Free Betrayal in the Highlands by Robert Evert

grape-sized diamond shimmered in the starlight.
    Don’t! Molly would—
    “This is worth more than eighty-five silver pieces,” he said, pushing the ring into the astonished constable’s hands. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
    Breathless, the constable replied, “Well, I’m no expert in such things, but I would guess that you are correct, sir.”
    “Then this is what I want you to do. Take this ring and in the morning sell it to anybody you like. Get whatever you think it’s worth. From that money, give eighty-five silver pieces to the merchant. You can keep the rest for yourself.”
    The constable looked up, startled. “I couldn’t!”
    You’re making a big mistake.
    “Now,” Edmund said, “let this poor fellow go.”
    The constable fingered the ring, examining its clear diamond and silver band.
    “It’s worth about nine hundred gold pieces,” Pond told him. “Just so you know what to expect. I wouldn’t accept anything less than eight hundred fifty if I were you.”
    The constable mouthed “nine hundred gold.” Doubt washed over his face.
    “It isn’t stolen, is it?”
    “Would somebody give a stolen ring like this to an officer of the law?” Edmund asked in disgust. “Look at it! It’s one of a kind. It could be easily identified. Now let the poor fellow go.”
    Like a burglar preparing to exit the scene of a crime, the constable surveyed the crowd around the pillories.
    “Very well.” He slipped the ring into his pocket. “But Fatty Moron is now under your care; he’s your ward and responsibility.”
    “Fine! Fine!” Edmund said. “Just let the poor fellow go.”
    Despite the children’s disappointed whines, the constable unlocked the pillory and opened the hinged boards.
    The thief didn’t move. Bloody manure slid from his face.
    The constable smacked him across the top of his head.
    “Get out, Fatty Moron. And get out of my sight. You’re none of my concern any longer. These gentlemen will be dealing with you from now on.”
    Fatty Moron’s head lifted a bit, his tiny black eyes drifting over in Edmund’s direction.
    “Come on, moron! Get going or I’ll—” The constable cocked his hand back.
    Edmund seized his arm before another blow could fall.
    “If you strike him again,” he said, “you’ll have me to answer to.”
    Even the taunting children fell quiet.
    “Sir!” The constable’s voice thinned to its breaking point. “I’m an enforcer of the law!”
    “I don’t care.”
    For a moment they stared at each other, Edmund’s fingers tightening around the constable’s forearm. The constable turned away first.
    “Get going, Fatty Moron,” he repeated as Edmund released him. “Get out of my sight!”
    Fatty Moron pulled his wrists and ankles out of the restraints, his great pear-shaped body unfolding like a concertina, and straightened as best he could with a still-bleeding back. Even hunched over, his bald head loomed over everybody.
    Holy cow! He’s bigger than Tiny Turd!
    And probably just as dangerous.
    “What’s your name?” Edmund asked the giant.
    The children around them giggled.
    “It’s Fatty Moron!” sang a little girl in pigtails. “Fatty, Fatty Moron!”
    Fatty Moron’s sad gaze sunk to the ground.
    “That’s okay,” Edmund said. “You can tell me. We’re friends.”
    The constable laughed. “He can’t answer you.”
    “Why not?”
    “ ’Cause he’s a moron. He doesn’t talk; he just grunts.” A look of pleasure grew in the constable’s eyes. “But he’s your problem now.”
    Terrific! What’re you going to do with him?
    I can’t just let him go about his way. Without a job, he’ll be in the stockades, or worse, when he steals more food to feed himself. He probably doesn’t even have a home.
    Neither do you .
    “I’m Pond,” Pond said, extending an open hand to Fatty Moron.
    Fatty Moron looked sidelong at it then stared blankly at the ground again.
    Parading around them, the children began to chant: “Fatty Moron! Fatty,