prayer - in its entirety, with proper holy attitude and without fainting or crying out in pain - then it would go a distance in helping her cause." The magistrate frowned, watching another crow circling above their heads. It came to him that the Devil could take many forms, and he ought to be wary of what he said and where he said it. "You do realize, don't you, that Madam Howarth today made a confession of sortsi"
"Yes, sir." Matthew knew what he meant. "When she disrobed, she said, 'Here is the witch.'"
"Correct. If that's not a confession, I never heard one. I could order the stake to be cut and the fire to be laid this afternoon, if I had a mind to." He was silent for a moment, during which they neared the conjunction of Fount Royal's streets. "Tell me why I should not," he said.
"Because the witnesses should be heard. Because Madam Howarth deserves the right to speak without pressure from Bid-well. and because . . ." Matthew hesitated, "I'd like to know why she murdered her husband."
"and I the - " same, Woodward was about to say, but before he could finish he was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of a woman.
"Magistrate! Magistrate Woodward!"
It was so sharp and startling that for an instant Woodward thought the crow had spoken his name, and if he were to look up he would see the evil bird about to sink its talons into his scalp. But suddenly a woman came into view, hurrying across the square where Fount Royal's streets met. She wore a simple indigo blue dress, a blue-checked apron, and a white bonnet, and she carried a basket that held such household items as candles and blocks of soap. The magistrate and Matthew halted as the woman neared.
"Yes, madami" Woodward asked.
She gave him a sunny smile and a quick curtsey. "Forgive me, but when I saw you walking I had to come and introduce myself. I am Lucretia Vaughan. My husband is Stewart, who owns the carpentry shop." She nodded in the direction of Industry Street.
"My pleasure. This is my clerk, Matthew - "
"Corbett, yes, I know. Oh, you two gentlemen are quite the talk hereabouts. How you defied that mad innkeeper and fought off his brood of murderers with a single sword! It's made for a welcome tale of bravery among us!" Matthew had to hold back a laugh; it seemed their midnight flight from Shawcombe's tavern was being transformed by the residents of Fount Royal into something akin to Ulysses's monumental battle with the Cyclops.
"Well," Woodward said, unconsciously puffing out his chest a bit, "it did take all our wits to escape that gang of killers." Matthew was forced to lower his head and study the ground.
"But how exciting that must have been!" the woman went on, almost breathless. It had already registered to Woodward that she was a very handsome figure, in her thirties perhaps, with clear blue eyes and a friendly, open demeanor. Curls of light brown hair escaped her bonnet, and her face - though lined by time and the rigors of the frontier life - was as pleasing as a warm lantern on a chill, dark night. "and to have found such a treasure, as well!"
Woodward's smile faltered. "a treasurei"
"Yes, the sack of gold coins you discovered! Spanish gold, wasn't iti Come, sir, please don't be coy with a simple country lady!"
Matthew's heart was beating somewhere in the vicinity of his adam's apple. He said, "May I ask a questioni" then waited for Mrs. Vaughan to nod. "Who informed you of this sack of gold coinsi"
"Well, I heard it from Cecilia Semmes, who heard it from Joan Baltour. But everyone knows, Mr. Corbett! Oh!" Her eyes widened, and she put a finger to her lips, "Was it supposed to be a secreti"
"I fear you've been misinformed," Woodward said. "My clerk found a single coin of Spanish gold, not a sackful."
"But Cecilia promised me it was God's truth! and Cecilia's not one to pass on tales that aren't true!"
"In this case, your friend has erred. Grievously," Woodward added.
"But, I can't understand why - " She stopped, and a knowing smile spread over her face. Her eyes gleamed with delight. "Ohhhh, I see! The cat jumped out of the bag, didn't iti"
"I beg your pardoni"
"You can trust me, sir! Mum's the word!"
"I'm afraid mum is not the word. If you're thinking that we have a sack of gold coins that we wish to keep a secret, you're sadly mistaken."
The coin was in the pocket of Matthew's breeches, and he would've taken it out to show her but he doubted it would do any good but simply set more tongues in motion. "I really did only find one," he told her.
"Yes." Her smile remained constant. "Of course you did. That's what I certainly shall tell anyone who asks me . . ." She looked hopefully at the magistrate. "When will the witch swing, siri"
"Well, I - "
"I would like to know in advance, so I might make some pies to sell. There will be a great number of people there to see it, I'm sure. The whole town, most likely. Where will the gallows be constructedi"
It took Woodward a few seconds to recover from the jarring shock of the woman's rather brusque questions. "I really don't know, Mrs. Vaughan. But at the moment there are no plans to construct a scaffold."
"Ohi" Her smile began to fade, a frown tugging at the edges of her cupid's-bow mouth. "I presumed you were here to carry out an execution."
"You and many others, evidently. I am here to satisfy justice."
"I see. So you're saying there will be an execution, but it may be delayed for several daysi"
Now it was Woodward's turn to study the ground.
"The witch must swing," Mrs. Vaughan plowed on. Her initial sweetness had given way to something more sour. "For the sake of this town and everyone in it, she must be executed as soon as possible. I mean to say, as soon as justice is satisfied. Do you have any idea when that might bei"
"No, I do not."
"But. . . you're in charge, aren't youi Surely you're not going to suffer the witch to live and keep cursing us too much longer, are youi"
"Magistrate!" Woodward and Matthew saw that Bidwell's carriage had stopped nearby, before it made the turn onto Peace Street. Bidwell had removed his tricorn and held it between both hands, a gesture that Woodward took as contrition. "Good day there, Mrs. Vaughan! I trust you and your family are welli"
"I'm feeling quite ill after learning Rachel Howarth won't swing anytime soon!" the woman replied, her comely face now stitched tight with disgust. "What's wrong with this magistratei Has the witch already claimed himi"
Bidwell decided, at this combustible moment, to deny the powder its flame. "Magistrate Woodward has the situation well in hand, madam. He operates in a considered and proper judicial manner. Magistrate, may I have a word with youi"
"Good day, Mrs. Vaughan," Woodward said, and she gave an indignant grunt, lifted her pinched nose in the air, and strode away in the direction she'd come. He walked to the carriage. "Yesi"
Bidwell stared at his tricorn, his fingers working the curled brim. "I . . . must make a deepfelt apology, sir. Sometimes I let my impatience guide my tongue." He glanced quickly up to gauge the magistrate's reaction, then lowered his eyes once more. "I'm very sorry to have caused you grief. I know this is a difficult situation as it is for all of us. But you do understand my responsibility here, don't youi"
"I do. I trust you understand and will respect mine."
"absolutely."
"In that case, I accept your apology. I'd also like you to know I will do my best to resolve your predicament as soon as possible, within the bounds and necessities of the law."
"I ask nothing more," said Bidwell, and then he put his tricorn back on and gave a visible exhalation at the fact that this distasteful business of apology was concluded. "Might I offer you and your clerk a ridei"
"Yes, I'd certainly accept one. It is terribly humid this morning, isn't iti" Woodward was also grateful that the air had been cleared, since any difficulty with their host would be painful to endure. He stepped up on the carriage's footclimb as Bidwell opened the door for him, and then he eased himself into the seat that faced the other man. He realized that Matthew hadn't moved an inch from his previous position.
"Matthewi aren't you comingi"
"No, sir, I am not."
"My apology," Bidwell said, and now the word tasted like spoiled cheese, "was directed to your clerk as well as to you, sir." He was staring at Woodward, not even bothering to lay eyes on the boy.
"I'd rather walk," Matthew said, before the magistrate was put in the position of having to be a diplomat passing chilly responses between warring powers. "I would like the chance to think awhile. also to explore the town."
"If your clerk desires to walk, he shall walk." Bidwell raised his voice to deliver a command to his servant: "Goode! Drive on!"
at once Goode gave the reins a flick, the team of horses responded, and the carriage moved away from Matthew. It turned left onto Peace Street, running out of its path a couple of scruffy-looking dogs who were growling over a muddy bone. Matthew watched with amusement as a third dog - much smaller than the other two - darted in just behind the carriage's wheels, grabbed up the bone, and fled at speed while its rivals seemed to gape in an amazed stupor before they took pursuit.
Matthew was on his own. He began walking again, going no particular place and certainly in no hurry. He crossed the intersection of streets and headed westward on Industry. Strolling past more fields and farmhouses, picket fences and barns, he greeted and was greeted by several people who were either at work on their various labors of living or who were walking to other destinations. Here and there stood groups of oak trees, massive shapes that overhung their branches above the roofs and yards. The number of large treestumps told Matthew that it had been an endeavor of some sweat and toil to clear this land for any kind of use, but the fallen trees had been put to good service in the walls that protected Fount Royal. It had been no easy job to build this town to its present condition, that was a surety; the sheer willpower of the people to settle what not long ago had been thick woods at the edge of a seaboard swamp greatly impressed Matthew, and seeing the number of houses and plowed fields, greened pastures, and gardens made him fully realize the hopes that humans held to be masters of an untamed land.
"Good mornin' to you!" called a man who was mending a broken fence.
"Good morning," Matthew answered.
"Your magistrate's gonna deliver us from the witch, I hear," the man said, straightening up from his work.
"The problem is being considered," was all Matthew felt free to say.
"I hope he does more'n consider it! Sooner she hangs, sooner we can sleep well at night!"
"Yes, sir. I'll be sure to pass that along to the magistrate." He kept walking, continuing on his westward trek. He expected another response, but the man had returned to his task.
They're ready to hang her, Mrs. Nettles had said. They'd hang her this morn, if they could.
He thought of the shape wrapped in gray sackcloth, huddled in the hay.
What she needs is a champion of truth.
He thought of the way she'd risen to her feet, the slow and sinuous movement that had started his heart beating harder.
Somebody to prove her innocent. . . He thought of the sackcloth coming open, and what was revealed beneath. He saw her lean taut body, her raven-black hair, her heartshaped face and strange gold-hued eyes . . . when ever'body else is again' her.
He had to stop thinking. The thoughts were causing him distress. He heard the dark growl of distant thunder and realized, not without a sense of humor, that he'd grown his own lightning rod. That was a damnable thing, and to be ashamed of. The woman was, after all, a widow. But still she was a woman, and he a man; though he often wore a lightning rod at the sight of some female that might be passing by, he had devised methods of deflating the issue. Reciting by memory Bible verses in Latin, mentally working complex mathematics problems, or observing the patterns of nature; all those had sufficed at one time or another. In this instance, however, neither Deuteronomy nor geometry had the least effect. Therefore he steered himself by the foremast toward the nearest mighty oak and sat down beneath it to ease his passions in study of grass, clouds, and anything else that needed studying.
More rain, that gift of life the people of Fount Royal certainly could live without for a time, was coming. Matthew saw the charcoal-gray clouds against the lighter gray, and could smell the scent of water in the air. It would soon be above the town, and Matthew welcomed it because it would wash some of this nonsense out of him. and it was nonsense, really, to let himself be so bothered, so discomforted, by the sight of a woman's nudity. He was the clerk - the trusted clerk - of an important magistrate, and by that office and responsibility he should be above these transgressions of thought.
He watched the storm clouds fast approaching. In a pasture nearby, the cows began lowing. a man on horseback rode past, his steed visibly nervous and fighting the bit. The smell of rain was stronger now, and the next boom of thunder was like the sound of a kettledrum being pounded. Still Matthew stayed where he was, though he'd begun to wonder about finding better shelter. Then the wind came and made the oak's branches shiver over his head, and so he got up and started walking eastward along Industry Street.
Lightning flared across the sky. Within another moment, large drops of rain began pelting Matthew's back. He picked up his pace, realizing he was in for a thorough soaking. The severity of the rainfall rapidly increased, as did the hard-blowing wind. Matthew had not yet reached the conjunction of streets when the bottom fell out of the bucket with a boom and crash, and the rain descended in a gray torrent that all but blinded him. In a matter of seconds he was as wet as a carp. The wind was fierce, almost shoving him headlong into the mud. He looked desperately around, rain slapping his face, and saw in the aqueous gloom the square of an open doorway. There was no time to beg invitation; lie ran toward the shelter, which proved to be a small barn, and once inside he stepped back from the windblown entrance and shook the rain from himself like one of Fount Royal's bone-chasing mongrels.
Matthew surmised he would be captive here for a while. On a wallpeg hung a lantern, a flame aglow within its bell; Matthew realized someone had been recently here, but where that someone now was he didn't know. There were four narrow stalls, two of them each confining a horse; both horses stared at him, and one rumbled a greeting of sorts deep in the throat. Matthew ran a hand through the stubble of his wet hair and watched the deluge at a prudent distance from the doorway.
The barn was well put together. There were a few pattering raindrops falling from the roof, but not enough to be bothersome. He looked about for a place to rest and saw a pile of hay over against the far wall; going to it, he sat down and stretched his legs out to await the storm's finale. One of the horses nickered, as if asking him what he was doing. Matthew hoped that whoever owned this barn would not be too troubled by his presence here, but he didn't care to drown on the way to Bidwell's mansion. a boom of thunder and flash of lightning made the horses jump and whinny. The rain was still pouring down - if anything, harder than before - and Matthew figured that his stay here would be, unfortunately, longer than he'd planned.
a drop of rain plunked him on the top of the head. He looked up in time to receive another raindrop between his eyes. Yes, he was sitting directly beneath a leak. He moved two feet or so to the left, nearer the wall, and stretched his legs out before him again.
But then he became aware of a new discomfort. Something was pressing into his spine. He reached back, his hand winnowing into the hay, and there his fingers came into contact with a surface of rough burlap. a sack of some kind, he realized as his fingers did their exploring. a sack, buried in the hay.
He pulled his hand away from it. Whatever the sack contained, it was not his business. after all, this was private property. He should be gracious enough not to go looking through private piles of hay, shouldn't hei
He sat there for a moment, watching the rain. Perhaps it had lessened somewhat, perhaps not. The leak that had moved him aside was still dripping. He reached back, almost unconsciously, sank his hand into the hay, and felt the sack's surface once more. Then again withdrew his fingers. Private property, he told himself. Leave it alone.
But a question had come to him. This was indeed private property, so why had its owner felt the need to hide a burlap sack at the bottom of a haypilei and the next question, of course -  what did the sack contain that merited hidingi
"It's not my business," he said aloud, as if saying it could convince him.
He recalled then something else that Mrs. Nettles had said: Satan does walk in Fount Royal, but Rachel Howarth's na' the one beside him. Things that nae want to be seen are plentiful here. and that's God's truth.
Matthew found himself wondering if that burlap sack held one of the things that, as Mrs. Nettles had expressed it, nae wanted to be seen.
If that was so, might it have some bearing on the case of witchcrafti and if it did, was he not bound to investigate it as a representative of Magistrate Woodwardi
Perhaps so. Then again, perhaps not. He was torn between his curiosity and his respect for private property. another moment passed, during which the frown of deliberation never left Matthew's face. Then he made his decision: he would clear away enough hay to get a good look at the sack, and thereafter dictate his actions.
When the job was done, Matthew saw that it was simply a plain dark brown grainsack. Touching it, however, indicated that its content was not grain; his fingers made out a circular shape that seemed to be made of either wood or metal. More study was needed. He grasped the sack and, in attempting to dislodge it, quickly learned how heavy it was. His shoulders protested the effort. Now all reluctance to pierce this mystery had fled before the attack of Matthew's desire to know; he gave the sack a mighty heave and succeeded in pulling it free about half of its length. His hands felt another circular shape, and the folds and creases of some unknown material. He got a firm grip on the thing, in preparation of dragging it out so he might inspect its other - and presumably open - end.
One of the horses suddenly gave a snort and a whuff of air. Matthew felt the small hairs move on the back of his neck and he knew in an instant that someone else had just entered the barn.
He started to turn his head. Before he could, he heard the crunch of a boot on the earthen floor and he was grasped by two hands, one around the back of the neck and the other seizing his right arm just above the elbow. There was a garbled cry that might have been a curse with God's name in it, and an instant after that Matthew was picked up and thrown through the air with terrifying force. He had no time to prevent a bad landing; on the journey his right shoulder grazed a wooden post and then he collided with the gate that secured one of the empty stalls. The breath was knocked from his lungs and he fell to the floor, his bones having suddenly become unjointed and less solid than as objects of pliable putty.
He was struggling to get his breath when his attacker loomed over him again, and now a hand took hold of his shirt and pulled him up and another hand clamped upon his throat. The pressure was such that Matthew feared his eyeballs would explode from their sockets. "You sneakin' bastard, you!" the man was shouting. With a violent twisting motion the man threw Matthew once more, this time into the wall with such force that the entire barn trembled and old dust blew from the chinks. The stunned clerk felt his teeth bite into his tongue, and as he sank to the ground again in a haze of pain he tasted bitter blood.
The man came after him. "I'll kill you, you damn sneak!" he raged, and he swung a booted foot directly at Matthew's head. Matthew knew in a flash that if he didn't move, his skull would be bashed in, so he scrabbled forward and at the same time threw up an arm to ward off the blow. The kick got him on the right shoulderblade, bringing a cry of pain from his bloody lips, but he kept frantically crawling and pulled his legs underneath himself before the man could get balanced to kick him again. Matthew staggered up, his knees buckled, but he forced them to hold true with sheer willpower, and then he turned to face his attacker, his back pressed against the wallboards.
By the lantern's light he recognized the man. He'd seen this fellow in passing yesterday morning, when he and the magistrate had met Paine at the public stables behind the blacksmith's foundry. It was indeed the blacksmith; by name, according to the sign of his business, Seth Hazelton. The smithy was a squat, round-bellied man of middle age, with a wet gray brush of hair and a coarse and dripping gray beard. His face was as rugged as weathered rock, his nose a hooked precipice. at the moment his intense blue eyes were lit with the fire of sheer, white-hot fury, and the knotty veins stood out in relief on his bull-thick neck. He paused in his onrush, as if recognizing Matthew as the magistrate's clerk, but the respite was only for a few seconds; his face flamed anew and, bellowing a cry of mingled wrath and anguish, he hurtled forward again.
Matthew was fast when he needed to be. He gauged Hazel-ton's swinging blow, ducked under the fist, and ran for the way out. The smithy, however, was also quick of foot when it deemed him to be so; he bounded after Matthew like a corpulent hound and caught the boy's shoulder in a grip fashioned hard by the contest with iron. Matthew was spun around, two hands set upon his throat, he was lifted off his feet and carried backward to slam once more into the wall with a force that near shattered his spine. Then the hands began to squeeze with deadly intent.
Matthew grasped the man's wrists and tried to unhinge those killing hands, but even as he fought he knew it was in vain. Hazel-ton's sweating face was pressed right into his, the man's eyes glazed from the heat of this - rather onesided - combat. The fingers were digging deep into Matthew's throat. He couldn't breathe, and dark motes were beginning to dance before his eyes. He was aware, strangely, that one horse was whinnying piteously and the other was kicking in its stall.
He was going to die. He knew it. In a few seconds, the darkness was going to overcome him and he would die right here by this blacksmith's crushing hands.
This was the moment he should be rescued, he thought. This was the moment someone should come in and tear Hazelton away from him. But Matthew realized it wasn't likely to happen. No, his fate would be interrupted by no Samaritan this sorry day.
The lantern. Where was the lanterni
On his right, still hanging from its peg. With an effort he angled his head and eyes and found the lamp several feet away. He reached for it; he had long arms, but the lantern was at the very limit of his grasp. Desperation gave him the strength to lurch the two or three extra inches. He plucked the hot lamp from its peg. Then he smashed it as hard as he could into the side of Hazelton's face.
an edge of unsmoothed tin did its work. a cut opened across the blacksmith's cheek from the corner of the eye to the upper lip, and crimson rivulets streamed down into his beard. Hazelton blinked as the pain hit him; there was a pause in which Matthew feared the man's fit of rage was stronger than the desire to preserve his face, but then Hazelton let out a howl and staggered back, his hands leaving Matthew's throat to press against the tide of blood.
Matthew sucked air into his lungs. His head swimming, he half-ran, half-stumbled toward the barn's open doorway. The rain was still falling, but not near with its previous velocity. Matthew didn't dare to look behind to see if the smithy was gaining on him, as that glance would surely slow him down a precious step. Then he was outside the barn. The rain hit him and the wind swirled about him, his left foot snagged a treeroot that almost sent him sprawling, but he recovered his balance and ran on into the tumult, aiming his flight in the direction of Bidwell's mansion. Only when he'd reached the conjunction of streets did he slow his pace and look over his shoulder. If the blacksmith had followed, he had been left behind.
Still, Matthew didn't care to tarry. He spat blood into a mud-puddle and then tilted his head back, opened his mouth to wash it with rain, and spat again. His back and shoulders felt deeply bruised, his throat savaged by Hazelton's fingers. He would have quite a tale to tell the magistrate, and he knew he was damned lucky he was alive to tell it. He started off again, walking as fast as he could, toward Bidwell's house.
Two questions remained in his mind: what had been in the burlap sacki and what had the blacksmith concealed that he would kill to protecti