Word of Miss Bellingham’s discovery spread quickly throughout the neighborhood. There were perhaps a few among the peasants who held strongly to ancient superstitions that they were inclined to take her part in the matter, but for nearly all and sundry the implications of the discovery were to quite a different and terrifyingly tangible conclusion.

The evidence all pointed to one thing. The true identity of Mr. Gates was now known, the character of the enigmatic vagabond at last brought forth into terrible light for all the world to see and shudder at its horror. Black Abraham had struck!

“I always knew there was something wrong with the man, something not at all right, and he always had a bit of the sea about him, what with all his shag and beard. That I didn’t realize he was a pirate before is past my reckoning, I’m sure. And such a pirate! Such a desperate monster that he should ply his dreadful trade in our quiet village, stealing our children and looting our homes!”

“Aye, Mrs. Wilberforce, it is dark days that we live in to be sure, with not even honest country folk like ourselves safe in our beds that marauding pirates and Hinterlanders can’t molest our kind!”

“But how could he be a Hinterlander if he’s Black Abraham? Do the Hinterlands even reach the sea?”

“Aye, in places so I hear, but what difference anyway? There’s no telling what all Black Abraham has lied to us about all these years. /he may never have been from the Hinterlands at all. But there’s two things certain: He’s our man, and we’re going to get him and bring poor Miss Watson back!”

“Amen to that sir! I’m a Godly woman and have never been one to bear a grudge against anyone, but I make no qualm that I’d sure as like to see that animal strung up and skinned alive properly and buried with a pike through his cursed heart, as a warning to all other beastly foreigners! Another half pint, my dear?”

“Ye don’t skin pirates, ye hang ‘em in a gibbet...if ye catch ‘em alive.”

“Well, a gibbet is fine enough for me, so long as it’s sooner as not! I can hardly sleep a wink for the fretting!”

“Well, we’ll see about it soon enough, Mrs. Wilberforce. Sir Walter Howard is back from the city and he and Mr. Barnstabrake are organizing a moot tomorrow. I reckon it’ll be the first one we’ve had in well nigh eighty years. Most of the gentry will be there and possibly the Sheriff himself, along with everyone else in the entire neighborhood, like as not. I’ll be there for sure, and I daresay as you will too, Mrs. Wilberforce.”

“Aye, if a woman can even safely reach Moot Hill by tomorrow. Who knows what that heathen pirate will be doing by then!”

Before there was ever a place called Potham on Heath, before there was ever a kingdom called Gandburgh, there was the Moot. It was the axis of ancient tribal law, the final court of the old feudal society, and the ultimate gathering of the countryside. It consisted of an assembly of the entire local community (or as many representatives thereof), gathered to address some pressing issue that touched them all. Every locality would call a Moot from time to time as the need arose, and the standing councils of every county ultimately derived their authority from the Moots. Even the parliament of the nation was itself descended from the Moot.

In most localities there was a traditional place where the Moot would be held, most often a suitable hill or knoll. In Potham on Heath, Moot Hill was a grassy mound some eight feet high and thirty across, flattened and partially paved with flagstone. Stone steps arrayed on three sides gave convenient access to the mound from the surrounding green.

Generations ago the Moot had been held regularly in Potham. A great table would be set upon the mound, at which the leading citizens conducted the affair. Its business was mundane, and more often than not the event was principally a social gathering with the attendant crowd casually observing the proceedings while picnicking on the lawn, after which there would be games and dances. But as the counties became increasingly governed by representative councils and managed by professional bureaucrats the Moot had become so completely boring an affair that in most localities it had long ceased to be held with any regularity, if at all.

But today, the Moot was reborn in Potham on Heath.

The scene was remarkably different from any picturesque tableau of a quaint generation past. There were no blankets set upon the lawn, no hampers, no sweets, no children playing games. Even the ancient great table was not in its customary place, for no one could quite remember where it was and in all the rush to pull things together it was quickly decided to make do with a few wobbly spare tables from the inn.

Nor indeed was the crowd in any mood of pastoral tranquility. Everyone was standing, some milling about in an uncomfortable nonchalance, others talking in small groups, and some had given up all attempt at society and merely remained as they were, arms folded or hands in pockets, and there were even one or two women who found occupation weeping quietly to each other about the dreadfulness of it all. No one (except Mr. Barnstabrake) had attired themselves in any particular finery for the occasion, but many had stout walking sticks and not a few had brought assorted weapons which they now bore with an awkward idleness. The official word was that the proceedings were to commence at three o’clock sharp, but as it was it was now nearly five-thirty with no sign yet that anyone really had any idea what they were about. A tense hush hovered over the company even as the air was strained with urgent and subdued voices.

Mr. Barnstabrake bustled to and fro in an uncharacteristically insecure manner, divided as he was between being important by getting the crowd in proper discipline and issuing orders to everybody, and being important by standing as visibly as possible near the place where Sir Walter Howard, Sir Gerrard Botts, and the Sheriff himself were clustered absorbedly about a large well worn map.

There was slight disturbance at the table. Some article or other was required which had been left at the foot of the mound, and Sir Walter descended to fetch it.

Sir Walter Howard was of medium height, bald with keen features dulled by a pair of unstylish spectacles. His horse was tethered to an ancient post close to the mound and he had no difficulty in extracting the object of his quest from one of the saddlebags where it had been left behind. Turning to make his way back up the mound, he found himself unexpectedly faced with with his daughter.

“Fanny! What on earth are you doing here? I specifically said that neither you nor the boys were to leave the house alone.”

“You specifically said that we were not to leave the house alone after dark, sir. As you can see, I have followed your instructions faithfully.”

“Well whatever. Dark or light, I would feel better if you stayed home and did not wander about recklessly like some gypsy’s daughter.”

“You did not instruct me to heed your unspoken feeling, sir, but merely your explicit command.”

“Bah! I’ve sired a lawyer. But if it’s a lawyer’s game with which you would sport with me, miss, then I think I can still master you. I ought to, I educated you.”

“But surely it is the ambition of the master to make his apprentice greater than himself.”

“If the master had known what he were getting himself into he would have left well enough alone.”

“Be that as it may it is done, and you are stuck with having a quiz for a daughter. You were going to scold me?”

“Ah, yes quite right. You see, then, although you are technically in obedience to me as it is still daylight, by the time we get this affair sorted out and finished it will most certainly be dusk at the earliest. Therefore, if you are to obey your father then you had better return home immediately, lest you find yourself in disobedience.”

“Well said sir, but you neglect not one but three points. First, your instructions were that I should not leave the house if it were dark, you have said nothing to the effect that I should take any action should I find myself already out of doors when it becomes dark. I cannot be accountable for the imprecision of your instructions. Likewise, I can neither be accountable for your tardiness, as these proceedings ought to have begun two and a half hours ago, therefore if I am held late it is no fault of mine. Lastly, I am not in fact out of doors alone. I am in your presence and will be quite honored to accompany you through the remainder of the evening.”

“Fiddlesticks. A man should never teach a woman to think. She’ll out do him and then he’ll never have any peace or respect again.”

“Now you’re being coy with me, father. That’s an emotional argument.”

“It is not. It is bald fact. I am helpless in the grip of my own creation’s connivence!”

“Would you have me do any less, father?”

“Of course not, you’re exactly the splendid little she-devil that I raised you to be. I am taking Sir Gerrard home in my carriage, so you’ll just have to put up with it if he starts snoring. That’ll teach you!”

“I’m quite sure it will be a lesson well learnt.”

“Hmph. Pardon me, Fanny dear, I believe things are at last about to get started.”

Whatever Sir Walter’s expectations, things were not at all about to get started. Sir Walter found himself absorbed into the directionless discourse the moment he ascended the mound, and Fanny was left to wander amongst the crowd.

A certain damp chill had taken the air in marked complement to the general mood, which was likewise as uncharacteristic of the season as was the community itself unaccustomed to such turmoil. It was as appropriate a setting as if the entire circumstance had been the machination of some dark wizard from ancient legend. The sky was grey with cold clouds, a chilling droplet of rain fell here and there to shock warm skin, and in the distance across the forest a faint rumble of thunder shook the air forbiddingly like some terrible brew being prepared in a sorcerer’s lair in the depths of the trees.

Fanny strolled across the matted grass in quiet observation of all these things. Everyone was far too absorbed in their conversation or thoughts to really be very much attentive to an irrelevant young woman wandering in their midst, a circumstance which Fanny felt lent her greater advantage in taking stock of the matters surrounding her. Her thoughts were an engine of inquisitive clarity even as her feelings were a fluttering mass of bemused excitement and anxious dread. Yet through it all, she could conclude little other than that no one in the company had any more solid grip on the situation than did another. In listening to those about her, should could find neither consensus nor corroboration of either the events leading up to now or what action should be taken with regards to them. There was nothing but for Fanny to sort these things out for herself in her own mind even as she watched attentively to see how events continued to unfold.

It was at length in her wanderings that Fanny abruptly found herself confronted with an individual whom in her estimation was perhaps among the least suitable companion for sorting out any matter of particular intellectual difficulty.

Harlow Barnstabrake was walking slowly, leaning heavily on a fashionable but flimsy walking stick which was proving rather inadequate to the task. He was dressed in an uncharacteristically subdued manner, his clothes worn awkwardly as one who had found it demanding to dress himself. He was pale, and his hair was ungainly clipped and shaved under the bandage which still bound the back of his head. His stride had brought him directly into Fanny’s path, and he smiled weakly and touched his hat brim gingerly as the two made eye contact.

Fanny curtsied in turn. The two had stopped and were facing one another, and conversation of some sort was unavoidable. Yet speech was slow in coming. For a fleeting moment that seemed yet to stretch painfully, the pair merely regarded one another.

Harlow felt terrible. This was, of course, a marked improvement from his condition of three days ago, at which time even death itself seemed a preferable alternative. It was, he supposed, a certain reflection on his own strength of character that he could be grateful in feeling positively awful instead of the unimaginably deplorable durance of the morning after his tragic misadventure. This was probably the sort of stuff that martyrs were made of. Harlow felt that he could confidently open any volume of Brinkley’s Book of Saints and find a kindred soul on every page, nodding approvingly at even the most grisly woodcut and perhaps uttering a compassionate ‘stout fella!’ in solidarity with the poor saints of old.

It was perhaps the greatest testament to the extremity of his condition and poignancy of his suffering that Harlow felt like talking to no one. It takes a great deal indeed to dissuade a Barnstabrake from seeking an audience, and for the moment it was Harlow’s sole ambition to shun all of humanity for the remainder of his existence (which would hopefully be rather shorter than not). Unless he could secure a drop of brandy, that is. He’d even passed by the Honorable Gareth Larch with only a polite tip of the hat, which given that unassuming if weighty gentleman’s bountiful skill as a conversationalist (as evinced by his capacity to listen politely to positively anyone for as long as could be humanly endured) surely marked the ultimate display of Harlow’s depressed sensibilities. Yet finding himself faced with Fanny, Harlow abruptly felt an issuance of life aroused in himself once again, a sense that perhaps the simple pleasures of his now shattered youth were not so hopelessly dashed after all. Her presence seemed to charge the air about him in a way that left him with a sense of both confidence and intimacy. There is nothing like grace and fine features to dismiss a little headache. Although he was hardly at his best, at least before Fanny Howard it was really no matter; there was no particular compulsion to impress.

A brief gust of wind caught them both and momentarily painted Fanny’s dress revealingly against her shape. As he met her gaze Halow felt connected to her in a way that was almost tactile, as if every shift of flesh or bone was somehow transmitted between them by some radiating touch as they stood facing one another. The awkwardness of the moment washed over him like a shock and Fanny looked away as he cast about desperately for something perfectly ordinary to say.

“Er, I say! Miss Howard. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barnstabrake.”

“Er, yes, quite. Good afternoon. Enjoying a bit of a stroll?”

“Come sir, the Moot has been publicized across the whole of the neighborhood. Surely you don’t think I am am here merely for a stoll?”

“Eh? Oh right, quite. I mean, I knew that. I’m supposed to give evidence if called upon, and all that. I really don’t want to, beast of a headache, don’t you know?”

“Indeed?”

“Eh? Well, yes, quite, I mean, I suppose you heard...”

“I was there, Mr. Barnstabrake.”

“Oh, right, so you were, I supposed. Beast of a fix, isn’t it? Poor Miss Watson. There wasn’t anything I could possibly have done, I was caught by surprise.”

“I’m sure you would gladly have given your all for Miss Watson’s safety.”

“I suppose I would have indeed.”

“Indeed.”

“But I say, what brings you out here at all? Surely a young lady like yourself would be safer at home, what with Black Abraham the pirate lurking about somewhere?”

“Given that the Second Lord of the Navy’s daughter was abducted from her own bed, I don’t see that I am particularly safer at home as not. A public place such as this might perhaps be even safer. Besides, I don’t see that this is exclusively men’s business, as it is we women who appear to be the object of this pirate’s ambitions so far, assuming there is any truth to that theory in the first place.”

“Ah? Oh, right yes. I mean, good sort of talk that, but, er, I mean....”

“Yes, Mr. Barnstabrake?”

“Well, perhaps you need an escort, don’t you know? I am unoccupied at the moment. Wouldn’t you feel better under the protection of one of the stronger gentleman?”

“An intelligent one would be a bit better.”

“Oh.”

“By that I mean that a person is more than just potent through his strength and nerve, but in a greater measure by wit and character.”

“Ah, well, you need have no fear there, Miss Howard!”

“Indeed I do not. I am here with my father and have his wit and character with which to complement to my own.”

“Ah.”

Awkward silence again hung between them. Harlow shuffled, and Fanny shifted. Again Harlow attempted conversation.

“I say, you don’t supposed it will rain a bit?”

“It already is raining a bit, sir”

“Ah? Yes, I suppose it is. Don’t you think that you might catch-”

“No.”

“-a cold?...ah, right.”

Silence reigned yet again, straining with clumsiness through each succeeding second. Harlow coughed, Fanny sniffed.

“I say, what do you think really happened?”

“The night of the ball? You were intimately involved with the event while I was a merely a distany witness. You ought to have a better grip of the matter than I.”

“And I’ve been dashed well telling everybody that I haven’t a notion in the world what really happened to me. I could have been struck down by lightning for all I know. It’s all really quite unpleasant. To be so close to having your life taken away from you, and yet to have no idea how or even why it happened.”

“Not a tenth as unpleasant as whatever fate has come upon Miss Watson. Are you not forgetting the young lady that was in your charge?”

“Do you think I can, even for a second? Lord! That’s the worst of it. There was nothing, nothing I could have done. They..he....it...whatever it was...crept up and took me out from behind. I never had a chance to protect her.”

“Is that what matters to you, sir? That you could not protect her? I wonder which is of greater distress to you, Miss Watson’s fate or your own failure to prevent it.”

“What! Why should you say that? There was nothing I could have done. Why should it be my fault?”

“I did not say it was, sir.”

“Well, there was nothing I could have done. How many times do I have to tell everybody that? I don’t know anything, I never saw or heard a thing, and I just bally wish the whole thing hadn’t bally happened!”

“As does Miss Watson, I’m sure.”

“Right. My fault again.”

“I never faulted you, sir.”

“But you said....oh, Lord, never mind. I beg your pardon, Miss Howard.”

Touching his hat again, Harlow turned and departed.

Fanny gazed at the young man’s receding form as he was absorbed into the crowd. What on earth had all that been about? He must have been blaming himself terribly for all that had happened. He reacted like one with a conscience as tender as that of one of her barbarian brothers having discovered he had accidentally put salt in his mother’s tea instead of Mr. Stokes. Physicians have written that those who are victimized by the abuse of another often feel themselves at fault, however wrongly. Perhaps Harlow felt some genuine affection for Miss Watson? Perhaps there was a bit more to this young man than copious ego and bluster? Perhaps Fanny had been too harsh towards him.

Fanny took a breath and began walking even as she felt her face warming. She was not about to question herself.

There is, perhaps, no more debilitating a flaw in one’s character than the propensity for self doubt in excess. This was the opinion of Mr. Stokes, at any rate. It was moreover his opinion that for the informed and sophisticated intellect, any self doubt at all was an excess of the weak willed. A bit of minor self correction may be in order from time to time, but never doubt.

Stokes gazed about at the assembled company from his vantage at the top of Moot Hill. He stood aside from the table where his employer Sir Walter, the Sheriff, and one or two other notable citizens were gathered in animated discussion over some wholly irrelevant detail. Despite his aristocratic and rustic background, Sir Walter was in Stokes estimation a most intelligent gentleman. It was a pity to see him brought down to a level of petty squabbling by his inferiors. Were it Stokes place, he would have shown a much stronger hand of leadership. It was in his view the great tragedy of human history that prestige and authority never seemed to fall upon those of superior intellect.

Stokes had been in a reverie for some moments now, reflecting on the hopeless disorder of this rustic assembly. It was to his minor astonishment, therefore, that he was abruptly jolted from his musings to discover that the assembly was at last coming to some sort of order. Mr. Barnstabrake had been bellowing forth instructions for all to quiet down while a few of the Sheriff’s men were mingling with the crowd dispatching the same message, and the Sheriff himself was occupied beating a small gavel on the table to inadequate effect. The word soon passed about that things were finally coming together.

At long last, the Moot commenced.