A new tale of the Blue Order!

Chapter 1

September 26, 1812        Winscombe, Somerset, England

There was an old saying about robbing Peter to pay Paul. And it described Philip Smalley’s situation far too accurately.

Peter—Mr. Lorry—was their landlord, and Paul—Mr. Batton—was the surgeon. And both wanted to be paid.

“Move along there, Butterbelle, I gots work yet to do at the cottage.” Philip tugged the coarse rope around the dun Jersey cow’s neck. It was tempting to find a stick and prod her along, but that was the one that that made the placid girl cranky, and that would do nothing to get home faster.

With any luck, the time she had spent on Michael’s farm would yield another calf in the spring and her milking days would return in force. And if the calf were another girl, they would have another cow for milking in the next few years. That would ease things, for sure. Even a bull calf, sold for meat at the end of the season, would help.

But that would do nothing to pay today’s bills.

A sliver of weary sunlight peeked through the grey clouds and faint mist that hung over the Mendip Hills in the way that British mists were wont to do—low and thick and sleepy. Mama said the sunbeam was an angel’s way of encouraging a worn soul. It would be nice if it were true. But things rarely seemed to work out that way. He pulled Butterbelle a few more steps along the steep, narrow road that smelt of wet dirt and cow.

At least the surgeon had actually helped Mama this time. That was a reason for hope. She was well enough to be up and about and managing a few chores. Not with her usual energy, to be sure, but she was well enough to be up and about and worrying about this quarter day’s rent.

   “She has reason to worry, ain’t that so, Butter? Mr. Lorry don’t ‘zactly overflow with patience, does he?” He kicked a small rock that bounced off the stony road and against the dry stone wall that rose up to their right. If he could have got Butterbelle over the shoulder-high wall, they could have taken a shortcut home through the already harvested fields, but no, they had to go the long way.

Of course, that was just the way of things.

Butterbelle nudged him with her head and mooed loud and long. Saucy old thing, laughing at him as she nearly knocked him off his feet. Would she be laughing if she knew how dire things were?

Three days, he had three days to come up with enough to pay the rent. Mr. Lorry would put them and the cows out otherwise—or maybe he would take the cows and leave them without their livelihood. He was that sort of man.

Perhaps Philip should have waited to pay Mr. Batton, but the surgeon would not have come to see Mama at all if he had not been paid upfront. Mama told him he was a fool to have wasted the rent money on her.

But he was a fool who was not alone in the world at the ripe old age of eighteen because of that choice. Better to be homeless than alone.

He tugged Butter’s coarse rope again. Papa’s battered pewter ring dug into the sides of his small finger. The one thing Papa had left them at his death, his connection to the Blue Order. Little good that it was. Hearing dragons was a thing for rich folk with their estates and big dragons and connections. He and Mama could barely feed themselves; no little dragon in its right mind would look at them as Friends. Dragons liked to eat, and he could hardly blame them.

The Order was of no use to him, but he still wore the ring. Foolish and sentimental as it was, the reminder of Papa’s belief in him still helped on days like today.

Maybe he should sell one of the cows. Michael had offered to buy Butter—but no, that would make things worse in the long run. He wouldn’t sacrifice their future for ease today if there were any choice.

Butter made an odd sound and pawed the ground.

What was that? He cocked his head toward the approaching sound.

Hooves and wheels. Thundering, fast hooves!

Butter bolted past him, and he took off after her. But it would hardly make a difference. With the stone wall on one side and the embankment on the other, there was no escape. As fast as those hooves were approaching, they would only stop in time if the horses shied, maybe even reared, and very likely caused some sort of accident, that he would then be blamed for, and …

Rocks Butter kicked up peppered his chest, even his face, stinging to match the burn in his chest. Bloody hell and damnation! Who knew the blasted cow could run so fast!

Damn it all! Still not fast enough. He glanced over his shoulder—which, yes, was a stupid thing to do whilst running. Two wild-eyed horses’ heads appeared at the bend in the road.

 Somehow Butter knew it too, putting on a fresh burst of speed as she veered hard to the left, through a small opening in the tall bank framing the road. Where did that path lead?

What sounded like a four-wheeled high-flyer and men’s laughter gained on him.

Who cared where the path led? He plunged through the shrubbery after her.

The branches snapped back behind him as though to cover his escape. He stumbled and grabbed the nearest tree for support. Doubled over, he dragged in breath after shuddering breath, clutching his sides against the stabbing pain.

The horses and the carriage thundered past, two men’s voices jeering as they went. How proud they sounded of scaring away the cowman.

Miserable foppish sots they were. Not that he had actually laid eyes on them to prove the point, but what else could they be? Was it wrong to take satisfaction in knowing they would end up killing themselves in a foolish accident? The horses were the ones who would suffer for it, though, and that was a shame.

He leaned back against the tree, no longer gasping like a drowning man. Old hardwoods with limbs twining overhead into a ceiling-like canopy surrounded him. Beneath, dead leaves and limbs littered the forest floor, sharing space with frilly orange peel mushrooms and moss and lichen-covered rocks. The sweet-sickly scent of decaying leaves rose up to greet him. Only a few, scraggy shrubs managed to take hold in the deep shade, leaving plenty of room to walk—and to get lost.

Where was that foolish cow?

He dragged sweat off his brow with his sleeve. It weren’t her fault—the whole affair had spooked him, too. But he had brains enough in his head not to run on blindly into a place he did not know.

No choice, though, she had to be found. Too much of their future depended on Butter and her calf.

But he was going to be smarter than a cow about things. He rubbed Father’s ring with his thumb. Papa had taught him to mark a trail, and there was plenty lying around with which to do so.

It made for slow going, though. With so many trees and so few distinct landmarks—essentially none—he had to stop often to gather sticks and stones for guides to ensure he would get back home before nightfall. He quit counting after leaving a dozen trail markers behind him.

Perhaps he was being a bit excessive, but Mama would not need to make herself sick worrying for him.

Stupid cow seemed to have more stamina than sense. She could have stopped a few hundred yards into the woods, safe and sound from what frightened her. But no, she kept right on running. Her clumsy trail of hoofprints, broken branches, and turned-up leaves led deep through the trees, to a small clearing, and up a hilly embankment littered with exposed, weathered limestone.

Pendragon’s bones! This was no terrain for a cow! Between holes to catch and break legs and caves to get lost in, winning with a hand of bad cards would be more likely than the chances of bringing Butter home.

But this hand he could not afford to lose.

He climbed a boulder and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Butter! Butter, you daft old thing, where be ya?”

Yes, talking to a cow was stupid, but there was no one here to witness it, and what harm could it do?

He closed his eyes and focused on his ears. Sometimes the preternatural hearing of dragon-hearers could be good for something. Pray let there be … birds, insects, but no … wait, wait, yes! Lowing! Faint and farther up the hill!

As much as his aching feet longed to run, breaking his own leg was even worse than Butter breaking hers. Quick careful steps, with a pause for another trail marker, took him up the hill. A trampled bush directed him to the right.

A cave? A bloody cave? He should have put the fire kit in his pocket when he thought of it this morning. But no, just picking up the cow from Michael, why would he need a fire kit? He knew better than not to listen to his instincts.

Maybe she hadn’t gone too far. And maybe there would be a dragon’s treasure in the cave that would save them from being turned out in the streets. “Butter! Tell me where you are, ya stupid beast!”

A deep, distressed ‘moo’ echoed from the cave entrance.

It didn’t sound too far in! Perhaps she stopped before it became too dark in there. Caves were bloody well dangerous, but he wouldn’t go in past the point he could see clearly. He couldn’t turn back without doing that much. He ducked slightly and took a step into the cave.

This was a deep one, with a strong breeze—cold, dank, and smelling vaguely of rotten eggs— coming up through the entrance. A damned dangerous place to get lost in, for sure. Mama would turn all glimflashy and scolding if she knew what he were doing. Nothing to be done for that save keep the tale to himself, which was the best way to keep peace in the house more often than not.

Moo!

She was close! Not the time to run. One step at a time, glance over the shoulder to orient on the way out. And another…

A dozen steps and a dun head with huge, wide eyes turned on him. “Moooo!”

The knot in the rope around her neck had caught between the cave wall and a slender, lumpy pillar rock coming up out of the cave floor. Handy, that! “Serves you right, you flighty old thing. But you ought to count yourself lucky you didn’t go in further and get yourself lost in the belly of the hill. Let me just get your rope free, and we’ll be on our way.”

He snaked his arm between the knee-high stone and the wall. Blasted rope was wedged in firm. At least he had his knife and could cut it if nothing else worked. But losing that much rope would make it hard to lead her …

Suddenly he was shoulder-deep in a crevice behind the rope, his chin barking hard on the stone column. That would leave a mark he’d have to explain. If Marianne saw it, she’d be worried he’d finally lost his temper with Frank King. She would not like that …

His hand landed on something cold and smooth, definitely not natural. Carefully, so as not to scuff his knuckles, he drew it out.

A slim silver snuffbox with the initials PML engraved on the top. Peter Michael Lorry? What would it be doing here?

Stupid, it was stupid, but he reached into the crevice again. A round, polished object this time. A polished glass handle for a walking stick. That was Mr. Batton’s. He had complained to Philip about it going missing the last time he called to check upon Mama. Even vaguely accused Philip of taking it, though he’d been quickly disabused of the notion.

The next item, a pair of spectacles, he did not recognize. But Mrs. Burgess’ fan and Mrs. Arnold’s chatelaine were quite familiar. It must be the village thief everyone at the market had been talking about. But why would he—or she—be hiding things here? Was it a plan to gather enough items to go to the next market town to sell them?

Whatever the plan, he and Butter needed to be away before the thief returned, or someone else came along and they were found with the stake the nibbler had planted here.

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