Page 48 of King's Man

Sam pushed himself up and out of the water with a grunt, the heavy weight of his sodden clothes making it difficult. Then he reached back down and helped Nate climb out, landing him like a fish on the bank. They lay there together for a moment, breathing hard, but Sam couldn’t let them rest.

“Into the trees,” he whispered, pushing to his knees. “Come on. Move.”

With a groan, Nate got himself up and at a half-run they staggered into the woods. Only once they were deep enough into the trees did Sam let Nate stop and sink down with his back to a tree as he sucked in heavy breaths.

“Let me see,” Sam said, crouching before him. “Nate, let me see your arm.”

“It’s alright.” Gingerly, Nate peeled his fingers away from the wound. “I don’t think it’s bad?”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be the judge. Let me see.”

Nate turned his head away while Sam checked his wound, looking back toward the castle through the trees. Dogs still barked. Lights still moved on the far bank. Beneath Sam’s fingers, Nate trembled. “Did you see his face?” he whispered. “His… His arrogance, his complete disregard for…for common humanity. He’d have shot us like animals and thought nothing of it.”

“I saw.” Sam’s hand stilled, watching the clench of Nate’s jaw. He swallowed and added, “He looked like every tyrant who ever lived.”

Nate’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “Or every leader of a mob.”

They shared a long look, Sam’s breath quickening in a way that had nothing to do with MacLeod’s pursuit. He felt a connection, or, rather, a reconnection. Something slipping back into place. It stole his breath.

A dog’s loud bark made them both jump, Nate starting almost to his feet. Sam held him down. “Other side of the river,” he murmured. “Let me bind your arm before we move.”

Tugging free his neckcloth, Sam wrapped it around Nate’s arm. “Grit your teeth,” he warned, and tightened it hard. Nate clenched his jaw and didn’t cry out, but all color washed from his face. Sam gently squeezed his shoulder. “That’ll do for now. Can you walk some more?”

“As long as I don’t try walking on my hands.” Nate’s grin looked wan, but it was enough to flood Sam with relief.

He offered his hand, Nate took it, and Sam pulled him to his feet. For a moment Nate swayed, bracing himself on the tree, but then he nodded. Ready.

They made their way through the woods, walking as silently as possible. There were other men in the trees now, down towards the fording point but on their side of the river. And they had dogs. Sam could hear their yaps and each time he did, Nate’s muscles stiffened beneath Sam’s fingers.

Cautiously, they made their way back towards the cottages. Sam needed a place to properly see to Nate’s wound, and that was by far the closest. But he was wary. And as they drew nearer, the sound of voices ahead stopped him in his tracks. He could hardly see Nate in the dark but felt his vibrating tension next to him, his breathing short and shallow.

Sam crouched, drawing Nate down with him. Leaning close, he murmured against his ear, “Stay here. I’m going to investigate.”

Nate didn’t look happy, eyes wide with alarm, but he nodded and settled down in the undergrowth. Grateful for the rest, Sam imagined, although Nate would never say as much. Wrapping his scarf around his face again, making everything about himself dark, Sam crept forward until he could see through the trees to the lane and the row of abandoned cottages.

A young man stood there, a dog snuffling around his feet.

Suddenly, the door to one of the cottages — theircottage — banged opened and an older man emerged. Like the first, he was dressed rustically. A gamekeeper, perhaps. The dog ran over to him, jumped up and the man casually stroked its head with a murmur of affection. “Good girl. Get down now.”

The dog obediently dropped back to her haunches, snuffling around again. Getting closer to the trees where Sam hid. Shit. He didn’t dare retreat for fear of making a noise those canine ears would hear.

“Someone’s been here,” the man said, his accent thick and difficult to understand. “Fire’s still smoldering and there’s a pony tethered down by the burn.”

“Well, nobody’s here now,” said the man with the dog. “And I’m not staying up all night looking, not after what he done to poor Taylor. God rest his soul. Good luck to ’em, I say, if they stole from that fucking bastard.”

Sam’s heart lurched. Taylor was dead? Was he the man shot outside the house? Killed for allowing their escape. He felt sick with guilt, hands suddenly sticky as if with the man’s blood.

“That fucking bastard’s your master, boy,” the gamekeeper said. “And he’ll snuff you out like a candlewick if he thinks you’re shirking.”

“Then we’ll tell the bastard they drowned.”

Sam forced himself past the shock. Time enough later for self-recrimination, now he had to get Nate to safety. But this was a desultory search, he realized, by men who had no love for their master. How long would they keep looking? Fear might buy compliance, but it could never buy loyalty. That was a lesson the British had failed to learn in America, and it appeared MacLeod had made the same mistake.

But the damned dog was getting closer and suddenly she went very still, her whole body making a sharp arrow that pointed right at Sam.

Shit. Shit and fuck.

“He’d want to see the bloody bodies,” the older man was saying.

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