Gideon's Angel by Clifford Beal Page A

then I turned and looked again. The black dog was gone.
    “We must find an inn before it gets too dark,” I told him quietly. And Billy looked at me queerly, confounded at my strange and sudden unease. Old memories were stirring again in me. The memories of a young soldier once lost in a great, dark forest in the German lands.
     
     
    B ILLY C HARD WAS a Dorsetman, born and bred. As we wolfed down our supper at an inn on the edge of Brent, he told me of his sorry misadventures in the late war and what followed after.
    He had dodged a musket ball or two in the Parliamentary forces and had his helm knocked off his head more than a few times. But after Cromwell’s victory at Worcester, he had wandered off, hungry and without pay, working as a farmhand or drover where he could. And then, he joined a Ranter group that met near Saltash until they were finally sent packing by the Puritans a year later.
    “They called us godless men, they did,” said Billy, loudly scraping his spoon on the last morsels of his bowl. “But those of our creed make a damn sight more sense of the Lord’s word than most of those army preachers, the sods.” He shook his head. “Why did I bother to trail a pike? For what good? We’re no longer free men, Mister Eff.”
    “Billy, I told you I need a travelling companion, someone to watch my back for me,” I said.
    “Oh, understood, sir,” he said, breaking into a grin. “These roads ain’t safe for no man.” He then squinted and leaned towards me over the trestle top. “And what was that trade of yours again, Mister Eff?”
    “I’m a wool merchant, bound for Exeter to meet with some other men of business. I could use your help along the way and while I’m there.” I pushed two silver half-crowns across the table. “There’s five shillings to see you right for a time. There’ll be more if you keep the bargain—and if you keep thievery out of your plans.”
    He gawped a moment, then palmed the coins. “Aye, it’s all the same to me so long as you’ll not be asking anything that breaks the law of the kingdom,” he said, all mock solemn. And then he let out a short laugh and reached for his beer. “So I’ll be an assistant of sorts to you, the fine foreign merchant gentleman? You did say you was foreign, didn’t you?”
    I suppose my stage accent was wearing thin. Before long he would no doubt guess the truth. “And you can tell me about these strange countrymen of yours who preach of the end of the world and the coming of the saints.”
    Billy chuckled and spoke into his tankard. “For another shilling or two, Mister Eff, I’ll tell you which hand they wipe their arses with!”
    “There’s more,” I said. “I will compel no man to be my companion against his will. The truth is, you’re free to go this night if you wish. The choice is yours.”
    “Very good, sir. Here’s to goodly commerce in Exeter... and for you taking on an old soldier the likes of me.”
    We bedded down in the ground floor of the clapperboard ell of the tavern, the last free room. The wind blew in everywhere between the boards of the little place. The clay-tiled floor was strewn with fresh straw but the stink of the last occupant still lingered. There were two low bedsteads with dubious linen and I flung myself into one, fully clothed. Billy did the same and after a few of his stories about his wandering life I drifted off with a warm head full of ale and cider.
    I was awake as soon as I felt the hand upon my arm. In one movement I clasped the thin iron grip of the stiletto at my side and thrust it out in front of me at the crouching figure. In the moonlight, I could see Billy’s pale terrified face and I checked my blow.
    “By Jesus, Mister Eff!” he whispered, pulling back. “It ain’t me! Look out the window. There’s a great beast in the yard just a-staring at us as cold as hell.”
    I approached the large, rotting casement and looked out into the courtyard of the tavern, the moonlight