Stolen Lives (The Alice Chronicles #3)

10

T hat Alice bloody Edwards is back,’ Bart Johnson says.

‘Jerrard.’

‘What?’

‘Alice Jerrard,’ Dick Winter says, ‘now she’s married.’ Along the line of the hedge, away from the other mowers in Sir Thomas Harcourt’s hay fields, the two of them swing their scythes around to their own bored satisfaction and very little effect.

‘Married. Yeah,’ Bart says. ‘Did that pretty quick didn’t she? Reckon that Frederick Marchant fellow gave her a bump in the belly after all.’

‘Shut up, Bart!’ Dick hisses, looking round. ‘They’ll hear you!’

‘They’re all Sir Thomas’s toadies here, you lob,’ Bart says. ‘Nobody here from Hillbury.’ He takes an inexpert swipe with the scythe. ‘Waste of bloody time, this.’

‘What if they tell Sir Thomas?’ Dick says, going to peer through the hedge.

‘Sir bloody Thomas. Go round and cut any missed bits by the hedges , he says. We get all the rubbish jobs. Where did you put that ale?’

‘Sir Thomas takes his horses to Daniel for the shoeing,’ Dick explains. ‘Takes them himself. What if they tell Sir Thomas and he tells Daniel?’

‘So? Who cares about Daniel? Where’s that ale?’

‘You cared enough when he gave you a bust in the chops,’ Dick reminds him.

‘Yes, well, Daniel’s not Alice’s keeper any more, is he? If her fancy new husband gets a six-month brat and doesn’t mind, what’s it to do with Daniel?’

‘You never could count, Bart,’ Dick says. ‘Frederick Marchant was dead weeks before Christmas. That would make her well gone when she got married to Jerrard. She’d be nearly popping now.’

‘Doesn’t mean to say they weren’t at it while Marchant was alive.’

‘Just keep your gob shut round here.’

‘Huh! Sir Thomas isn’t here, is he? He’ll be prancing round giving the minions his orders. Yes, Sir Thomas, No, Sir Thomas. We so love slaving for you, Sir Thomas.’ He swings viciously, the grass bends, and returns to the upright. ‘What do we get out of it?’

‘Didn’t you get paid?’ Dick says. ‘I did.’

‘Oh yeah, I got paid. Half what he promised. When I said, What’s this then , he cracked a joke about half pay for half the work. Like I didn’t sweat my guts out tossing hay on his bloody cart—’

‘You dropped most of it,’ Dick inconveniently recalls.

‘Yeah, well, we can’t all be experts. Look at me now, sweating rivers, mowing more of his bloody fields. I’ve had enough of this.’ He throws down the scythe and slumps in the shade of the hedge. ‘Ah, there’s the ale!’

‘You should’ve held on to your job at Nick Patten’s,’ Dick says. He changes hands on his scythe, takes a swing. ‘You had ale on tap there. What I wouldn’t give for free ale! God’s blood, how does this thing work?’

‘Two-faced bastard Patten is,’ Bart complains, unstoppering the flask. ‘I was owed that job, worked hard when I got it. Then he decides he’ll save money and turns me off.’

‘But what I don’t get is, why didn’t he pay you? You should complain.’

‘Nah.’

Dick leans on his scythe. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, ‘we’ll go in together, make a noise in front of all the taproom, shame him into—’

‘Shut up Dick!’

‘What’s wrong with—?’

‘Just leave it alone, will you?’

Dick shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ He takes up the scythe again and makes a swipe with it.

Bart tips the ale flask, shakes it, peers into it. ‘You bloody drank the lot!’

Dick makes another swipe with the scythe. ‘Hey, look at that! I cut a bit!’