Gritting his teeth, he stumbled to the last tree.
A man’s voice roared in anger.
Tristan’s blood ran cold.
He rushed as fast as his leg would allow, rammed himself to the stacked firewood at the side, eyes searching for anything that might…
An iron nail in the roof.
With the splintered handle of an axe hanging from it.
It would have to do.
Breath panting in white wisps, he stretched up, grabbed the worn handle.
Straightened.
Crept to the door.
Gripped the latch.
A woman cried out…
He snatched breath.
Drew back the weapon…
And flung the door wide.
OceanofPDF.com
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“Reflections must now give way to facts for a moment.”
Observations and Reflections Made in the Course of a Journey…
Mrs Thrale. 1789.
“Shut that bloody door,” a voice wailed. “Draught’s enough to freeze the talliwags off a–”
The occupants of the woodman’s hut turned as one to gawp.
Tristan did likewise.
With cloth in hand, Gwen sat seemingly unhurt at a rickety table, a bottle of uncorked brown liquor before her.
The coachman was seated aside her on a bench, a handkerchief clutched to his forehead.
A fire of sorts hissed and smouldered in the hearth.
And…
“Who are you?” blabbed a lad with what appeared to be chalk dust smothering his face and hair, four expired rabbits clasped in his hand. “And why have you got an axe handle?”
The scene resembled one of those peculiar Dutch canvases. One with an allegorical meaning that utterly bypassed good sense, intelligence and rationale.
Tristan lowered the weapon and slammed the door behind him, snow fluttering about his boots. He narrowed his eyes. “I heard Lady Gwen scream and a man roar in anger.”
