<strong>Outskirts of Asburne - caught</strong><br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i284.photobucket.com/albums/ll4/ElusiveGypsyRose/1%20-%20Characters/Lady%201.jpg)<div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong>Abigail Meghan<br/>O'Hourihane<br/>aka Meg Haney</strong></span></div></div><div class="floatleft">(http://)</div><br/>Abigail had considered herself a hale, healthy young woman, and had done much to ensure that after the doctor suggested additional exercise to guard against the weakness of the lungs that had so plagued her mother.  She had walked daily, save only when the weather was most foul, and she had ridden, played croquet, and, of course, there were always things to be fetched and carried for her mother even in a household with servants.<br/><br/>During her slog through the swamp, she had reconsidered her position on that.  It was one thing to walk at at a leisurely or even brisk along a path, and quite another to slog through the swamp, wet skirts heavy about her legs and clinging, the sound of her own passage confused with the dread of pursuit, the need and determination to get away mixed with the fear of her own cowardice to abandon her mother and the servants who had been as much family as blood.   Her lungs burned with the chore of breathing, her arms were scratched by briars and branches, bitten by mosquitos and midges and gnats, and she didn't even want to think about what might be beneath her skirts as she had exited the river only to cross a still, stagnant pool where overflow collected and did not drain when the river's flood level receded.   Wet boots led to blisters, wet stockings to chafing, and when she had run headlong into a spider's web in the dimming light, she had not been able to prevent the shriek that ripped from her throat.<br/><br/>It was stupid, it was weak, and it was all too human.<br/><br/>That did not, however, keep her from cursing herself, fortune, and most of all the foul men responsible for the evils that had befallen her family as she heard the howl of a tracking hound in the distance.<br/><br/>Her eyes closed briefly, her thoughts coalescing on one simple thought sent out to the heavens, to herself, to any benevolent force that might be listening, or to the very devils of hell themselves.<em>"Give me strength." </em>Yet the thought was no despairing plea, no admission that the odds were so against her that a prayer was all the hope she had.  It was, instead, a demand, a galvanizing force, and Abigail forgot all about the sticky web that covered her hair still like a torn veil, and forgot, too, of the hated eight-legged creatures who constructed and inhabited such traps.  She forgot all but her need, her mission, and she ran on, hastened by determination as much as fear with legs lighter now that the underskirt had been discarded on the way to sink into the murk and mud of the swampland.<br/><br/>Where she was ... a mystery ... but she did what she could to foil pursuit.  When the steadily closing sounds of the hounds made it obvious that concealment was no longer of use, she simply ran, as hard and fast as her flagging legs and will would carry her.  Catch her they might, but surrender she would not.<br/><br/><br/>The presence of mounted men in the distance went unnoticed, as did the nearness of a road.  Had she seen them, she might have given up all hope, assuming them to be another group of those in pursuit.  Nor did she hear the leader's commands, nor distinguish their circling or approach as anything distinct from her pursuers until the horse, a massive beast to her eyes, was there in front of her, barring her path.  Abigail looked up, her face revealing fear and defiance as she panted for breath, still clutching her battered, muddy and bedraggled sewing basket in front of her as a shield.<br/><br/>Yet the mounted man did not seem to her as one of her pursuers.  He had a thoroughly different feel, as if he were not set against her, at least, even if he bore her no particular sympathy.  Later thought might yield an opinion that it was a reasoned response on his part, but for now, he represented simply a chance ... of escape, and survival.<br/><br/><em>"They attacked our carriage ... my <strong>mother</strong> ..."  </em>There was no artifice in the breaking of her voice, nor in the accusation she hurled.  Abigail knew it to be true, even if she had not witnessed it.  Her mother was dead, she felt it in the glee of those who gave chase.<br/><br/>"My lord Ellery, we pursue a thief ... a woman of questionable morals who stole from my Lord's household when he foolishly employed her.  Please, stand aside."  The horseman spoke with the confidence of a man who, almost certainly, did not enjoy the same status as a nobleman, but one who was used to acting in their stead, upon their command.<br/><br/>Abigail's heart sank at the assurance in the charge leveled against her.  Muddy, bedraggled, filthy, clutching her kit as if it indeed contained treasure, though it was certainly not pilferage.<br/><br/><em>"He lies, my lord.  I have stolen <strong>nothing</strong>, and I know not who their lord is, though would that I did!" </em>She drew herself up, as much as she could, and lifted her head as she spoke, her eyes and will imploring the clear blue eyes in the face above her to hear her, to hear and believe.<br/><br/>One of the hounds, uncaring of the rights or will of those who were not his handler, or even perhaps of his handler when the prey he had chased was within both sight and scent, lunged against the leash that held him back, and the leash, the leather slippery from the dampness of the mist and the condition of the trail, slipped.<br/><br/>The hound did not bother with issuing a warning bark through perhaps he considered the growl as he leaped forward, muscles bunched, hackles bristling warning enough.  His handler shouted and reached out, but the animal did not so much as slow at the command.