Cynthia Bailey Pratt Read Free Page B

aside by the gentleman, who swaggered in, rapped his stick on the dirty table, and loudly said, “Coming to get me, lad? Knew you were a good boy!”
    She blinked to see him come in through the inn’s door as if he were a lord when ten minutes before he had been hunched over, hoarding every bit of his strength. Even his coat seemed smarter when the back that bore it was so arrogantly straight and his old hat seemed more an affectation than the possession of a man who owned no better. But Jocelyn noticed the light sweat shining on his forehead and thin cheeks and understood the effort behind this masquerade of perfect health.
    He turned to the landlord, who now nodded and smiled, all his worries at an end, and said, “A glass of ale, my man. And will you join me? Can’t be sure of good drink unless the landlord drinks with me, what?” He downed the golden liquid in three long swallows and then rubbed the empty tankard between his hands with a satisfied sigh.
    “That’s what I wanted. No, thank you, one’s enough for now.” His eye fell on Jocelyn. “Are you thirsty, boy?”
    “No, sir. Thank you.”
    “No?” She could see his surprise at this refusal of a street boy to drink free ale. “Then a meal perhaps. You’re too thin for your height. Isn’t he, landlord?”
    The landlord obviously had never before considered the question of a ragamuffin’s stomach. However, he saw that the gentleman was willing to pay for a meal, so he agreed heartily.
    “No, truthfully, sir,” Jocelyn protested. “I’m not the least bit hungry.” He couldn’t be a criminal, she reasoned. Why should a bad man care for another’s hunger? For that matter, why would he have helped her in the first place? Surely a wicked man would be happy to see an innocent person suffering.
    The gentleman shrugged and only Jocelyn saw the look of pain cross his face. He said, “Thank you for your help, boy.” He put his thumb and forefinger into his breast pocket and brought out a half crown, weighing it with a glance at Jocelyn.
    With a change of mind he said, “No, I may need you again.” He spun it in the air, a golden glitter in the dark taproom, caught it, and restored it to his pocket in what seemed a single motion. He smiled at the landlord. “Show me up, if you please.”
    Jocelyn and the landlord followed him as he bounded up the narrow stairs two at a time. She watched while he poked vigorously into all the corners of the small chamber and peered out the thick glass in the heavily leaded windows. A streamer of late-afternoon sun struggling to enter was the only light in the room.
    “Perfection, my dear sir. I could not ask for a more salubrious site!” He thumped the landlord heartily on his broad back and told him a wicked story. Jocelyn sniggered at it obligingly, after a glance from her stranger, though she did not really understand it.
    However, when the landlord had gone, rejoicing that God at last had sent a generous man to his inn, the laughing face and overwhelming manner faded. The gentleman felt behind him for the bed, misjudging the distance. Only a hasty grab at the solid bedpost saved him from sliding to the floor.
    He swore in a jagged whisper. “Damn Frenchies,” Jocelyn heard him mutter. “Never do clean their knives.” She saw his eyelids flutter and remembered the time she saw her cousin Tom’s arm broken by a kick from the pregnant mare.
    Jocelyn was just in time to catch the stranger as he slumped over, his silver cane tumbling. She staggered on the uneven floor. He was heavier than he looked. Her arms seemed to lengthen from the effort of supporting him. However, she managed to maneuver him so he lay more or less on the bed, though his arm insisted on flopping over the edge. She walked around the bed and covered him with the half of the blanket he did not lie on. Only the rising and falling of his chest reassured her that he lived.
    The muddy soles of his boots peeked out, but Jocelyn decided against