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Richard was led out of the yard and in among the houses of the little crossroads village that had grown up around the inn. The grey stones of the walls were pale in the sparse light of the sky. Night birds shifted and called. 

The stable-hand did not speak, but from time to time he glanced back appraisingly. His look was like a caress, although he kept his hands loose by his side. Richard watched him, what little he could see of him in the night, the roll of his shoulders, sway of his hips. 

Did he need this? Did he truly need it?

He remembered how Teddy had clutched at him, how his lips had made worship of Richard’s hips, how his tears had been hot and salt against Richard’s thighs, and how good, just how very good it had all felt. 

This was not that. It was not the heedless, furious passions of youth, was not a body he knew better than his own, and no doubt the boy would want to be paid. 

Richard could not make himself care. 

Together, they left the village and followed a kind of rabbit trail between some low, thorny trees. They snagged at Richard’s clothes, tearing the skin of his hands. He brought the cuts to his mouth, tasting the iron and salt of his own blood. “Is it far?” 

He had learned, in the weeks of his exile, to mimic a kind of rustic cadence, making him a country type, not quite a gentleman. 

“No but a bit,” said the lad, and carried on his way, sure footed among the snagging roots. He nodded his head to a little bothy beyond the scrub. 

Richard had to duck to get through the door. The space was mean, and bare, but the dark and the mustiness were lessened by the way the roof was open to the stars. “No-one will see us here,” said Richard.
“Nor hear us, neither,” said the lad, and two slim arms came about Richard’s neck, and dry, stubbled lips pressed the line of his jaw. Richard felt himself stirring, unmistakable.

And just as unmistakable came the pressure of a knife blade at his throat.

“Purse first,” said the lad, all the coyness gone. “Then give us your watch, and anything else.”

Shock made him slow and stupid. “What–?”

“You heard.”

“I’ll call for help,” he said it without thinking. 

“Course you will. And if anyone come running, you can just tell what you was planning with me, can’t you?” The breath of laughter. “Or maybe, you just reach for your purse, and nobody has no trouble.”

Richard nodded, a tiny motion that sent the knife pricking the skin of his throat. But, of course, his attacker did not see it. He said, “I can’t reach my purse with my hands here.”

“You can move ‘em, mister, but do it slow like. Int nothing you can try.”

Richard reached down to where he had concealed it, moving slow, steady. His eyes were getting used to the darkness, picking out details. “Here.” He pulled out his coin purse and pushed it towards the boy.

“Down there w’ it.”

Richard obeyed, watched the boy’s teeth flash white in a smirk, heard the click of coins, the scuffle of the boy’s foot as he hooked it towards himself, out of Richard’s reach. 

“Now your watch, mister.”

“I haven’t one.”

“Uh-uh.” The blade was pushed closer to his throat. “I int daft, mister. Seen it earlier, int I?”

“It’s inside my shirt,” Richard said.

“Slow, then,” said the attacker, “like before.”

Richard moved his hands slowly, so slowly that his muscles ached. His fingers opened his collar, and he reached down, pushing aside the cloth that lay warm against his body, probing deeper until his fingers closed around the stock of the Forthenby Lady. 

He drew it out and levelled it at the attacker. 

“Drop the knife,” Richard Thornton said, in his own voice at last, “And I would thank you to step back a few paces.” 

The boy must have caught the glimmer of the starlight on the pistol, for he stumbled backwards, the knife falling from his fingers. “Hold now, sir,” he said.

Sir. Richard smiled, everything in him thrilling to the falter in that yokel voice. 

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Here,” said the boy, “Take it back, sir. Your purse, I mean.”

“On the floor with it. By my feet.” He heard it land, felt the weight of it by his boots. “Good. You too.”

What he could see of the boy’s face was blank, pale and shocked. “You what?”

“Kneel.”

There was a moment where Richard thought the boy might run, might test his chances against a pistol in the dark. Then he obeyed.

“Now move back. Back, I said.”

“I never thought you were a gent,” his attacker said, shuffling away from him, “I never–”

“Did I ask you to speak?” There was power, in his fingertips, in his arm, his lips. The pistol was not loaded, but who was to know that but himself? “Well?”

This was how it was meant to be, how it should have been that morning with Valance.

“No. No, sir.”

Richard cocked the hammer, and levelled it at the boy’s forehead. “Nasty little thing, aren’t you?”

“I were just... I didn’t mean–”

“Aren’t you?”

“If you’re like to shoot me, sir, just do it, right? I int one for to greet at it.”

“Backbone? My word. I suppose I should have expected it from you. You were brazen enough. But if I wanted you to beg, boy, I could make you.”

Silence.

“Do you doubt me?” Richard asked. He was hard, ragingly, painfully.

Still, silence. The boy held himself upright, and the little Richard could see of his face was set, without plea or tears. 

“Blowing your brains out would waste that mouth of yours.”

“You wouldn’t,” said the boy, fast, too fast. 

He’s afraid. 

“What’s to stop me?” 

“I’ll get a constable on you.” His breath was coming short and rapid. 

“Of course. And you can tell him what that knife is doing on the floor, can’t you?”

Silence to that, except the sound of sniffling breath. “Fine, then. Just... just do it, then.”

Keeping the gun steady, Richard stooped to retrieve his purse and the knife from the floor. Then he walked about the boy until he stood behind him, and kicked him down. 

He cried out, as he struck the ground. Low.

It was the sweetest sound Richard had heard in years. Why would he spoil that with the squalid, messy act he had come here to perform? 

“I doubt you’re worth the trouble,” Richard said, and kicked him again. “Now, stay down.” And with that, he left the boy lying there, taking the rabbit trail back towards the village, and his bed.