Free White Water by Pamela Oldfield

but she had not quite finished.
    *
    When Mark Wynne first woke it was barely light. Something had disturbed his sleep but he was too befuddled to consider what it might be. Too thick headed, in fact, to realize the need to consider what had interrupted his sleep. He realized only that his head ached as usual and his belly rumbled protestingly over last night’s intake of cheap ale, followed by the remainder of a flagon of wine stolen from the cellar up at the house. They never did mix, ale and wine. He knew it — everyone knew it — but still he tried the impossible. At the time it had seemed a reasonable experiment. Now the griping pains told him the attempt had failed. He felt ill and sorry for himself. Below him he thought he heard voices, whispering, and the champing of horses. There was a clatter, quickly muffled, and then silence. He told himself he’d imagined it. No one would be rousing before daylight. Clumsily he turned over, groaning and cursed roundly as the change of position increased the pains in his belly. But it was too much effort to change back again. He lay on the straw on his right side, still fully clothed, his face turned to the roof which sloped past him. He scratched at a flea bite but even that was too much effort and he closed his eyes and drifted back into an uneasy sleep.
    When he awoke for the second time, his head felt clearer but his body was sluggish as he struggled into a sitting position. Blearily he regarded the motes of dust which danced in the slivers of sunlight that found their way through chinks in the thatched roof. Hell’s blood! The sun was well up. The day well advanced. He might be seen sneaking back to the fields where he should have spent the night ‘looking’. He was a short, stocky man with broad shoulders. His small head looked bigger because of the burly dark beard and wild mane of curly hair, but his bushy eyebrows made his small eyes look meaner than they were. He had a scar across his cheek where a savage dog had once bitten him. He had fought it bare-handed after it killed his own dog. Then, he had been one of the most respected lookers on the marsh and Harold Cummins had been proud of his man. But that was all in the past. All that had gone. Everything had gone. Wife, family, a reason for living. He had become a cheat, a drunkard, a bully. And he had developed a dangerous temper. He did not know how it had all come about and he no longer cared.
    Breathing heavily, he pulled himself to the edge of the ladder, turned and began the slow, precarious descent.
    At the bottom, he steadied himself and saw with some surprise that both horses were missing and there was no sign of Jem. Outside in the yard he shaded his eyes from the bright November sun and stared round him. No sign of Matt, either. It was strangely quiet but he was too hungry to give it much thought. Unsteadily, he made his way to the kitchen door and found it locked. He stared at it in disbelief and banged on it with his fist. That Felicity would give him a bite to eat — too scared to refuse him. He banged again and waited, leaning against the door jamb. She was a scrawny little thing but she was only half grown, he reflected. Not quite as old as his Judy. His lip curled spitefully as he thought of his daughter. Wayward little bitch! He’d find her one day. He was a patient man and could wait for his revenge. He banged again, surprised that no one hurried to open it. He moved along to the window and looked in. The kitchen was empty but a sound above him made him look up and he saw Felicity looking down on him from the upstairs window.
    ‘Go away,’ she said somewhat shakily. ‘You’ll get no breakfast today.’
    Before he could answer, she withdrew leaving him staring upwards, open-mouthed at her insolence. God’s teeth! She’d grown bold all of a sudden. He felt the first stirrings of disquiet. On an impulse, he ran round the house to the front door. That, too, was locked and he cursed angrily and