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Updated: May 28, 2025
He gurgled this almost jocosely, as if it were a pet bit of humour. "Do you know where you are going?" I asked solemnly. "To hell," he cried, and, after a spout of blood that spattered me as I leaned over him, went. The carriage stopped and, before I could rise to see why, the door was opened and some one without said politely, "This is indeed a pleasure, Master Wheatman!" It was my lord Brocton.
He left me fuming, for his last mutteration, as he shook his lantern to stir the flame up a bit, was, "Knows a true man when he sees one. More used to a carving-knife than a sword, I'll be bound. What did he say? Wheatman o' sommat! Reg'lar farmering name!" I kicked the door wide open and watched the lantern bobbing along the hall.
The plain truth is that I was frightened, a little bit. But I'm new to this sort of thing, and I hope to improve." Then, after a pause, I met her eyes full with mine and added, "As we go on." "Frightened," she said scornfully, "you frightened, you who leaped unarmed on the best swordsman in London? No, don't mock me, Master Wheatman, forgive me."
He stepped softly in, and I was pushed after him by his dragoons. "'Friends will rescue you and bring you to me," he quoted, jeering me. "There's no Margaret for you, Farmer Wheatman. I shall have her yet!" Then, beast as he was, while the men kept me back, nearly tearing my arms out of their sockets, he stuck the point of his rapier over my heart and babbled half-delirious beastliness.
I might pretend to be drunk, but I could not, unfortunately, pretend to drink, and it was strongish ale. He made a motion to stop me welcome proof that he believed me tipsy in fact and said, "Master Wheatman, the less drunken you are, the better you will answer my questions."
Come with me, sir, and stable your horse. Gad so, sir," holding up the lantern, "you ride the noblest animal I have ever seen. Woa, ho, my beauty! All my men are abed, so we must do it ourselves, but, by Heaven, it will be a pleasure, Master what may I call you, sir?" "Just the plain name of my fathers Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards." "A good strong name, sir, though my fathers liked it not."
"Master Wheatman, I will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, I thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so that we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing to sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my Lord Brocton. Where's your share of the sacks?"
"Master Wheatman means," explained Mistress Waynflete, "that he saved me from my Lord Brocton's clutches at the imminent risk of his own life." She stretched out her hands and touched the holes in my coat with her white, slender fingers. "My lord's rapier made these," she said. "An inch to the left, my friend," quoth Master Freake, "and you'd have been as dead as mutton.
Our special pride, a spice-cupboard of solid mahogany, ages old, glowed red across the room, and from the neighbouring wall the great sword and back-and-breast with which Smite-and-spare-not Wheatman, Captain of Horse, had done service at Naseby, seemed to twinkle congratulations to me as one not unworthy of my name.
He had little, red, ferrety eyes, and they looked fiercely at me fiercely but not suspiciously, I thought. He waved my hospitality aside, and said, "You are Oliver Wheatman?" "Oliver Wheatman of the Hanyards, Esquire, at His Majesty's service to command," I replied with great gravity, and filled another horn of ale.
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