Free Black Wreath by Peter Sirr Page A

bluffing? James was tempted to get out of the barrel and surrender before he was found there. Maybe the man wasn’t as bad as he seemed, maybe he just wanted to ask him somethingand had been angered by his running away. Better to give up now than be caught and beaten black and blue by the brute. James was about to lift the lid when he heard the sound of barrels being kicked and rolling across the cobbles. If he could subject the barrels to such violence, what was he likely to do to James if he found him?
    James crouched deeper into the barrel in the hope that he mightn’t be seen should the lid be flung off. The kicking seemed to be nearer. James felt his stomach knot with fear and beads of sweat run down his back. Surely the man could smell him! He felt as if the stink of his fear must reach every corner of the yard. He hoped there were no dogs about, or they would surely sniff him out. He nearly cried out at the next blow, it was so near. It must be the barrel beside him. James braced himself for the blow which must come any second now, but then he heard other voices in the courtyard, angry voices calling out to the man.
    â€˜What’s going on? What are you doing to our barrels? Who are you?’
    The coopers must have come into their workshop. James’s terror subsided a little.
    â€˜Have you seen the boy?’ James heard.
    â€˜What boy? There’s no boy here! Look at these barrels. A day’s work destroyed! Who’s going to pay for that?’
    The man seemed to have calmed down, and was now trying to placate the angry coopers. James didn’t dare move. He put his ear against the wood of the barrel as he strained to hear what was being said.
    â€˜A boy, fair-haired, maybe fourteen years or more …’
    â€˜And what is he to you, this boy, whoever he might be?’
    â€˜Oh he’s just a friend of a friend. I have some business with him.’
    â€˜A kicking business, a breaking business, to judge by the violence done here.’
    â€˜I’ll pay for it. Compliments of Lord Dunmain.’
    After another few moments, James didn’t hear his voice any more, but still didn’t dare move. He would stay here all day if he had to; he had no intention of moving until he was satisfied the brute was no longer in the courtyard.
    Suddenly the lid was swept off the barrel, and James cowered, waiting for the blow.
    But all that came was a voice, rough but kindly. ‘It’s alright, he’s gone, you can come out now,’ it said.
    James looked up and saw a grinning face looking down at him.
    â€˜How did you know I was here?’ James couldn’t help asking.
    â€˜Because I know my own barrels,’ the cooper said, helping him out. ‘And I can tell a full one from an empty one.’
    â€˜You can?’ James wasn’t entirely convinced.
    â€˜And I can tell when a lid isn’t down properly. I finished this barrel yesterday before knocking off. So what did your friend want you for?’
    The other coopers gathered round him, wanting to hear his story. James was afraid one of them might take it into his head to run after the Ugly and fetch him back, but no one moved.
    â€˜Did you rob him?’ asked one, eyeing James suspiciously. 
    â€˜No,’ James said. ‘The robbing is all the other way. The brute belongs to my uncle, the man who calls himself Lord Dunmain.’
    â€˜What do you mean, calls hisself?’
    â€˜Because,’ James said, surprising himself, ‘I am Lord Dunmain.’
    His words produced first a stunned silence, then a clamour of questioning.
    â€˜Wait, quiet everyone, let him speak,’ said the cooper who had rescued him.
    â€˜Alright,’ he said, turning to James, ‘you’d better explain yourself. And it’d better be good. We don’t take kindly to blather around here.’
    â€˜My father was William Lovett, Lord Dunmain. He died this year and my uncle assumed the