And there cometh my cue. Pollux Worthington stood and slipped quietly between the taproom wall and the thick backs of the entranced audience. Like a flickering shadow cast by the fire in the great hearth, one moment he was there and then he was gone.

It was a grand old tale. Memorable, he thought, as he bridled his rested and fed horse, a rickety but good-natured nag — Poll had dubbed him "Yorick" for the clear evidence of his skeletal structure — bought from the knacker by means of trading a couple of polished brass buttons.

Mounting Yorick, Poll continued plodding his way south toward London, home, and her.

He thought about the tale of Goose-Gogs. Orren was a rather good performer, in Poll's experienced estimation. The fellow had stood tall and disdainful as he played the invader, then braced and square as the defender. He'd even spooked and staggered backward as the fleeing horse. For added detail, he had waved his thick hand to demonstrate the retreating flag — er, tail.

If I were looking for a giant to add to the troupe, I'd recruit that fellow. Sadly, as matters stood the troupe was picking the lint from its pockets to buy oats for the wagon horses. They certainly couldn't afford to lure another actor inside. Besides, how would they ever manage to feed such a monumental fellow?

It would make a jolly play, or at least an opening skit. The country folk would love it. He'd have to change the name. The Legend of Goose-Gogs. Who in their right mind would ever name a mighty ram something as silly as that?

Still, it had ended well. After battling the heroic ram and destroying the village festival, including the winning vegetables, the nefarious intruder had redeemed himself by saving the beautiful princess, flinging her free of the destruction before the tower — er, festival pavilion — had collapsed upon him, therefore earning his own justice in a most Shakespearean manner.

With a little work, it could be quite a hit. Poll only wondered where on earth the troupe could find a sheep costume.

CHAPTER 5

Chapter 5

MRS. GEMMA OAKES PICKED herself up off the trampled grass of the common with the help of a few residents of the village of Farby.

"Thank you, gentlemen. No, no. I'll be fine." The act of dusting off her skirts belied that statement when a mere twist of her wrist sent a nauseating stab of pain through her.