Moonrise

Anthony noted the evasiveness as well as the vehemence of her reply and decided to keep his questions to himself. After their near embrace in the meadow, he was more determined than ever to take Mistress Sarah to his bed before he left Yorkshire. He was even prepared to overlook the fact that she obviously knew more about the goings-on in this area than she was willing to let on to him. His mission would be greatly simplified if this Parson Hollander was the moonlight bandit. They should know soon—he prided himself on having an instinct about such things. For the time being he would let Mistress Fairfax keep her secrets.

Wiggleston was nestled at the base of a series of limestone crags that led down to the sea. Unlike bustling Kingston-on-Hull to the north, the village’s coastline was too rocky to be a commercial port. Except for an occasional poor fishing coble, the Wiggleston coves were occupied only by gannets and razorbills that soared in and out with complete sovereignty. To the west of the village, the cliffs turned into gentle Yorkshire wolds and eventually stretched out as vast moors, which still had a purple cast even in their winter dryness.

Sarah usually loved the moment when the sea came into view as she rounded Bratswick Scar on the road into town. But today she barely glanced out at the water. Her mind was too busy with the complications of the current situation.

“The sheriff’s house and gaol is not far. I can make my way by myself from here,” she said to Anthony. “Why don’t you go on back to Leasworth and spend some more time with the horses?”

Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re upset. I’ll go with you and see what this is all about. Perhaps I can be of some help.”

Sarah gritted her teeth and gave a slight pull on Brigand’s reins to tell him to head around the big gritstone smithy and proceed along the neat row of brick cottages that made up the most prosperous part of town. At the end was the larger brick structure that housed the town gaol. A number of townsfolk were congregated in the village green just in front of it.

Sarah surveyed the crowd anxiously and let out a long breath when she saw no sign of Jack in the group. She stopped in front of an iron hitching post and jumped from Brigand’s back. Anthony was at her side almost at the same instant. He took her arm as they made their way through the crowd.

“Mistress Fairfax, thank goodness you’re here.” A reedy fellow with thinning hair pushed his way toward them.

Roger Spragg had been the town mayor for as long as anyone could remember, keeping his post by virtue of his untarnished record of absolute inaction. Sarah was surprised to see him so uncharacteristically agitated.

“What’s going on, Mr. Spragg?”

The mayor twisted his hands and smacked together the edges of his mouth, which seemed to be devoid of lips. “Perhaps we should send for your uncle, Mistress Fairfax. There’s king’s men in town and your...” He stopped and looked nervously over at Anthony. “Well, and now they’ve gone and arrested Parson Hollander.”

Sarah put a slender hand on the mayor’s sleeve to calm him down. She had the feeling he had been going to say something about Jack, which she couldn’t let happen. “I’ll go in and talk with Sheriff Jeffries, Mr. Spragg. Why don’t you tell these good people to go on about their business? They can’t be of any help here.”

Spragg gave a little whining sound. “I should go inside with you, Mistress Fairfax. These charges against the parson are outrageous.”

“I know.” Sarah bit back her impatience with the annoying little man. “I’m sure it’s all some kind of misunderstanding. But your duty now is to your townspeople.”

Spragg looked around at the gathering and nodded his head several times. “Perhaps you’re right, Mistress Fairfax. Duty comes first. I’ll try to calm these folks down.”

Sarah gave a forced smile and pushed her way past him. Anthony watched her with amusement. She wasn’t one to put up with foolishness, that much was obvious. He was looking forward to seeing how she handled the sheriff...and Oliver, if, as he suspected, his friend was behind this arrest.

In deference to the vocation of the prisoner, the questioning was taking place in the parlor of the sheriff’s roomy house. By far the fanciest home in the village, the floor had carpets instead of rush mats, and the furniture in the room they were entering was upholstered with tooled leather.

As Sarah and Anthony entered the arched doorway, the occupants of the room turned simultaneously. Anthony’s eyes skimmed over the stalwart figure of Oliver, who stood nearest them. He did not let even a flicker of his eye betray recognition. A large man was standing near the stone fireplace, bending over a clergyman who sat stiffly in a straight wooden chair.

Anthony almost laughed aloud when he saw him. This frail, gray-haired cleric was supposed to be the masked robber who rode like the wind and wielded a sword like a pirate?

“Sheriff Jeffries, what’s going on here?” Sarah’s voice carried none of the mellow tone Anthony had found so pleasing. He looked down at her in surprise.

The man by the fire straightened and then made a slight bow in their direction. He shifted his leather baldric to fit more comfortably over the bulge of his stomach. “We’ve had an accusation, Mistress Fairfax, against Parson Hollander. And I’m honor-bound to investigate.”

Sarah pulled her arm out of Anthony’s grasp and briskly crossed the room. “What kind of accusation?”

The sheriff nodded his head at Oliver. “Captain Kempthorne, here, says the parson’s been involved in clandestine activities.”

Sarah positioned herself behind the parson and looked fiercely at the sheriff. “That’s absurd,” she said.

“I daresay, Mistress Fairfax. But we have to check on Captain Kempthorne’s story.”

Sarah glared across the room at Oliver, who was leaning against a trestle table, his arms folded. “And just what is Captain Kempthorne’s story?”

Without straightening, Oliver gave a brief nod of introduction. “Oliver Kempthorne of his majesty’s guards, at your service, mistress. It appears that your parson has been involved in a series of robberies that have taken place in this district.”

“And on what do you base these preposterous charges, Captain Kempthorne?”

“My men have been charged with cleaning up the smuggling in these parts now that we’re at war again with the Dutch. Last week up in Hull we had a...er...discussion with a Dutch contrabandist we caught red-handed. The man swore he got the jewels he was carrying from your parson. When we searched the vestry over at the church, we found this.” Oliver reached casually into his doublet and pulled out a glittery necklace.

Sarah’s mouth went dry. She recognized the piece as one she had taken from the Bishop of Lackdale. She put her hands on the parson’s shoulders, as much to support herself as him. “There has to be some mistake,” she said, less forcibly than before.

Anthony was watching the proceedings with some dismay. Obviously, this tiny old man was not the robber. But it appeared that he was involved in the crimes. And Sarah was disconcerted and upset by his arrest. He hoped that didn’t mean that she was involved, too.

“Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “I’m Lord Anthony Rutledge. I’ve recently come from court and am, of course, interested in any matter involving the king’s business.” He addressed the words to Oliver, who nodded impassively, then crossed the room to offer his hand to the sheriff.

“Much obliged, uh, your honor, er, Lord Rutledge.” Jeffries gave the impression that two king’s men in one day was too much for him to handle.

Sarah turned her direct gaze on Anthony. “If you can do anything about this, I’d be very grateful. Obviously, there has been some kind of terrible mistake.”

Anthony looked around at the other occupants of the room. “Perhaps we should let the good father speak for himself.” He walked over to stand directly in front of the parson and Sarah. “Tell me, Father,” he said pleasantly. “Do you ride the roads at midnight, robbing innocent people of their fortunes at the point of a sword?”

The very absurdity of the statement hit everyone in the room. Parson Hollander looked as if he were having a good deal of difficulty maintaining a seat in the flimsy chair. It was inconceivable to think of him thundering down a lonely highway on a powerful stallion. He gave a gentle smile and shook his head. “No, my son.”

Anthony looked at Jeffries. “I think you’re going to have a hard time proving your case, Sheriff.”

Oliver pulled himself up slowly from his slouch against the table. “He may not be the highwayman, but he’s involved up to his holy little neck. Perhaps a few days in the gaol will loosen his tongue.”

Sarah’s cat eyes glinted like the tips of two drawn swords as she turned to Oliver, her hands on her hips. “How can you take the word of an admitted smuggler against this holy man?”

Anthony gave a half smile as he watched Oliver face Sarah’s fury with utter nonchalance. His friend gave a shrug and walked across the room to where a heavy manacle was draped over a bench. He picked up the chains and walked over to the prisoner. “Your hands, Parson,” he said calmly.

Sarah’s normally fair skin flushed dark red. She moved from behind the parson to plant herself in front of Oliver. “Don’t you dare put those things on him!”

Anthony was torn. He was curious to see if she would betray some knowledge of the crimes in her angry state. But at the same time he felt an inexplicable urge to protect her from becoming more involved. The latter won out as he went over to her and put his hand against the small of her back. “Let’s go, Sarah,” he said softly. “There’s nothing you can do here until the evidence has been examined more thoroughly.”

Sarah’s hands shook as she watched Kempthorne place the heavy manacles around Parson Hollander’s white, bony wrists. The cleric twisted to look at her with his serene smile. “Don’t worry about me, Sarah. You go on home and take care of yourself. You’re the one who’s important here.”

The emphasis in the parson’s words was odd, but they seemed to soothe Sarah for a moment. She stood stiffly as the sheriff, who had also winced at seeing the parson locked into chains, helped the old man out of his chair and led him toward the door.

“You won’t be there for long, Parson,” Sarah said, her voice firm again. “I’ll see to it.”

Parson Hollander gave one last smile before he turned and meekly followed the sheriff out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence after the two men left. Finally Anthony said, “Mistress Fairfax, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a moment with this gentleman. I may be able to get to the bottom of this matter.”

“If you’re going to talk about Parson Hollander, I’m staying right here.” Sarah shifted her feet slightly apart as if to root herself more firmly to the spot.

Anthony could see the amusement behind Oliver’s impassive expression. It was not often that a woman refused one of Anthony’s requests. He leaned down and spoke low in her ear. “I’ll tell you what we talk about later. I might be able to get more information out of him dealing—you know—man-to-man.”

Sarah looked from Oliver back to Anthony, then gave a curt nod and left the room with a haughty swish of her skirts.