Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

  “It is a dangerous game you play,” Spendlove muttered as they drew up in the tavern's muddy yard. Two young lads, thin as whippets, dashed out from the shelter of a timber lean-to and took the horses’ bridles.

  Lyle slid from his saddle, boots immediately enveloped by the squelching mire. He pulled the double-barrelled pistol from its holster and delved in one of the saddlebags to fetch his wide-brimmed hat, then asked, “How often do you see soldiers in these parts?”

  The boy holding Star peered up so that rain streaked his cheeks, eyes widening at the sight of the gun. “Not for weeks, m' lord.”

  Lyle looked at Spendlove. “You see?” He handed each boy a penny, then pulled back his hood and replaced it with the hat.

  “I do not like it,” Spendlove protested as they watched the lads unhitch the pony and coax both beasts to the stables.

  “All shall be well,” Lyle said, then caught Spendlove’s pointed glance as he set about loading the pistol. He winked. “Just in case.”

  They entered the tavern as soon as Star and his new companion were safely ensconced in the stable block, a muggy, steaming collection of buildings that stank of horseflesh, hay and dung. The stallion had whickered at their backs in disgruntlement until the ostler, lurking out of the rain, had produced a sack of fodder, seemingly from thin air, clicking his tongue in some secret equine language that immediately compelled Star to settle. Lyle had shaken his head, produced more coins, sworn at the fussy beast and left.

  The taproom was stifling, the blast of hot air assailing Lyle the moment he stepped onto the chalk floor's blanket of fresh rushes. Fragments of convivial chatter had drifted out on the heat, like leaves tumbling on an autumn gust but they faded as abruptly as the music, a dozen pairs of eyes searching the doorway anxiously.

  “Major-General Goffe's responsibility,” Spendlove said, “not only encompasses the suppression of Royalist sympathy but charges him with the reformation of public manners.”

  Lyle nodded but held his peace. It was safer not to explain that the protective guise he donned since returning from France was that of an innkeeper. In that role he saw at first hand the moral expectations to which the people of the fledgling Commonwealth were held. Ever since Cromwell had divided England and Wales into ten regions, each to be governed by one of his military grandees, the government's efforts to make the nation Godlier had become considerably more concerted, enforced now at sword-point as well as pulpit. Of course, the excessive imbibing of strong drink could not be stamped out altogether, any more than Goffe might end dancing or laughter but if drunkenness was detected, penalties could be harsh and swift. That was why every one of the Red Lion's patrons was nervous of strangers. Any new face could be that of a government informant.

  “And that is why,” Spendlove went on, nodding at a figure slumped on a low stool beside the window, “Rotten Jeremiah, there, takes picket duty.”

  Lyle cast his gaze over the wizened old man who had apparently been playing lookout. The fellow's face was so deeply lined that it looked like the shell of a walnut, while from his mouth dangled a long, cold pipe. His eyes were firmly shut. “If he were my lookout,” he said sardonically, “I would have him shot.”

  Spendlove, apparently unaware of Rotten Jeremiah's less than attentive efforts, had already moved to the counter, where a couple of locals, relaxing now that they recognised one of their own, patted his back and shared murmured condolences. He caught the tapster's attention with a polite cough. “Wine, if you please, John.”

  Lyle went to join his friend, weaving through the tobacco fug, skirting tables, two sleeping dogs and a mangy looking cat. The brick hearth was away to his left, blackened spit-dogs flanking its flames, the chimney breast above adorned with an assortment of iron shears.

  “Wardley Spendlove,” the tapster was saying, “a warm welcome to you.” He was a portly man in his mid-forties, with short, lank hair the colour of slate. “I was deep afflicted to hear the news of dear Ursula. Young Botolph ain't been the same these past days.”

  “Thank you, John,” Spendlove said. He put a hand to Lyle's shoulder. “An old acquaintance, come for the funeral. He would share a cup with me in her memory.”

  John gave them both an earnest nod and jabbed a gnarled thumb in the direction of two nearby barrels. “Sack or Malmsey, sirs.”

  The older man deferred to Lyle, who indicated that Malmsey and John went to work. Spendlove turned his back to the counter, propping elbows on the sticky surface and pointedly cast his gaze upon the Red Lion's tosspot, who was snaking from table to table, gathering spent trenchers, blackjacks and pots. “Botolph. Not as you recall, I'd wager.”

  “No,” Lyle agreed, watching the lad work. Botolph Spendlove, whom he had known as a flaxen-haired and knock-kneed stripling, was now a strapping youth of stocky frame and square jaw. A grown man, to all intents and purposes. Yet still his face retained the freshness of childhood, a patchy beard of auburn fluff, the same shade as the thatch on his head, doing nothing to add to his fifteen years. “He has become a fine fellow, Master.”

  Spendlove flashed a proud smile. “Has his mother's looks.”

  “And he works here?”

  “To earn us a few pennies. He and his sister, both. Times are not easy. But we persist. I tutor the youngsters hereabouts, Botolph and Amelia clear the pots and tend the taps.”

  Lyle watched Botolph attempt to scoop up one too many cups, promptly dropping one that clattered noisily to the ground. “And his ailment?”

  Spendlove shrugged. “Half as many hands makes life twice as hard. But he manages.”

  “Wardley Spendlove!” a large, sweaty patron at one of the tables suddenly exclaimed. He did not stand, the glazed look in his eyes providing explanation but he raised a dented pewter goblet in salute, slopping claret over the table. “My prayers are with you, sir! Goodwife Spendlove was one of a kind.” He paused, quaffing the wine and belching prodigiously. “Now she rests with God for eternity. We were all of us the better for having known her.”

  “Thank you,” Spendlove acknowledged.

  “I see why this place requires a picket line,” Lyle said dryly, making his former teacher laugh.

  “Father,” Botolph said, startling them. He had evidently been roused to their presence by the drunken toast and now came to address both men with a concerned frown. “Did you walk? I told you not to. The roads are dangerous and...”

  “I escorted your father, young sir,” Lyle said, “have no fear.”

  Botolph's brows knitted further together. He drew up his shoulders and, Lyle noticed, let his palsied hand slip behind his back. “And you are?”

  “A friend of mine, Botolph,” Spendlove said in a soothing tone. “An old friend.”

  “Thomas Smith,” Lyle invoked the first name to form on his tongue. “When last I saw you,” he whistled softly, “zounds, you were barely knee high to a palfrey.”

  Botolph seemed to relent, stepping back slightly. “Grown now, Goodman Smith.”

  “Indeed.” Lyle extended his hand. “And well met.”

  Botolph grasped Lyle's palm, though he kept his ruined left hand concealed. “A friend of father's is a friend of mine, sir.”

  “Here,” Lyle said, passing his Malmsey to Botolph and ordering a replacement for himself. “Join us.” They went to the nearest empty table and sat down. Out the corner of his eye, Lyle noticed a small service door at the furthest reach of the room. It opened and closed like a yawning mouth, the gathering night visible beyond. A young woman, wearing an apron over a corn coloured dress, came and went, rolling hogsheads through from what was, presumably, a storehouse in the yard. “It seems the tapster is not short on supplies.”

  Botolph smiled. “Delivery came in last evening, before the rain, thank the Lord.” Beginning to relax, he sipped from the cup, then said, “Might I ask how you are acquainted?”

  “Your father was my schoolmaster,” Lyle explained, “when I was but a snipe.”

  “Yours and many oth
ers.”

  “Right enough,” Lyle agreed. “A grand man. His wife a grand woman. Showed me kindness that I shall never forget. That is why I have come.” The new wine appeared and Lyle raised his cup and his voice. “To Ursula Spendlove, may she rest in Paradise.”

  Father and son joined the toast, as did half a dozen more across the room, their voices echoing amongst the blackened beams.

  And then the strangers burst in.

  Cold, damp air howled through the tavern, heralding the silhouettes that filled the doorway. Rotten Jeremiah was awake now, roused by the violence of the door slamming back to torture its hinges and he staggered to his feet, pipe skittering off his shoe, swaying wildly and spluttering a warning as incoherent as it was worthless.

  “There!” the foremost silhouette snarled. “There's the villain!” His voice was guttural and harsh, the English stilted, unnatural, an accent borne thousands of miles to the east. “Duncan, Louis; take hold of the wretch!”

  The night descended into chaos. More dark shapes forced their way over the threshold, breaking either side of the first man like streams about a boulder, gargoyle grimaces given life by shadow and candle-flame. Before anyone could react, the most advanced pair had kicked up the rushes on their way to Lyle's table, taking young Botolph Spendlove in hand and wrenching him to his feet. At their backs, blocking the doorway, more men came in single file. All were powerfully built, scabbards conspicuous at their waists.

  Lyle instinctively glanced at the little service door but knew he could not hope to make it before he was overrun. Instead he held his nerve and his peace, trying to identify the newcomers before he did anything rash. They might have been soldiers of some kind, he supposed. They wore no uniforms, no plate armour or field signs, which made him doubt whether they were members of the Protectorate's irresistible military wing, yet to encounter sell-swords in the tranquil Hampshire hills seemed just as unlikely. Duncan and Louis, the vanguard, loomed over his table, shoring up the helpless Botolph like twin buttresses. He could see daggers and pistols jammed into their belts. The larger, Duncan, had the youthful aspect of one just touching his twenties. He was pale-skinned and red-headed, a wide cross-belt bracing his torso, around which was coiled a knotted whip. His compatriot might have been a decade older, with a fastidiously-trimmed and oiled beard that could not entirely conceal skin blighted by scabies. Both men wore high boots but no spurs, setting him to wonder whether they travelled on foot. The ripe stench of leather, sweat, ale and tobacco wafted liberally from them.

  While the highwayman mulled his distinctly sparse choices, Wardley Spendlove decided to act. “What is the meaning of this?” he cried as his stool shot out from under him, clattering to the chalk floor as he lunged for his son.

  The surly men gripping Botolph by the arms swatted Spendlove contemptuously away, one of them putting a boot to his rump for good measure. The old man careened headlong, flailing almost comically, to sprawl amongst chair legs. His persecutors guffawed; loudly, cruelly.

  But the laughter died as rapidly as it had begun. The girl came from nowhere. Not nowhere, thought Lyle; but from the shadows at the back, near the crates and the pots and the yard, where the candles had not been lit and the hearth’s flames made few inroads. From the modest service door that led to the storehouse and its casks. It was the girl he had seen bringing in the barrels, dirty apron strung at waist, yellow sleeves pushed up to her elbows, mind bent only to her work. Except here she was, standing tall, having inveigled herself into the midst of the standoff entirely unobserved, to snatch the whip from Duncan’s belt. She snarled like a trapped wolf, lashing at the whip’s owner with the knotted leather so that he released Botolph and shrunk back, clutching his face with his hands. Blood seeped through his latticed fingers as he roared English obscenities mixed with a stream of Scots Gaelic that echoed in the rafters. She drew back the whip again, turning on the bearded man who still held the boy firm and her coif, scraped by her passing forearm, fell away, long tresses of dark brown hair tumbling in its wake. Blades appeared from behind the bearded man, brandished by his comrades to glint in the soft light. Some of them grinned, enjoying the spectacle but the threat was clear enough. Knowing she had failed, the girl stalled, breathing heavily as she let her arm drop, though she kept a tight grip on the whip. Duncan took hold of Botolph again, spitting another vicious oath at her. There was a thin, red gash across his chin.

  That was when Lyle stood up. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and levelled it, not at Botolph's captors but at their leader, who was no longer a featureless silhouette but a broad, tall, ruddy-faced and thickly moustachioed menace, with a feathered hat in one hand, his other resting on the sword pommel at his hip. Lyle retreated by a half-dozen paces, putting distance between himself and the strangers. The girl immediately fell back too, seizing the opportunity to move into the space he had created.

  The leader of the armed men looked coolly at them both. His bright blue eyes sharpened at the metallic clunk of Lyle's pistol, the hammer thumbed back into the cocked position but he did not flinch, save the shifting of one cheek as it was wrinkled by a mordant smirk. He eyed the firearm. “A pretty piece. What kind of man might brandish such a thing?”

  Lyle kept the weapon steady. The foreigner's florid complexion was blemished further by the pale white lines of aged scars and he picked one, a deep divot below the left eye, on which to train the muzzle. “The man who will kill you.” He spoke truthfully, for, unlike at Idsworth, the weapon really was primed and ready to fire. There was always a risk that the rain had spoiled the charge, for black powder attracted moisture like the driest sponge imaginable but he was willing to gamble that Botolph's captors would not be eager to put it to the test.

  The man with the bushy whiskers licked his lips slowly, gauging the scene. “Two bullets.”

  Lyle nodded, retiring a couple of paces further. “For two men.” He twitched the muzzle so it roved over the figures gathered in the doorway, a barricade of steel and flesh that would be impossible to breach. “You may choose, if it please.”

  The ruddy fellow canted his head to the side, as if deciding whether Lyle were short of wits. A golden hoop glittered in his right earlobe. “There are eleven of us, Skurwysyn.”

  “Then you will leave as nine.” It was all Lyle could do to keep the pounding of his heart from manifesting as a trembling hand. “Is the boy worthy of such a price?”

  “Is he worth your life?”

  “Aye,” Lyle answered. For the first time, he noticed the expression on Botolph's face. One of bafflement as much as fear. He realised, too, that the girl with the whip was looking at him with curiosity and now he truly saw her. Or, rather, he saw her mother in the face looking up at him. This was Ursula Spendlove’s daughter, Amelia. She had the same dark brown eyes, brightened by touches of ochre that caught the candlelight like flakes of gold. The same wide mouth that gave her a serious, solemn countenance and the same petite figure that belied undoubted boldness.

  Forcing himself to turn back to the man with the moustache, he said, “Well? How is this night to end?”

  Silence hung heavy as a sodden robe. Lyle held firm, despite the aching of the wound in his back, wondering which of them would make the first move. These were hard men, any fool could see, utterly accustomed to violence. All it would take was a word, perhaps a mere gesture, from their leader and the Red Lion would be awash with smoke and blood. And yet something had given the foreigner pause. He had not anticipated resistance in this bucolic idyll, let alone outright threat and, as Lyle had hoped, he clearly harboured no wish to weaken his party on account of a spotty-faced tosspot.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the moustachioed man cleared his throat to speak. “We want what is ours, nothing more.” The corner of his wide mouth fluttered, the chasm in his cheek deepening. “And nothing less.”

  “Yours?” Lyle said. He stepped back again. Close enough now, perhaps, to bolt for the rear door. But could he leave the Spendloves at the
mercy of these men?

  “A treasure.” The glassy blue gaze slid to regard Botolph, who dangled between the armed men like a doe's carcass. “Stolen by this knave.” His hard voice dropped lower as contempt crept in. “This dead man.”

  Botolph thrashed at that, the precariousness of his situation finally crystallising in his mind. He received Duncan's backhand, swift and savage, for his trouble and went immediately limp.

  Amelia Spendlove looked as though she would lash out again with the whip but halted when Lyle shouted, “He is just a boy!”

  “My boy!” Wardley Spendlove, still felled but sitting up now, was covered in the filth of the floor. He sobbed pitifully as he cradled an elbow, tears sketching pale lines through the grime of his cheeks.

  “Father,” Amelia whispered. She dropped the whip and, all bluster gone, went to crouch beside the prone old man, weeping as he wept.

  The moustache flinched, climbing on one side of its owner's face to reveal brilliant white teeth.

  Lyle caught the look. One he knew all too well. “Come here, girl.”

  Botolph’s sister glanced up at him, a mix of bewilderment and anger passing like a storm cloud over her face. “I think not, sir.”

  “Damn it all, Amelia, do as you are goddamned told!”

  She flinched at that, then her sombre, earnest expression hardened into something more defiant and Lyle privately berated himself for the outburst. But Wardley was muttering with soft urgency in her ear and, to his surprise, she was kissing her father on the forehead and clambering to her feet. Without a word she came to stand behind Lyle.

  Wardley Spendlove had not taken his eyes off his son. “He is my good Christian boy. Never has he hurt a soul.”

  The scarred man’s half smile transformed into a sneer that was brimming with scorn. “I was younger than this whelp when I took my first life.”