Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

  Grumm removed his hand from the woven basket, stepping back sharply. “What fool keeps bees up here?”

  “The flowers on these slopes are particularly fragrant,” Lyle said. “Produces a wondrous honey.” He closed his eyes, dragging a scrap of schooling from the recesses of his memory. “Leonardo da Vinci once said that the humble bee was a marvel of nature. It gathers its materials from the flowers of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own.”

  “Who’s Daventry?” Grumm asked in evident distaste at the unfamiliar name. “A monk?”

  “A painter, and many more things besides. Long dead, more’s the pity.”

  “Bees are all at winter slumber,” Grumm scoffed, giving the hive’s hard shell a gentle rap with his bony knuckles.

  “Honey bees do not hibernate, Eustace,” Lyle warned, chuckling as Grumm jumped back in alarm. “They cluster to keep warm, but they are not asleep.”

  “Samson?” It was the girl who spoke. Bella was still crouching over the box, but she held up a couple of thick coins, rubbing them between thumb and forefinger. “This do?”

  Lyle nodded. He turned to another corner of the square, where a fourth person loitered. “For the damage, John.”

  The man hovering at the edge of the snow-filled fosse had a balding pate and reedy frame. He flinched as Bella tossed him the money, but caught the coins deftly enough, and nodded his thanks to Lyle. “Pleasure, Major.”

  “Lieutenant Puttock suspects nothing?”

  “Nowt, sir,” John said. “They searched the roads most of the night.”

  Lyle had known they would, which was why he had decided to take the fox tracks through the thick forests and meet at the remains of this old look-out of which only a handful of souls were aware. “And they dwell at your tavern no longer?”

  John shook his head and pocketed the money that would more than compensate him for the destruction wrought by the demon dog. “Buggered off to Midhurst.”

  “Shame-faced and empty-handed,” Eustace Grumm cackled. “He’ll be in the dung by noon.”

  “A shame for Mister Puttock,” Lyle said, for he had liked the young lieutenant, “but he is Goffe’s creature, and I am at war with Goffe.”

  “You are at war with everyone, Major,” Grumm replied.

  Lyle thought about that. Ever since turning his back on Ireton’s mission in Ireland, he had been a hunted man. But then Alice had died. His childhood sweetheart, his goodwife and best friend; beautiful, elegant, wise. She had been trampled under the hooves of the Protectorate’s Ironsides, the same cavalrymen who had once been his comrades, and it was then that prey had become predator. Now it was Lyle, the most feared highwayman in all England, who hunted quarry on the nation’s roads. Lawyers, bureaucrats, tax collectors, politicians and soldiers. Any who performed the duties of a cog in Cromwell’s grand machine. He supposed Grumm was right. It was a war that would never end — but that did not mean he would give up the fight.

  “We have weakened Goffe’s arm,” he said, unwilling to be drawn into Grumm’s game. “It is enough for now.”

  “William Goffe is Major-General of Hampshire, Berkshire and Sussex,” Grumm said. “The iron fist of the Lord Protector. He’ll feel our sting as a bullock feels a tick on its arse.”

  “He hates me, Eustace. Now he’ll hate me even more. A success, to my mind. And how fares the hero of our play?”

  “Just fine,” said Grumm. “The smelly beast has a thick hide.”

  “But you stuck it with something, Eustace,” said Lyle, “or it would hardly have yelped so.”

  Grumm’s thin lips parted to reveal his empty gums. “Holly branch. He barely noticed when I whipped his rump with it, so I raked his undercarriage.”

  Bella laughed. “Did the trick, right enough.”

  “I can imagine it did. Was he well remunerated?”

  The girl wiped her runny nose with a sleeve. “He had a bucket-worth of offal for his trouble, aye.”

  “Then all our cast find their efforts rewarded,” Lyle said, glancing at the innkeeper. “Just as it should be. And my thanks again.”

  “Where to now, Major?” John asked.

  “You know I cannot tell you that.”

  John pulled a hurt expression. “I’d not let slip.”

  “Nor would you, till they yanked the teeth from your jaw.”

  Grumm smacked his gums wetly. “You’d spill by the third.”

  “The second,” Bella added.

  John blanched, swallowed thickly, and offered a shallow bow. “Good health to you all.”

  “You’re a grand fellow!” Lyle called after the innkeeper as his skinny frame vanished into the trees. When the man was gone, he turned to his companions. “Let us remove this loot to a place of safety.”

  “Well?” Bella pressed as she shut the strongbox. She stood, hands on hips. “Where we going?”

  “To market, Bella,” Lyle said. He patted his coat. “The Royal Wardrobe is in dire need of refurbishment.”

  3

  Petersfield, Hampshire, December 1655

  “They house orphans there now,” Eustace Grumm called from the front of the cart.

  They were rumbling into town at a slow lick, careful to watch for lingering gazes. The snow down here, in the valley between the southern chalk hills and northern clay ridge, had all but gone, turning the roads to slush-swamped morass, and a thick spray flung up from the wheels to leave a brown haze in their wake.

  “Orphans?” Samson Lyle replied from his seat at the rear. He alone wore a cowl to disguise his face, for he alone bore the risk of recognition. The others covered their features during a robbery so that they could live in peace when the sun was up.

  “At the Royal Wardrobe,” Grumm answered, lifting himself a fraction to scratch his rump. “Since the king lost his bonce.”

  “Best use for it.”

  “Did you ever see it, Samson?” Bella asked, sitting opposite Lyle in the main body of the jolting vehicle, legs drawn up to her chest against the cold.

  Lyle tugged back his hood a touch, peering into the bright green eyes that peeked above the sharp rise of the girl’s bony knees. “The king’s head? Aye. A gruesome thing.”

  Bella’s freckled nose creased deeply. “Samson,” she protested. “The Royal Wardrobe, I meant.”

  “Aye,” Lyle said. “Near Blackfriars, as I recall. My troop was billeted nearby for a time.”

  Bella tilted back her head to stare at the bilious grey clouds, then swept her gaze across the line of shops and homes that flanked the High Street. “Imagine it,” she said wistfully as the cart slowed to negotiate the way through a gaggle of angry geese being driven by a small boy toting a large stick. “Packed to the rafters with finery. Silks and satins, feathers and frills.”

  “Not no longer,” Grumm called from the front. “Now tis packed with London’s urchins!” He spat over the side. “The world turned on its head, an’ no mistake!”

  “For the good, Eustace,” Lyle chided.

  Grumm cackled nastily. “Only a bleedin’ Roundhead would drool such nonsense.”

  “And only a Cornish Cavalier could be so blinkered.”

  “I was never no Cavalier, Major, and you knows it. But that don’t make me no Roundhead neither.” They went deeper into the town and the traffic became dense as folk thronged towards the market. “Roundheads,” Grumm muttered. “Brutes, the lot.”

  “Saith the smuggler.”

  “To feed my family, Major!” Grumm argued as he steered the cart through a dozen heavily laden pack horses.

  “To feed yourself, you old liar.”

  Grumm twisted round, face tight. “Cut me to the quick, you do,” he hissed. A pair of horsemen cantered past on mud-spattered mounts, and he eyed them furtively. They doffed hats and went on their way, leaving Grumm to fix Lyle with a caustic stare. “Christ, Major, but keep your bliddy hood on!”

  Lyle swept out an arm to indicate the thronging streets. “The town is
to a vagabond what the greenwood once was. A maze of anonymity.”

  “A snake pit of danger,” was Grumm’s retort.

  “A warren of refuge and opportunity,” Lyle countered coolly, though he could not deny the quickening pace of his heart.

  “Delirious,” the Cornishman muttered in exasperation. He worries at the tangled strands of his beard. “Every man to lay eyes on you is trouble, you damned fool. Bella and I may be seen, for we cover our faces when we... work... but you let your victims bear witness to their persecutor. Christ, man, but your face is known and there is a price on it.”

  “It adds to the legend.”

  “It allows the more fragrant among them to swoon before the dashing high lawyer, once friend to the Protector, now his nemesis.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Arrogance.”

  “We arrive,” Bella cut in, craning her head over the side of the wagon to feast wide eyes upon the bustling market that juddered into view.

  Grumm blew a blast of air through his nose. “Just keep your hood on and your head down, Major, that is all I ask.”

  The market place itself was set in the open space in front of a large church. It was the fulcrum of the town, its beating heart, crammed with traders and fringed with steam-wreathed livestock pens. Lyle tightened his cloak, ensuring his hood covered his features, and alighted from the vehicle. He helped Bella down, went to join Grumm, and the trio moved quickly into the crowd, crossing through the ring of enclosures. Beyond the cattle, sheep and pigs were the tradesmen, standing sentry beside stalls piled high with wares of every kind. They stamped feet against the cold as white vapour spilled from mouths that bellowed competing slogans to the bustling crowd. Around them, weaving through the throng, were the sellers with barrow and basket. Warreners with skinned conies and cordwainers with fine shoes, hawkers pushing strips of ribbon, scraps of lace, sugar plums, and tallow candles. There were baker boys jostling for custom with itinerant apothecaries, fishermen touting the latest catch, and pie sellers hoping the waft of hot mutton and pastry would prove enticement enough.

  “What’ll you buy, Bella?” Lyle asked. “It is deserved. The pooch was demonic indeed.”

  She grinned. “Viper broth.”

  Lyle looked down at her. “Boiled adder guts?”

  “Amongst other things,” she sniffed. “It preserves a woman’s beauty.”

  Eustace Grumm interrupted with a hacking cackle. “You ain’t yet a woman.”

  Bella rounded on him. “And you ain’t no man, you old weasel.”

  “Peace, peace,” Lyle interceded, trying not to laugh. A grubby-faced lad of five or six snaked between them, and he slapped the boy’s probing hand sharply, sending the would-be pickpocket scurrying into the multitude. He turned back to Bella. “You are not yet grown, child, whether you welcome the fact or no. When I took you into my household you were no older than that brazen cut-purse.”

  Bella eyed the gap in the crowd that had swallowed the urchin. “That was five year gone,” she protested indignantly.

  “And drinking so noxious a brew,” he persisted, “will see that you never reach majority.” He knew his right to admonish her was forfeit the moment he had embroiled her in his criminal career. She was wise beyond her years, of course. Before Lyle had interrupted the life of the girl then named Dorothy Forks, she had been used and abused by any man with coin and a taste for childlike flesh. After joining his motley band, she had become the landlady of an alehouse by day and the accomplice of a notorious highwayman by night. Such an existence would corrupt even the most lily-white innocence. And yet Lyle could barely stave off the paternal urge that so irked his hot-tempered ward. “Viper wine is pure poison.”

  Bella looked as though she might argue, but made do with a theatrical sigh instead. “A dress then.”

  “Fine and well.”

  “You?”

  Lyle glanced down at his clothes. “A new shirt.” He winked at the girl and addressed Grumm, holding up his forearm. “Some handsome fringe at the cuffs, yes?”

  Grumm pulled a sour face. “Christ, Major, but you’re as dandy as Prince Rupert.”

  “Never compare me to that scoundrel,” Lyle answered. “The Duke of Plunderland is long vanquished, and good riddance to him.”

  Bella cooed like a dove. “He is the most handsome man in all the world, so they say.”

  “And a good Cavalier,” Grumm, a Royalist sympathiser like most of his fellow Cornishmen, whispered in deliberate needling.

  “And do they say,” Lyle said to Bella, “how many men went to their deaths at his hand? Do they speak of the hangings? Of the sackings? Of the destruction of Bolton and its people?” He felt heat pulse at his cheeks, saw the girl visibly balk, and was instantly ashamed. He extended a hand, which she shied from. “I apologise. I am a Roundhead of old. I shed blood to rid this land of that German poltroon and his cronies.”

  Bella nodded, smiled tentative acceptance, and they pushed on. Lyle bought three pies, handing one each to Bella and Grumm, and went deeper into the throng. Stray dogs slunk between the makeshift alleys, sniffing the ground and hunting for edible scraps. A group of children ran past a stack of cages, clattering the wicker bars with sticks to the incensed chorus of squawking hens within. Loosed feathers billowed madly as the irate chicken farmer spewed threats at the backs of the giggling gang who were already well clear of his vengeful grasp.

  Voices beckoned from all quarters, silky suggestions writhing in the cold air with abrasive bellows. “Here, good fellows!” one shouted. “The best price anywhere in the county!”

  “Eels!” another brayed. “Fresh eels, caught this very dawn!”

  But Lyle had eyes only for one place. Petersfield prospered on the back of the wool trade and, as such, the lion’s share of coin changed hands at the centre of the trading space, where there was a dense cluster of stalls owned by cloth merchants. There were raw fleeces too, and haphazard sconces constructed of wool packs, but the cloth, produced by expert weavers in the surrounding villages, was the driving force of the town’s economy. As Lyle moved closer he was compelled to squeeze between men of the finer sort, wealthy merchants, stylishly upholstered, servants buzzing at their backs like so many flies. Many were foreigners, come from the Low Countries to do business now that the fetters of the Dutch wars had been cast off. Some would have bodyguards close at hand, so he kept his eyes sharp and darting within their veiling shadow, always alive to danger. He eased his way to one of the tables, stacked high with bolts in various shades.

  “I will buy if you will sew,” he said to Bella, handing Grumm his heavy purse. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Ah, Master Brown!” a man exclaimed in a voice that swept across them like a sudden gale. He came from the nearest stall, a hugely fat trader, sweating in spite of the cold, scattering bodies like a bullock amongst reeds, and made his way directly to the old man at Lyle’s side. “Fare you well?”

  “Well enough, Master Tincey, aye,” Grumm managed to reply as the man clasped his shoulders in an embrace that reminded Lyle of a bear savaging a whippet.

  The fat man turned red jowls and bright eyes upon Bella. “And young Mistress Lucy. You assist your uncle as best you can?” He winked. “The tavern will not thrive without you, I am certain.”

  Bella winked back. “My great uncle would forget where the Red Lion was without me, sir, so addled is his ancient mind.”

  Grumm wriggled loose. “Why, you cheeky...”

  Tincey brayed, slapping Grumm’s shoulder with a meaty paw. He glanced sideways at Lyle. “And is this lummox still of use?”

  “He may have the wit of a mosquito,” Grumm answered with unconcealed relish, “but he can shovel dung like a titan. Works hard for his scraps. Knows he’ll receive a few more for Christmas, though the authorities would stifle celebration.”

  Tincey frowned. “Vulgar holy days have no warrants in the Word of God, Master Brown.”

  “He is right, Uncle John,” B
ella chided.

  Grumm’s leathery face creased sourly. “I will let you fast, Master Tincey, if you would only let me feast.”

  Tincey laughed again, unwilling to let the argument impinge upon business. Instead he performed an ostentatious half-turn, sweeping a brawny arm towards his wares. “Shall we?”

  Bella was already at the table, rummaging through the bolts, placing one against the next as she assessed colour and texture. “This one, this one and...” she squinted at three examples of intricate lacework, jabbing one with a finger, “this one.”

  Tincey’s small team of adherents rushed forwards to help, but the merchant dismissed them with a wave. He gathered the cloths himself, holding the first out for Lyle to take. “Goffe’s men are in town, Major.”

  They were close, Tincey and Lyle, for the former had not released the item, tugging instead to draw Lyle nearer. “Where?” Lyle hissed.

  “The big house behind me,” Tincey said, not looking round.

  Lyle let his hooded gaze drift beyond his old friend’s ear to take in the impressive edifice of a two-storied home built in rich red brick. It dominated the south-west angle of the market place, wide mullioned windows frozen in melancholy stare below bushy ivy brows, as if the house itself spied on proceedings. “Then we must be swift. What else?”

  Tincey shrugged. “What do you imagine General Goffe considers in so dreary a season?”

  “Warmth,” Lyle answered. “And provisions, of course.” A caught a flicker of something cross the merchant’s expression. “He must keep his soldiers alive and happy.”

  Tincey nodded. “Quite.”

  “The burden of being lord of Hampshire, Sussex and Surrey,” Lyle said wryly. “Poor creature.”

  “And to ensure his soldiers will last the winter, what must he master?”

  Lyle shrugged, nonplussed. “Tell.”

  The broad canvas of Tincey’s face wrinkled in a conspiratorial smirk. “Preservation.”

  “Salt?”

  “Salt indeed. And from whence will this salt come?”