The Bodyguard by Joan Johnston Read Free Book Online

been—right now he was only a man whose jaw ached and whose head throbbed and whose every breath was an agony to his sore ribs. His nose was broken, he thought, and so swollen and tender he walked in measured steps in order not to jolt it.
    All he wanted was something wet to soothe his parched throat, a warm bath, and a soft bed, in that order.
A warm bath. Surely that is a luxury, too. I must be a person of distinction. Or a thief with rich tastes
, he thought wryly.
    The too-small boots had raised blisters on his heels, and after the morning’s walk, he was limping badly. With one eye swollen shut, his balance was none too good, and as he reeled unsteadily into the tavern, the men seated at the tables eyed him as though he were some bumble-witted looby.
    And I’m not?
He didn’t think so. His sense of humor rose again to rescue him. He imagined he must be quite a sight, wearing such ill-fitted clothing and withhis face having endured such a beating from the rocks.
Or someone’s fists
. He could not discount that possibility.
    He sank into a chair at the best table he could find and looked around with his one good eye for the innkeeper. His stomach growled noisily, and embarrassingly, with hunger. He felt certain he could implore the man for what he needed.
    A few snickers and more than one blatantly curious look from his fellow patrons brought the innkeeper to his table. “What is it ye want?”
    “Good day,” he said. The effort suffered somewhat from the night just past, sounding more like a frog than a man. He cleared his throat and continued, “I would appreciate a cup of your best ale.”
    “I’ll see yer coppers first,” the innkeeper replied.
    “Unfortunately, I have nary a farthing with me.”
    “No coppers, no ale,” the innkeeper said flatly.
    How dare he refuse to serve me!
The feeling of disbelief that he was not to be served was real enough. But why should he think himself entitled to be served without presenting any coins first?
Who am I?
He realized his hands were shaking beneath the table from a combination of weakness and rage.
    He placed his palms flat on the table to push himself upright, but both his head and his ribs protested. He was so exhausted, he gave up the effort and settled for spearing the man with his one good eye. Maybe the fellow recognized him. “Do you know who I am?”
    “Ye look like a flat to me,” the innkeeper said, “what maybe used to be a sharp.”
    The patrons in the taproom laughed at the innkeeper’s clever play on words.
    “I would like some food and drink, please. I will gladly pay you when I have the coin. You see, I seem to have lost track of … things.” He took a deep breath, hesitated, then plunged in. “To be frank, I cannot remember who I am.” He frowned and added, “Except I am quite sure I used to have monogrammed handkerchiefs. That must mean I am a man of some consequence, wouldn’t you agree?”
    The innkeeper guffawed and slapped him on the shoulder so hard he let out an unwilling moan.
    “That’s a good one, lad,” the innkeeper said. “Yer English accent’s not half bad. ’Tis the sand and seaweed in yer hair and the lumps on yer face and o’ course them boots with the holes in the toes, that give ye away. Ye need a better costume if ye’re going to play the Quality.”
    “I am not pretending,” he said, forcing himself painfully to his feet. His voice hardened. “And I would like a cup of ale. Now.”
    The innkeeper’s faced turned ugly. “Ye’ve picked the wrong sort to impersonate, lad. I hate the puking English as I hate the plague. If ye were one of ’em, I’d throw ye out on yer arse. So count yer blessings and be on yer way.”
    He felt the heat of humiliation on his face, felt the anger building along with it, but was not sure how tocontend with either emotion. Pride—he seemed to have no end of it—forced him to stand his ground. “You seem to be a fair man,” he began.
    “Fair?” the innkeeper spat