Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

“As was I,” Lyle responded as the Naseby drums boomed in his mind. “Providence conspires against us at times but that does not grant licence to torment every youth you see fit.” He risked another glance at Botolph, whose wretched face had taken on the milky hue of the condemned. Wine-dark blood welled from an artificially flared nostril. “You accuse this boy of theft?”

  “I do.”

  “When was this crime committed?”

  “Yesterday,” the man with the moustache said, taking a step further into the room. He wore a long cassock, the brass buttons glimmering in time with the hoop in his ear. The acolytes at his back shifted their feet, growling in low threat, evidently eager to take whatever revenge had been promised and planned. “At the big farm to the south of Petersfield.”

  “Yesterday?” Wardley Spendlove echoed indignantly. “My son was here.” His voice faltered and cracked with the strain of the moment. “His mother passed away this last week. He has barely left our home, let alone the village.”

  That seemed to jar with the hitherto unyielding foreigner. He licked his lips slowly, eyes shifting from one face to the next as if he tried to read each mind in turn. “We have tracked our hare over the hills,” he said eventually. “Followed his every footstep. We had a witness.”

  “Had?” Lyle asked pointedly.

  Duncan, huge and malevolent at Lyle's left flank, flashed a dark, toothless grin of unholy relish. “The piglet did squeal,” he said in a querulous tone that was incongruous set against an accent made in the Scots lowlands. “Oh yes he did.” He gave the semi-conscious Botolph a jolt, like a hound shaking a rabbit. It elicited a soft, forlorn groan. “The piggy did identify this rogue as our quarry and that he did.”

  Lyle shook his head. “It cannot be. You are mistaken.”

  The man with the moustache caressed his sword pommel with the palm of his left hand. “I think it is you who are gravely mistook, Skurwysyn.” He cocked his head like a curious dog. “Who are you, that you would court death in this manner? Soldier?”

  “A soldier in an army of one,” Lyle answered.

  “Brigand, then?”

  Closer to the mark than you realise, thought Lyle. “Will you release the boy?”

  The foreigner lifted his feathered hat and placed it atop his head. A benign enough gesture, except that it freed up his right hand, with which he carefully drew back the cassock to reveal a large-handled pistol and the fat haft of a small axe. The sword, more fully visible now, appeared to be curved, broadening as it swept away from the hilt. “My name is Marek.”

  “Prussian?” Lyle said, stalling and planning in the same instant, bracing himself for a fight even as he prepared to leap for the door.

  “Polish,” Marek answered and he seemed to take a pause, as if anticipating recognition. When none came, he said, “But you can call me death, Skurwysyn.”

  Lyle chose not to enquire as to the meaning of the final term; the intended insult was clear enough. “Death, then,” he replied, deliberately blasé to hide the chill that played at his neck. “Why are you here?”

  “All you need to know, Skurwysyn, is that I am here and I will have my property, or the boy will die.”

  “You are footpads,” Lyle said. “Outlaws. If you spill blood the Army will hunt you down.”

  Marek grinned. “And who will raise the hue and cry? You? A man who sups beneath a hat slanted to hide his face? You are unlikely to scuttle to the authorities, I suspect.”

  “You will get nothing from him,” Lyle protested, desperate now, for he could see a night of frustration for Marek that could only culminate in the agonies of others. Botolph's innocence would achieve nothing but condemn him to a slower death.

  Marek's smile widened. “Do not concern yourself, Skurwysyn. We have done this before. Why don't you take a seat and watch?”

  #

  Havant, Hampshire

  Night was Whistler's friend. His ally. It was the time he came alive. Time for him to go to work. It was deep into the smallest hours and Havant slept. He had hoped for darker skies but the storm-clouds had inched inland at the harrying of the Solent's biting winds and the moon had revealed itself to give road, tree and rooftop a wan outline. Whistler, though, had learned to count his blessings. At least it was no longer raining.

  Tugging down the flaps of his Montero cap to bring warmth to his ears and cheeks, he rubbed the ruined palm of his left hand with the mutilated nubs of his right, then edged out onto the road. A dog barked and he hesitated, shrinking back into the mouth of the alley from whence he had emerged but nothing came of the brief commotion. He checked the street again, before cautiously venturing forth.

  It had taken almost three hours to reach the town, by way of rain-sluiced tracks that had cloyed at his every step in a concerted attempt to swallow his shoes. If his belly had been full then he would never have attempted the hazardous journey. If the confounded horseman at Idsworth chapel had not returned to his mount when he did, Whistler would have had an array of useful goods to sell. A trip to one of the taverns at Chalton, Finchdean or Rowlands Castle would undoubtedly have revealed some ostler or farmhand far enough into his cups to be parted with a few coins. A groat or two for a tinderbox, perhaps more for a powder flask or, better still, a nice saddle cloth. The transaction would have yielded enough for a meal and board. A place beside the fire. If he had managed to snatch the pistol or the exquisite war hammer, he would be set for the rest of winter. But it was not to be. The horseman, whoever he was, had been implacable. Frightening, even. Those cold green eyes had chilled Whistler to the marrow and he had known that it was enough simply to escape with his life.

  So it was south that he had headed. He had told the green-gazed villain that Portsmouth was his goal and he supposed that was true, in a roundabout way, though he had little intention to seek honest employment within its fortress walls. But the harbour town was too far for one night's trudge and so he would make do with Havant, a couple of miles to the east of Portsmouth, at least until sun-up. And Havant was a plump goose to pluck, if ever there was one. A settlement that had sprung up around a road built by the Romans but that had truly flourished by dint of its natural springs. Water mills had been constructed here, with tanneries and breweries and all manner of manufacturing, so that the place, given its relatively modest size, was as rich as any outside of London. Whistler was cold, he was sodden and his stomach was so empty that it convulsed excruciatingly. But he knew that his stars were about to change. He was a fox in the proverbial hen house.

  From the shadows at the road's fringe, he scanned the premises on the far side. Immediately opposite was a large tavern. The lure of the heady woodsmoke meandering from its trio of chimneys had been nothing short of a taunt for one without a single coin to his name. He could hardly loiter before the warming flames without purchasing a single drink, for the result would be a thick ear and a charge of vagrancy that would see him land a spell in the stocks or lashed to the whipping post. Thus, he had skulked in his alley during the late evening, jealously observing the rowdy establishment as the candles flickered in the windows, silhouettes of drinkers passing to and fro beyond. He had listened to the desolate moans of the dancing bear tethered to a stake in its yard, heard the laughter of men tossing coins at the pathetic animal as it sauntered for their pleasure and breathed the aroma of sot weed smoke, freshly baked bread and meat pies. All as the rain had come down, cruel and unrelenting.

  Whistler had still been in his alleyway as the candles had finally guttered and the tavern's patrons filtered out onto the street, bound for home. Shutters had clacked into place all along the street, doors locked and barred. The sorrowful bear had ceased his call, presumably led away to see out the night in a cage. Whistler had waited patiently as the watchmen completed their rounds, calling the hour as they strode Havant's main crossroads by the light of swaying lanterns. They hummed tunes and spat tobacco as they paced, in pairs and threes, nodding to the last of the folk they encountered, reminding the citizenry of whateve
r new laws Major-General Goffe had deigned important.

  He had still been there when silence had fallen and the clouds had lifted. Now the town was his alone.

  #

  Chalton, Hampshire

  “What did your witness say?” Lyle’s pistol was still trained on the men crowding the end of the taproom nearest the tavern’s door. “Will you not reveal the charge, sirrah, so that this poor wretch might offer some defence?”

  The Pole’s smile coloured all but his eyes. “I am no magistrate, Skurwysyn and this is no court of law.”

  “Nor are you an executioner.”

  Marek inclined his head. “Very well. The answer lies in the hand.” He turned his brutal face on the younger Spendlove. Duncan, the Scot, lifted Botolph’s arm like a trophy. At the end of that limb, dangling like a limp flag, was the palsied hand, palm enclosed by fingers unnaturally curled inwards like the petals of a desiccated flower.

  Lyle remembered the anguish of Wardley and Ursula Spendlove when first the afflicted babe had come screaming into the world. At the fear that their beloved son would suffer more than just deformed flesh when the fullness of time revealed the person he would become. He remembered, too, the whispers of the gossips, the greybeards’ censorious glances and the open mockery of other children.

  Marek was pointing at the hand. “The man I seek bears Satan's mark.”

  “His hand?” Lyle scoffed. “That is all? It contracts of its own accord. Has done since birth. A common enough disorder.” To a man, Marek’s company sketched crosses before their chests. The act was so brazen that it took Lyle aback and he heard himself say, “Papists?” The men did not answer but his mind was already putting the gesture together with the curved swords and the lack of military insignia. “You're sailors.”

  “Perceptive as well as suicidal,” Marek said.

  The attack came from the right flank. A short, strongly built man with a shaven scalp, an amber-toothed grimace and pock-pitted skin lunged out of the shadows. In his white-knuckled fist flashed a long, slender dagger, driving up and out from the hip, bound for the soft space immediately beneath Lyle’s ribcage. At Amelia’s warning shout, Lyle took one, two, three rearward paces, offering only air for the blade to slice. As his assailant flailed and overstepped, he drew his rapier with his free hand in one swift motion, the hiss loud beneath the low ceiling as it slid from the scabbard. With a staccato forward step, as if dancing a Galliard, he flicked his wrist and the sword’s delicate tip darted upwards, just brushing the side of the shorter man’s hand. The fellow recoiled, yelping as he let the knife drop to the floor. All the while, the pistol’s twin muzzles kept level with Marek and his bunched comrades, so that no one else moved.

  The tapster, cowering back against his hogsheads, gasped. “God save us, it is…” he began, then swallowed back whatever exclamation had begun to form.

  All was still. Lyle steadied his frenzied heart and gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder blade, the scab encrusted wound leaving him in no doubt as to whether it had fully healed.

  But Marek was looking at the tapster now. “What were you going to say?”

  The grey-haired man opened and shut his mouth like a dying fish, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his apron. “Nowt, m’lord, honest.”

  Marek unsheathed his own sword now. Slowly, purposefully. He was close to the tapster, so Lyle could do nothing to intervene and he raised the blade above the height of the counter, letting the tip hover in line with the frightened man’s belly like a poised serpent. “Use your tongue or lose it.”

  The tapster raised a trembling hand to point at Lyle. “I… I seen him afore, m'lord. Tis the Ironside Highwayman hi'self.”

  Only then did Lyle realise that, in the brief scuffle, his hat had shunted back and up, tilting away to shade his neck instead of his face. His heart sank just as Marek’s brow rose.

  “Ironside?” the Pole quizzed the room.

  “Cavalry, m’lord,” the tapster mumbled fearfully.

  Marek’s eyes did not move from Lyle. “Now your twinkling swordplay is explained.”

  Lyle shook his head. “I took instruction from Charles Besnard.” He had been hiding in the Paris fencing school, of course. Grieving and recovering and learning by turns. But no one in this place needed to know that.

  Marek whistled softly. “A master,” he said in what appeared to be genuine admiration. “My compliments.”

  “The ironsides,” one of his company interjected from the back of the armed group, the accent’s hard vowels unmistakably the product of Ulster, “were Cromwell's goddamned horsemen. Murdering villains, all.” He pushed his way to the front so that he could see Lyle. “Tell me. Were you in Ireland?”

  “Hush,” Marek ordered. “He may dress like a cavalry officer but that does not make him one.” The corner of his mouth upturned in a sneer, animating his whiskers, as he appraised Lyle with new interest. “Highwayman? You are nothing but a thief. A ditch hider and a mask wearer and a coward.”

  “You know nothing,” Lyle replied, all too aware that his tone lacked conviction. He was thinking of the thief at Idsworth and smarting at the irony of it all.

  Marek’s line of thought was straightening now, like a loosed arrow and he was not to be deterred. He laughed, loudly and mirthlessly, like a sudden thunderclap, then waved the sword at Botolph Spendlove. “He is in your employ.”

  “No,” Lyle replied.

  The exchange stirred Botolph, who brought up his head. “I've never seen him before tonight, I swear it.”

  A backhand from Louis clubbed him to silence. Wardley Spendlove, still prone, mewed like a wounded animal as fresh blood trickled from his son’s mouth. Amelia started forwards but, to Lyle’s relief, evidently thought better of it.

  “This cursed creature,” Marek was saying, pointing the steel at Botolph but keeping his glittering eyes on Lyle, “is your man. You are a renegade of these woods, Skurwysyn and he does your bidding. Why else would you be here? Why else would you intervene? You spoke of his Devil’s hand, that you saw it when he was a baby.”

  “He stole nothing,” Lyle protested, “and he knows me not.”

  “Why would you risk your life for his?” Marek made a tutting sound with his tongue. “Give me the treasure. End this foolishness.”

  “What is this treasure you have lost?”

  “A book. A blessed book. But you know that already.”

  Lyle scanned the room for the dozenth time in search for a way to break the deadlock. He would not back down but nor could he give the man his treasure. The front entrance was well and truly blocked, while he would be hunted down by the sailors before he reached the rear door. He needed to stall for time while the wheels of his mind frantically spun. “The sailor's road passes near here,” he blurted. “You're travelling from London, bound for ship at Portsmouth. Or the other way around.”

  Marek nodded. “The Diamond.”

  “Fourth-rater,” Lyle said, dredging scraps of information from the back of his mind. “Forty guns. Part of Blake's fleet.”

  “Lately at Cadiz,” Marek confirmed. “Returned home for refit and refreshment. My lads and I have been at Bankside,” he shook his hip so that an unseen purse jangled with money, “at the prize play. Now we travel home. We will join the ship at Spithead on Friday.”

  Lyle risked a backward half-step. Marek’s men flinched. The clicks of cocking hammers rang out in the gloom. He was stuck fast. Trapped like a fox in a snare. “Friday,” he repeated the word. Time enough to act, he thought and a flash of memory cracked across his mind like Duncan’s whip. “I do not have the book but I can get it for you.”

  Marek’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at his bristling, glowering cohort, then at Botolph and finally let his gaze find its way back to Lyle. He pursed his lips in apparent contemplation. “You would strike a deal with me, Skurwysyn? You are brave, I give you that.”

  Lyle shrugged. “Do you want the book back or not? Kill us now and it is lost forever.�
��

  Nothing showed on the Pole’s implacable face but his arm moved and the broad cutlass hissed its way into its scabbard. “Very well. You will return my property by the time we cast off, or this pathetic specimen will bathe in the Solent.”

  “He is a good swimmer.”

  “Even when hogtied? Truly, the boy must be kinsman to Poseidon himself.” Marek spat at Botolph’s feet, inching closer to Lyle. “Please understand me, Ironside Highwayman. You and your associate have stolen something very dear to me. To us. We have run our quarry to ground, praise the Holy Mother and the devil-touched whoreson will come south with us at sun-up. Either our property is returned by the time we depart for Spithead, or he dies. You have my word on it.”

  #

  Havant, Hampshire

  Whistler scampered across the street, leaping glassy puddles and piles of horse-dung as he went. Hunger made him weak but it also made him resolute. The buildings on this side of the road were principally involved with animal skins. A tannery, a fellmonger and purveyors of vellum and ink all had their place. But the jewel in Havant's crown was the large parchmenter's premises that devoured the lion's share of the row and it was beneath its deeply jettied first floor that Whistler came to a halt. He pressed his back against one of the massive double doors, high and broad like those of a tithe barn, as he paused to catch his breath. The site was one of bustling industry during the day but now all was still, the gates firmly shut and barred and the challenge would be a matter of finding a way into the imposing building. When he had composed himself, he slid along the door, always searching the road for the return of the watchmen or prying eyes in overlooking windows. Nothing gave him undue alarm, so he continued until his shoulder blade felt the scrape of the building's corner. He rounded it, always facing outward, finding himself in a new passageway as he stumbled over a discarded hogshead, rotten beyond repair and slid along the gable wall. In and out he breathed, footsteps silent, craning his neck so that he could check for suitable features in the wall.