Albert Stokes was a smallish sort of man, both in stature and physique. He attired himself in a manner that was almost painfully respectable in all aspects save for a decidedly unfashionable beard, which in marked contrast to that of the irreputable Mr. Gates, was longish and neatly combed to a waxed point with his upper lip shaved bare. But despite its eccentricity, in this beard Mr. Stokes took great pride, for he fancied himself a scholar and intellectual aesthete. To be sure, he was well read in the sciences, arts and classics, indeed as well or better than any university educated man of his own age. But lacking such a prestigious education left Mr. Stokes with perhaps an unfavorable sensation that he required a distinct air and appearance to reenforce his greater than average connection to the wisdom of the ancients. To Fanny at least, the entire effect was quite to its purpose, for despite his full colored hair and smooth features he still gave all appearance to being every bit as drab and ancient as the most venerable of Reman masters.

Mr. Stokes sat at his ease and regarded his companions over a delicately sipped tea. He had no objections to the Barnstabrakes personally, other than the fact that he disliked them intensely, both father and son. In them, Mr. Stokes was exposed to everything which he found wholly objectionable. Rustic, bucolic self importance with just a thin veneer of education worth only the money paid to attach the name of an ancient university to one’s reputation, compounded with a bull headed determination to further inflict their importance on society by seeking ever greater honors and recognition. Mr. Stokes was not quite certain which he loathed more, the blustering elder Barnstabrake and his enormous girth with all the ego, deportment, and moustache to match, or the charming, athletic young Harlow with his repulsively smooth manners and his odious ability to impress all people with his magnificence. All people except those of Mr. Stoke’s own piercing intellect and judge of character, that is. And Miss Howard’s.

Mr. Stokes gratefully redirected his gaze to rest fondly upon the younger daughter of his employer. With all his provincial defects, the excellent Sir Walter had done well in raising this splendid young woman. Her restrained, self possessed beauty and grace elegantly matched her intelligence, which Mr. Stokes held in the highest esteem as being very nearly the equal of his own. Although both a knight and his employer, Sir Walter’s state in life was not so greatly removed from his own modest respectability that Mr. Stokes did not disavow a strongly favorable partiality for Miss Howard. In manners, wit, station and age, Miss Howard was to Mr. Stokes in every way a most amiable equal.

The elder Mr. Barnstabrake was pacing to and fro as he spoke in a strident voice, his hands folded behind his back (though barely able to reach each other around his spacious frame).

“No, no, I say, these wolves cannot be tolerated! Can’t have wolves running about, mucking into everybody’s business, eatin’ the chickens and all. Worse than foxes. We were well done to clear ‘em all out before, and rotten sloppy that we didn’t clean out the lot of ‘em after all! I’m thinking of organizing a special committee. We’ll petition the Sheriff to recognize us as a posse and we’ll root up the whole countryside till every blasted wolf is cleared off properly!”

“I shouldn’t wonder if there would be anything left of the countryside once you were finished, Mr. Barnstabrake.”

“Quite, Miss Howard, quite, we’d do a thorough job of it, by jingo! Not a stone left unturned, not a shrub unbeaten, that’s what I say! A Barnstrabrake never does things by halves, eh Harlow my boy?”

“Oh yes, quite right father. I dare say that I wouldn’t fancy a bit of wolf hunting. I’m sorry, Miss Howard, I do hope all this hard talk isn’t frightening you, eh?”

“Not a bit of it sir, unless it is a fear that you and your companions will flatten every house in the neighborhood in your exuberance.”

“Oh...”

“Eh? Oh, I say! We’re not fools, Miss Howard, I can assure you of that. No half-cocked fools amongst us, we’ve got a solid grip on the desperation of the situation, I can assure you Miss.”

“Of course.”

“Of course. Besides, there are other reasons to form a posse, not just wolves. They say Black Abraham is still at large, and the last reported sighting was in Quillsgate, not fifteen miles from here. Fifteen miles! There’s a lot of shifty folk passing through these parts lately, like that fellow Gates. Did young Harlow tell you about that? Tell them, Harlow!”

“Indeed, it was a most extraordinary...”

“...Stepped clean through a window he did!”

Fanny stifled a smile. “Goodness, that is quite a cause for concern, Mr. Barnstabrake. I wonder you don’t write to the Home Office to dispatch a regiment.”

“A steady notion, to be sure, Miss Howard, but there is no need to call the military from their grave duties guarding our frontiers. This is a matter for the citizens to handle. It’s high time we stood up and showed everyone what’s what!”

“Indeed, Mr. Barnstabrake. Wolves, pirates, eccentric vagrants, what’s the county coming to? I’m sure we will all do well to entrust ourselves to your efforts.”

“Very kind of ye Miss, very kind. I’m sure you will all notice the effects of our labors once we’ve got a solid start.”

“As will the College of Arms also take notice, I assume”. Mr. Stokes uttered his interjection inaudibly, except perhaps to Miss Howard, as he chuckled into his tea. Ms. Howard, however, appeared not to have heard the witticism.

Harlow leaned comfortably against the sitting room mantlepiece. He had only just begun to walk home from the village and was enjoying a pleasant chat with the Honorable Gareth Larch, that ever amiable listener, when his father had come tearing up the road in the carriage from the opposite direction and insisted that Harlow join him. The senior Barnstabrake had concocted some new scheme or other, forming the local gentry into a posse to cope with the harrowing events newly facing the countryside, such as the appearance of wolves and the escape of a notorious pirate in the next county over. All very interesting and Harlow would be delighted to take some position of leadership or other once the whole thing got going, but at the moment he really rather wished his father would leave him out at this stage. The Harris sisters were expected for tea, and Harlow was rather keen to have been there. Ah well, couldn’t be helped! Must support the old man in his fancies.

Of course, the recent activities of Black Abraham were certainly cause for notice. The man had long been one of the better known pirates, with a suitably grisly reputation, but he had become a positive terror to the whole of the nation two years ago when he raided a country house a full twenty-five miles inland and abducted the daughter of the Second Lord of the Navy from her own bed, with the entire band subsequently escaping to the coast with their captive in tow. The whole nation trembled in the sudden knowledge that nowhere was safe from this particular brigand of the sea.

To terrorize an entire nation may speak well for a pirate in the annals of literature (so often published post-mortem), but it is ultimately a foolhardy enterprise in practice. Just as it was stirred to fear, so too was the nation stirred to purpose, and the power of the king’s navy was brought to bear upon the head of Black Abraham. He held his captive for a year while he attempted to extract ransom while avoiding the marauding fleets dogging his trail at every turn. Yet the exploit proved a hopeless one, and the dreaded pirate was doomed from the start. In the end he was cornered at last, his captive liberated, his crew slain, and himself sentenced to die in the gibbet. But fate had a stroke yet to play, for the pirate escaped his death cell in the dead of night, having picked the lock with a bone. A full eight months had passed since, and though there were varied and numerous reports from every part of the country, there was no one who could say they really had a solid notion as to the whereabouts of the terrible pirate.

However, the idea that Black Abraham or any pirate should seek refuge in a place such as Potham on Heath struck Harlow as distinctly implausible. Such a man would seem to be far more naturally inclined to take to the sea and fly to some exotic place or other. Unless of course he’d managed to make all the exotic places he knew of equally hostile to himself. It seemed a dratted nuisance to be a pirate, and Harlow wondered why anyone would ever bother to seek any sort of life of adventure. It is a far better thing to spend one’s life in a comfortable village with a solid reputation for merely talking well about the subject, a skill which ran deeply in the redoubtable Barnstabrake line.

Harlow found himself studying the younger Ms. Howard. She was a handsome enough girl in her own way. In fact, if you took the time to look at her she was as handsome as any girl in the neighborhood, with as fine a face and figure as any man could reasonably wish for. But besides being a good six years his senior, she was bookish, and prone to saying things that a chap had a bit of a bother to come up with a suitable answer for. She had a reputation as being peevish and a snob, but Harlow couldn’t say as he quite saw that. She was alright, just a bit on the sharp side, rather like a thistle, and Harlow was inclined to prefer roses instead, with all the thorns plucked off. Meanwhile, though Mr. Stokes may have held rather severe views of Harlow, for his part Harlow had in turn no opinion whatsoever of Mr. Stokes. He hardly ever noticed the man, and would have been hard pressed to remember exactly who he was. But that was alright, for if Harlow had known how much Mr. Stokes disliked him he could not have found a better way of leveling the score. For such complete, oblivious dismissal would have infuriated Mr. Stokes far more than any insult by word or deed. That is assuming of course that Mr. Stokes had the capacity to believe that anyone might ever overlook him.

As it was, the visit was fruitless in its stated intent, for Sir Walter himself was not at home, and after the obligatory pleasantries and posturing were complete, the Barnstabrakes were off to elucidate the next neighbor with Mr. Barnstabrake Senior’s latest scheme, leaving in their wake an equal measure of relief among the inhabitants of Ashpier House, save for the Barbarians Howard, who held Harlow in the highest regard in all save that he wasn’t a pirate or highwayman or of some other proper profession befitting a gentleman of his standing.

Few people in the neighborhood were of a mind to pay much heed to the elder Mr. Barnstabrake’s heroic schemes. It had been several months since the escape of Black Abraham had been really fresh news, and despite a recent report in a place as semi-local as Quillsgate, not a few felt that Mr. Barnstabrake was rather a bit overdue in his enthusiasm and speculated to themselves that in all likelihood a recent rejection from the College of Arms weighed more heavily on Mr. Barnstabrake’s mind than the activities of any pirate. Neither were the activities of a few wolves of any urgent concern, nor the peculiarities of an otherwise harmless if unsightly vagabond. There were far too many pressing things about to be bothered with heroism.

May Day was fast approaching. The fact that it was early June was not a disqualifying condition, as May Day was celebrated four times a year at the very least in Gandburgh, sometimes five, depending on which day of the week the actual first of May happened to fall that year. This year the Queen of May was one Miss Agatha Watson, a gigglish girl of seventeen who had simply known that she was destined to one day be May Queen. In fact, there was not a small number of people who wondered in passing what on earth the young lady would find to do with herself for the rest of her life once this May was over. Meanwhile, it was her most pleasurable duty to decoratively preside over each of the four (or five) May Days along with her perpetual consort, Robin Hood. Unlike the may queen herself, a different young man was selected to play Robin Hood for each celebration, and this coming Third May Day it was to be Harlow who would don the green mask. This was to be expected, of course, as other than his two years at the university there had not been a single year since he was twelve that Harlow had not been selected to play Robin Hood for at least one of the May Days.

A May Day technically lasted two days, the first being an all day affair of feasts, games, and frollicking that left everyone far too exhausted to have a ball in the evening, so that was held on the following night. This particular Third May Day was in the end a distinct disappointment, as it rained rather dreadfully, so everyone was keen to make up for it at the ball, which was being hosted this year by Sir Gerard Botts of Wingham Manor. A massive tent had been staked out on the grounds, which were still damp from the preceding day’s rain, but that couldn’t be helped. However, there was at least a particularly spacious wooden dance floor which had been erected in the center of the tent, which made up for things a bit.

The Third May Day ball was always an egalitarian affair in which the whole of the neighborhood could participate, gentry and peasantry alike. Only a swollen rank of domestic servants remained enthralled, and these were rewarded for their pains with a purse and a day off each, so that was no matter. It was a time when the usual social barriers were lifted, and providing everyone was well behaved, served to forge a common unity between all persons of every rank that would last as a nodding courtesy until at least early July.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

It was traditional for the gentry not to attend the Third Ball in quite their finest attire, but to dress more simply so as not to outshine the peasants. They generally managed this well enough anyway, but their dress remained more subdued nonetheless, in marked contrast to the other party, who made it their business to assemble the finest and most elaborate ensembles they could muster. And of course, the May Queen herself was always sumptuously attired, and frequently quite fancifully so.

Miss Watson was radiant as much with spirit and delight as with her ornaments and natural physical perfections, which were displayed to no mean advantage. She had a different gown prepared for each of the May Days and each May Day ball. Tonight she wore a loose, pale green chiton styled after the manner of the ancients, of far too thin a material with far too many openings here and there for the liking of a good many of the more mature members of the company. Harlow however found the entire impression wholly to his complete satisfaction....or dissatisfaction for that matter. A year ago he would hardly have noticed the girl, but here in the candlelight with her eyes sparkling beneath her golden curls and her skin smooth and warm against the revealing cloth, Harlow knew he could never have truly known satisfaction or happiness before or since. He was in love. Or at least he thought he might possibly be so for the moment.

The only slight hiccup in the matter was the blasted Robin Hood mask. It was an elaborate affair of sewn cloth leaves that the vicar’s wife had made especially for dear Harlow on this occasion, and it itched and tickled horribly, and Harlow had the distinct impression that it made him look silly. But none of the girls seemed to mind, especially Miss Watson, and that was all that mattered.

The dancing was merry if haphazard, the selection of dances being somewhat simple and limited due to the mixed nature of the company. There were few wallflowers to be found, and even those young women who could not entice partners simply danced with one another in the informality of the circumstances.

Fanny, however, stood in the periphery. She was not asked to dance often, and one can only dance with one’s male relatives so much, and she was further sufficiently self conscious that she would not have stood up with one of her female friends. It is well enough for the younger and more popular girls to be so spirited, but for Fanny it seemed as much an admission that she was less than desired.

Fanny was attempting to adopt a philosophical attitude towards the situation. But somehow it didn’t quite seem to work.

“Quite a spectacle. One doesn’t usually see the uppish folk of any people kicking heels with tradesmen and the tillers of soil. Does it all work out well in the end?”

Under the casual nature of the circumstances, it was not to be unexpected to be addressed by a stranger without a proper introduction, but Fanny found herself taken aback nonetheless to be so suddenly accosted. The voice had come from behind her, and she turned to see the most extraordinary gentleman.

He was tall, bald, long haired and bearded. He was dressed cleanly and neatly but in a peculiar manner of distinctly foreign appearance. And in gross contradiction to all propriety of the circumstance, he wore a large, archaic looking sword.

Informality and rudeness (whether intentional or not) were always to be met with formality and civility. That was the way of the Howards. Fanny curtsied regally.

“I believe we have not been introduced, sir.”

“Of course we haven’t, as I’m technically uninvited. I understand the ball is open to all residents of the neighborhood, but my status as such is most distinctly dubious. Will you permit me to introduce myself, or will I have to permit myself?”

“I see I have no choice one way or the other, sir.”

“Quite right, you have seen through my stratagem. Shall we dance?”

“You are quite forward sir, so permit me to be forward also and decline.”

“Splendid suggestion, as I don’t know the dance anyway. And your name was?”

“No names have as yet passed between us, sir.”

“I see you are not one to miss the obvious, my Lady. That’s frequently uncommon.”

“As is discourtesy in this country, sir.”

“Ah, so you have perceived that I am a foreigner. Do you object to foreigners?”

“I have met an insufficient number of them to make any judgement on the matter, but you sir are most distinctly swaying my opinion. Goodnight, sir.”

Fanny expected this rebuke sufficient to convince this rude and eccentric person to depart from her presence. But he did not, instead remaining rooted where he stood, gazing gravely at the crowd of dancers.

“Hmm...there’s certainly an awful lot of people here.”

“Nearly the whole neighborhood, sir.”

“All here at once? Isn’t anyone minding their homes?”

“This is a celebration for the whole community, I doubt anyone would stay home tonight if they could help it.”

“Fools.”

And with that, the man departed.

This quizzical encounter left Fanny a bit unsettled. An innate sensibility to remove herself as much as possible from the site of this intrusive occurrence led her to seek a different corner of the room, preferably in some confident company. This manifested itself in the form of one Miss Bellingham.

Abigayle Bellingham was certainly not one of one of Fanny’s more intimate friends, but she was more than an acquaintance to be sure, and Fanny lost no time in relating her recent exceptional encounter.

“What a spirit! I dare say he was moved by chaotic forces indeed. Do you quite feel that you are still within the feral vibrations? Let us both refresh ourselves with pure thoughts, for the Dispirited Winds may be wafting both of us!”

Fanny was quickly regretting her present choice of confidant. Miss Bellingham was a splendid young woman in her own way, but she was an Aesthete of the more pronounced sort and held curious ideas about the universe, an odd mix of ancient superstition and modern speculation, with the only unifying thread being that it was all occult and most typical of her adopted strata. She was attired in the classical Greco-Reman fashion popular amongst her set, a baggy chiton of subdued tone and ill fit that may have spoken volumes about the purity of her philosophical sensibilities but little indeed of her attentiveness to public perception. On a May Day such fanciful dress was a bit less jarring, particularly this evening as the May Queen was herself similarly garbed (if to daringly superior advantage), but Miss Bellingham espoused such fashion at nearly every formal occasion, and even when attired in day wear her eccentricity became quite apparent the moment she addressed any given topic. Like Fanny, she too was unmarried, but Miss Bellingham had long expressed that she was wed to Sensibility, and to all appearances was content with this circumstance.

Fanny remained distinctly curious about the peculiar interloper, and finding Miss Bellingham’s confidence to have been predictably insignificant so far as concerned the acquisition of information of any solidarity, she began to make enquiries elsewhere amongst the company. It was in doing so that Fanny at length discovered the identity of the strange man who had so boldly invaded her privacy.

He was none other than that very character so recently made infamous for his peculiar deportment as regards first floor windows, the vagabond Mr. Gates.

The climax of the evening was now approaching: The traditional Abduction of the May Queen by the Outlaw Robin Hood. It was the task of the young man playing the role of the outlaw to navigate a series of obstacles set by the Sheriff’s Men and escape with the May Queen as his prisoner, to return in five minutes or so at which time a special cake of honey glaze and walnuts was served to everybody. The particulars of the ritual varied from one village to the next, but followed a similar pattern throughout most of the country. In Potham, it began with the entrance of the Sheriff’s Men, eight men of the neighborhood dressed in colorful capes, feathered hats and masks, beating tambourines and small drums and blowing small horns. They would separate Robin Hood and the May Queen and then perform a dance in a ring about Robin Hood which consisted largely of vigorous foot stomping to the rhythm of the tambourines, drums, and petty insults hurled at Robin Hood. After this, the Sheriff’s Men would lay a pattern of wooden rings on the floor in a path leading up to where the May Queen was now seated. Robin Hood was expected to leap from one ring to another while the Sheriff’s man guarding each ring would attempt to pull it away with a cane. The event would last until the young man playing Robin Hood managed to either reach the throne of the May Queen or had taken a sufficient number of bumps and falls that he was deemed to have made a noble effort, hopefully before the poor young man was particularly injured in any way.

Harlow was well prepared to be sporting about the matter. It made no difference, he would either pass the test or fail it magnificently, but he was rather a bit more keen to pass, if for no other reason than he was thoroughly delighted at the prospect of snatching up Miss Watson’s delicate form in his arms and speeding her out the door. Who knows, he might even be able to steal a kiss or two before they returned. It was the opinion of the young men in the village that the time from the abduction itself to the presentation of the Abduction Cake was calculated to give the celebratory couple just enough time for a whopping great snog or two outside while no one was looking but not enough time for anything more scandalous than that. Harlow had the opportunity to put this theory to the test on more than one occasion, and had determined for himself that it was quite sound. However, the pleasure of the outcome was dependent on the mutual enthusiasm of the May Queen herself. Harlow recalled seeing young Wilson Bates staggering back from the abduction with a profusely bleeding nose one Third May Day ball many years ago, and ever since the poor fellow had been referred to as Crook Nose. This recollection dampened Harlow’s expectations a bit, but Miss Watson did seem a spirited sort so perhaps things might wind up exceedingly pleasantly after all.

The Sheriff’s Men had begun their ritual, dancing gleefully about Harlow with a colorful assortment of pointed personal observations which they had been saving up all year. They then brought out their hoops, which were newly made and a quite bit smaller than usual. It was cheerfully explained that this was a decision made in light of Harlow’s renowned athleticism and previous successes, and he was likewise informed with equal cheer that there would be no letting him off this year. They would all be exceeding their very best, just for him.

Standing in a corner, Mr. Stokes observed these proceedings with absolute distain. The shameless rusticity of it all was only surpassed in offense to Mr. Stokes’s cultured sensitivities by the younger Barnstabrake’s own debonair smugness through it all. The laughter and gleeful quips of the whole assembly at this spectacle was equally revolting, and Mr. Stokes was only prevented from extracting himself from the midst of this unseemly debauchery by his own cultivated sense of propriety and deportment that bound him to remain and bear it with all the appearance of cheerfulness so as not to be unjustly considered an unpleasant prig.

Young Barnstabrake was attempting the first ring now. The man demeaning himself in a mask and copiously feathered hat nimbly plucked the ring out of the way in the last instant and Harlow very nearly laid himself on the floor. As it was, he just managed to balance himself on one foot and with a gallant laugh attempted the ring again, and this time Mr. Stokes was thoroughly disappointed as Harlow succeeded.

So it continued with the next ring and then the others, with Harlow missing on the first try but making it on the second or third, and never actually quite falling to the floor. In good time enough, he was at the last ring. The assembly was now particularly loud and obnoxious as the last man engaged in a frantic contest with Harlow, and Mr. Stokes felt that he could surely bear no more when all at once Harlow got a foot into the ring and then made a mad dash for the throne to the cheers of the crowd. With a most low class whoop, Harlow scooped up a hysterically gleeful Miss Watson and made for the door, and in utter disgust Mr. Stokes at last averted his eyes. There was only so much a gentleman could do to be amiable.

There was an avalanche of voices as everyone related excitedly to one an other the details of the diversion they had all witnessed together not a moment before as everyone awaited the return of the triumphant couple and the subsequent cake and punch. Girls who were ardently cheering their hero not a moment ago were now grumbling among themselves about how lucky Miss Watson was and how she always seemed to get everything to go her way, and wasn’t she so dreadfully smug and wouldn’t it be just like her to go ahead and just let Harlow kiss her, and she simply must tell them all about it when she came back or they would never forgive her. Many a young man had suddenly become equally severe in their observations that Harlow was far too lucky a stiff and that they all ought to come up with some splendid prank or other for him on his return. The matrons and clergy of the company had commenced a discussion of the scandalously improper way the young people were behaving and how they really ought not to let it happen again next year, while mature gentlemen caroused separately to one another about the good old days.

The conversation was beginning to settle to a more stable level of animation as the wait for the return of Harlow and Miss Watson lengthened. A few moments of indulgence was alright, but this was getting a bit much. It really was not at all appropriate for them to be gone so long, and it was suggested that someone ought to go out and fetch them in before the pair had been alone outdoors improperly long. It could become a scandal.

The air was beginning to become rather tense. Surely they would be back in a moment. They would not dare run off together while the whole neighborhood was awaiting their return, it would be disgrace that would ruin them both. Perhaps they had merely lost track of time, which was quite innocent enough but the vicar had better go and fetch them all the same.

The vicar was dispatched and the tension began to ease a bit. Of course, the young couple must have been engaged in harmless conversation and the vicar would bring them back any moment. But where now was the vicar? He seemed to be taking his time returning. Surely he hadn’t discovered anything improper?

Abruptly, the vicar himself burst back into the assembly. A tide of voices arose and it took a few moments before anybody could get any sense from the terrified old gentleman. But soon enough the elderly cleric managed to communicate his shocking intelligence:

Harlow Barnstabrake was lying on his face in the drive, a terrible bloody wound on the back of his head. And Miss Watson was nowhere to be found.