Twisted

pamphlets or listened to gossip in the taverns. Many of the nobles were selling off their goods and portions of their estates to meet the costs of their extravagant lifestyles.
    “There came to Westcott an ignoble scoundrel named Robert Murtaugh.”
    “I know the name,” Margaret said. “For reasons I cannot recall, there be an unsavory association accompanying it.”
    “Faith, good lady, I warrant that is so. Murtaugh is a peer of the realm, but a lowly knight, an office he himself did purchase. He hath made an enterprise of seeking out nobles deep in debt. He then arranges various schemes whereby they come into lands or property through illicit means. He himself takes a generous percentage of their gain.”
    Charles whispered in horror, “And my father was a victim of such a scheme?”
    “Faith, sir, he was. It was I and those other scoundrels I made mention of who waylaid him on his own land and conveyed him, bound, to Lord Westcott’s fields. There, by prior arrangement, the sheriff’s bailiffs did arrive and kill him. A dead hart and a bow and quiver were set next to his cold body to testify, by appearance, that he had been poaching.”
    “Thy father, murdered,” Margaret whispered.
    “O merciful Lord in heaven,” Charles said, his eyes burning with hatred. He drew his bodkin oncemore and pressed the blade against Marr’s neck. The rogue moved not an inch.
    “No, husband, thou cannot. Please.” Margaret took his arm.
    The man said, “Verily, sir, I did not know the bailiffs had murder in mind. I thought they be merely intent on extracting a bribe from thy father for his release, as such rustic lawmen are wont to do. No one was more shocked than I by the deadly turn the events that day took. But I am nonetheless as guilty of this heinous crime as they, and I will not beg for mercy. If God moves thy hand to slit my throat in retribution for what I have done, so be it.”
    The memory of that terrible night flooded through him—the sheriff’s ignominiously carting the body to the house, his mother’s wailing in grief, then the long days after: his mother’s decline, the poverty, the struggle to start a new life in the unforgiving city of London. And yet Charles found his hand unable to harm this pitiful creature. Slowly he lowered the dagger and replaced it in the scabbard on his girdle. He studied Marr closely. He saw such penitence in the man’s face that it seemed he had spoken truly. Still, he asked, “If Murtaugh be as thou say, then many would have cause to despise him. How know I that thou art not merely one of those aggrieved by him and have spun this tale to—as thy very name suggests—mar his reputation?”
    “By God’s body, sir, I speak the truth. Of bitterness against Sir Murtaugh I have none, for it was my choice to corrupt my soul with the foul deed I have revealed to thee. Yet thy jaundiced view of my motivesI do comprehend and can offer unto thee a token of proof.”
    Marr took from his pocket a golden ring and placed it in Charles’s hand.
    The vintner gasped. “It is my father’s signet ring. See, Margaret, see his reversed initials? I remember I would sit with him some evenings and watch him press this ring into hot wax red as a rose to seal his correspondence.”
    “I took this as part recompense for our efforts; my comrades partook of the coinage in thy father’s purse. I oft thought: Had I taken and spent his money, as did they, thus disposing of the mementos of our deed, perhaps then the guilt would not have burned me like smelter’s coals all these years, as hath this tiny piece of gold. But now I am glad I kept it, for I can at least return it to its rightful owner, before I cast away my mortal sheath.”
    “My father, not I, be the rightful owner,” Charles muttered darkly. He closed his hand tightly around the ring. He leaned against the stone wall beside him and shook with rage and sorrow. A moment later he felt his wife’s hand upon his. The fierce pressure with which he gripped the ring subsided.
    Margaret said to him, “We must to the courts. Westcott and Murtaugh will feel the lash of justice upon them.”
    “Faith, madam, that cannot be. Lord Westcott is dead these five years. And his brigand son after him hath spent every pence of the inheritance. The land is gone to the Crown for taxes.”
    “What of Murtaugh?” Charles asked. “He lives still?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. But though he is well and keeps quarters in London, he is further from the