Blair had felt strangely reluctant to leave the wreckage.  He and the vicar stood close by as a group of rescuers slowly leaned into the long beam of thick lumber they were using as a fulcrum.  The short end was sticking out of the other side of the wrecked carriage frame, held together as best they could with rope, and as the longer end was methodically being lowered, the carriage rose out of the ditch, inch by groaning inch.  When the wreckage cleared the road level, the men pivoted the fulcrum, and then dropped the remains onto the road.  Six other men jumped into the ditch and lifted out the casualties to waiting arms.  Blair saw someone coming down the road with a pair of horses, still wearing the traces from the carriage, but looking unharmed.  He was glad; he had wondered about the animals.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

 

Chapter Six

 

Reverend Haley performed hasty last rites over the dead man, who was then lain in the back of the vicar’s surrey to await his last ride to Burleigh.  The two living victims were hoisted out of the ditch and laid out in the middle of the dirt road.  Room was needed on either side because half the town had come out to see the excitement and the crowd itself was in danger of falling into the ditch.

 

“Is that the sun?” someone asked, pointing off to his right.

 

“Oh my God, the sun,” murmured the vicar, turning in the same direction.

 

Blair dutifully looked at the sky, but couldn’t see anything unusual about the sunset this evening.  “Maybe it’s a witch thing,” he thought.

 

Turning back to the survivors, Blair could see that the one Reverend Haley had taken care of was starting to wake up, gasping and rolling his head slowly from side to side as if denying his present circumstances.

 

Masses of townspeople had formed two ragged lines around the second victim, who was still frozen in place except for the slow rise and fall of his chest and the occasional blink of his eyes.  He didn’t seem to be aware of anything, including the strange ritual that surrounded him.  The locals were taking turns bending over to touch his jacket or breeches, forming a strangely religious-looking procession against the darkening sky.

 

One of the men in line sidled over to Blair and pulled on his sleeve.  “It were my Alan and Bruce what found him,” he murmured confidingly.  “Him and t’other, lyin’ broken inna ditch.”  The way the man spoke, with pride and satisfaction, made Blair back away.  The greasy old man was looking at Blair like he expected the guide to lavish praise on his sons or possibly even reward them.  Before he had to come up with a response, the mayor called out.

 

“Come away, Will.  We need the guide,” Bodmer said as he worked his way through the crowd.  Turning to the old man’s sons, he called, “Alan, did you and Bruce find anything in the field?”

 

The two young men grunted and shook their heads without looking up, but one of them absentmindedly patted his hip before resumed the search.

 

“Is this some kind of magic?” Blair whispered to the mayor, gesturing to the couple currently kneeling in the dirt by the accident victim.

 

“It’s the sun,” hissed the vicar.  “You have to help us.  If he should die, Burlington will hold the entire town responsible.”

 

“Oh, it’s the son!” Blair murmured as the mayor and the vicar pulled him through the crowd.  “Of course it’s the son, you idiot.  The manor house is straight out that way.”

 

“So you’re one of Burlington’s sons,” Blair said inanely, plopping down next to the gentleman.  “And you?” he asked the other victim, who seemed to be coming around slowly on his own.  When he got no reply the guide turned his attentions back to the first one, unconsciously imitating the gestures of the townspeople while he tried to wake up the man.  “What’s your name?” he whispered to the statue.

 

He hadn’t expected a reply, so the voice behind him came as a surprise.  “That is Sir James Ellison, firstborn son and heir of William, Lord Burlington, and you will get your fucking hands off of him!”

 

Turning to the deep nasal voice, Blair tried to sound more confident than he felt.  “I’m not going to hurt him.  I am the town guide of Burleigh, and the council has asked me to assist the two of you until the doctor can get here.  Are you hurt?  Can you stand?”

 

“Burleigh doesn’t have a guide, it hasn’t had one in years and years and, uh, years.  You, sir, are either a pervert or a pickpocket.”  Looking at the crowd, the man commanded, “Arrest this man!”

 

When this failed to have any effect, the large man struggled to rise and do it himself.

 

“Lie still,” begged the guide.  “You may be injured.  Wait for the doctor, please!”

 

“Burleigh doesn’t have a guide,” the angry man repeated, waving a very large finger in Blair’s face.  “I ‘s here just this past – oh, whenever - with Jamie and he told me that it was the only thing he could recommend about the place.”

 

This line earned the visitor no sympathy with the townspeople, who pointedly looked the other way when the man reached for a hand up.

 

“I am the Burleigh town guide, as of two weeks ago, “ Blair repeated. “I am your only recourse until the doctor arrives from the next town, unless you would prefer the midwife or the blacksmith.”  Privately, Blair thought that either one could do a better job right now.

 

“Thas’ ‘mpossible!  Won’t have it!”  The man stared at Blair doubtfully and then lay back down.  “Two weeks ‘go, huh?  S’harvest festival.  You people are picked in S’tember, ain’t ya?   Like the fruits and nuts that you are, huh?”  Chuckling to himself, the man had almost settled down when something got him started again.  “Hey!  Get away from him, you leech, you!  I am Shir Shimon Banks, and the man you are pawing is Shir Jame, uh, Jamie Ellison, and I will see you flogged if you do not stop it this instant, dammit!”

 

It would have been easier to comply with Sir Simon’s demand if he hadn’t started kicking and swinging at Blair.  And since Blair had draped himself over Sir James like a blanket – in an instinctive move to protect him - if the guide moved, the unconscious man would be kicked in the side.  Of course, this didn’t keep Blair from getting hit but he could deflect some of the shots with his right arm, and Sir Simon’s feeble blows were being delivered from a prone position, rendering them much less effective than they would have been if Simon had been healthy or even just standing.  The man was even bigger than Sir Toby.

 

“So James, -ow- Sir James, sorry, your friend doesn’t like  -ouch-  guides,” Blair said conversationally.  “What’s your own opinion then?  Please don’t wake up and have – ow, hey! -  me flogged.  I can tell you from personal experience that it’s not very pleasant.”

 

 

Blair was covering James’ left side from his shoulder to his shins, the guide’s head tucked in the curve of the unconscious man’s neck, his left arm up over James’ face.  “Oh, yeah, this might be a little hard to explain if you woke up, say -now,” Blair continued. “See – ouch - it all comes down to the fact that the townspeople don’t want to be flogged either, and that you, my new friend, are too bloody heavy for me to roll.  Am I the only –gasp - normal sized person in this parish?”

 

It did seem to Blair as if the townspeople ought to come to his aid, even if he wasn’t getting much of a beating.  “Here, I could use a little help with, uh, Sir Simon here!” he called to the crowd.  “Could you just –ow - move him off a little way?”

 

Four farmers instantly picked up the belligerent gentleman and carried him over to Clay’s wagon, where he was unceremoniously dumped in the straw, and the tailgate was raised and latched to keep him ‘safe’.

 

 Blair was annoyed to see the grins on his rescuers’ faces and hear the muffled sniggers as they came back to await further orders.  One of them even reached down and tousled his hair.  The mood of the crowd became serious again, however, when Blair climbed back off Sir James, revealing the man still frozen and staring.

 

“If he wasn’t the future lord of the manor, I would wonder if he was a sentinel,” Blair thought to himself.  “Was it the accident or has Sir James always had fits?”  Knowing that if the latter was the case much effort would be expended to cover it up, he turned to the vicar and asked aloud, “You can see how he is.  What do you want me to do?”

 

After the mayor and the vicar discussed it a moment, the mayor replied, “Ahem, see if you can reach him, dear boy.  Use your, ah, gift.  I know it’s asking for a miracle, but could you try to wake him up?”

 

Blair was afraid that that was why he was here.  They didn’t want a guide; they wanted a bloody magician.  The crowd was nodding encouragement; a couple of older men were whistling and staring up at the evening sky.  How did he get himself into these things?

 

“It’s not going to work,” he said firmly, as he put his hands on either side of Sir James’ face.

 

“It might,” the Reverend Haley replied hopefully.  “You did have some beer this afternoon at the council meeting.  We hear it’s very – ah – relaxing.”

 

Oh, wonderful.  Just brilliant.  The new guide didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.  “You and I are going to have a long talk later tonight, “ Blair said, glaring at the vicar, who just nodded and smiled back - as if to a child who had said something precious.

 

And so Blair took a deep breath – to get rid of his anger - and then a few more until it started to work, and then finally did what the crowd had been waiting for.  He leaned down and placed his forehead to Sir James and tried to connect their minds.

 

After a few minutes of breathing nose to nose, trying to find an opening - even hoping for a repeat of the strange occurrence under the carriage - all he had done was given himself another headache.  Bugger this.  Sitting back on his haunches, he shook his head regretfully to the crowd and then bowed it in defeat, hiding from their reproachful looks under his curtain of hair. “Wishing someone all better,” Blair chided himself.  “Are you still a child?”  He absentmindedly reached out and straightened the ruffle of Sir James’ sleeve and then patted his hand.

 

Someone shook him gently.  “Is the doctor here?” Blair asked.

 

“No, Master Sandburg, it’s me, Clay.  We need you to let go of Master Jamie’s hand so’s we can load him into the wagon.  It’s alright; we’ll take real good care of him.”

 

Looking around properly this time, Blair saw that the villagers were chatting amongst themselves and the sky was black.  Sir James was snoring softly.  “It’s happening again; I lost some more time,” Blair said to Clay. 

 

Resolving to speak to the vicar about the local brew, he released his patient’s hands – he saw that he was holding both of them- and after a few feeble attempts to stand, allowed one of the farmers to help him to his feet.  Blair’s legs were all pins and needles, and the ground seemed to undulate slightly as he shuffled over to the hay wagon and was helped up into the back, between the two gentlemen.

 

The ride back to town started off with a jolt, knocking both Sir Simon and Blair back into the straw.  Sir James snored on.  Sitting back up was too much effort, so the guide shifted around to get more comfortable.  One minute he was lying in the straw looking at the moon, and the next it was blotted out by his new friend, Sir Simon Banks, who had just remembered his grievance from earlier in the proceedings.

 

“See here, ya little, little whatever y’are,” the big man whispered softly.  “You just keep yer mindread’n ‘n yer clever tricks away from my fren’, ya hear me?  An’ if I see ya paw him one more time - one more time now - I’m gonna hafta break alla those fingers.  Off of ya.  Hear?”  If you didn’t know what the words meant, you would have thought it was a lullaby or a sonnet Sir Simon was repeating, so musically and tenderly did he speak to the cowering guide.

 

“Nolo tangere,” breathed Blair in reply, “We understand each other completely.”

 

Maybe it was a reaction to the events of the day, or just to the sight of his deranged companion, who kept glaring at him from the far side of the wagon bed, but now Blair had an almost overwhelming urge to touch Sir James.  His hands ached with the craving and he started to reach out unconsciously when he suddenly realized what he was doing. My God.  Here he was, lying in the back of a hay wagon trying to figure out how to pet a nobleman without being caught by a loony.   “What the hell?  Do I want to be killed?  Hey, maybe I caught it from the mayor,” Blair thought, giggling uncontrollably.  At a scowl of warning from Sir Simon, he tried to control his amusement, but the attempt to stop made it all the worse, and he burst out in a loud guffaw, causing Clay to turn and stare at him, and Simon to move farther back against the side panel.  “Well,” thought Blair, “my day is complete.  I have frightened the simple and the insane.”

 

Still chuckling to himself, Blair crossed his arms tightly across his chest, closed his eyes, and tried to calm down, imagining that he was back in the stable at college and that Sir Simon’s sniffs and grunts were just the sounds of the horses in their stalls.  “Go to sleep, Blair,” he told himself.  “It’s just the horses.  Just the huge, vicious horses taking a little rest.”  He drifted off dreaming of a monstrous black stallion methodically kicking out the slats of a stall.

 

Waking to another jolt of the wagon, Blair realized they were back in town.  The banging sound that had followed him out of the dream really was Sir Simon, pounding on the stall, er, tailgate demanding to be let out, mixed with the sounds of doors being opened and slammed on carriages, traps, and houses, as the entire procession of rescuers and rubberneckers dismounted and disembarked, to be joined in the street by their neighbors who had waited at home to hear the news.  It looked like the county fair had come to Burleigh in the middle of the night.

 

Mr. Toby’s house was the center of attention.  People lined his walk to ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ as the accident victims were carried in, James muttering a little in his sleep and Simon protesting loudly that he “could walk on my own, God dammit.  Get your filthy hands offa me, you bumpkins!”

 

Blair was led in last, to cheers from the crowd, even though he had just begged Clay to take him back to the Inn.  “You’ll be staying with the gentlemen, Master Sandburg,” Clay had replied, as if it was unthinkable for the guide to be anywhere else.

 

 

Blair awoke in the middle of the night wondering why his room was so cold and why his chamber pot was missing.  Well, he didn’t want to get the maids into trouble so he would just have to go downstairs and help himself.

 

He was out in the hall before he remembered that he was in Toby’s house and not at the Inn.  Padding down the hall toward the back of the house, he found a coverlet in the ladies sitting room and a selection of coats and headgear by the back door.  After improvising at the end of the stable with some damp leaves, Blair returned to the house and the front parlor wearing an overlarge greatcoat and muffler he had borrowed and carrying the coverlet to use on his freezing feet.

 

The fire had been allowed to burn out; that explained the temperature.  So far he didn’t think much of the squire’s hospitality.  No bed, no blanket, not pot, no heat.  And now, blast it, somebody was sleeping in his b-, uh, sofa.  “Do they all think so highly of guides here in Burleigh?” he murmured aloud.

 

Blair bent down to see who had stolen his spot.  “Oh, it’s Sleeping Beauty!” the guide said to the room.  “He can’t walk, he can’t talk, but he can bloody well sleep any damned place he wants!”

 

His anger got his brain working and Blair realized that unless the townspeople were playing a sick joke on him, Sir James must have come downstairs under his own power – “Does he sleepwalk?” – and that he had probably not been seriously injured in the accident.  “Physically, at least,” Blair added.  “I wonder if he has any brain damage.”

 

Resigning himself to his fate, the guide stripped off the long coat and draped it over the sleeping man but the coat only covered the sleeping man to his knees.  After a few moments hesitation, Blair grudgingly added the coverlet.  Then with a loud sigh, he trudged back down the hallway and helped himself to the leftovers on the coat rack before circling back to the ladies sitting room.  Poking at the cold hearth, he could see that it was clean and wood-free.  “Not Sleeping Beauty,” he muttered, looking around the room for a likely kip, “Goldilocks.”

 

Trying out all three of the armchairs, Blair continued in a soft falsetto, “Clay’s hay wagon is too hard!  Master Toby’s bed with the feather pillows and extra blankets is too soft!  Oh, no!  Blair’s sofa in the front parlor is the only thing that will do!”

 

Standing in front of the ‘winning’ chair, Blair posed for a moment as James Goldilocks before a breeze reminded him to get moving.  First he put on the longest short coat, which only came past his waist but made up for that deficiency by having sleeves that went past his fingertips.  The second coat he tied around his waist like an apron, and then after sitting down in the chair, he hung the last one off of his knees, where it just reached his muffler-wrapped feet.  Tying the last of his haul, a hat with earflaps, over his frizzy curls, he sincerely hoped that whoever found him in the morning died laughing.

 

 

 

James awoke miserably with the dawn.  He looked around the unfamiliar room and longed for the old days when the fact that he didn’t know where he was wouldn’t have bothered him especially.  In fact, this used to happen to him quite often, although he seldom ended up on the divan.  A back alley or a featherbed were the two most likely sights to greet his bloodshot eyes upon regaining consciousness, back in the carefree days of his youth.

 

Reaching up to cradle his throbbing head, he wondered if he had at least enjoyed whatever had happened.  The last ten years he had seldom unbent enough to get blind drunk and the outcomes on those occasions were never pleasant.

 

Hadn’t he been on his way back to Burleigh with Simon?  James thought about getting up and looking for him, but decided against it for now.  If he lay very still, his head might not fall off.  Yelling for the servants would also be a bad move.  In fact the very word ‘move’ was enough to increase the pain in his head, as if his body was warning him that it had had enough, and one more demand on it would result in swift and severe retribution.  He ventured a long sigh, followed by a sharp moan.

 

And so he took inventory.  Lying very still, breathing as carefully as he could, he flexed each extremity very slowly and came to the conclusion that although his back and shoulder felt sore and brush-burned, the only real pain he had was above the neck.  He had never seen spots in front of his eyes before, and even though it was just barely dawn by the mantle clock and he could hear rain hitting the windowpanes, he couldn’t stand to look toward the windows because of the glare.  The rain itself was irritating, too.  So possibly he had the worst hangover of his life, or he had done something else stupid like riding post and been thrown from the mount, or maybe he was lucky and had been attacked by highwaymen.  Because - and this was the scenario he had avoided thinking about for as long as he could - he just might have had another fit.  Made a scene in public.   Embarrassed the old man.  “Well, as I don’t remember anything that happened after lunch with Simon – yesterday, I hope – until someone fills me in, I had better assume the worst,” James thought bitterly. 

 

A couple of hours later, all of the guests were assembled in Mr. Toby’s dining room except for Sir James, who had declined both the offer of breakfast and of assistance back upstairs to bed, and so remained a brooding presence in the front parlor.  The rest of the company – Blair, Rev. Haley, Sir Simon, Mr. and Mrs. Toby, and Mrs. Toby’s mother – were seated around the table in various states of disorder.  The wet grey view outside echoed the mood within.

 

“Did everyone sleep well?” asked their host tentatively.  Blair gave him a look of disgust before going back to staring at the table; Sir Simon just grunted.

 

“Very well, Master Toby!” the vicar replied with false cheer.  “ I vow, your accommodations are the finest in the county, excepting the manor of course.  I wish I could find a mattress like that.”

 

Blair groaned and listed a little in his chair.

 

“Oh, Reverend Haley, you must get one!” replied Toby’s wife. “I’ll give you the name of the firm in London.  You’ll have to wait for it though.  With the roads the way they are this time of year, and winter just around the corner, you might have to wait for spring to have it delivered.  It’s well worth the wait though.  I’m sure your wife will be pleased.”

 

“What can I say?” the vicar continued.  “You’ve outdone yourself again, Mrs. Toby.  This meal is excellent.”  The conversation rambled on with particulars about training kitchen staff, the best places to buy many foodstuffs that Blair had never realized were absolutely essential, and the gout, which Mr. Toby suffered from in excruciating detail. 

 

The rest of the long meal passed in the same way, with Blair and Simon suffering and silent, and the rest of the group acting as if the two were an audience dying to hear about their household triumphs and tragedies.  Blair occasionally looked up from the table with a pained expression, wondering when this torture would end.  Both he and Sir Simon were propping up their heads with their arms, only letting go with one hand long enough to take sips of their coffee, ignoring the food on their plates.  Finally, even Mrs. Toby had run out of material, and at about eleven o’clock breakfast was declared a complete success. 

 

Mr. Toby took the vicar out to his stable to show off his new horse, Mrs. Toby and her mother bustled off to get started on their next menu, and Blair and Simon were left alone in blessed silence.  When the servants came in to clear, they found a very tall man still drinking coffee with the pot in one hand and a cup in the other, and a short man who was methodically pulling straw out of his hair and flicking it across the table.

 

Chapter Seven

 

“Simon Banks,” said Simon, after the servants had left and they had sat in peace for a while.

 

“______“

 

“Ahem.  I am Sir Simon Banks.  And you are?”

 

“Uh, Blair Sandburg.”

 

“No one here has actually introduced us.”

 

“No.”

 

“I hear from the vicar that I tried to beat you up last night.”

 

“Um, yeah.  Yeah, you did.”

 

“Well, I don’t remember it.”

 

“Is that an apology?”

 

“______”

 

“______”

 

“Are you really the town guide?”

 

” -Snort- ”

 

“You look a little grubby for a town guide.”

 

“You kicked dirt all over me and threatened to break my fingers.”

 

“Did I?”

 

“Hey, don’t take my word for it.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“______”

 

”I said I was sorry.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“As in please accept my humble apologies.  Even though I was out of my mind and had no idea what I was doing, I am a gentleman and therefore take full responsibility for my actions.  Did I really hit you?”

 

“You know, that’s some apology.”

 

“I don’t have to take that kind of insolence, you know.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  But I do have to take it, so your apology is accepted in the spirit with which it was given.”

 

“_____!”

 

“You can leave now.”

 

“ Well! Of all the –“

 

Blair remained seated as Sir Simon left the room, reflecting that his big mouth had probably just gotten him into trouble.  Sir Simon didn’t seem like the sort of person to overlook a slight, but Blair didn’t care right now.  He was angry and upset and tired.

 

When Sir Simon’s ratings sounded like they had gone out the back door, Blair  hurried out the front and turned right - up the High Street.  People tried to stop him to chat about the accident, but he nodded curtly and walked around them and kept going.  He was in a mood to hit something or someone and he had to keep ahead of it.  He hated it when he got this angry, hated the loss of control and the ugliness of it, hated himself for enjoying the power and the rush it gave him, the feeling of righteousness that seemed so unassailable when the anger was upon him, and so vain and foolish when it had passed.

 

He paced all the way up to the side road that would take him to the King’s Head, but there he stopped short, realizing that he didn’t want to go to the inn either.   He wasn’t in the mood to have a jolly chat with the landlord and his wife, fine upstanding witches though they were.  In fact that was the problem with talking to anyone in this town.  All of them knew; all of them had lied to him.  “You didn’t tell them what you were either,” whispered a voice in his head, but he didn’t want to hear it.  “They drugged me!  And then they drugged me again!” he rebuked himself.  “Hey, maybe they’ve been drugging me every day since I got to this hell hole, but how would I know?  They treat me like an idiot, an invalid, a goddam house pet!”

 

Walking down the steep side road, he continued his rant.  “I was going to be somebody here.  I studied for six years for this, I have the talent, I have the ambition… I, I, I pledged myself to these ingrates!  And what do I have to show for it?  No income, no place to live, and no respect.” 

 

Blair was aware that he sounded like a neglected housewife. 

 

“And with just about as much legal standing.  These jokers practically own me.”

 

The full meaning of his words sunk in.  He could joke about getting a job as a window washer or pretend that he could skip town whenever he wanted to, but the fact remained that he was pledged.  “They own me.”

 

The colors of the autumn leaves, the smell of the rain, and the pearly grey sky reflected at his feet suddenly filled Blair with unease.  This picturesque garden-spot was a prison and he was the prisoner, the house pet, the idiot.

 

Everyone believed that a guide’s bond to his town was a spiritual partnership.  Blair had thought that his bonding would be the fulfillment of his highest aspiration – to give himself completely to a people and to have them welcome him into their homes as one of their own, cherished and belonging.  That is what everyone said.  But his college professors, who should have known better, had neglected to mention what happened when the match went wrong, when the town didn’t appreciate what it had received - or even worse.  Supposedly the situation almost never came up, but Blair was beginning to wonder.  He couldn’t be the only guide who found out that his ‘marriage’ was not made in heaven and of course by then it would always be too late.  ‘I pledge my soul to my town and my people for as long as I shall live.’  The guide says it; the town does not.

 

Blair wandered off the road into the copse of trees beside the bridge.  He touched the rough bark of the old oak trunks and the lichens on the boulders, feeling the cold rain running in little rivulets down his scalp and his fingertips.  He watched the drops form circles in the puddles. And after an hour or so in the woods he hesitantly turned back toward the town.

 

Sir James arose from his sickbed – couch – in midafternoon.  His friend, Simon, had been up and down the length of the High Street and reported that Burleigh was still full of bucolic splendor.  Once the servants had informed their master that the patient was awake, Master Toby had been in so many times to check on him that James finally threw one of the man’s own candlesticks at him.  Sir James had held his temper until after he had learned that there had been a coach accident on the road north of town, that their driver was dead, and that he and Sir Simon had each received blows to the head, accounting for their temporary losses of reason.  The last straw was when Squire Toby assured him that everyone in town was just waiting to hear from Sir James personally of his miraculous recovery – and that everyone was praying for him.

 

He really should have lain in bed another couple of days, as his headache was barely tolerable, but he couldn’t do it.  Not with all those prayers hanging over his head.  And the sooner he got to the manor, the sooner he would get some peace and quiet.

 

Simon helped him sit up and handed him a comb.  His wig had been ruined in the accident.  He wondered facetiously if tighter ringlets might have cushioned his head a little better than the long brown curls he usually wore.  His own head of hair was straight, short, and receding slightly - no help at all in an accident.  He had called for his clothing from yesterday but the fawn breeches and blue satin jacket were ruined as well.  There seemed to be oily fingerprints all over both of them.  He couldn’t think why.  Still, at least someone had thought to put him in a nightshirt when they had brought him back to Toby’s.  He knew that most of the country folk just stripped off and climbed under the covers.  He might have given the chambermaids quite a thrill this morning.

 

Bodmer had sent word on to the manor, and so James’ estate driver and coach were now outside, awaiting orders.  The doctor had finally arrived late this morning, stammering in apology when he discovered who his patient was, and had been summarily dismissed.  James almost felt sorry for the townspeople.   Imagine having to wait all day for that jackass.  And he was sure that if the summons hadn’t come from someone well placed - in this case the mayor- the wait might have been indefinite.   James would have to see about that.

 

So, after slowly donning an outfit and wig from his trunk, James rose shakily to his feet, supported by Simon on one side and the estate driver on the other.  They made their way past the farewells of Mr. Toby and his family, the mayor, the vicar, and all of the household servants.  James nodded, he forced a smile, and he kept going.  Once in the carriage, he made a short speech assuring the townspeople that he would be fine and thanking everyone for their consideration to both himself and his dear friend, Sir Simon Banks.  Finally he was free.  He asked his driver to get them to the manor as smoothly and quietly as was humanly possible.

 

Chapter Eight

 

The next couple of days were pretty quiet.  News came from the manor that Sir James was convalescing well and that Sir Simon was spotted fishing on Saturday afternoon.  Mayor Bodmer breathed a sigh of relief.  The note in his hand was from Friars, the councilman who worked as Burlington’s estate manager, and included another chatty passage mentioning that neither gentleman seemed to remember much about the accident or the rescue, and that Sir James had had a near miraculous recovery.

 

Read correctly, the message stated that neither accident victim seemed to remember the Wiccan healing rite or the intervention of the guide, and more importantly, that Sir James did not show any signs of having started to bond with Blair.  Bodmer felt so good he decided to invite their little miracle worker home to supper.

 

Looking around the High Street, he spotted Colonel Sweeney. “Sweeney, have you any knowledge of the whereabouts of our guide?  Who’s, ah, minding him today?”

 

“I believe it’s the Peterson boy this afternoon, Master Bodmer,” murmured the colonel.  “Baker is down with the ague.  Ahem.  Did you hear that Sandburg went a little off the beam Thursday afternoon?”

 

Pleased to see by the look on the mayor’s face that he had not heard this juicy bit of gossip, Sweeney continued.  “Came barging out of Toby’s house without so much as a word to his host, no coat or hat, and went flying down Kingston Road where he completely lost it, threw up in the bushes and spent an hour petting trees and rocks, according to the Baker boy.  I mean I know these chaps are high-strung and all, but I think something is wrong with this one.  I mean it got so bad that Baker thought he might have to show himself.  The boy didn’t want to catch hell if Sandburg came down with pneumonia, but then just when Baker was about to give up the game, Sandburg turned around and went back to town, soaking wet and talking to trees, for God’s sake!  Spent the rest of the day in his office.   Been there all day Saturday and today, doesn’t eat, even missed services this morning.  Peterson told me that Alfie Long told him that the guide probably wouldn’t leave his office until after dark, if the last two days are any indication, and that he walks back to the inn and hides in his room.  Somebody should have told you.  You being the Mayor and all.” Then the Colonel turned to go, quite pleased that he had known something that Bodmer had not.  “Don’t know enough to come in out of the rain, Bodmer.  That lad needs seeing to.”

 

Bodmer was tempted to stop the colonel and ask him why he or the schoolmaster had not thought to tell the rest of the council, but then he realized that of course they wouldn’t.  The boys were reporting to Sweeney and Friars.  Friars always deferred to the Colonel and even though retired the colonel still retained a military mindset, guarding his remaining traces of power jealously.  So -  the guide had been allowed to suffer for Sweeney’s pride and everyone in town would have assumed that it was on the council’s order.  Yes, this really would need seeing to.

 

“Sweeney’s funeral will have to take place before spring”, Bodmer thought, “either a hunting accident or something on that order.  Poison is just too easy to trace in a town like Burleigh.”  He had a cheering thought; he would ask his wife. She was such a clever thing.

 

The mayor waved goodbye to Colonel Sweeney and crossed the street to have a quiet word with young John Peterson, who was practicing his fancy footwork across from the town hall.

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

That evening most of the council members dined at the invitation of the mayor.  Friars was busy at the manor and Reverend Haley had church business to attend to, but everyone else was finishing off the roast chickens.

 

“Well, gentlemen, I have to say that I am one of the luckiest men in this county.  Four hours notice and just look at what my Joan can put together.  I really don’t know how they put up with us men,” said Bodmer affectionately, “or indeed, why!”

 

Pushing back from the table, the councilmen all remained seated while the dishes were cleared away and dessert was brought in.  After the servants had left the room and Mrs. Bodmer was seated by the door with her tatting, Mayor Bodmer told them the latest news regarding their guide, carefully glossing over the part Deal and Sweeney had played in it, and then asked for their suggestions.

 

Mister Miller cleared his throat.  This took a while.  “I say  ‘Least said, soonest mended.’  Treat him like we have been doing all along and he’ll get over it soon enough.”

 

“I don’t think you grasp the issues here, Miller,” said Sweeney, shaking his head. “We’ve been treating him like a gentleman, and just what do we have to show for it?  An ungrateful, common little weed.  I think we should have picked one of the others.”

 

“Oho!” thought Bodmer.  “That was your maid at the banquet, wasn’t it?  I should have realized…”

 

“See here, Colonel,” countered Biggs, “you can’t say he’s ungrateful.  We’ve barely hired the man and he’s already saved Burlington’s son.  Don’t tell me you think he would have come out of it by himself.  And with no sentinel to back him up either.”

 

Easily following his friend’s usual mode of speech, Mr. Toby chipped in, “They’re not really men like us, you know.  And we have to make allowances for his extra, uh….  They’ve got that thing.  Like women, only more so.  Like horses.”

 

“Spirit!” supplied Biggs.

 

“You can’t expect someone like that to be back to normal in a day or two.  Barbara and I took very good care of Mr. Sandburg, but we’re not offended that he ran off… Like that….”

 

The mayor patted Toby on the shoulder.  “The town is grateful to you and your lady wife.  You both did an excellent job in very trying circumstances and when Master Blair is, um, well again, I’m sure he will be, too.  Grateful, I mean.”

 

“I say you’re all making excuses for him,” Sweeney continued.  “Do we really want someone like that, liable to run amuck at any moment, around our wives and children?  Sitting in judgment over us?  Johnson here is a fine constable and we have the quarterly sessions.  Why do we need a guide?”

 

Johnson looked at the colonel in disgust.  “I thought we settled this months ago.  We do want a guide; we do want a sentinel –“

 

“Well that’s a whole different kettle of  -“

 

“See here, Sweeney,” said Johnson.  “We’ve been looking forward to this for years now and we got ourselves a honey of a guide and it looks like we’re trying to botch the whole thing before it half gets started.  I say ‘You reap what you sow’.”

 

At a few murmurs of protest from around the table, Johnson held up his hands.  “Look, don’t tell me that any of you would go along with the way we’ve been treating our guide if his last name was Miller.  Or Biggs.  Or Sweeney.”

 

“He damned well wouldn’t be a Sweeney!”

 

“Look, Colonel,” said Mr. Toby, “Think of it this way.  No one would buy a thoroughbred and then treat it like a pit pony.  You wouldn’t starve your hounds and then expect them to bring you the partridges, would you?  That’s what Johnson means.”

 

Johnson shook his head in disbelief, but Deal and Biggs nodded in complete

agreement with Mr. Toby’s observations.

 

“I guess killing off half the council would be going a bit too far,” thought the mayor.

 

“Pie anyone?” he said aloud. “Cheese? Come on, Colonel, I know you like apple pie.”

 

________________________________________________________________

 

After an interlude for dessert and a lively conversation on various techniques of dog training, Bodmer brought the conversation back around to their guide.  “We need to tighten up our organization and divide up the duties a little more evenly.  We really can’t expect Deal and Sweeney to do all the work.  First, I propose that we nominate someone to research the next, um, phase of our project – the sentinel trials in the spring.  Second would be the watch scheduler.  Thirdly, I thought we could take turns getting reports from the boys or set up some other system so that the person in charge can be sure the messages are getting to the rest of the council.  And then, uh, last, we need to get the guide ready for the harvest rites in October.  Do I hear any suggestions or nominees?”

 

While everyone was sorting through the possibilities, Bodmer continued, “I myself wish to nominate Colonel Sweeney for the sentinel project.”

 

Johnson turned around in surprise, but catching the look of determination on the mayor’s face, found himself saying, “I second the nomination.”

 

“All in favor?”

 

“Aye,” said everyone.

 

“I say,” gushed the colonel, “you’ve caught me by surprise!”

 

“Um, yes - Well I am sure, Colonel Sweeney, that we could not have found a better man for the job.”

 

Biggs, Deal, and Toby congratulated their friend on his appointment.

 

“You can count on me, men,” said the colonel, sitting up even straighter than usual and puffing out his chest.  “I have had not a little experience with military sentinels during my time, and I must say, there’s your man’s man – loyal, fearless, a man you can count on in a pinch!  It’s just too bad they need a guide.”

 

“Um, yes.  I’m sure we all look forward to hearing from you after you have had  time to research and prepare your findings.  And well, that leads us to the next item.  Colonel Sweeney will be much too busy to continue as the watch coordinator.  Any suggestions?”

 

“How about Mr. Deal?” said Biggs.  “He was already doing the job with Sweeney and as our schoolmaster he is in the ideal position to hand out the assignments.”

 

“I second that; good idea,” said Toby.

 

“All in favor?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Well, Mister Deal, you’re on your own now, but don’t worry.  Someone else will take over responsibility for gathering the information.”  Oddly, the schoolmaster seemed to have deflated as much as the colonel had inflated.