The Gypsy King by Maureen Fergus

distant prefecture. He was a thief and a liar, and he was up to something, and it almost certainly had something to do with her, and whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be good. Moreover, the very idea that she should have to lay out food and drink for him —the one she had bested!—well, it was enough to make her want to—
    â€œGo!” bellowed the owner. Raising his hand, he was about to cuff her when the thief’s hand shot out and grabbed his grimy wrist, holding it fast.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” demanded the owner in amazement, wincing slightly.
    â€œHolding your wrist,” replied the thief in the tone of voice most people reserved for children and idiots. “You see, I’d rather you didn’t strike her.”
    â€œYou’d rather … you’d rather,” spluttered the owner indignantly, trying to yank his arm away. “She’s my slave— what’s it to you if I strike her?”
    â€œIf you’ll allow me to come into your house and sup with you, I believe I’ll be able to provide you with all the answers you’re looking for,” said the thief smoothly.
    At this, Persephone’s heart gave another wild lurch. What answers did the thief have? What answers could he possibly have? Things were moving too quickly for her. She needed time to think—to figure out what the thief was up to and to decide how much danger she was in. To weighthe risk of blurting out that “Lord Bothwell” was, in fact, the chicken thief from the previous night against the risk that he’d reveal that she’d handed over the chicken of her own free will. Her accusation would see him imprisoned or executed; his accusation would, at the very least, see her beaten and her dog drowned.
    But she didn’t have time to think, because the owner— whose wrist was still trapped in the thief’s iron grip— winced again and muttered, “Very well. I promise I shan’t strike the girl until I know what you’re about.”
    â€œExcellent,” said the thief. Releasing the owner’s wrist, he deliberately wiped his hand across the front of his doublet. Then he turned his very blue eyes on Persephone, touched his throat and murmured, “I thirst. Might I trouble you to fetch me that tankard of ale now?”
    Persephone wanted to kick him in the shins to show that she wasn’t afraid of him, that she didn’t think him clever and that whatever he was up to, if it caused her grief, discomfort or distress, she’d make sure he paid dearly for it. However, feeling that—for the moment, at least—a more circumspect approach was warranted, she bobbed him a stiff curtsey, said, “Right away … my lord ,” and stepped past him, taking care to trod heavily upon the toe of his boot as she passed.

    When she got back from the shed where the ale and other provisions were stored, the thief and the owner were seated at the rough-hewn table in the corner, their heads bentin conversation. Surreptitiously, Persephone’s eyes darted to the floor in search of her dropped dagger, but it was gone. Looking up in confusion, she saw the thief gazing at her with an inscrutable expression on his handsome face, and she knew—she knew! —that he’d somehow managed to pocket her dagger without the owner noticing.
    Persephone was so affronted by his audacity that she forgot all about her resolve to take a more circumspect approach. Stomping across the room as best she could in her heavy leg irons, she slammed the two tankards of ale down on the table and snapped, “There’s your ale!”
    Predictably, ale foamed up and spilled over the brims of the tankards.
    â€œClumsy!” cried the owner, slurping frantically to avoid spillage.
    â€œThank you,” murmured the thief.
    Ignoring both of them, Persephone removed the badly charred Lord Pirate from the fire and stormed off to