Free The Whispering Mountain by Joan Aiken Page A

hereabouts and great nuggins of rock keeps a-tumbling down. That’s why no one won’t even keep their grunters and cackling-cheats in these houses now. Hark!”
    In fact, even as Bilk spoke, they could hear a rumbling fall of rock not far away, and several stones bounced on the slates overhead.
    â€œI’m gasted,” Bilk said. He was pale and sweating. “Let’s get out o’ here.”
    â€œAy, tol-lol, all in good time,” said Prigman, less convinced
of danger. “Let’s make the young woodcock do his scribing first. That won’t take but a wag of a lamb’s tail.”
    â€œWhy?” Bilk was itching to be off.
    â€œWhy, you abram, then we can leave him here, it’ll save dropping him off Devil’s Leap. The cliff’ll come down and that’s the end of him, no fault of ourn.”
    Bilk nodded once or twice in acknowledgement of this. “Ah, that’s probal. So, let’s press on then. Does he hear us? He seems half aswame.”
    â€œWake up, drumble-head!” Prigman said, poking Owen with Biter. “Fetch a board, Bilk, for him to scribe on, while I unties his fambles.” He took the cloth bindings from Owen’s wrists and tied them instead round his ankles.
    Owen, so weary by this time that he was only half conscious of what was happening, found a pen thrust into his hand and a paper presented to him.
    â€œNow, scribe what we say or I’ll slit your gorge,” Bilk ordered, pressing a knife against his throat.
    â€œNo!” Owen said faintly. The knife pressed deeper and he felt a trickle of blood start down his neck.
    â€œEasy, mate; don’t go at it too skimble-skamble and mar all! Try him with a drop o’ bouse,” Prigman suggested hastily. “He’s still dozey as a dormouse.”
    Owen’s teeth were pried open and the neck of the bottle forced between them—half a cupful of fierily strong sweet liquor was jerked down his gullet.
    â€œNow,” Prigman said optimistically, “with all that inside him, I’ll lay he’ll scribe as nimbly as the Veritable Bede himself. Off you go, my young spragster—and don’t act tricksy and make a slubber of it a-purpose, acos I can read, don’t forget that, even if I can’t scribe. ‘My lord’—set it
down, that’s the dandy—‘my lord, I have the harp what you wot of and will part with same on consideration of one hundred gold guineas, same to be left in Devil’s Leap cave atwixt cockshut and cockcrow afore St. Lucie’s day or harp will never be seen more.’ Got that? And sign it ‘Owen Hughes’.”
    Half fainting, stupefied by strong drink, with a knife pressing on either side of his throat, Owen mechanically wrote down the words Prigman dictated. The only way in which he attempted resistance was by making his spelling and handwriting as bad as possible; this was not difficult to contrive, for his fingers were cramped and swollen from having been tied up all day. Prigman shook his head over the clumsy script, but said it would have to serve. He did not notice the spelling errors. “Now another, cully—the same words, but this one begins ‘Your Royal Highness’.” ‘Yor roil Hynuce,’ Owen wrote, while the two men leaned over him, breathing fumes of metheglin into his face. A third letter was addressed to ‘Dere Granphadder’, and a fourth to ‘Yor Warshipp’.
    â€œThere! Ain’t that gratulous!” Prigman said buoyantly when the last letter was signed “Owainn Huwes’.”Now you can sleep, my young co, just as long as you like. Lay him on the strummel, Bilk, while I fold these and put ’em in my prig-bag. Ah, and here’s the young co’s bundle—best leave that beside him. Now I’ll loose the prancers while you dowse the glim and we’ll be on our way.”
    â€œI’ll just make sartin sure he