Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XIV: Kissed By A Putrid Fish

In the fields of Burlington Manor, Elsa and Gaffer George watched grimly as Old Smee, the farmer who had tended the Jackson crops for a generation, struggled behind the plough. The man was half crippled, the land was none too easy to work, and the brown and white dray pulling the plough stood eighteen hands high and weighed a hundred and thirty stone if it weighed an ounce.

Still, Smee, always in good cheer, glanced over at them and offered a toothless grin as he staggered past.

"Angus got the soil turning nicely, but for what? Nettles?"

"Possibly," Elsa said, in a wry tone. "Nettle soup and dandelion salad to keep us alive until ..." She trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Until there's a miracle," George finished grimly.

Smee reached the end of the row and tried to turn the dray. He hadn't the strength though, and the horse resisted his efforts. Heedless of her dress and her shoes, Elsa hurried to the horse's side and grabbed its harness.

"This way," she said soothingly to the beast. "Come, Angus."

Together, she and Smee got the horse and plough turned around. George started down the next row and flashed another grin her way.

"Elsa," George called, drawing her gaze.

Elsa looked back at the gaffer, who wore a deep frown on his ruddy face. He gave a small jerk of his head, directing her gaze down the lane.

"The sheriff," he said.

Elsa saw him, too. Dorfeld's sheriff rode toward them at a leisurely pace, trailed by two of his toughs. His long brown hair was unruly, his beard poorly trimmed, his face too long, too horselike. He wore a brown cloak with thick fur at the collar and shoulders and studded riding breeches. He rode a fine bay with an elaborate leather bridle. Of the two, rider and mount, the latter was definitely the more attractive. Still, the sheriff carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man who passed his days blissfully ignorant of his many shortcomings. He wore a smile that was both cruel and mocking, and that, though distasteful, did seem to fit his features perfectly.

Elsa stepped forward to meet him, conscious of the plainness of her brown dress and slate blue smock, and of the old beige cloth, she had used to tie back her hair.

"I have been at Burlington Manor, Elsa," he drawled, "waiting in vain for Sir Sandy to receive me. Kindly inform him that I have better things to do than haunt his threshold."

"That you have, while there are robbers roaming free in Graywood! That's sheriff's business; why don't you see to it?"

George snickered.

The sheriff's face turned beet red. "Tell the old man the next time I'll break down his door!"

Elsa eyed him suspiciously. "What have you got to say to Sir Sandy that he should disturb himself for you?"

The man drew himself up, looking even more haughty than usual. "That in Dorfeld I stand for the Southern Isles's Exchequer, and if he thinks himself too proud to pay what's due—"

"He is not too proud!" Elsa broke in. "But too poor! In the name of King Manny, you have stripped our wealth to pay for foreign adventures, while at home the Church in the name of a merciful God has reaped without mercy the larger share of what we have sown to feed ourselves. Between a sheriff and a bishop, I wouldn't care to judge who's the greater curse on honest Southern Isles folk!"

She expected that he would redden and splutter in his anger, as he had before. But he remained composed as he guided his mount closer to her. Elsa stood her ground, though she sensed that George had grown tense behind her. Smee had halted in the field.

The sheriff leered at her. He smelled of too-sweet perfume and she thought she caught the scent of wine on his breath.

"That's talk to get a woman locked in the keep," he said, his voice low and oily. "Why make an enemy of me, Miss Elsa, when you have the means to make me your protector?" His gaze dropped briefly to the laces that tied the bodice of her dress.

"What means?" she demanded.

The sheriff's hand reached out, as quick as lightning. Grabbing hold of her bodice, he pulled her roughly toward him, leant down, and kissed her full on the mouth. She should have endured the kiss; though his manners were common, the power he wielded was real. But in her fury and her revulsion, Elsa couldn't help herself. She bit his lip as hard as she could.

The sheriff thrust her away so forcefully that she nearly stumbled. He put his hand to his lip, testing it for blood. Elsa spat.

"Like being kissed by a putrid fish," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "If you leave now, I will lengthen your life by not telling my husband when he returns home."

The sheriff laughed coldly. "Your husband? After ten years? If he's not dead, he's rutting his way through the brothels of the Starmouth Coast."

If she'd had a sword, he would have been dead already. "Go. Now."

He remained just where he was, grinning. "Think on it, Miss Elsa. Sir Sandy is dying without an heir, so Burlington Manor will belong to the Crown, and you will be living in the hedgerow. You'll be glad to come to me then."

He laughed again, wheeled his horse, and rode away, his ruffians trailing behind him.

Elsa turned and walked quickly back to the house, too furious to say anything to George or Old Smee.