Two such criminals pushed their wagon through the snow, inching it into the roadside some seventy paces to the north of the building. They had released the roan mare, Newt, so that they might use the vehicle as a shield against attack, and now, as the daylight began its slow ebb, they were distant enough to be out of realistic range of Amberley’s muskets. Lyle would take no chances, and thus, to the tune of the Cornishman’s incessant grumbling, had set their own animals back in the protective embrace of a gargantuan elm and pushed the vehicle by manpower alone for the final yards.
“When we complete our trade,” Lyle said, crouching behind one of the wagon’s big wheels, “you must take yourselves far away from here.”
“She is lost to us,” Grumm, beside him, hissed bitterly. “We must put her from our minds.”
Lyle chuckled softly. “You do not mean that.”
Grumm sighed. “No, I do not.” He thumped his own thigh. “God damn her recklessness. A girl should not partake in such work.”
“You would hardly have been able to scamper across those barrels, Eustace,” Lyle chided gently.
“I’d have managed,” Grumm retorted hotly. The snow was falling in thick sheets, muffling his voice as it had their footsteps. “And without prancing about that cart like a bliddy June chough. She has put herself in the dung, an’ no mistake. Brazen, snot-nosed little dell.”
“Brazen she is,” Lyle agreed. An image of the girl when first he had encountered her fluttered through his mind. She had been six or seven years old. Embarking on a whore’s life to survive, beaten onto that path by an avaricious man with a black heart and a gnarled cane. Lyle had cracked that infamous cane across its owner’s skull and plucked little Dorothy Forks from the only life she knew, and she had not left his side since. He had gained the most loyal friend, and she had bestowed upon herself a new name and a new career. He could not help but smile. “And brave.”
“What good is bravery when they have seen her face?” Grumm replied. “We are lost.”
“Not so,” Lyle said, keeping his eyes on the cottage.
“Not so? This...” Grumm waved an emaciated hand as he tried to conjure the right word, “this... myth we have created. The Ironside Highwayman, wronged by his former masters, hell-bent on revenge for a lost life, attacking the machinery of State from his brigand’s paradise. It thrives purely on our guises; mine and Bella’s. You only exist because you may hide in the Red Lion, secure in the knowledge that we who play characters of taverner and serving wench are never seen at our shadow work.” He flicked at the dirty folds of the scarf about his throat. “Our faces remain concealed so that we may continue our pretence of uncle and niece, landlord and ward. Now it is gone. The veil quite literally torn away.”
“The convoy guards have seen her,” Lyle conceded. “But Amberley and his party are not local men.”
“They are Goffe’s men.”
“Goffe controls three counties in Cromwell’s name. He has many men. Our pretence is not lost, and nor is the Red Lion.”
Grumm looked poised to argue further, but evidently thought better of it, for instead he leaned closer to the wheel, pressing his bearded face up against the spokes. “Why hide?” he asked. All around them the snow was filling the undulations of a thaw-churned earth and settling in glistening beauty upon every naked branch. “The two of us against the eight of them? Nine, if you count that bastard carter. They would shred us like rags on a harrow.”
“At what cost?” replied Lyle. He could see movement within the cottage, wraiths sliding within the sepulchral heart, but nothing discernible. And no sign of the girl. “If Amberley gets himself shot then how will he collect his prize? Besides, he fears the snow.”
“He can discard his wagon now,” Grumm scoffed.
“Aye, thanks to Bella. But the snow lies deep. The journey to Buriton would take time on foot, tempting an ambush.”
“Then what will he do? Sit there all winter?”
“Will you come to me, Major Lyle?” a voice called suddenly, cutting across Lyle’s intended reply. “The girl will not be harmed!”
Lyle exchanged a glance with Grumm, then squinted through the spokes to ascertain the speaker’s position. “And then what, Lieutenant? You have rope enough to hang me?”
“No, sir!” was Amberley’s bellowed response. “To Petersfield with you, for just and fair trial!”
“You cower in your crumbling castle from just two men, yet you would bravely drag me all the way to Petersfield? You will still feel lead in your back, sirrah, I guarantee you that!” At his flank, Eustace Grumm muttered grisly agreement.
“You dissemble, sir!” Amberley called. “Let us get this business done with! Come hither and we will exchange one brigand for another!”
Grumm placed a hand on Lyle’s elbow. “He plans to take you captive but not string you up? He will not risk the journey to Petersfield, you said so yourself. He lies, Major. He can hardly sit there, in that dank shack, and await spring! No, he plans to lure you in, then stretch your neck.”
Lyle considered the assertion, but somehow it did not ring true. He shook his head. “To claim my quiet death will not be nearly so rewarding as to haul me before a magistrate in chains. Amberley would see his star rise, and for that he needs pomp, he needs circumstance, and he needs a warm body; my body, to dangle where all might see. The good folk of Petersfield must witness the piss drip from my boots and all will know who to laud.”
“Then?”
“Then he knows something we do not.” Lyle stared at the old cottage. Nothing appeared to stir therein. The snow kept coming, blurring the view. “They expect him at Buriton,” he said eventually. “He knows Maddocks will come searching.”
“Or p’raps he is already there?” Grumm ventured. “We’ve gambled the convoy would be reinforced at Petersfield. What if we got it wrong? What if the Mad Ox is closer than we thought?”
Lyle looked at the Cornishman, a dread pang settling in his guts as he met the blue eyes. “You are right. He does not await the thaw, Eustace. He awaits rescue.”
6
Bella watched the lieutenant closely. He was nervous, for his left eye trembled gently at one corner. “How old are you?”
Amberley looked back at her from his position to the side of the window. “Nineteen,” he replied brusquely. “What matter is it?”
“None,” she shrugged. “The Major is just seven years your senior.”
“And?”
“He has seen a great many battles.”
The muscles of Amberley’s lean face tightened, but he chose to stifle whatever retort had come to mind. Instead he turned away, staring out into the afternoon murk. “The coward lost his nerve. He scuttled into the trees like a frightened fawn.”
Bella was seated on the floor at the rear of the room, legs drawn up to her chest. She propped her chin between her kneecaps. “He will come for me.”
Amberley nodded. “You had better pray that he does.” He was clutching his partisan, which he levelled at Bella. “And you will go in his stead.”
“You are mistaken. There will be none left behind but you and your men.”
The musketeers — poised with weapons at the edges of the ancient home — did not bother to stifle their amusement. Amberley smiled too. “The mistake is yours, little mistress.”
Bella looked around the room. “Why do you hide from him? You have so many weapons.”
“I am not a monster, girl. The exchange must take place, be it bloodless or no, but I would rather the latter. No one ought die in this godforsaken wood.”
“But one must die in Petersfield marketplace, the life choked out of him as the townsmen gape and giggle?”
“Lyle is a criminal.”
“He is a good man. His only crime was to refuse Ireton’s bidding.”
“You know nothing,” Amberley said bitterly.
“The Major was a hero,” she persisted. She took the scarf, still knotted at the nape of her neck, and lifted the folds to wipe
snowflakes away from her face. “A true Roundhead. An Ironside. He fought at Naseby, at Preston and Dunbar and Worcester.”
Amberley looked as though he would argue, but instead he twisted his thin mouth, a thought apparently sparking in his mind. Eventually he asked, “Is it true what they say of his horse? That it will no longer suffer a fight?”
“You disgust me, sir,” Bella retorted angrily. “Fascinated by the very legend you strive to destroy.”
Amberley looked genuinely affronted; hurt, even. He lowered the pole-arm and stepped closer, boots smearing black tracks through the thin dusting of snow that had come through the jagged roof. “I was merely...”
“The poor beast,” Bella interrupted softly, “was grievous wounded at Worcester Fight, where the tyrant king’s son finally tasted defeat. The animal cannot abide gunfire.”
Amberley was clearly startled by his captive’s sudden softening, but chose not to press the issue. “Then why does Lyle abide the horse?”
“As I said, he is a good man,” Bella replied. In truth, she had seen a boy. In Amberley’s crestfallen expression, in his hurt at her rebuff. In that moment she knew he was no match for Lyle. “A kind man.” She felt her expression tighten a touch as she considered those who would dance a jig upon Lyle’s grave, given half a chance. “What do they say about him? Out there, in the world.”
Amberley shrugged. “That Ireland turned him into a craven rogue. That he shrank from blood. That he deserted his post.”
“They did slaughter in Ireland, sir,” she said. “He was a soldier, not a butcher. He refused the orders and was hounded out of the New Modelled Army for his conscience. Do the poisoned tongues wag of his goodwife? How she was killed by Ireton’s riders?”
“There was no proof of malice in that.”
“Is that what they say?”
Amberley’s shoulders tensed and he spun away, growling, “He is outside the law, girl, and that is all that matters.” He reached the window and glanced back, eyes dark in the shadow of his hat. “He will give himself up and I will free you. And if he tarries any longer, we will simply take him without an exchange.”
Bella laughed, shaking her head with a deliberate look of sympathy. “You will struggle from in here.”
Now it was Amberley’s turn to seem amused. “It is not I who will capture him, little mistress. I will simply wait.” His thin mouth spread in a slow smile as he let the implication settle. “Oh, I would see the barter done, by my word. If the brigand will give himself up, then you will be released, and I will assuage the shame of losing the salt. But there is a company of dragooners awaiting us at Buriton.”
“Buriton?” she echoed softly, her stomach twisting with the word.
“You supposed we would be alone until Petersfield?” He tutted, like a schoolmaster admonishing an errant student. “Sadly not. They will soon be here, searching for us. Lyle should ride away while he still can. But, of course, we both know he will not.”
7
Buriton, Hampshire, December 1655
Dusk turned the village slate-grey. On its main road, a horseman in polished plate and oiled leather drew his steed to a stop twenty yards ahead of the rest of his mounted company. He patted the animal’s vapour-wreathed neck with a gauntleted hand and removed his helm. Long hair — sweat-matted and black — tumbled like a silver-flecked fountain about his shoulders, and his grey eyes speared the nervous man who had scuttled to his bridle. “Where is my salt?”
The villager flinched at the stentorian tone. “M’lord?”
Colonel Francis Maddocks sucked impatiently at his front teeth. “Salt. There is a convoy out of Hayling Island. A large consignment bound for the garrison at Winchester.”
“Ain’t seen it, m’lord.”
“It was due to arrive here some hours ago.”
The man eyed the huge horse anxiously, as if the beast would twist back to bite him at any second. “Roads are spoilt, m’lord.”
Maddocks wrenched the horse away abruptly, sending the villager skittering back to the road’s edge. He fished in his saddlebag as an officer wearing the same saffron-coloured scarf cantered out from the troop. “Cardamom.”
The officer frowned. “Sir?”
Maddocks held out a flattened palm, in which nestled a pale green pod. “From the East Indies. Praise God for peace with the Dutch, eh?”
“Praise God, sir, aye,” the officer answered dubiously. “You... cook them?”
“Break the pods, thusly,” Maddocks said, splitting open the thin, papery outer shell with thumb and forefinger, and tipping the contents onto his tongue, “and chew the seeds.”
“To what end, sir?”
“A man’s breath is revived, Captain,” Maddocks said as he chewed, the intense flavour filling his mouth and cascading to the back of his throat so that water pricked at his eyes. “And other things. You are a widower, correct?”
“My wife fell to an ague last spring.”
“Then you must partake. They say many a bonny maiden has found herself drawn to its aroma.”
“I’d rather trust in the Lord, sir,” the captain balked piously, glancing by instinct up at the jagged outline of the church that dominated the village centre, dark behind the tumbling snowfall. “He will provide.”
“Perhaps it is the lord’s work that cardamom finds its way to Petersfield,” Maddocks countered archly. “But the fact remains that such commodities are the life’s blood of a nation. Trade and commerce are how this great Commonwealth will thrive. Now let us consider another commodity due to grace our fair town.”
“The salt should be here, Colonel. That was the agreed schedule.” The captain pursed his lips as he considered the conspicuous absence. “But what with the snow...”
“Snow?” Maddocks cut in. “Or enemies of the state?”
The captain frowned behind the bars of his helmet. “We took substantial precaution, sir.”
“And what, pray, constitutes substantial?”
“A squad of firelocks, sir. Eight, including the officer. He would not...”
“No?” Maddocks paused to pick a speck of cardamom seed from between his front teeth. “Need I remind you of the tavern up at Priors Dean? How many men did the fiend deceive? Thirty? More? That is why we freeze to the marrow in this wretched little backwater. Why I am compelled to deal personally with this business. General Goffe is none too pleased with the loss of the Midhurst garrison pay. I cannot risk another failure.”
“He would not hit the salt convoy. It is small beer by comparison.”
“It is just this unpredictability that makes him dangerous, Captain.” Maddocks thrust his own helmet atop his head, tucking back the hair and fastening the strap tightly. “He would rob a coach as soon as loot a castle.”
The captain blew out his cheeks. “Major Lyle is an enigma, that is for certain.”
“Never afford him the courtesy of rank in my presence,” Maddocks snarled, the sudden ferocity making his subordinate’s horse skitter sideways across the filthy road. “I knew him before his fall from grace. He is never to be underestimated. Not ever.”
“I apologise, sir,” the captain blurted as he desperately tried to bring his animal under control.
Maddocks waved the man away, taking up his own reins and signalling to the waiting dragoons with a barked order. “Perhaps the snow has delayed Lieutenant Amberley,” he muttered to himself, “and perhaps not.” He looked at the captain. “Let us ride south and discover the truth of it.”
8
Gravel Bottom, Hampshire, December 1655
Night was drawing in quickly, making the fat flakes glow as they wafted from the pregnant clouds. The trees at either side of the road had all but vanished, swallowed by the encroaching realm of darkness.
Samson Lyle could barely discern Gravel Bottom Cottage as he made his approach. He had elected to remain armed in the circumstances, jamming plenty of wadding into both of his belted pistol’s barrels so that the bullets would not fall out. He rest
ed his left hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on his heavy war-hammer. His pulse raced, rushing in his ears.
“Are you ready, Amberley?” he called as he halted sixty paces from the shack. No lights flickered within, reminding him that the soldiers bore flintlock muskets. They were unlikely, he hoped, to be concealed within the depths of the forest, for he had watched the old shack intently during the fading light, but still he found himself wishing Amberley’s men possessed the old-style muskets where permanently lit match-cords would mark each man out at nightfall.
“Approach!” Amberley’s disembodied voice came in reply.
Lyle’s throat burned with a jet of bile. At this range the musketeers would do well to pinpoint him, especially in the dark, but he had seen plenty of lucky shots in his time. He swallowed hard, bit down on the urge to turn tail, and stepped forth. “I am here, do you see?”
“You took your time, sir!”
“A doomed man has matters to put in order! I am here now! Send her out, and I will come freely!”
“You think me a fool?” Amberley shouted. “First come to the cottage, Lyle, and I will release her!”
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 14
