The Bodyguard (6 page)

“Which way now?” he said aloud.

The surf crashed against the rocks, but otherwise there was no sound, not even a bird’s cry. It was as though he were completely alone on some deserted island.

“Not bloody likely,” he said, the sound of his own voice reassuring in the silence. “I was headed for … I was going to … I had to be …”

He did not understand why he knew the rocks were rocks and the sea was the sea and the grass was grass, but not who he was or where he was bound or why.

“First things first,” he muttered, perusing his pitiful attire. “I need some clothes.”

He looked north, then south, unsure which way to walk, since there seemed no sign of life in either direction. He tore some blades of grass and threw them into the air and saw the wind was blowing to the north. “North it is,” he said. At least that way he would have the wind to his back.

The sun was well up in the sky when he saw the first sign of human habitation—a simple stone cottage with a thatched roof with smoke coming from the chimney.
He almost hailed those inside, but realized he did not want to be seen in this condition.

I am also a proud man
, he deduced.
And apparently unbothered by the prospect of stealing what I need
, he realized as he grabbed a pair of muddy boots from beside the door and stole a shirt and trousers and a length of plaid from oleander bushes where they had been spread out to dry.

The boots were too small for him. That hadn’t stopped the previous owner from wearing them, as evidenced by the hole worn through the leather where his big toe now stuck out. He quickly donned the large shirt and even larger trousers, using the rope that had tied his hands, which he’d saved, to bind the too-large trousers around his waist.

His nose pinched at the sharp stench of … sheep … he thought, identifying the unpleasant smell. He ignored the odor and wrapped the rough plaid around him, blessing the woolen warmth.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he murmured, nodding his head to the unseen owner of the cottage. “I will repay you when I can.” Did that mean he was not normally a thief? he wondered. Or simply that he was an honorable thief who paid his debts?

He realized the fact that this cottage was here meant there were probably others. He needed something to eat and drink and a bed, preferably a soft one.
A soft bed. Am I used to such luxury, then? Or is it only that I have dreamed of it?

He had plenty of time to ponder the matter, since
the sun was nearly overhead by the time he reached the outskirts of a village. As he stepped inside the taproom of the Ramshead Inn, he felt almost giddy with relief.
I made it
.

He started to grin, but winced as the cut on his lip split open again. He reached up to dab at the blood with a scratched and filthy hand.
What I would not give for one monogrammed handkerchief
.

The thought was stunning, suggesting as it did that he was a person of some note, at least enough note to have monogrammed handkerchiefs. Whoever he was—had been—right now he was only a man whose jaw ached and whose head throbbed and whose every breath was an agony to his sore ribs. His nose was broken, he thought, and so swollen and tender he walked in measured steps in order not to jolt it.

All he wanted was something wet to soothe his parched throat, a warm bath, and a soft bed, in that order.
A warm bath. Surely that is a luxury, too. I must be a person of distinction. Or a thief with rich tastes
, he thought wryly.

The too-small boots had raised blisters on his heels, and after the morning’s walk, he was limping badly. With one eye swollen shut, his balance was none too good, and as he reeled unsteadily into the tavern, the men seated at the tables eyed him as though he were some bumble-witted looby.

And I’m not?
He didn’t think so. His sense of humor rose again to rescue him. He imagined he must be quite a sight, wearing such ill-fitted clothing and with
his face having endured such a beating from the rocks.
Or someone’s fists
. He could not discount that possibility.

He sank into a chair at the best table he could find and looked around with his one good eye for the innkeeper. His stomach growled noisily, and embarrassingly, with hunger. He felt certain he could implore the man for what he needed.

A few snickers and more than one blatantly curious look from his fellow patrons brought the innkeeper to his table. “What is it ye want?”

“Good day,” he said. The effort suffered somewhat from the night just past, sounding more like a frog than a man. He cleared his throat and continued, “I would appreciate a cup of your best ale.”

“I’ll see yer coppers first,” the innkeeper replied.

“Unfortunately, I have nary a farthing with me.”

“No coppers, no ale,” the innkeeper said flatly.

How dare he refuse to serve me!
The feeling of disbelief that he was not to be served was real enough. But why should he think himself entitled to be served without presenting any coins first?
Who am I?
He realized his hands were shaking beneath the table from a combination of weakness and rage.

He placed his palms flat on the table to push himself upright, but both his head and his ribs protested. He was so exhausted, he gave up the effort and settled for spearing the man with his one good eye. Maybe the fellow recognized him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Ye look like a flat to me,” the innkeeper said, “what maybe used to be a sharp.”

The patrons in the taproom laughed at the innkeeper’s clever play on words.

“I would like some food and drink, please. I will gladly pay you when I have the coin. You see, I seem to have lost track of … things.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, then plunged in. “To be frank, I cannot remember who I am.” He frowned and added, “Except I am quite sure I used to have monogrammed handkerchiefs. That must mean I am a man of some consequence, wouldn’t you agree?”

The innkeeper guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder so hard he let out an unwilling moan.

“That’s a good one, lad,” the innkeeper said. “Yer English accent’s not half bad. ’Tis the sand and seaweed in yer hair and the lumps on yer face and o’ course them boots with the holes in the toes, that give ye away. Ye need a better costume if ye’re going to play the Quality.”

“I am not pretending,” he said, forcing himself painfully to his feet. His voice hardened. “And I would like a cup of ale. Now.”

The innkeeper’s faced turned ugly. “Ye’ve picked the wrong sort to impersonate, lad. I hate the puking English as I hate the plague. If ye were one of ’em, I’d throw ye out on yer arse. So count yer blessings and be on yer way.”

He felt the heat of humiliation on his face, felt the anger building along with it, but was not sure how to
contend with either emotion. Pride—he seemed to have no end of it—forced him to stand his ground. “You seem to be a fair man,” he began.

“Fair?” the innkeeper spat back. “Life isna fair, lad. My only sister and her husband were forced from their home by a greedy English landlord. I’ve the support of them now and the bairn that’s on the way. If ye’re English like ye say, ye can rot in hell for all I care. Now get out!”

He opened his mouth to plead at least for a drink of water before he began his journey but shut it again. He would die of thirst before he would beg. It was plain he would get a better reception at an English tavern. “How far to the closest English stronghold from here?”

“That’d be Blackthorne Hall near Mishnish. ’Tis a wee bit of a walk. Ten miles or so, if ye follow the road.”

“Ten miles!”

“Ye’d best get started if ye expect to lay yer head on a fine pillow tonight,” the innkeeper said.

He considered asking if anyone might be headed in that direction who could give him a ride but decided he would likely be refused. He did not need another humbling. He swayed on his feet and grabbed at chairs along the way to hold himself upright as he struggled toward the door.

When he had nearly reached it, a small voice said, “Sir, here’s a cup of ale and a bannock to fill the emptiness inside.”

He found himself staring down into the sympathetic
blue eyes of a narrow-shouldered boy dressed in a too-small shirt that exposed his wrists and too-short trousers that exposed his bare ankles, which stuck out of a pair of too-large shoes. He guessed the child was nine or ten.

“What’re ye doing, brat?” the innkeeper demanded.

The child held out the pewter mug. “Here, sir. Drink it quickly.”

He reached for the mug, surprised by the kind gesture from one whose circumstances did not appear to be much better than his own. “Thank you.”

The innkeeper crossed quickly, his hand raised to knock the mug aside, but thought better of it when he turned to confront him. Instead, the innkeeper took out his wrath on the boy who had offered succor.

“That’s the last of yer defiance I’ll suffer,” the innkeeper said as his open palm landed on the boy’s cheek, leaving a stark red welt. He yanked the bannock out of the boy’s hand and crushed it in his fist. The boy cowered as the innkeeper poised his fisted hand for another blow.

“Enough!” he roared, dropping the mug and catching the innkeeper’s wrist with a grip strong enough to make the man cry out. He knew he could not hold on for very long. His strength was nearly gone.

The innkeeper was clearly furious at being said nay in his own establishment. “If ye want the care of the lad, then take him,” the innkeeper said, easily jerking himself free. “I’ve no more use of him.”

“Oh, please, sir, dinna throw me out,” the lad
pleaded, grabbing the innkeeper’s apron with both hands and hanging on.

“I’m the one you’re angry with,” he said, realizing the trouble he had caused. “Don’t blame the boy.”

“Be gone with the both of ye,” the innkeeper said menacingly. “Or I’ll have the lads throw ye out.”

He looked around the room and saw several of the innkeeper’s burly friends rising from their seats. “Come with me, boy,” he said.

The boy eyed him askance. “Ye can give me work, sir?”

“I currently find myself traveling without my valet,” he said with a wry—and painful—twist of his mouth.
Do I really have a valet somewhere?
he wondered. “Would you care to take service with me?”

“I would, sir,” the boy said, a quick grin flashing.

“You will not suffer for your kindness. I promise it.”

“Thank ye, sir.”

The raucous laughter of the patrons showed what they thought of his job and his promise.

“Ye’ll be wantin’ food for yer journey,” the innkeeper said. “Take this!” He threw the crumbled bannock at the boy, but nearly half the oatmeal biscuit hit the battered stranger in the chest.

Something inside him broke at that final insult.

“Enough,” he said in a feral voice. “That is quite enough.” He would have attacked the next thing that moved, like some crazed animal, but the boy grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the door.

“Come, sir. ’Tis time we take our leave.”

“Ye’ll be lucky if ye dinna starve workin’ for such as him, Laddie,” one of the patrons said. “Here’s a little somethin’ to help ye on yer way.” The man threw the remnants of a lamb chop at the boy, missed, and hit the stranger in the shoulder.

He snarled and would have leapt, but the boy pulled him back. “Please, sir. There are too many of them.”

For the boy’s sake, he reined the beast inside.

“Ye’ll be lucky if they dinna put ye away with that madman,” another patron said, hurling a handful of peas.

As they left the inn, he was pelted with all manner of food. Potatoes stuck in his hair, and savory gravies from bones and stews stained his borrowed shirt. The delicious smells wafting from his clothes made his mouth water. He saw a joint of lamb land on the floor at his feet and very nearly stooped to pick it up.

Pride—he seemed to have a damnable lot of it—held him back.

“Come, sir,” the boy said, tugging hard on his hand. “Please come.”

He stared at the small, grimy fingers that had wrapped themselves around his own filthy hand and allowed himself to be led from the inn, surprised at the boy’s unexpected kindness and his belief in his promises. He hoped he would be able to repay the child in some way.

Once they were on the road, the boy let go of his hand and wrapped his arm around his waist to help
hold him upright. “ ’Tisna necessary to keep up the act with me, sir. I’ll not leave ye.”

“The act?” he said as he limped along beside the boy, ashamed he had to lean on him, but unable to do otherwise.

“I know ye’re not the Quality, sir. If ye’d like to find a ride, ’tis best ye come up with a better disguise. These Highland Scots hate the English—and with good reason.”

Just then, a carter with a wagonload of cabbages drew alongside them.

“You there, sir,” he said in a voice that sounded condescending even to his own ears. “I would like a ride—”

The carter mumbled something, crossed himself, and applied the whip to his team of oxen, which moved steadily away from them.

“I warned ye, sir. That bird willna sing for ye.”

“What?”

“That English nobleman disguise doesna work.”

He did not bother explaining the truth. “What would you suggest?”

“Ye might be a shipwrecked sailor. The sand and the seaweed in yer hair will help the story.”

“I see,” he said.

“And get rid of that English accent,” the boy advised. “ ’Twould be better if ye spoke like a Scotsman. At least give it a try,” the boy said. “There’s another wagon coming.”

He turned to see two dray horses pulling a wagon.

“Quick, what’s yer name?” the boy said.

“Al … Al …” A light flickered and was gone. That was as much as he could remember.

“Alfred? Alan? Alex?” the boy questioned.

The cart was drawing closer. “Alex,” he said, choosing the last name the boy had given. It was as good as any. “Alex Wheaton,” he said, staring at the bags of wheat on the wagon that was rapidly approaching.

“I’m a sailor home from the sea,” he said, trying out a Scottish accent and realizing even as he rolled the
r
on sailor that he knew how to do it.
If I’m Scots, why was I speaking with an English accent? And if I’m English, how do I know how to speak like a Scotsman?