R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"I know," Cadayle replied halfheartedly.

The younger woman went to the other side of the small house then and began undressing, then slipped into her bed under the blankets.

Callen noted that she was still wearing the necklace. Callen just smiled about it, however, and was both glad that her daughter had apparently found love and terribly afraid of this man who had become the object of Cadayle's affections.

Trinkets and Revelations Any feelings of levity Bransen held about his exploits and the frustration he was causing to Laird Prydae were lost the next day when, out in the courtyard of Chapel Pryd, he saw the results of that frustration. Soldiers were everywhere, it seemed, moving about the streets and banging on the doors. The Stork overheard one conversation along the roadside not far away.

"What do you know of him?" the soldier roared, and he grabbed a young woman by the front of her simple tunic and lifted her up to tiptoes. "You'd be smart to tell me all!"

"I know nothing, me lord," the woman cried.

"You haven't met this Highwayman?"

"No, me lord. Please let me go. Ye're hurting me poor neck."

The soldier roughly shoved her back, and she stumbled and nearly fell. She ran off, crying, while the warrior moved along to the nearest door and began banging on it.

Anger welled inside Bransen, and it was all he could do to suppress his urge to don his black outfit and have a word with that man and all the others.

The Stork bit his lip and forced himself to calm down. The laird was angry and his soldiers were bullying some folks, but it was nothing serious, he told himself. A smile wound its way onto the Stork's crooked face, and suddenly he found that he was thrilled that he was so troubling the powers of Pryd Holding, and even those beyond. He used the recollection of Prince Yeslnik's face to block out the image of the frightened young woman. Yes, that was a pleasing memory.

Bransen vowed to himself that he would step up his pace, that he would infuriate Laird Prydae beyond reason. How far could he push it? he wondered. How long would he have to go to force the laird to make concessions to him? He fantasized about that, about being called to a meeting wherein Prydae offered his surrender. Wouldn't he be a hero to the common folk then! And wouldn't Cadayle love him all the more?

That last thought brought a frown to him. Was it him she loved? Bransen? Or was it someone else entirely, the mysterious rogue named the Highwayman?

It was all too confusing, and so Bransen let go of the troubling questions and fears and focused instead on the kiss. He could still feel Cadayle's warmth; it had taken him through a night of wonderful dreams. There was nothing about her that wasn't perfect in his eyes. Her face, her soft skin, her softer lips. The feel of her against him, the sound of her voice, her gentle touch.

All of it stayed with him as he finished his chores that day-a day in which he kept glancing to the west, willing the sun to hurry and sink behind the horizon. For in the night, he would see her again. She couldn't deny her excitement as she noted his approach. She had known that the mysterious Highwayman would come out to her this night. She had seen his face after their kiss and had heard the sincerity in his voice. Even with all that, however, Cadayle couldn't help but doubt, and fear, that he would not return. That fear, above everything else, revealed to her the truth behind her jumbled thoughts. For she was indeed afraid that he would not come to her this night, and if that fear was realized, it would be a painful thing.

But the Highwayman did not disappoint. He approached the field behind Cadayle's house with a visible spring in his step, and Cadayle knew that he had seen her long before she was aware of him.

He danced up before her, dipped a quick and polite bow, and produced a small sack from behind his back, handing it to her.

"You and your mother will eat well this week," he said with that mischievous grin of his, one made more mysterious by the fact that he wore a mask above that toothy grin, and one that Cadayle was beginning to see in her mind long after the man had gone.

Cadayle fished about in the sack, discovering an assortment of meat and fruit and bread. She hid her excitement and her smile, and she wasn't really surprised. Almost every night, the Highwayman came to her bearing gifts, from the mundane, like the food, to the fabulous necklace she still wore upon her delicate neck.

When she looked up, she noted that he was staring at that necklace. "They've posted no reward," she said, bringing a hand up to it.

"They will soon enough," he assured her. "Their searches around Pryd Town have brought them nothing but the enmity of the peasants. Their frustrations will lead them to try to turn commoner against commoner because there are simply too many of you for the noblemen and their few warriors to inspect or to control, if it ever came to that."

That last line hit her hard. "Do not speak of such things," she said.

"It is a reality the lairds understand well."

"Please do not speak of it," Cadayle said again.

"If the common folk rose up-"

"Then many of them would be slaughtered," Cadayle interrupted. "Whether the lairds fall or not would be of little consequence to a man killed in the street. And I would rather live under the press of Laird Prydae than bury my ma in trying to defeat him. What we've got is not perfect, but it's what we've got, and nothing more."

The Highwayman paused, then started to say, "But," then just paused again and seemed to shrug it all away.

"They will post a reward soon enough," he did say.

Cadayle wanted to reply that she hoped it would be a long time before Laird Prydae did so, but she held her thoughts to herself. She liked wearing the necklace-more than she understood at that moment. It made her feel pretty. It made her feel, for just a few moments of conscious delusion, rich and powerful.

And it made her feel, most of all, as if this mysterious stranger, this hero who had saved her and her mother, this good man who was trying to help the lot of the always-overlooked rabble of Pryd, cared for her. Cadayle wasn't even sure how she felt about the Highwayman. Did she love him? She hadn't even seen him without his mask!

Cadayle looked at him then, carefully, and what she did know was that she was glad, truly glad, that he apparently cared for her.

"Are all the people feeling your generosity?" she asked. "Or just a few, like me and my mother?"

"All the people? I would be busy indeed in even trying to visit the homes of half! I share what I can and do not distinguish among the people-well, except for you, of course. For you, I always save the best that I find."

Cadayle was certain that she was blushing fiercely, and she lowered her gaze.

"The laird must be seeking you."

"With all of his men," the Highwayman answered.

Cadayle looked up at him with concern. "If he catches you, he will kill you horribly."

The Highwayman shrugged. "I have killed no man who did not deserve it, nor have I taken anything that did not rightfully belong to the people."

Cadayle's hand went back to the necklace.

"Well, the lairds should not so hoard the wealth, then," said the Highwayman. "They live in splendor, while all else suffer in squalor."

"They are the chosen of God."

The Highwayman snorted and Cadayle took a reflexive step back, not quite understanding what it was about her last statement that had irked him. Was it the concept relating to the lairds, or the concept of God? At that moment, Cadayle began to understand just how shallow her growing feelings for this man truly might be.

"Are you of the Church of Blessed Abelle?" she asked.

He seemed surprised. "Well, no…" The answer was less than definitive in tone.