Lyle went closer by ten crunching strides. He could smell smoke now. “I was at Basing House, you know.”
Amberley finally showed his face as he moved to stand beneath the lintel of the open doorway. He held his partisan, leaning casually against its shaft, and spat at the ground. “That bastion of popery is long crumbled, Praise God.”
“I was there when the flames took hold,” Lyle said, just managing to discern the black muzzles of half a dozen muskets emerge from the windows. If Amberley wanted it, he would be eviscerated in moments. “An accident, though the malignants do not believe it. We eventually took the place by storm.”
“Common knowledge.”
“But before that, Colonel Dalbier made an ingenious attempt to draw them out.”
“Blather, sir. This is not a coffee club.”
Lyle ignored him. “He had bales of wet straw lit, so that the smoke slewed across the battlements. And the straw was laced with arsenic and brimstone, so that the nature of the fog was most noxious.”
Amberley hissed an exasperated oath. He opened his mouth to speak, but held the breath, and Lyle knew that the scent of smoke had reached him too. The young officer hesitated, utterly thrown. He peered out from the cottage, craning his neck to search the abyss for the tell-tale flicker of flame. What he saw was thick smog, swirling at head height from the forest’s wild heart. It was yellow against the snow, cloaking against the night, and it rolled with the slight breeze from infernos unseen to swirl about the tumbledown building with curling, probing fingers.
Lyle thanked God for the breeze and Eustace Grumm for the fire. He breathed in the aroma, revelling in the rich smoke that he knew carried no poison. But Amberley did not know, and Lyle was laughing as panicked voices rattled in the night. “Arsenic and brimstone, Lieutenant!” he shouted, retreating a short distance, lest fear made them eager on the trigger. “A bitter brew indeed!”
Amberley was at the gaping doorway again. “You cannot mean it, Lyle! You will poison your little punk as you poison us! No, sir, it is bluff and bluster!”
“Is that so?”
“You’ll not scare me so easily, blackguard!”
“Your choice!” Lyle called, the smoke beginning to screen him. “Either way, Lieutenant, you and your men cannot huddle in your nest like so many ants!” He was on the move now, keeping low, running close to the haloed shack and cupping his hands to his mouth to bellow, “The men of experiment are like the ant, are they not? They only collect and use! Bella! Do you hear me? They only collect and use?”
*
Bella Sparks, still crouching at gunpoint in the rearmost recess of the building, drew her heavy hood up and over her scalp. “Gathers its materials from the flowers of the garden,” she said, “and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own.”
Lieutenant Amberley was pacing like a caged animal, unsure of what to do. He paused, glowering. “Have you a fever, girl?”
She gathered up the folds of her scarf and lifted it across her face. “It is da Vinci.”
“Vinci?”
“Leonardo da Vinci,” she said calmly, voice muffled by the cloth. “Said the men of experiment were like ants. But bees? Well, it seems he liked ‘em a lot, did old Leo. So does the Major.”
Amberley stalked across the room, skewering her with his eyes. “Speak plainly, girl, or so help me God, I will...”
“The smoke, Lieutenant.” She rose to her feet. The poised muskets twitched, their owners looking to Amberley for instruction. She pulled her sleeves down over her hands, so that the only patch of skin now exposed was the narrow slash surrounding her eyes. “It is not so much bluff, as distraction.”
“Distraction?” Amberley hissed.
“Buzz buzz, Lieutenant.” For the first time she looked up at the open roof, its splintered maw filled with oak branches. “Now, Eustace! Now!”
9
Eustace Grumm was not a brawny man, but he had spent decades smuggling contraband goods from Clovelly into the Cornish mainland, and that had lent him something of a knack for handling unwieldy loads. Lyle’s suggestion had brought his dissent, naturally, on the grounds that the objects he had once hauled into caves and up cliff faces had been sacks and bushels, rather than domed sculptures covered in dried dung and filled with bees, but the plan, in the execution, had not proven as difficult as he had imagined. Now, as he lay flat like some gigantic lizard across one of the oak branches that formed the snow-dusted ceiling of Gravel Bottom Cottage, he used a large knife to cut through the ropes which harnessed a hogshead against his spine.
Grumm had taken Bella’s cart, emptying it of all but a single barrel and hitched his black gelding, Tyrannous, out front. He had gathered up the robust sheet that had once protected the army salt shipment, and plunged through the snow and the tangled undergrowth, climbing the hangers until he had located the regular lines of mossy stone that marked out the ancient fort which had been their rendezvous some days before. He found the skeps in situ, resting on their timber perch beneath the shelter of the exposed root ball, and, after selecting the largest, he had torched wet hay to smoke the bees to docility. Then he had blocked their entrance hole with rags and carefully lifted the dome of woven straw from its wooden base. It was heavier than he had imagined, though he supposed much of the weight was due to the cowcloome caked on its outer surface. The concoction of manure and clay protected the straw hive against the elements, and had dried hard as rock, and it took a great deal of effort to lift the thing while keeping his movements smooth so as not to rouse and enrage the creatures within. Then he lowered the skep into the waiting hogshead, jammed the thick oiled sheet over it so as to smother any escape, and loaded the vessel onto the cart. As dusk had arrived at Gravel Bottom, so had Eustace Grumm.
The barrel hitch, expertly fastened by a master in the dark arts of smuggling, was quickly released, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, the hogshead toppled. It plummeted into the very centre of the room, staves smashing apart, leaping out of the iron hoops as the barrel splintered. The soldiers reeled instinctively away, but swung their weapons round to fire upon this unexpected intruder, their shots ringing like mortars in the confined space. The sulphurous stink of powder-smoke filled the cottage, rising in a thick pall, and for a moment Grumm could not see a thing. With pounding chest he called Bella’s name, and was relieved to hear her muffled reply.
He waited, braced himself. There was nothing but eerie silence. He swore viciously, knowing all had gone awry. Voices began to break the calm, orders given and received in the gloom below, men making sense of what had happened as their collective vision began to return. Smoke still roiled manically, and Grumm prayed the acrid smog had not dampened the bees’ ire. But then he heard it. Faint at first, but persistent for all that. A hum, low and constant, like waves on a shore. Then he realised that it was not like a tide at all. It was like a thousand bees emerging into a confined chamber.
The voices were growing louder now, but they were also becoming shrill with rising panic. The skep had broken. The bees, finally, had come.
Grumm disentangled himself from the rope and slung it over the broad bough, fastening a fool-proof knot as he shouted for Bella to make her move. The soldiers were beginning to shriek as the noise of the bees overwhelmed all. They were evidently as angry as Lyle had predicted, and woe betide the enemy they would first encounter.
The rope jerked taut, creaked loudly, and there, out of the thinning mist, was Bella Sparks, only her eyes exposed to the risk of stings. Below her was a world of chaos, of men flapping wildly at swirling black smudges that cascaded about their heads. They pushed and shoved their way out of the building, braying like whipped cattle and shedding garments every few paces.
Grumm held out his hand. Bella gripped him hard, let him take some of her weight, and together they dragged her up onto the sturdy branch. They let the rope fall away, and slithered back towards the trunk without a word.
*
Samson Lyle waited for Lieutenant Amber
ley at the front of the cottage. He did not wait long.
The soldiers came first, scrambling out into the snow to flap wildly at the angry bees swarming about their heads. They cared nothing for him. Barely even noticed his presence in their desperation to flee.
But Amberley froze. He had tumbled out over the cracked threshold, flailing like a madman, hat and partisan long discarded in the melee, and then he had looked up into Lyle’s green gaze, and the bees had suddenly meant nothing. “You,” the lieutenant managed to say, his throat constricted by simple fury, “have caused me such woe, villain.” In a flash his sword was free of its scabbard.
“You insult me yet again, sirrah,” Lyle said. “Do you never learn?” He glanced pointedly over both shoulders. “Seems as though you are abandoned.”
Amberley swallowed thickly, raising the blade. “I will run you through.”
A distant rumble rolled from somewhere to the north. Lyle did not risk a look behind, keeping his eyes firmly on Amberley’s, but he knew the provenance by instinct. “Be brief, sirrah, for I must depart.”
“Major!” the voice of Eustace Grumm, shrill with alarm, rent the snow-stifled air. “Horses!”
The approach of heavy horses bearing heavily armed men was a sound ingrained upon Lyle’s heart and mind. He dragged his own blade free, lifted it to acknowledge Grumm, who would be waiting with Bella, and then levelled the weapon, beckoning the younger man to test him.
Amberley lurched forwards, raising his blade high, slashing down in a crushing arc that would have cleaved Lyle’s skull in half had he not parried. Lyle slid away, aiming low with a jab designed to test his opponent’s reflexes. Amberley met it well, turned it away from his thigh, but his breathing was already laboured, and Lyle lunged thrice at his face with vicious slashes that sent the officer staggering rearward out of range.
The noise of hoof-beats was growing louder. Lyle could hear Grumm and Bella calling to him, urging him to leave. Amberley was panting, still holding his sword high in challenge, malevolent stare blazing beyond the curling hilt, framed by brown hair that was now dishevelled and darkly matted with sweat.
Lyle twitched his own sword. “This is a Pappenheimer, named for the German count who made popular its style.”
“What of it?” Amberley rasped.
“You are not worthy to face it, Lieutenant,” Lyle said levelly, keeping his knees slightly bent, his elbow gently flexed. He turned the hilt so that the watery moonlight glittered over the symmetrical shell guards. “See here? Decorated by a master craftsman. The shapes are hearts and stars.”
Amberley reacted as Lyle had hoped, launching himself forth like a crazed bullock. Teeth bared in a snarl, he lashed his sword in ever wilder arcs, murderous in their intent but loose in form. Lyle ducked under one sweep, stepped round another, and parried the last so forcefully that Amberley was knocked clean off his stride. As his boots slid, Lyle stepped close, slicing clean through Amberley’s saffron scarf with his rapier’s razor point. Amberley tried to retreat further, but could not avoid the solid pommel that crunched into his nose, shattering the slender bone in a gush of steaming blood.
“That is for threatening Bella,” Lyle said, letting his enemy recoil, and using the respite to clean the hilt on his coat. “You see the pommel is sculpted into the shape of a mushroom? Beautiful, is it not?” He threw Amberley a half-smile. “Heavy, though.”
Amberley spat a thick gobbet of gelatinous blood. “Traitor!” He rolled and squared his shoulders, ignoring the pain that must surely have been lancing through his head, and went forward again.
Lyle parried the oncoming blade easily, laughing with deliberate scorn, and flickered the tip of his rapier at the sides of Amberley’s head like a gigantic silvery tongue. Amberley stumbled backwards, his chest heaving, eyes like twin moons, and raised a hand instinctively to check if he still had ears. “Traitor,” he said again, though his voice was barely more than a whisper now. “Your bitch died for your perfidy.”
“Come,” Lyle beckoned, forcefully biting back a sudden flare of anger. “See what Besnard taught me.”
“Enough, Major!” Eustace Grumm yelled away to Lyle’s right.
This time he glanced at his friends, both mounted, and was gratified to see that Bella had indeed been liberated. Perhaps now was time to make haste.
Amberley almost killed him. In that second of slipped focus, soldier caught highwayman with a despairing lunge. Lyle turned it away, but could not gather himself to riposte before Amberley had closed the distance between them, trying to overwhelm Lyle’s defences with blows of unfettered ferocity, his bloodied grimace like a cathedral gargoyle in the encroaching darkness. Lyle danced away, blocking and writhing, but now his own pulse raced and sweat began to prick his forehead. Beyond his opponent the canopy was shifting, and he realised that the horses were almost upon them. He took a strike high, double-handed, letting the blades push against one another, and stepped in, the steel singing as edge slid against edge. Then the hilts clanged like church bells, but Lyle’s fingers were entirely protected by his Pappenheimer’s broad shell guards. They pushed like wrestlers, braced hilt to hilt, forearms quivering with the strain. Lyle eased off, letting Amberley believe he had the better of the bout, then wrenched his wrists over in a single, savage twisting motion. Amberley’s sword was gone in a trice, clattering into the space between them. Horror ghosted across his lean face.
“And this,” Lyle said as he kicked out, sinking his boot heel into Amberley’s midriff, “is for insulting my goodwife.”
The soldier doubled over with a guttural groan and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the snow.
Lyle stood over him, sheathing his sword, just as a column of mounted soldiers in golden yellow scarfs thundered round the bend in the road. “Godspeed, Lieutenant.” He glanced at the riders, giving particular attention to the leader. Even in the gloom he could see that there was a black smudge at his shoulder, where the head of a lion was embroidered upon the silk. “I’ve a feeling you shall need it.”
10
Colonel Francis Maddocks knew the Ironside Highwayman the moment he saw him. Lyle’s lean, spare physique, his dark cloak, his wide hat with fair hair sprouting beneath the rim, were the stuff of Maddocks’ nightmares. He kicked hard, raking his horse’s flanks brutally, and jerking one of his twin pistols from its holster. “We have him now, men!” he brayed, standing in the stirrups, and shooting into the darkness. “We have him now!”
He galloped through the plume of smoke, squinting hard, but evidently the pistol ball had flown wide. He yearned for the others to shoot, but knew they could not. As mounted infantry, dragoons carried muskets, and could not discharge them effectively from the saddle. With a roared oath he thrust his weapon home and did not bother with the second, the range too great. Instead he drew his long backsword, straightened his arm and peered along the steel’s sleek length, the point hovering over Lyle’s chest.
And Samson Lyle ran.
The outlaw spun on his heels, bolting back towards the cottage, and for a moment Maddocks thought he might entrap himself within, the dandy fox finally brought to ground. But then he veered right, away from the road, and Maddocks kicked again, determined the undergrowth would be no hindrance to pursuit. Only then did he see where the fugitive was headed. Three horses waited in the tree line. Two — a black and a roan — bore figures on their backs, both masked. The third carried only an empty saddle. The beast was a big grey, and he knew it instantly. Had ridden at its side in more fights than he could remember. He hated the mere sight of it.
“Cut him off!” Maddocks screamed above the cacophony of his own stallion’s hooves. “Cut him off, damn your eyes!”
Already the trio of waiting horses were turning. The mounted pair spurred forwards, passing between two wizened trees to vanish onto an ancient track, leaving the grey in their wake. Lyle reached it, hooking the toe-end of his boot into the stirrup. Maddocks howled in rage, released the reins to steer with his thighs, and fr
eed his second pistol. His dragoons were charging in his wake, but their slung muskets rendered them impotent. Only when they halted could the weapons be brought to bear.
Lyle swung himself up into the saddle with the agility of an acrobat. He was lashing the grey with hands and feet, willing the creature into a gallop.
Maddocks was thirty paces short now. “Shoot!” he screamed left and right. “The mount will take fright!” He knew his was the only firearm worthy of the name in a chase, but perhaps the sounds of the muskets might take a toll upon the cowardly stallion.
Some of his dragoons were firing now, having slewed to a standstill and dismounted. They would be unsighted and next to useless, but the noise was as terrific as he had hoped. He emptied his own pistol at Lyle’s back, blinding himself by the flashing pan and gout of smoke. Then he was through it, and immediately he saw that Lyle was crouching low, nuzzling his horse’s thick neck as bullets flung past to shred leaves and splinter bark.
The huge grey reared violently. Maddocks crowed up at the snow-swollen clouds. He tossed the pistol away in his urgency, took up the reins again, and ripped the night apart with a war-cry he had not uttered since Ireland. The grey was running again. Somehow Lyle had regained control of the fainthearted creature, but at huge cost. The remaining dragoons had swallowed up the ground between them, so that now there were only a dozen yards left before they could skewer his spine with their butcher blades. Moreover, Lyle seemed lopsided somehow, for he was carrying his head cocked on one side, as though a kink had formed in his collar. “He’s hit!” Maddocks shouted. “We have him! On! On! On!”
As the words left his mouth, he knew that victory was secure, for the grey was slowing, lifting its legs in an awkwardly high step, suddenly tentative.
Such was the elation coursing through the colonel’s veins, he almost galloped headlong into the barricade.
*
The harrow rose like a drawbridge as Bella and Grumm hauled on the ropes.
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 15
