"Come back here you!"
The shouts were getting louder.
Tom Carpenter ran for his life through the trees of the vast Higglesworth estate, cursing his ill luck. But the law of averages said he would get caught poaching one day, after all the many days of free meat. His father never asked where it came from, though he knew, for they were a desperately poor family.
Not far to the wall surrounding the estate; he could just make out the straight line running through the trees in the fading light. Once over it he stood a much better chance. The gamekeeper must have thought the same for the ferocious barking of the dogs suddenly became a racket; they had been let loose. Tom could hear the savage pack almost upon him, so he jumped up to grab a tree branch and climbed as fast as he could, kicking away the savage teeth snapping at his ankles.
The old gamekeeper, Henshaw, stopped beneath, puffing.
"Got ya', y'little devil!" Henshaw gave a toothless grin of satisfaction, lowered his rifle as he gazed up at Tom. "They'll deport y' for this, like as not, an' good riddance too."
With Henshaw at his back, Tom was marched to the imposing manor house, which he had only glimpsed through the trees before.
A burly, smartly-dressed man strode up to them rubbing his hands together. "I say, excellent work, Henshaw. One of the peasants who's been stealing my game, no doubt."
"That he be, sir. Caught 'im red handed, I did."
"Jolly good. Lock him in the stables for the night and take him into town on the morrow. Will they hang him, do you think?"
"Don't rightly know, sir. Reckon deportation's prob'ly more likely these days."
As he was taken through to the stable courtyard to one side of the grand house, Tom chanced to glance up and notice he was being looked down upon from a balcony by a younger fancily-dressed gentleman. Pompous nosy bugger, thought Tom, glaring back.
He was shoved into an empty stable, the heavy door slammed and bolted behind, sealing him in darkness.
His first thoughts were of escape and he spent some time going over his confinement, but solid stone walls sealed him in, the door solid and secure. Finally he gave up and sank in a corner.
He didn't fancy his chances at any trial. The black thought of deportation, which had always been at the back of his mind when poaching, now loomed closer, suddenly a very real and immanent threat. Who would now look after his young siblings, keep the peace with their drunkard father? Their mother had passed away some years ago in childbirth at which their father, a farm-labourer, had turned to the bottle. Tom, though young, had been forced to start work, though he enjoyed his woodland work. Among other skills, such as coppicing and hurdle-making, it had been the woodlanders who had taught him to make a bow and arrow. When starvation struck in winter, he had been forced through desperation to take up poaching. Without his poaching they would have starved by now.
Tom pricked up his ears at the sound of the bolt being drawn slowly back. He got to his feet hoping it wasn't Henshaw come to rough him up. The door creaked open and a tall dark figure slipped inside, quietly closing it again.
"Pssst!" a young man's voice hissed. "I just wanted a word. Don't attack me, okay?"
A match was struck and put to a candle-wick. In the flickering glow Tom recognised the face he had seen watching from the balcony, and felt immediate resentment.
"I don't mean you any harm," the young gentleman continued in such an upper-classed tone that it sounded comical to Tom's ears. "I was merely concerned to see that you are alright."
Tom's mind was racing, half minded to barge past and make a run for it, but equally curious to know what the toff had to say. "Why should you care?"
"Dash it all, promise not a word to anyone! Because I liked the look of you, okay. After watching your distress from my bedroom balcony, I couldn't abide the thought that you might hang for stealing my father's game when I found out what had happened. Plus, I cannot stand our ghastly gamekeeper, Henshaw. Dreadful fellow."
"So you came here to say you're sorry about it?" Tom hissed angrily. "I don't want your pity, rich boy."
"Actually, I had it in mind to set you free, but perhaps you don't warrant my assistance."
"I could make a run for it now, without your assistance."
"That would not be wise for I should call out. Henshaw would set the dogs on you."
Tom considered this. "Okay, then. I accept your offer of help. Now set me free."
"And what may I ask is your name, that I might know who I rescued?"
"Tom."
"Tom? I'm delighted. Charles Higglesworth at your service."
Charles offered his hand which Tom clasped. Tom felt as if a charge passed between them as he took Charles' smooth long fingers in his own rough calloused grip. Tom stared into Charles' earnest, intense eyes in the flickering orange glow and liked what he saw. He noticed for the first time that it was a handsome face, perfectly proportioned, smoothly shaven, with straight blond hair combed to one side, much in contrast to his own ragged, dishevelled looks. Owning no mirror, he only knew his own face from his refection in water.
Their hands lingered before parting.
"Now," said Charles, "I have a plan of sorts. If you will give me a lift up I shall open the old hay-loft door. We shall lock the stable door again when we leave. Henshaw will be left in wonderment that you can jump higher than he thought, that you managed to grab hold of the rafters."
Tom agreed, bending down for Charles to place a boot in his hands. Muscles solid from hard labour, Tom lifted Charles easily.
"I say, you are strong," Charles exclaimed as we was hoisted up, then opened the creaking old wooden door.
Tom lowered Charles back down and they stood for a moment regarding each other in the candlelight.
Charles moved forward hesitantly, then quickly kissed Tom on the cheek.
Tom recoiled as if he'd been struck.
"Call me all the horrid names you want, I don't care!" Charles blew out the candle and moved to the door. "I shall be out of here in a few days, for the army. Now go."
Tom recovered himself. "Thank-you for freeing me, Mr. Higglesworth."
"Please, just Charles-"
Just as Charles opened the door, Tom plucked up his courage and gave Charles a quick peck on the cheek, then they were out into the dark night. The curtained light from Charles' balcony window was the only light. With that Tom stole away into the darkness, making for the woods he had come to know so well.
Once safely back over the estate wall Tom breathed easier. Just before dawn he slipped back into his father's cottage on the edge of the hamlet of Brackenworth. Yet despite the late hour he could not sleep. His mind was aglow with anxiety and excitement, replaying the evening's events. He would need to lay low and keep an eye out for Henshaw. And no more poaching, he told himself.
The next day was a busy one as usual, the mundane chores, seeing to his two younger brothers and sister, then off splitting and stacking logs. Yet through it all he wasn't really present, his mind dreaming of the previous evening, of Charles kissing him.
***
