“Ah, here's the nub of it!” Mason squawked. “Ironside Highwayman. He dares use the name. This is no ironside. A king's dog, Felicity! Long gelded, but still he yaps!”
Lyle glanced across at Grumm. “Eustace, are the horses calmed?” He waited for a quick nod. “Then see to the loot.”
“A pox on your thievery,” Mason hissed. “God-rotten Cavalier.”
“Innocent of that charge,” Lyle replied, “I'm pleased to say.”
“This man,” Walmsley interceded, relishing his moment, “was once a hero of the rebellion. Would you countenance such a thing? A friend to Cromwell himself.”
“Surely you jest, sir,” the lawyer muttered, visibly thrown by the revelation. “Friend to the Protector?”
Lyle felt himself tense at the name. “Now his sworn enemy.” He flashed a grin at Walmsley. “And always proud to school crusty old Roundheads in the ways of honour.”
The soldier bridled, his blood up now, but it was his employer who spoke. “Cromwell is the best, godliest man in these islands. What depths do you plumb, sir, if you would make him your foe?”
“If those depths,” Lyle replied levelly, “are to harangue, harry and plunder the men of Cromwell's new order, then they are waters in which it is a pleasure to swim.” He let his eyes fall to the bulging flanks of Sir Frederick's heavy coat. “Now shall we peer into those deep pockets, sir?”
Walmsley stepped between them. “Stay where you are, Sir Frederick.”
Lyle narrowed his eyes. “Steady, old man, lest you wish for some tutelage.”
“Old man? I am Kit Walmsley. Formerly of Sir Hardress Waller's Regiment of Foot.”
“Another of Oliver's toadies.”
“Speak of the Lord Protector in such a manner...” Walmsley said through gritted teeth.
“Protector nothing, sir!” Lyle shot back scornfully. “That blackguard protects himself and nothing more. He ought to take the crown and abandon the obfuscation.”
“Pup!” Walmsley blustered, his throat seeming to puff up like that of some red-faced bullfrog. “I'll cleave out your malignant tongue!” With that his hand was on his sword hilt, a third of the blade already exposed.
Lyle rolled his eyes. “Precious Blood! Must we?”
“Shoot 'im, Major,” Eustace Grumm called impatiently. “Let's be on our way.”
“You disgust me, Lyle,” Walmsley went on, the rest of the sword sliding free. “You're a traitor and a coward and a quartering would be too lenient for you.” His face warped into an expression of pure malice. “Perhaps we'll dig up your good wife and make her dead eyes watch.”
Samson Lyle knew he was being goaded. He knew, most likely, that the sly Walmsley was playing for time. And yet the bastard had mentioned Alice.
He discarded his hat and tossed the pistol to Bella, who caught it with one hand, and released his own blade, its length slithering through the throat of his long scabbard. Taking half a dozen measured paces backwards, he held it out in front, dancing before Walmsley, the last light of the autumn eve dancing at its tip like molten silver. He felt good, powerful. He was tall, just touching six feet, with a body that was lean and spare, with muscles like braided match cord. A figure that betrayed a life of hardship, fight and flight. He cast a final glance at Grumm. “Take Star, Eustace. Turn him about.”
Kit Walmsley stepped out, turning his shoulders to present the smallest possible target, right foot well advanced. “Turn him about? The horse cannot watch?”
“He cannot,” Lyle said.
“Cannot witness his master take a beating?” the soldier asked incredulously. “Is the beast your mother, sir?”
“My companion through many horrors.”
Sir Frederick called a subdued word of encouragement. Walmsley muttered something low and inaudible, his fleshy face suddenly taut with determination.
Lyle eyed him warily. A noise grumbled somewhere to his left, and he could not help but catch Grumm's sideways glance. He pretended to ignore the warning it contained, but acknowledged it inwardly all the same. For all Walmsley's advancing age, he retained the easy agility of a man much younger. Moreover, the way he drew his sword told of quick reflexes and a man not lacking in confidence. Indeed, the more Lyle saw of Walmsley, the more he thought the older man looked formidable: a leather-faced, compact, bullock of a man, exuding power and vigour.
Walmsley rumbled a challenge, waved him on. The highwayman stepped in. He was taller by a couple of inches, but a deal lighter. As the blade tips touched, tinkling musically, he felt the weight of his opponent push back, forcing him to brace himself as though standing before a great wave. He thought how it must have seemed to the onlookers like a fight between mastiff and whippet.
With a slash, Walmsley swept Lyle's blade aside, lunging straight in with an aggression that might have sent his steel all the way through the younger man's breast had not the whippet been wise to it. The highwayman jumped to his side, forcing himself to laugh contemptuously, though the hisses of his companions spoke of the closeness of the strike.
Walmsley thundered past like a wasp-stung boar, managed to keep his footing and wrenched his thick torso round to meet a counter from his enemy. None came, and he coughed up a wad of phlegm, deposited it at the roadside, and sneered. “What halts you, whelp? Your arrogance finally fades now that you face a real swordsman?”
The highwayman's blade was poised out in front, and he flicked his wrist so that the fine tip jerked. “Come.”
They clashed, a flurry of clanging blows echoing from tree to tree like the song of mechanical birds.
“Were you at Worcester?” Walmsley asked as they parted again. “Or did you hide like the louse you have become?”
“I was,” Lyle said. “And Naseby. And every other damnable place I was sent. My horse was with me, and it took its toll on him too, which is why he must face away for this. He dislikes fighting.”
Walmsley shook his head in bewilderment, while Lyle could have sworn he heard Felicity Mumford laugh.
“I was at all the blood-soaked brabbles,” Lyle went on, “fighting for the Parliament. And what was it all for? King Oliver the First!”
Walmsley's thick neck bulged as he grimaced, affronted by the insult, and he dipped his chin like an enraged stag, bolting forwards once more. The highwayman was again surprised by the bulky fighter's speed, and this time he had to offer a riposte before he could twist away. The weapons met high, crossed, blade sliding against blade in a teeth-aching hiss until hilts clanged.
Walmsley shoved forth, hoping to throw his opponent off balance, but Lyle gave ground willingly, letting the heavier man stumble in like a collapsing wall. They parted again, and this time Walmsley paused, heaving great, face-reddening gasps into labouring lungs. His eyes narrowed, the light of understanding glinting across their surface. He evidently sensed the younger man's game. Remain passive, cool and calm, venture no great attack, and offer no openings. Allow the bigger, older man to expend his energy, all the while defending, deflecting, moving clear.
“Blast you, sir, but you are a slippery knave,” he rasped.
Lyle nodded. “And you a brave old curmudgeon. For that you have my utmost respect, sir, but I cannot allow you to carry this duel.”
“Allow?”
Lyle looked across at Felicity Mumford and winked. “Observe.”
Now he attacked, jabbing and cutting at Walmsley with speed. He saw each gap in the soldier's admittedly robust defences and took his chance, darting the razor tip of his sword through like a striking adder, forcing the rapidly tiring opponent to donate every ounce of strength in protecting his skin, all the while turning circles that would numb his legs as surely as if he ran all the way to London. Eventually, when he could see that Walmsley's face had taken on a purple hue at its edges, Lyle disengaged. “See that I battle with my elbow nicely bent?”
“What of it?” Walmsley blurted, bent double in an effort to coax air into his lungs.
“I use only my forearm to keep you
at bay, while your hot forays drain you like a pistol-shot wine skin.”
Walmsley grimaced. “Damn your impudence!”
“And my leading foot, you will observe, remains fixedly in front, ensuring my movements are made in a single line. Efficiency is key.”
Walmsley attacked again, humiliation perhaps as invigorating as rage, but Lyle parried four ragged diagonal strikes, thrust his own blade along the lower line, as Besnard had taught him, and sent the soldier skittering rearward lest he lose a kneecap.
“You see, Kit,” Lyle said, keeping his tone light, as though sharing some jolly anecdote with an old acquaintance. “May I call you Kit? One must fight to one's strengths. Paramount of which, for my part, are height, speed and stamina. The latter, particularly, will be nicely preserved whilst you hack and snarl your way to exhaustion.” Lyle also reckoned upon his calmly delivered assessment, though entirely accurate, would serve to light a flame beneath the cauldron of Walmsley's rage, compelling him to lose all reason and bow only to furious temper.
The onslaught came as Lyle had expected. Walmsley drew himself to his full height, grasped the beautifully decorated hilt in both hands, and bolted forwards. A thunderous, snarling barrage of blows followed, each one propelled by white-hot fury and each carried on the crest of a wave given force by Walmsley's full weight. Lyle, for all his training, found himself compelled to retreat, for the jarring blows juddered up his fingers and wrist and arm, bludgeoning his shoulder like a cudgel. One of the old soldier's crushing downward thrusts bounced clear of Lyle's blade, only to sail perilously close to his right ear. It startled him into action, and he swayed out of range of the next backhanded swing and stepped smartly inside Walmsley's reach, thumping his hilt into the bullock-like opponent's face. The nose cracked noisily, Walmsley brayed, and blood jetted freely in a fine spray. Lyle came on, unwilling to afford his enemy time to recuperate, and Walmsley blocked his strike desperately, grunting with each move and staring through his new bloody mask with narrow, baleful eyes. A man, Lyle knew, with murder firmly on his mind.
Walmsley fell back suddenly in an effort to throw Lyle off balance, but the highwayman had anticipated the move and went with him, pricking the air before Walmsley's face in a series of staccato thrusts that had his eyes screwed tight as though a swarm of hornets buzzed about them. Walmsley, breathing hard now, gave more ground, slashing his blade in horizontal arcs as though swatting at the head of a leaping dog, all form vanished from his bearing. Lyle bore down swiftly upon him, so he twisted away, turning like a scarlet-cheeked acrobat, and lurched forth in a desperate lunge.
Lyle parried easily, twirled clear himself, and brought the blade down hard in a blow that would have split Walmsley's skull like a hammer against a boiled egg. The soldier blocked but had no riposte to offer, and Lyle let his sword slither along Walmsley's expensive steel, the rasp reverberating up his arm and through his ribcage. The guards met, Walmsley's ornate sword pressing hard against the functional bars of Lyle's weapon. There they stayed for a second or two, steel entwined like silver snakes, before Lyle darted back to break the zinging embrace. He allowed Walmsley to recover his feet. “Have you had enough, sir?”
“Never!” Walmsley snarled. He charged forth, slashing the sword wildly at the highwayman. Lyle parried the first mad blow, ducked below the second, stepped past Walmsley's thrashing body, and lashed the flat of his own blade against the soldier's rump. Walmsley howled, stumbled, and Lyle kicked him square in the back.
The fight had taken them near twenty yards away from the coach, and Samson Lyle paused to check that his captives were still where he had left them. Content, he advanced on his stricken foe. “Do you yield, sir?”
The fight had gone out of Kit Walmsley. He sat on his haunches, peering up at his conqueror, all defiance ebbed away. His round face was still bright with exhaustion, but no longer with rage, and his heavy jowls seemed to sag more than they had before. He tossed his sword away, ignominious defeat complete. “Where did you learn, sir?”
“To fight?” Lyle shrugged. “With the New Modelled Army.”
Walmsley shook his head, beads of sweat showering his shoulders. “To fence.”
Lyle thought back to the hours he had spent in the school of Charles Besnard, learning the great master's forms. The more he had absorbed, the less the memory of Alice had haunted him, and so he had worked day and night. “France. Rennes, to be exact. I did not enjoy exile, I admit, but it had its benefits.”
He flicked Walmsley's sword into the air with his boot and caught it by the hilt, then turned away, leaving the broken man to trudge back to the coach nursing his shattered nose. “Eustace!”
Grumm, waiting patiently with Star and the two bays, looked up. “Major?”
“Is my most esteemed comrade well?”
Grumm patted the huge grey stallion on its dappled flank. “He's as irritable as ever, Major, aye.”
“Good. Now, if you'd be so kind, please see what weighs so heavy in Lord Bed-Presser's pockets.”
“Aye, Major.” Grumm left the animals and moved quickly to where Sir Frederick Mason stood, his face a picture of indignation.
“Major?” Sir Frederick hissed, as Grumm took two purses from about the lawyer's person, both chinking with metal. “You're no officer, for you are no gentleman.”
Grumm chortled. “I never yet seen a gen'lman made by his commission.”
Lyle smiled. “Nor I.”
He watched as Grumm moved swiftly to the rear of the coach and lifted a stout chest free. It was small, but clearly heavy, for Grumm groaned with the weight of it as he set it down. He turned when he sensed Walmsley at his back. “What is it?”
Walmsley glanced at the ornate blade still in Lyle's grip. “You'd leave a soldier without a sword, sir?”
“No, you're quite right, sir,” Lyle agreed, slashing once through the air with the exquisite weapon, revelling in its astonishing balance. He drew his own sword and tossed it to Walmsley. “Enjoy,” he said as he saw the rage come over the soldier again. “That piece of tin has bested many a great swordsman.” He winked. “Including you.” He looked abruptly away, not willing to enter into a discussion with the deflated soldier, and was pleased to discover the new blade fit snuggly into his scabbard.
Retrieving his pistol from Bella, he aimed it at the chest and fired. The crack of the gun echoed about the forest's darkening canopy, rooks and sparrows bursting up into the sky in fright, and the strongbox jumped back, its lid flung violently open in a spray of splinters. He turned to the prisoners even before the smoke had cleared, twisting the pistol's barrel and cocking it once more. “Two shots, remember.” If Walmsley had intended to act, he evidently thought better of it, his gaze searching only his boots, and Lyle grinned broadly at Mason. “Now back in the carriage, Sir Freddy, and keep that blubbery jaw clamped or you shall see me upset.”
Sir Frederick Mason hesitated, for he was incandescent with fury, yet he had seen the easy defeat of his experienced bodyguard and evidently preferred his skin to remain intact. With an almighty sigh, the lawyer waddled back to the vehicle and clambered awkwardly inside.
“Empty the box,” Lyle ordered Bella, who immediately went to the damaged chest, a sack appearing in her hand. He looked at the auburn haired woman who so captivated him. “Miss Mumford?”
Her eyes blazed with indignation. “You'll want my jewels, I suppose, you ruffian.”
Lyle dropped his jaw as though scandalised. “Why, Felicity, we've only just met.” She shot him a withering look, blowing a gust of air through her sharp nose, and he took her hand, guiding her to the coach door and helping her up the single step. He offered a quick bow. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She turned back briefly, dark eyes searching his face. He thought he saw her lips lift in the merest hint of a smile. “I wish I could say the same.”
***
Samson Lyle drew Star to a halt outside the barn. It was becoming dim now, and the old structure looked like
a black rock amongst the trees, but he found its looming fastness reassuring, for they often used the abandoned place to regroup after a raid.
He slid nimbly off the side of the saddle, hitting the ground softly enough, though he felt his knee crack above the squelch of his boots. “Jesu, but I'm getting too old for this.”
“Whereas,” Grumm said as he reined in just behind, “I am still in fine fettle.”
Lyle shot him a withering look. “Then next time, Eustace, you may wield powder and steel, while I shall hold the horses.” There was a gnarled crab-apple tree nearby, its branches bare, clawing at the air like a crone's talons, and he tied Star to its trunk. He lingered for a short while to stroke the large patch of mottled pink skin that blighted the horse's handsome grey flank. The beast snorted irritably. “There there, boy,” Lyle whispered, keeping his tone soft, soothing. “You did me proud as ever.”
Grumm jumped down with an agility that belied his advancing years and brought his big black horse to the tree. “Rest up, Tyrannous.”
Lyle sighed. “Must you call him that?”
“It means tyrant in the Greek,” protested Grumm.
“I know what it means, Eustace,” Lyle said as he checked the weapons held about Star's saddle. He had two pistols - the double-barrelled Dutch piece and a standard flintlock manufactured in London - along with the horseman's hammer he had carried through the civil wars. He tugged on each, ensuring they were firmly in place and always ready for deployment, and glanced up at the old man. “But it sounds ludicrous.”
“What is ludicrous, Major,” Grumm replied hotly, his neck sinews bulging, “is a highwayman with a cowardly and ever-vexed bloody horse!” He planted his hands on his hips. “You need a new mount.”
“I need a new accomplice.”
“I'm serious. His temper worsens by the month.”
Lyle touched his fingertips to the grey's long face, tracing the white diamond that seemed to glow between its eyes in the darkness. Star pressed its muzzle into his palm and he glanced down at the damaged flank. “So would yours if you carried such a wound.”
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 2
