Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott Page A

understatement that yes, he’d seen him. Dulcie’s appearance seemed to have shaken him at least as much as being shot at. I was struck by her self-possession, as if she came down every evening to find her kitchen full of strangers. She might have felt gloppened – whatever that might be – but she’d recovered quickly. She made no comment on the double shotgun blast not far from the house that must surely have woken her, or the fact that one of her unexpected guests had an arm bandaged with her pudding cloths and the room reeked of carbolic. An unworthy thought came to me. The floors upstairs must be bare boards because I’d heard her feet on them, so sound would travel. She must have been aware that there were a lot of people downstairs, probably even heard what was being said. She’d have known too that at least some of the company was male so could have dressed more formally if she’d chosen. I’d been dragooned into enough amateur theatricals in my time to recognise somebody making an entrance when I saw it.
    â€˜You’ll be clemmed with hunger, poor things. Get the dishes, Robin lad.’
    At least with her there to protect him Robin didn’t look as if he intended to bolt after all. He walked round the men, keeping as much space between himself and them as the furniture allowed, opened the sideboard cupboard and took out a stack of plates.
    â€˜Kneyves and fawks, somebody. Left-hand drawer.’ She’d picked up the Old Man’s habit of casual command. Midge and I started getting up but Nathan was there first. Cutlery rattled down on the table, chairs were dragged from all corners of the room while Dulcie knelt at an oven beside the fire. A blast of heat came out and the smell of rabbit stew got stronger, fighting the carbolic. Without being told, Robin took a half-gallon brown jug out to the lobby and when he brought it back a strong whiff of ale added to the atmosphere. No nonsense this time about tea for ladies. We all got ale in a variety of containers from pint mugs to green-stemmed glasses meant for hock. I’m pretty sure it was the first time Midge and Imogen had tasted ale and I could see Imogen wincing as she sipped. She still looked shaken, which was hardly surprising.
    Kit ate neatly with a fork, one-handed, but didn’t say much. Nathan did most of the talking, mainly for Dulcie’s benefit, making a joke of our hike and the arguments over the map, no reference to shotguns. It was clear that he and Dulcie had taken to each other. Between them they managed to make an indoor picnic of what might have been an embarrassing occasion. There were only two rabbits in the black stewpot and that meant everybody got just a few inches of shoulder or saddle or a little pale leg, plus a spoonful of gravy and a floury potato with some of the eyes and black bits left in. But there was plenty of flat oat bread, or clapbread as Dulcie called it when urging us to take another piece, and endless quantities of ale. Robin went out several times to refill the jug, walking in wide circles round us. He still seemed to be trying to decide if we were a threat and if so what sort. When Dulcie had whittled most of the meat off her little share of rabbit she picked up the bone and gnawed the rest with her pretty little teeth. Nathan laughed and gnawed too and soon our plates were all strewn with a litter of delicate bones sucked as clean as driftwood. All except Imogen’s. She’d hardly touched her meal. Midge looked at the empty stewpot.
    â€˜Oh no, we’ve eaten all of it. What about the Old Man?’ Then clapped her hand over her mouth from embarrassment at calling him that.
    Dulcie didn’t seem to mind. ‘The maister says guests come first, like when he was in the desert with the Arabs.’ Then, a little sadly, ‘Besides, he eats nobbut a bite or two these days.’
    It was enough to break the temporary spell of the meal. The uncurtained