It had not been part of the plan, but the shrewd Cornishman had noticed it when collecting the skep, and the notion now implemented had dawned upon him. He had tied ropes to either side, set the spiked frame flat across the track, and left it in situ.
Lyle had worried that Star would not make it across. The frame’s wooden limbs were treacherous enough for any horse to negotiate, least of all one frightened half to death by gunfire. Yet the redoubtable beast had made it across in the nick of time, and the ropes had twanged taut, the rusty teeth rising to block Maddocks’ path.
He had taken a pistol ball in his right shoulder. Flames of agony lapped up and down his neck and spine, but he clung on with grim bloody-mindedness. Star wickered softly as if to reassure him, even as liquid snaked, sticky and lambent, down the inside of his shirt sleeve. He twisted back as best he could. It was anarchy on the far side of the harrow, the appearance of which had so terrified the government horses that they were reluctant to even attempt the hazardous undergrowth that choked the flanks of the old bridleway. Thus they were reduced to curses and insults as they threw themselves down from their saddles to prime muskets for an improvised volley.
But it was only moments before the drawbridge ropes were tied off on low branches. Bella and Grumm spurred away, plunging into darkness, but Lyle alone paused. Despite the pain, he bade Star perform a tight half-turn, and dipped his head to Maddocks, who was furiously ordering his men to risk the forest’s tangled grasp. The dragoons, though, were mounted infantry, and did not have the skill or reckless abandon of full-blooded cavalry troopers.
“A pleasure as always!” Lyle called with an impish grin. “Oh, and Francis? Do be kind to Lieutenant Amberley! Poor fellow has a sore nose, and, I’d wager, a good few stings!”
Colonel Maddocks glowered, his eyes glittering orbs, incandescent with impotent rage. “I will kill you yet, Lyle! You will dangle by your neck, sirrah, and I will drink to your demise! That is my solemn pledge!”
“I expect nothing less, old friend!” Lyle called, kicking gently at Star. His shoulder seared white hot, and his eyes watered, but he no longer cared, because a winter swarm had saved Bella. That was all that mattered.
And then the Ironside Highwayman was gone, swallowed by the night.
HIGHWAYMAN: WAR’S END
Michael Arnold
© Michael Arnold 2020
Michael Arnold has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2020 by Sharpe Books.
For my niece, Isla
JANUARY 1656
Grange Farm, Petersfield, Hampshire
A vixen's cry shredded the night.
Startled, the thief crouched low against the crumbling cob wall, the rasp of his heaving chest overlaid by the rushing blood at his ears. The surviving three fingers of his right hand were braced against his thigh and he dug the nails hard through the wool of his breeches, relaxing his grip only when the pain had chased away the panic. He swore softly at his own temerity, reminding himself of the growl in his belly and edged eyes and nose above the makeshift parapet.
The pirates were directly to the south, forty paces away or thereabouts. He counted them in silence. Eleven, all present and correct, seated on logs and discarded barrels, knees drawn up before the remnants of a glowing fire. The men were at the centre of an unpaved yard, its craggy terrain of wheel-ruts and boot-prints frozen solid by the bitter winter. Beyond them, looming over the farm's half-dozen outbuildings, was the great barn, its stone walls pale in the moonlight, soaring rooftop gilded by a gossamer of frost. Distant storm clouds swelled and rolled far beyond, surging in from the coast.
Outside the barn, its shafts roped to iron rings set into the building's masonry, was the high-sided wagon the pirates had brought with them. The thief had watched as their weapons and personal effects were stowed within. Absently, he wondered why they did not seek shelter inside the barn.
The pirates laughed and chatted. One of them took a long drag from an earthenware flask and spat into the orange embers, causing a tell-tale hiss and a flare of new flame. A man struck up a slow tune on a flageolet, another of his comrades accompanying him with a mournful voice. The thief waited and watched. He checked over his shoulder, squinting through the darkness to perceive the outline of the town, chimney stacks silhouetted by the moon, thin smoke-trails smearing the stars. Locating the line of the Portsmouth road, he let his eyes trace its route towards the farm, dipping low before rising again as it passed him, becoming the long, straight causeway that elevated travellers above the treacherous, marshy terrain on their way into the chalky hills. All was empty, all was silent. He pulled on his trusty Montero cap, tugging the sides down to cup his face and slung his snapsack over a shoulder.
To the thief's right, at the west of the yard, a flurry of sound came from a low timber block as the pirates’ pair of bulky brown draught horses bickered with their new stablemates in the stalls. One of the men around the fire snarled a command. No-one bothered to investigate but their attention had been collectively engaged and they all squinted towards the stable in the gloom. The thief thanked God for His providence, pressed closer to the wall and prayed hard.
The prayer was answered more swiftly than he could have hoped. Soft whickering grew to a chorus of angry whinnies as the cramped horses jostled for space and fodder, all of it played out above the beat of iron-shod hooves against the stable walls. This time the thief did not wait to see if the men reacted. He was already on the move. He vaulted the wall, ignoring the scrape of loose stones and scuttled, hunched and crablike, into the open. His breath was white in the biting air, haloing his wool-wrapped skull, a beacon for his every movement. He clamped shut his mouth, allowed himself only to pant through his nostrils in sharp, shallow bursts and prayed that he might be spared the watchman's cry.
Gradually the horses became calm but still the pirate sang his melancholy refrain. And the thief went to work.
TUESDAY
Idsworth, Hampshire
St Peter's Church stood alone on a high sweep of chalk downland as the storm vented its fury. Stinging rain beat at the valley in diagonal sheets, dashing the isolated building's flint walls and forming rivulets between the roof tiles that bubbled and gushed as they poured onto the gravel path below. The surrounding hills seemed to quiver as their deeply forested slopes leaned before winds that screamed like a host of banshees, the last vestiges of snow purged ruthlessly from the highest boughs. Above the straining canopy, boisterous rooks banked and twirled beneath bruise-coloured skies. Through it all, a single bell began to peel, its mournful call echoing stubbornly from crest to crest.
On the chalk ridge, the doors of the little church groaned open. Figures swathed in heavy winter coats and cassocks, streamed in pairs from the west porch, some linking arms against the howling gale, all tilting forwards as if wading through treacle. The procession fought its way along a track that cut through a wide field, sloping down towards the main road some two hundred paces below. There they would find the waiting carriages, drawn up in a long line before the gated entrance to a substantial, if a touch dogeared, manor house. Coachmen squinted back up the rise, shielding rain-slick faces with wide hats and waxed sleeves, attempting to locate their masters as swiftly as possible so that they might flee the hostile afternoon. Irritable horses whinnied and snorted. The road's edge, still patched with thawing slush, steamed and turned yellow beneath their raised tails.
From the porch, the elderly man placed a woollen cap upon his snow-white pate and watched the last of the storm-harried congregation fight their way to the roadside, hands clamped tight to their own hats, wasting no time on pleasantries as they clambered into their vehicles. He saw the carriages lurch, heard the whips crack above the whining wind. Drivers barked, their voices deep and resonant below the shrill caws of the obdurate rooks. The old man could not stifle a rueful smile. The great and the good of the parish would walk into th
e very eye of a hurricane if there were enough witnesses to report it. As dusk crept ever closer, he felt sure word of their attendance on this most inclement day would spread like the sickness that had placed his beloved wife in the very casket around which they had all brandished their piety. Some, he knew, had come here out of genuine grief. Most had come to be seen.
The old man made to turn. It was then that he glimpsed the rider.
The horse was huge and grey, a pale smudge emerging from a stand of bare trees at the northern fringe of the ridge. In the saddle, hunched against the rain, was a figure draped in a cloak of dark green. A man, to judge by a frame that looked tall and lean but broad at the shoulders. Water dripped from the hem of his deep hood and from his long scabbard's pointed chape. They loped, man and beast, across the downland swell, buffeted on both sides by the malicious wind, the horse's fetlocks caked in mud. They were heading for the church.
The old man went inside. The nave echoed with the sound of his own footsteps. He searched the plain benches, the whitewashed walls, the little pulpit. He was alone. The bell continued to toll. He turned in the direction of the bell turret. There was, at least, one person left. A creak at his back. It was too late. He fished for the chinking purse at his belt, fumbling with the string so that it might be hidden.
“Master Spendlove.”
The old man looked up at the speaker, the purse still clutched tight in his trembling hand. “I have, this afternoon, put my wife in the ground, sirrah. Have you no respect?”
The newcomer, standing in a gathering pool of rainwater, drew back his hood and glanced around the church. “She loved it here.”
Spendlove gaped. “You.” His mouth dried. He made a show of looking over his shoulder. “The rector is within.”
The man in the green cloak gave a sardonic smile. “Busy at his chimes.” He spread gloved hands wide. “I mean you no ill, Master. How long has it been since last we spoke? A decade? I am sorry for that, yet still I grieve with you. Does that offend?”
Spendlove groped for words that were suddenly elusive, managing only a murmured, “No.” He let his gaze roam over the tall man's features. Over eyes that were green like the cloak but paler, cooler and unsettlingly keen. They sat above a prominent nose that bore the kink of a long-healed break and a cleanly-shaven chin that was strong in an otherwise spare, thin-lipped face. The man's hair was a tousled mop, the colour of straw and his complexion was lined and weathered, though Spendlove knew the cragginess to be premature; owing to matters beyond the mere passage of time. He swallowed thickly, finding his voice. “You knew her. To mourn her is your right, just as it is mine.”
The tall man winced as he bowed. “I loved her.” He shifted his stance, suddenly awkward, the tall riding boots – bucket-tops pulled high over his thighs – clacking on the flagstones.
“You called her aunt.”
“She was a second mother. When I heard of her passing, I knew it was to this old place that I should come.”
A memory crept unbidden into Spendlove's mind and he could not help but smile. “You ever chided us, Ursula and I, for coming here.”
The tall man grinned. “Chalton is your village, Master. Furnished with its own place of worship.” The pale eyes surveyed the modest church again. There was the hint of a shudder. “Idsworth is a haunt of ghosts.”
Spendlove pushed a lock of hair back under the edge of his cap. “But this ancient place lingers, in spite of it all. A symbol of the life that once thrived on these hills.”
“A place now only of sorrow.”
“Of stillness and contemplation.” As he spoke, Spendlove noticed the hilt of the rider's sword, protruding through the cloak at his waist. It had an elaborate shell guard, the metal decorated with holes cut into the shapes of stars and hearts. It was a famous sword. No, an infamous sword. The sight of it jogged his mind, permitting the return of gnawing disquiet. “You should not be here.”
The lean face tightened. “I will leave if that pleases.”
Spendlove almost laughed at that. “Nothing of what has become of you pleases me, boy.” The alternating waves of astonishment and anxiety gave way now to anger. He pressed a hand to his chest as he spoke in a cracking voice. “It is a dagger to my heart, Samson, as it was to hers.”
“I did not wish to dismay you, Master,” the rider blurted, the confidence fading from his tone. He reached out a hand, failing to conceal another wince. “That was not my intention.”
“Dismay me?” Spendlove shrugged him off, twisting to one of the wooden benches, at the end of which was a short stack of pamphlets. He snatched one up, wielding it before the rider like a weapon. “You dismayed me, Samson Lyle, when you became the Ironside Highwayman.”
Samson Lyle had been advised not to come. Had been subjected to a spittle-flecked rant during which the risks of coming out into the open had been colourfully extolled. He had ignored every word. Laughed the worries away. But now, as he paced at Spendlove's side, the bell’s continuing toll reverberating about the high roof beams, he began to wonder at his own hubris. He glanced down at the man who had taught him to read and write, who had breathed life into Classical Greece and the emperors of Rome, who had introduced the joy of Shakespeare, Marlow and Johnson. A man to whom Lyle owed so much, yet whose disappointment hurt more than any sword thrust. He said meekly, “I had no choice.”
They were walking down the nave, towards the porch. Spendlove did not look up. “There is always a choice, Samson.”
Skirting a magnificent octagonal font decorated with quatrefoiled panels, Lyle noticed its broad base bore the marks of recent repair. He recalled hearing how the ancient object had been smashed by Parliament men during the war. Nothing but nothing, had been left unsullied by those bitter years, he thought. “You know what they did to her?” he asked tightly, feeling bile rise at the mere thought.
The porch, as they stepped inside, was still shut but the wind howled like a pack of wolves beyond the studded door. Spendlove turned to him now. His face was lined like an ancient map but his blue eyes were as bright as Lyle remembered. “Of course. And I grieve with you, Samson, as you grieve with me but that does not give you the right to...”
Lyle had reached for the door's large iron ring. He let it go. “But do you know what happened?”
Spendlove's white eyebrows knitted together. “Kicked by a horse. A tragedy, Samson. God called your goodwife home, just as He has mine.” He raised an admonishing finger, the school master resurrected. “That is no justification for what you have become.”
“God did not call,” Lyle said scornfully, his mind making the inexorable leap to another time and place, delving deep to mine seams of perfect sorrow. “Alice was dispatched.” He had hissed the final word and regretted the rancour in his voice but was powerless to dilute it. “Thrust through the veil beneath the hooves of my enemies. Murdered out of spite that was meant for me.”
The old man recoiled as though taking a dagger to the chest. “Murdered?”
“Trampled,” Lyle said, voice clotting. He had not been present on that fateful day. En route, instead, to France and four years of exile. But still he relived Alice's killing every time he closed his eyes. Replayed every shout, every command, every scream. “They killed her because I was not there to kill. I am outside the law, Master and I know how it must unsettle you but the Army is above the law. Lambert and Cromwell and the rest.” He heard himself laugh, though it was a dark, mirthless sound. “Major-General Goffe is ruler of Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire. He makes the law. Bends it to his will. Who will resist, if not I?”
“Is that what Alice would have wanted? For you to forfeit your own life in her absence?”
“Alice is no longer in a position to want anything. And my life saw ruination the day I lost her. Thus, I shall haunt these roads. I shall hunt the Major-General's men. I will harry their convoys and I will make their lives unbearable, as they have made mine unbearable.”
The silence that filled the porch was lik
e a noxious fog, stifling them both. Lyle drew up his hood and went back to the door.
Spendlove reached for his elbow. “You mourn Ursula with me. I mourn Alice with you. Let us leave it at that. I harbour no ill-will, Samson. God knows there are plenty who do but I do not.”
Lyle felt a torrent of relief. It was unexpected and for a moment he was dumbstruck. What had he hoped for, coming here? He had told himself it was an errand simply to pay his respects. Told his criminal associates, Eustace and Bella, that such gauntlets were there to be run. Yet now that he had received some measure of acceptance from his old tutor, he realised that was all he had wanted. He stooped, gathering Spendlove in his arms and hugging him tight. “Thank you, Master.”
“Still, you should not be here,” Spendlove whispered. “You run a great risk.”
Lyle straightened. “Soldiers? Here?”
Spendlove shook his head. “But there is not a lane or bridleway they do not patrol.”
Lyle shot him a crooked smile. “Even down in these forgotten places?”
Spendlove tutted, rebuking him as he had once done so often. “You mock, Samson but I will ever cherish poor Idsworth. The black death killed the people, right enough and left it empty. Nothing to show out there but a few crumbling walls and pastureland left for the forest to devour. Now it is mere memory.”
“A memory with a church.”
Spendlove turned back to examine the interior, his gaze wistful. “This place has seen much. Lost much.” He pointed to the whitewashed chancel arch and the walls beyond. “There are wondrous murals here, Samson. Tales of scripture rendered in vibrant colour. Concealed after the fissure with Rome. My grandfather told me of those days. Of the men who came with grim faces and full buckets and sang Psalms as they purged every sublime brushstroke from every inch of every wall. But they linger, those marvellous creations. Hidden. Waiting for their time to come again.”
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 16
