“And why are you still here? Why have you not fled?”
The footman’s thin face appeared to almost crumple within itself, skin blanching to bloodless, fists rising to his temples. “N-no, my lord, no…”
Ernest grabbed his collar and hauled him close. “It was you who struck me, wasn’t it.”
“I…” A whimper escaped him, low like a wounded animal. “Please… I-I didn’t want to but… I were told that if…” His body slumped as though a puppet cut from his strings.
With a roll of eyes, Ernest waded to the bank, dragging the footman with him. He hauled himself to the grass and held out a hand as Cripps slipped and floundered in the mud. The footman sagged in a heap beside him – sodden and desolate.
Hardly the epitome of a callous thief.
“Tell me all,” demanded Ernest, standing to skim the water from his own skin and digging around for his spectacles in his breeches pocket. “Or I’ll be taking you to Witney Jail.”
“No, please, my lord. No. I can’t…I can’t abide small rooms, the dark, please, my lord.”
“Why did you come to my aid?”
“S-she said to wait here, said no one had seen I. But then…then I saw your lordship and I-I couldn’t just leave thee in the water…” His lips trembled and eyelids swiftly slid south. “You’ve all been mortal good to me.”
Ernest tilted his head. “So why do it then?”
“I…” Cripps gazed up, pale and quivering, arms wrapped around his belly. “I-I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t want to… I swear, I didn’t… But she… Mary said she’d love me if I just helped her out a bit. Said there were so many horses round these parts tha no one would notice a few gone missing, th-tha if I helped her and her friends, she’d not dally with tha other fella in the stables and love only I…”
Sighing, Ernest lowered to sit on the bank beside him. “Where’s Mary now?”
“Packed her bags and left. T-told I to stay right here and she’d come back for I afore ten of the hour.” His fists clenched, lip a bloodied red from where he’d bitten it. “But…” He stared off across the meadow to the woods. “It’s well past the hour a-and Mary’s not come back yet.” He gazed up, eyes bleak. “S-she’s not coming back for I…is she?”
Ernest rubbed his forehead and let out a long breath, felt the warmth of the morn sun as it dried his skin.
“How old are you, Cripps?”
“N-nineteen, my lord.”
“And how long have you been working at the castle.”
“Since I were twelve. But…I’m a hopeless footman and the girls all laugh at I. But Mary never laughed. She said we’d marry in church and she’d wear a white dress and we’d kiss and have a cottage… She said she loved I…and n-no one has ever wanted to love I.” He laid his head upon his knee and shuddered. “And now I be for a small room again. All that dark and…”
Ernest stared to the azure sky, a pair of swifts playing chase above the castle parapets, but briefly closed his eyes as memory stirred.
Cripps.
Of course…
He was one of the boys they’d taken on young from the Burford orphanage.
Impressionable and alone.
And likely that maid cared not what would happen to this poor fellow.
Ernest swiped a hand over his stubbled chin. “Listen, Cripp–”
“No, Ernest!” He twisted at the shout. “It’s him!”
Hebe darted towards them, petticoats raised to trim ankles, Redmond at her side, but before he could stand, to catch her in his arms and tug her close, kiss those honeyed lips, Cripps hauled himself to his feet, hands outstretched.
“I-I be so sorry, madam,” he sobbed, water dripping from his sleeves. “And thee were so nice to I, b-but I didn’t know what to do and…s-she just kept asking I…”
Hebe halted and brought a hand to her throat. Then her eyes narrowed, head tilted. “You’re talking of Mary, aren’t you?”
