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“Watch the glass!” he scolded, trying to see what shoes she might be wearing. He did not think that her normal house slippers would be sturdy enough to withstand the sharp edges.
Somehow, despite her tiny frame, she felt like too big of a presence in his room. Normally, he kept his room dark and isolated, but with the curtains thrown open and Edwina standing there, glowing in her pale pink dress and golden hair, he felt overwhelmed.
“Do not worry, Your Grace,” she assured him, leading him to a chair. She danced nimbly around the shards, sneaking glances up at his face. Only then did he realize that he had never put on his mask, and she could now see plainly the scars that he had so carefully tried to hide so far.
“Get out of my room!” he cried desperately, suddenly resisting her attempts to care for him. Surprised, she took a sudden step back. “I said, get out!” he repeated when she did not move any further.
“You need help!” she challenged, tensing to fight him. “Just let me help you!”
“I need no help,” he growled and pushed past her from the room, only glimpsing the shock on her face briefly in his rush.
At first, he did not consider where he might go, other than to get away from her and all the life and light that she radiated. But as he hurried through the house, his feet guided him down the halls and out through the garden toward the stables. He caught the groom by surprise. The man lounged back against a pile of hay, smoking a pipe, and he jumped to his feet upon seeing Fergus.
“Your Grace!” he cried. “Do you need us to send for a doctor?”
Fergus realized that he still held his bloody hand in his other hand and had forgotten his mask in his rush. The groom looked down at his feet politely, shifting uncomfortably.
“No, saddle my horse,” Fergus told him sharply.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the groom said, bowing and quickly reaching for the saddle and tack. The groom made short work of readying the horse, a black stallion Fergus had purchased right after his recovery from his wounds. Unfortunately, the groom and his team had exercised the horse less than Fergus had in the years past. Soon, Fergus stepped into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle, patting the stallion to calm him as he pranced.
“He’s a bit cooped up, Your Grace; be careful with him,” the groom recommended.
Fergus nodded quickly, perhaps too dismissively of the groom’s advice, and spurred the horse on out into the lawn. Pushing him into a gallop, Fergus soon felt the wind through his clothes, the morning sun on his face, and he headed toward the dense woods on the east of his property. Through the thicket, branches smacked him in the face and bramble caught his trousers.
Soon, he emerged from the thicket on the road to Bath. He attempted to slow the horse that was already breathing heavily and sweating. However, already set in his pace, the stallion struggled to slow down, continuing on the road at a breakneck speed. They passed carts, the farmers shouting and raising their fists at them, other horses spooking and shying away from them on the road.
After a hard ride, the horse began to tire, allowing Fergus to look around, and evaluate how far they had gone. His horse would need to rest for a while before returning home. He pulled the stallion into a slower walk finally, but the stallion stilled pranced in denial. Fergus called to him, shushing him, and patting his shoulders as they continued on the road toward the next village.
As Fergus stopped at an inn along the road, dark storm clouds hung on the horizon, the wind threatening rain. A stable boy ran out, his eyes going wide as he saw Fergus’ scars.
“Take care of the horse well, lad,” he said, flipping the boy a coin. “I will give you another one of those if you do.”
“Yessir,” the boy mumbled in terror, taking the reins from Fergus.
The boy led the horse away, and Fergus stepped into the dim inn. The room smelled of frying bacon and burnt bread. Scattered around rough tables, merchants, farmers, and sailors gathered over bowls of stew, chewing tough bread with pints of ale.
“Can I get ye somethin’ Milord?” the inn’s matron asked, her ample bosom covering the top of her apron, and her bonnet clamped tightly over her gray hair.
“A meal, perhaps,” Fergus answered, dipping his head at her. She flicked the cloth in her hand toward a table, indicating he should sit. A bartender poured a mug of ale and set it before him. Fergus immediately remembered back to his days in France, drinking ale with the other soldiers in his company.
He noticed the other men giving him looks from the sides of their eyes, but none like the looks of terror he got from theton. One sailor looked to be missing an eye. Another man gripped the handle of his mug with three fingers, the fourth missing.
“Which war d’ye fight in?” a man asked from a table across from him.
“Against Napoleon in France,” Fergus responded and took a long swig of ale.
“Oh, aye?” the man asked. “I fought with Wellington at Waterloo.”
Fergus raised his mug to him. “An honor to know you, sir.”
“What’s yer name?” the man asked.
Fergus hesitated a moment, then said briefly, “Fergus Argenon.”
“Tom Miller,” he responded, raising his mug to Fergus, and taking a long swig as well.
The matron brought Fergus a piping hot bowl of stew which Fergus dug into gratefully. Other than the initial glances, no one spoke of his scars or paid him any further attention once he started eating. Something about the anonymity comforted him. Except for his expensive clothes and well-bred horse, he was no different from the other men and shared their experiences in the inn.
