The Highwayman's Lady (12 page)

“He is a beautiful child. So perfect. And so tiny.”

“Indeed. I suspect he came into the world a little earlier than nature intended but he seems none the worse for his adventure. That is more than I can say for myself. I swear this business has taken years off my life.”

“But he is worth it, surely?”

Sir Phillip appears to be considering this question with some care. He regards me in silence for several moments. “I have three sons, four now and that is ample. More than enough. I love them, my daughters too, though the lot of them drive me to distraction with their chatter on occasions. I have but one wife and I almost lost her. Had that happened, I doubt I could ever have arrived at the conclusion that an additional child was worth paying such a price. Beatrice will no doubt disagree but there you have it. I am a selfish man. Now, if you would excuse me, I must seek out that nurse before this little tyrant starts to exercise his lungs.”

He gets to his feet and makes off to the door. He stops, turns to me. “Could you wait an hour or so to allow the children their time with their mother? Beatrice will be delighted to see you, I know.”

“Get down from the carriage, all of you.” I brandish my pistol into the dark interior of the coach by way of further encouragement. As I stand back to allow the startled occupants space to disembark, I am satisfied my efforts in pursuing and halting this coach are about to pay off. This has all the makings of a lucrative night’s work.

I have not been idle during the three—no, closer to four—months since my encounter with the charming Miss Imogen Bennett, but must conclude that travellers are becoming much more cautious in their approach to transportation. I have stopped several conveyances, brandished my pistol and threatened the direst of consequences, but failed to collect more than a few paltry trinkets from each. Whilst I cannot find it in myself to regret my uncharacteristic generosity in providing Imogen with ample funds to make her journey to Scotland, the investment has nevertheless left me somewhat embarrassed for ready cash. My landlord demands payment, as do several purveyors of fine liquor and a number of gambling houses.

I can but hope the sweet lady has met with better fortune than I have in the intervening weeks, and that her optimism with regard to her relatives north of the border was not misplaced. Such reminiscences however will not settle my debts and I have pressing matters to attend to.

Two gentlemen, portly and clearly not without substantial means with which to swell my dwindling coffers, exit the vehicle first to stand beside the hapless coachman who slumps by the wheel. He opted to put up a fight when I burst at a gallop from the cover of the trees lining the road and has taken a bullet in the shoulder for his trouble. The men are followed by a middle-aged matron sporting a rather splendid set of pearls and two younger women adorned with sparkling diamonds about their throats and wrists. If I am not mistaken, I spot a pair of sapphire earrings too. Ah, yes, excellent pickings indeed.

I extract a decent-sized sack that I keep tucked into my belt for use on such occasions and I hand it to the younger of the women because she appears the most horrified by this turn of events. I generally find frightened females to be biddable enough and not requiring of further persuasion. “Remove your jewels and drop them in there. All of them. You do not wish me to have to search you, I trust.”

From her aghast, tearful expression, I have to assume my more detailed attention is not something this particular young miss wishes to attract. A pity, really—the prospect of running my hands over her trim little body is not without its appeal. A glittering necklace quickly finds its way into my bag, followed in short order by a matching bracelet and a gold brooch. The obliging young lady even removes the gold pins from her hair to contribute to my fortune.

“Thank you. Now if you would be so good as to collect all valuables from your companions? Those can go in the sack too. Be quick about it.”

“How dare you? You scoundrel!”

Not only has the older of the two gentlemen found his voice, he has seen fit to exercise it. I level my pistol at his head, which does seem to have a quieting effect, though experience tells me this will be short-lived. I have no pressing desire to escalate this situation, so resolve to hurry matters up.

“Unless there is anyone here harbouring a wish to accommodate a helping of lead between their ribs, I suggest you all make haste to deposit your jewels and money in my sack. Let us have no heroes this night, especially dead ones.”

All three women are sobbing and the men’s glares are nothing short of murderous, but my threat does the trick. My sack is soon pleasantly full and I take it from my trembling little helper with a courtly bow. “Thank you, my dear. Now, if I could trouble you to tie up your travelling companions, please?”

I keep my pistol trained on the group huddled beside the downed driver as I tie the bag to my saddle and produce a length of stout rope. The coachman is groaning with not inconsiderable enthusiasm, but I am confident he will live. It is the quiet ones who I usually find most worrying. I am not squeamish; I will injure or even kill if I have to, but I see no cause to do so if such might be avoided. I regret the coachman’s impetuous determination to protect the property of others and wish him no further harm.

The young woman takes the rope and eyes her companions with some consternation. I decide to offer some direction.

“You two, sit down on the ground, back to back.” I gesture to the two men with my pistol. Their glares become even more hostile, if that were possible, but they do as I instruct them. I return my attention to the girl. “Bind their wrists behind them, good and tight and tie them together. And please, do not be tempted to do anything stupid. I will check and if I suspect you have made the knots too loose, you will pay dearly for that error. Do I make myself clear?”

She nods quickly and bends to do my bidding. It takes her several minutes to complete the task, probably because she is sobbing so hard. I resist the urge to exert more pressure on her since it would not ultimately make matters proceed with any greater alacrity. Instead, I wait, patient, until she straightens. A quick glance satisfies me that she has done her best and in any case, I do not require my victims to remain restrained for more than the few minutes it will take me to get away.

“Good. Now, you two.” I train my pistol on the other two women. One of them, the younger, sinks to the ground without my needing to elaborate. The older of the two struggles to obey. I suspect arthritis. “You. Help her,” I bark at the chit who will tie them up for me. Soon they are secured in similar fashion as their menfolk. Only the youngest girl remains.

“Come here.”

She remains rooted to the spot, staring at me with eyes as round as saucers. I find it is not an expression I much care for but I do not have time to dispel her fears.

“Come. Here.” I repeat my command and at last she obeys. She stands before me, her eyes downcast, her slender shoulders quivering as she contemplates God only knows what evil about to be perpetrated upon her. “Turn around, love.” My tone is deliberately gentle now. She has done as I asked.

She turns and I produce another short length of rope from my belt. I bind her wrists in the small of her back, then help her to sit on the cold ground alongside her family. She looks surprised to have escaped so lightly so I wonder if I might steal a kiss. She does appear to expect at least that much from me in the way of molestation and I hate to disappoint.

I might have done so, but it is at that precise moment that the sound of galloping hooves pierces the still, cool night. I discern at least four horses and they are approaching fast. It is beyond time for me to take my leave.

I vault onto Nero’s back and we are in motion almost before I am in the saddle. I direct my mount away from York in order to put distance between myself and whoever is coming. I can hear shouts now, echoing above the pounding of the hoof beats—cries of “After him!” and, “He’s getting away.”

I am indeed getting away if I have anything to do with it. I snatch a quick glance over my shoulder. Five riders are gaining on me. The man in the lead on a pale grey stallion wears the unmistakable red coat and tricorn hat of the British military. My heart sinks. If his majesty’s army have taken an interest in my activities, this bodes ill for my continued good fortune, such as it is. Digging my heels into his flanks hard, I turn Nero from the road. We clear a stream and a ditch in one graceful leap, then streak across the adjacent meadow in the direction of the open countryside beyond.

It is a landscape I know well. I can find my way as fast in the dark as I might in broad daylight, but I must trust that my pursuers are less familiar with the terrain. They will be slowed down, unable to maintain the chase.

My ploy works well. In just a few minutes the sounds of other riders in my wake dwindle then die away entirely. I am at last alone, free still to enjoy the fruits of my unorthodox lifestyle. But for how long?

I spend the next two hours traversing the landscape, back and forth, determined to leave no trail that could be readily followed. I cross the River Ouse no less than five times, always avoiding villages or settlements. I have no wish to leave tracks, nor to create a trail of witnesses ready to testify to my presence here this night. At last, satisfied I have done all I could, I head for Knaresborough and the safety of Thomas’ hostelry.

I crest the hill behind the village shortly before dawn, to be greeted by the sight of flames and acrid scent of smoke. I kick Nero once more into a gallop and arrive at the rear of The Blue Man in time to see my adversary in red military uniform striding from the burning stables, a lighted torch in his hand.

Thomas watches, helpless, as he is restrained by three burly constables. The yard at the rear of the inn is a chaotic gaggle of loose and terrified horses, startled villagers brought from their beds by the commotion, and harsh-faced law enforcement officers bent on delivering retribution.

I slither from my horse and creep closer on foot. There is nothing I can do to prevent the unfolding disaster to Thomas’ livelihood and at least he appears unhurt. Even as I arrive at that conclusion, the redcoat marches up to my friend and punches him in the stomach. Thomas doubles over with a whoosh of expelled air and has the good sense to remain so as his tormentor struts in front of him. I watch from behind a loose handcart, considering my chances of success were I to make an attempt to free Thomas from the tender mercies of King George’s justice. They are slender at best, but I am ready to try.

The leader turns to address the assembled village population. “Let this be a lesson to all who might think to harbour fugitives from the king’s justice. Lawlessness will not be tolerated and the highways of this county shall be made safe for law-abiding folk to travel about their business in peace.” The soldier turns to Thomas, his next words directed at him. “Your accomplice may have escaped us this time but we shall prevail. He will be apprehended and he will hang for his crimes. You too, if it transpires that he has found shelter here again. Be warned, peasant, we will not be so lenient if we are forced to return to this godforsaken hovel a second time. Our next visit will cost you far more than a stable and a few bales of hay.”

Thomas crumples to the cobbles as they release him and his knees give way. In seconds, the constables and their leader have remounted and are cantering along the lane leading back in the direction of York, no doubt to report on this night’s achievements to the lord mayor and aldermen of the city.

I wait a few minutes to be sure they have truly gone, since I have no wish to add to Thomas’ troubles right now. He hauls himself to his feet, still gasping for breath as he glares balefully after the men. The villagers are making an attempt to subdue the flames, but it is to no avail. It is a mercy that the stables do not adjoin the inn itself or the whole structure would be engulfed. As it is, the outbuilding is lost but the damage is contained there. I leave them to it and approach Thomas.

“My friend, I am sorry.”

He turns to me, his eyes red from the smoke. “Aye, well, ‘tis but stones and a bit of straw. We had time to let the horses out before the blaze took hold.” He bends over, coughing. “Bastards, one and all. I am relieved you did nothing foolhardy, else we might all be dangling from a rope right now.”

“It was me they came here seeking.”

“It would seem so.”

“But why? How did they know? I did not lead them here.”

“Nay, you did not. They were here a good half hour afore you. Someone must have told them this is one of your haunts.”

“Did they say anything to suggest they know about us and Culloden? That we were with Charlie back in forty-six?”

He shakes his head. “Not that I heard. They came looking for Alistair Graham, expecting to find you here. They searched all my rooms. Then when it became apparent their quarry was not to be apprehended indoors, they came out here and…” He gestures in the direction of the ruined stables where flames still lick the blackened walls and he needs to say no more.

The villagers are drifting away, the excitement over for the time being. I follow Thomas back into The Blue Man. In his main room all the tables are overturned, seats smashed or upended from the search. I help him to put enough to rights for us to sit down.

“Will you fix it? I have money, I can pay for the damage.”

He nods. “Aye, I shall, I expect. I shall be glad of a loan, if you have the money to spare, but I do not expect you to pay. It was not your fault.”

“Who else is to blame? I brought this down on you.”

“Whoever informed the militia that you might be here is the one I blame. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

I shake my head. It’s not as though my regular presence here in Knaresborough is a closely guarded secret, most of these who frequent The Blue Man will have at least an inkling. But I am at a loss to know which of them would go to the trouble of travelling all the way to York—a day’s journey by pony and trap, at least double that on foot—to discuss my comings and goings with the city fathers.