The soldier rode up, dismounted, tied his horse and approached the wood. Cool customer, this one, though few Rebeccas were armed save with useless powder-guns. He took his time; a big man, over six feet, with the pistol lying in his palm. Castlemartin Yeomanry by the look of him, a long way from home and dying for the skin of the hatred Rebecca. His every action was casual as he stood there reloading, unconcerned, it seemed, that he was outlined against the stars. I heard the metallic click of his powder flask, the snap of the hammer as he thumbed it back and secretly cursed myself that I had given him time to reload. It seemed he knew he had me, for he jumped the ditch and parted the branches, took a look at Randy and came in stooping, pistol held out. Held my breath, watching, then lowered my face as he turned my way, and my heart nearly stopped. Trailing from Randy’s stirrup was Morfydd’s old petticoat that I had torn off riding five miles back and thought I had flung away. This the reason for the shot without so much as a question. The wind was blustering still, drowning my retreat as I eased my body backwards, feeling for stones. A brook was behind me, gurgling and splashing, and I slid down the little bank and into it in a little shower of stones and plops. Saw the soldier wheel, and he came at a trot, swerving to branches, leaping lithely, the pistol rigid. Only one chance for me – to empty the pistol; best to empty it while he was running and I rose with a yell and flung stones, going flat. God knows how he missed me; heard the ball strike inches from me and go whining away and clattering through branches. His rush took him on me, swinging with the pistol, catching me on the shoulder and spinning me round, and next moment we were locked. Other side of the ditch now, arms and legs entangled, gasping, grunting; a farmer by the sound of him and as strong as Abel Flannigan. We were clasped as lovers as we went down the bank again, and into the brook, me uppermost. Splashing, threshing, we fought like cats, no rules, no honour. I had him by the throat now, holding him down while the water flooded over him and he gasped to breathe, but he brought up a knee and took me over his head, and we floundered and slipped, scrambling for the bank. Drenched, mud-covered, I clawed out first and stood awaiting him, eyes measuring him, switching to his hands for a knife.
“Right, you bloody swine Rebecca,” he gasped, and dived at my legs, but I leaped away and he went past sprawling, and waited for next time. Big as a horse he looked in that moonlight, confident, trained to a hair with his yeomanry service; not much older than me by the look of him; farmer probably, I remember thinking – farmer fighting farmer, gentry against the people. Armlocks, headlocks, everything in his armoury, no doubt, and he came head on now, hands clenched for the swing. More my line. I ducked it and hooked him solid and I saw the shine of his eyes and his teeth bared white as his head went back and I caught him with another as he skidded against a tree. No use to him this. Every time he came in diving I hit to drop him, but he still kept coming, and I saw him more clearly as he circled for an opening. More like thirty he looked then, curly-haired and handsome; a bad age to quarrel with; full strength, full stamina, and I would have to finish him quick in case there were others. Diving, he got me, pinning me against a tree, and we slipped down the bole, punching short, rolling around the roots, but I was up first, swinging blindly and the fool ran into them. I felt the pain leap to my elbow and my hand went numb as the blow took him square. Feet up soldier now, landing on his shoulders, legs waving, rolling in leaves, and I leaned against the tree gasping, praying he would lie still and put an end to it, but not this one. Face elbowed against boots, he got to a knee, staggered upright and swayed towards me swinging blind. I ducked the first easily, the second grazed my chin and crashed against the tree with every pound of his weight behind it. In a flash of the moon I saw his face, one eye shut tight, blood from his mouth, black stains on his tunic and he opened his mouth and screamed like a girl to the agony of his broken hand. No honour in this. Fighting for life. I measured him, sighted the chin and hit it crisply, and he clutched at the tree and went down it slowly, rolled over
