James McGee - Rapscallion

Clutching the torn half of her blouse to her body, she stood in the doorway, her face burning, her breasts rising and falling. "Not with you, Seth! Never with you. Hell would freeze over before that."

The man's gaze moved to Lasseur, then flickered sideways.

Lasseur's heart turned over when he saw what had caught the man's attention.

They both moved at the same time, but Lasseur knew he wasn't going to make it, he was too far away. The woman's attacker jerked the axe out of the chopping block. His mouth split in a crooked grin. "First I'm going to deal with you; then I'll take care of her."

Lasseur looked for a weapon. He grabbed a log and held it before him like a club. It seemed spectacularly inadequate.

There was a bark. The dog, its courage restored, had made a lumbering dash for the open door. The woman grabbed for the dog's neck and missed. Her blouse slipped, revealing her nakedness once more. "Rab, no!"

The man swung the axe. The dog jinked aside as the blade missed its skull by inches. It continued to bark, growing more excited.

Lasseur moved forward, brandishing the log.

The axe man sneered, revealing stained and uneven teeth. His hair hung in greasy fronds around his pockmarked face. He wasn't big, about Lasseur's height, but his frame was solid and muscular. "That the best you can do?" He curved the axe towards Lasseur's skull. Lasseur swung the log in an attempt to parry the blow. The axe blade thudded into the wood, wrenching it out of Lasseur's hand.

Lasseur heard the woman cry out, "No, Seth!" as the attacker moved in, axe held high.

And a tall dark shape detached itself from the corner of the wall.

"Hey!"

The axe man turned.

Hawkwood whipped the broom through the air.

The scream that erupted from the axe man's throat as the broom head raked across his face was so intense it reduced even the dog to silence. Lasseur could only guess at the number of birch twigs that formed the broom head, but the end of each one had flayed the attacker's skin like a sharpened claw. Dropping the blade, the axe wielder stumbled away and lifted his hands to his ruined flesh. Blood oozed from between his fingers.

Lasseur picked up the axe. His unshaven face was a savage mask. Before Hawkwood could stop him, he ran forward and kicked the attacker to the ground. The man raised his arms to protect himself. His face looked as if it had been lashed with a scourge.

"Not so brave now, are you?" Lasseur grated. " Lache/"

Through the bloody runnels, he saw the man's expression change. Instantly, Lasseur knew his accent had betrayed him. He raised the axe. The man cringed.

A hand fell across his arm. Lasseur heard the woman say, "Don't!"

Lasseur shook his head. "He forced himself on you. Don't you want him punished?"

"Not like that." She looked down at her attacker. Her eyes flashed. "But if you show your face here again, Seth, I'll take the gun to you. I swear it."

Lasseur glared down at the blood-streaked face.

"If you kill him, Paul," Hawkwood said, his hand sliding from Lasseur's arm to the axe handle, "and they catch us, they'll hang us for certain."

"He needs to know that I will kill him if he comes near her again."

"He knows," Hawkwood said. "Believe me, he knows."

Slowly, Lasseur relinquished his hold, allowing Hawkwood to take possession of the axe.

"Go home, Seth," the woman said. Her face was still highlighted with colour. "Go now, while you still can."

Lasseur backed away, his eyes afire, and the man rose unsteadily to his feet. With a final glare of defiance he turned and stumbled towards the woods. Only when he had been swallowed by the trees did Hawkwood place the axe back in the chopping block.

Lasseur picked up the broom and leant it against the wall. "A very under-rated weapon, the broom; especially in the hands of an expert." He threw Hawkwood a look before turning to the woman. "Are you hurt, madame?"

Still staring towards the trees, she shook her head and then shivered. "I am unharmed."

"But you're cold. Here, take my coat."

Lasseur removed his jacket. She did not protest as he placed it over her shoulders. Suddenly, she looked around, her face anxious. "Rab?"

"He's here," Lasseur said as the dog loped towards her, tail wagging.

She ruffled the dog's hair, her face softening with relief.

"Come," Lasseur said gently.

There was only a slight pause, then, gathering the jacket about her and holding the torn halves of her blouse to her breast, she nodded and turned towards the house.

Hawkwood and Lasseur fell into step beside her. The dog followed close behind. When they reached the threshold, she paused and gave a small gasp, as if seeing the disorder for the first time. The floor, Hawkwood saw over her shoulder, was in disarray and littered with dirt and debris; shards of earthenware lay strewn among a scattering of twigs and leaves that had been crushed underfoot, presumably during the assault. More plants and herbs hung from the beams. The room was more like an apothecary's herbarium than a kitchen.

She took a breath, gathered herself and said, "Forgive me, Captain Lasseur. I neglected to thank you for your intervention; you, too, Captain Hooper."

"You're most welcome, madame," Lasseur gave a small bow.

"I did not want you to think I was ungrateful."

The redness she had sustained from the slap to her cheek was fading.

"Nothing was further from our minds," Lasseur said. "You are safe. That is all that matters."

She nodded. "Nevertheless, it was remiss of me. You put yourselves at risk."

"You called him by his name," Lasseur said. "You knew him?"

There was a pause. "He is my sister's husband."

Lasseur hesitated, taken aback by the response. "This has happened before?"

She pulled Lasseur's coat about her and shook her head. "No."

There was an awkward silence.

"We should leave you to recover," Lasseur said gently. "Unless there is anything we can do…?"

She drew herself up with an effort. "Thank you, no. You have been very kind."

"It was nothing, madame. Anyone would have done the same."

She looked at him. "It was not nothing, Captain. And no, they would not."

Turning, she stepped inside the house, called the dog, and closed the door behind her.

Finding themselves left on the step, there seemed little else to do except leave.

Heading back to the barn, Lasseur said, "I think I might have killed him if you hadn't taken the axe from me."

"I think you would have, too," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur shook his head. "But you were right. It would have been madness."

"Yes it would."

"Even though he might yet tell someone he saw us here?"

"You think so? He tried to rape a woman. I'd say he has as much to hide as we do."

"He might see it as a way of getting his own back on her for refusing his advances and on us for intervening."

"It's possible," Hawkwood said. "Though with those scratches on his face, I suspect he may want to lie low for a while, by which time we'll likely be on our way."

"It won't hurt to keep an eye out though," Lasseur said.

"No," Hawkwood agreed. "It won't."

They entered the barn.

"Ah," Lasseur said. "It's good to be home."

It was dusk when the dog came to them. It went to Lasseur first, wagging its tail. Then it moved to Hawkwood. It was the first time the animal had shown itself to be comfortable in his company. Hawkwood felt curiously honoured.

The dog had not come alone. A shadow fell across the straw. Hawkwood and Lasseur stood.

She had changed clothes and was looking more composed than when they had left her at the house, though she had still not found a way of keeping the wayward lock of hair in place. She carried a basket in one hand and a cloth bundle in the other. She set the basket down.