Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns

by Michael Arnold

  Like magic, it resolved from the gloom about a yard above his head. A rectangular ventilation grate, cut into the wall between two of the timber stanchions and sealed by a grid of metal bars. It was tiny, barely a square foot in dimension. A child would have struggled to fit through it. Except that it had rained all day.

  Whistler returned to the broken hogshead and dragged it through the mud until it was positioned beneath the grate. He climbed, gingerly at first and bobbed his knees a couple of times to test its durability. Despite an alarming chorus of creaks and cracks, it held firm and he pulled a rusty and much-used chisel from his snapsack. Glancing over both shoulders, he jammed the sharpened point into the wall. The building's timber frame might have been stout but the spaces between the great oaken joists were made of wattle and caked in daub. The daub – a mixture of clay, straw, mud and chalk dust – had been whitewashed, to improve both the aesthetic and its resistance to rain. But it had rained a great deal and, while the wall was not about to melt into the gutter, it was soft enough to offer only meagre resistance to a chisel wielded by a tenacious hand. It took Whistler less than a minute to excavate the outer layer of daub into which the grate had been sunk and it came away with a concerted tug.

  He placed the metal fixing carefully on the ground and peered through the hole. All was dark, too dark to take an effective inventory but that hardly mattered. He knew well enough that the open-plan space would hold the accoutrements of an industry delivering prodigious wealth to the town. Stone vats, containing a solution of lime and water, in which the valuable pristine-white skins of South Downs sheep would be soaked for days at a time. Wooden structures upon which the slippery hides, fresh from soaking, would be draped, ready for the remnants of hair to be scraped clean to reveal the pink skin beneath. There would be containers holding bare, tidy skins that were scheduled to be rinsed in the fresh waters of the local springs, purged of lime residue so that they might next be stretched taut on frames for drying. There would be a trove of tools, too. Good quality items that might fit discreetly about a man's person. Easy to steal, easier to sell. But there was something extra special about this place. It teased a particular kind of treasure. One that had Whistler grinning in the desultory moon-glow and redoubling his efforts. His ruined hands screamed with the strain, though he swallowed back the pain, proximity to his prize acting as a salve.

  With each movement of the chisel more clumps came away, spattering his sodden shoes, exposing the latticed wattle beneath like the bones of a flayed carcass. When there was enough of the woven hurdle on show, he simply pulled. Returning the chisel to the snapsack and gripping the ends of the coppiced hazel strips where they had been cut to form the setting for the grate, he hauled with all his might, letting his feet dangle to the sides of the hogshead so that his entire weight might contribute to the struggle.

  One by one, the sticks broke. The noise was excruciating in the still of the night but intermittent moments of frozen, ear-pricked terror gave way to frenetic action as he gradually enlarged the hole, each splintering spar a word of encouragement. It was not long before the modest vent had become a man-sized window into which Whistler hauled himself, hooking elbows over the edge of the jagged gap, scrabbling with his toes for purchase against the wall, cursing the height and the sharp spears of hazel and the day’s foul weather and the green-eyed horseman whose earlier intervention had driven him to this. In moments his top half had slithered into the dry air on the far side of the wall, balanced by his waist on the fractured wattle like a seal about to launch from its rock into the surf. For a heart-stopping second, he feared he would be stranded there, snagged by his breeches on the split fronds but then the momentum shifted and down he went, plummeting into the shadowy abyss, arms outstretched, bracing against the unseen.

  He hit the floor hard, rolled, clattered into something wooden that immediately toppled about him. But he laughed inwardly all the same. Because he was unhurt and he was inside.

  He disentangled himself from the wooden structure that, with quickly adjusting eyes, he saw was a hoop-shaped frame, across which a pale skin was stretched, held firm by strings and pegs that could be altered to accommodate the inevitable shrinkage. He pulled the apparatus upright. The skin was rubbery and damp. It had been scraped to the blemish-free sheen of the latter stages of the process, left to dry before the final steps that would transform it into viable parchment.

  More edges and lines resolved from the shadows as Whistler gauged his new surroundings. The vats were present as expected, flanked by tool benches, buckets and brooms. There were piles of finished skins, ready for cutting to shape and various crates and trunks that might have warranted investigation had time allowed. Shelves heaved with all manner of objects and hooks protruded from the high beams, from which dangled bunches of dried herbs that did valiant battle against the perpetual stench.

  Whistler moved through the gloom, picking a silent path to the rear of the workshop, where three smaller doors implied rooms beyond. None was locked. He opened each in turn. The first was an office, perhaps that of the clerk. A Spartan environment inhabited by a huge table that was empty, save a jar of quills and two ink pots. There were a couple of chairs and a wide bookcase crammed and sagging with papers. He entered but only to quickly riffle through a drawer set into the table. Therein, he discovered a solid hunk of bread wrapped in an oily cloth and a scrap of some unidentifiable meat, dried and seasoned for longevity. He could have wept but staved off the pricking tears. He did not resist a breathless prayer of thanks. Then he crammed the lot into his mouth and closed his eyes as he savoured every morsel.

  The second room was little more than a cupboard. A copse of tall brooms, boxes of bunched and balled cloths, some short-handled brushes and a collection of pails of various capacities. The third room, however, was the reason he was here. The reason he had especially chosen this factory in a town full of wealthy businesses. It was a storeroom. Lined all the way around its edge by solid chests, stacked three high, so that the top layer reached Whistler's chin. There were dozens and he could not hope to check the contents of them all, which was why it was a relief to know that what lay within each one was identical to the next. He simply went to the nearest and lifted the heavy lid, standing on tiptoes to peer inside.

  Parchment. Pristine white gold, with the merest hint of yellow, made from Hampshire's coveted downland flocks and Havant's famous and mystical springs. This was the finished product; dried, cut, inspected, rolled and tied with ribbon, all ready to be transported to the four corners of the Commonwealth and beyond. Parchment was expensive and this stuff was the very best money could buy. Whistler unslung his snapsack and opened it wide, muttering thanks to the parchmenter for preparing his wares in such tidy and easily hidden scrolls. He allowed himself a smug smile, for this loot, when converted into coin down in Portsmouth by the hands of ship's captains and dockyard clerks, would see him through the winter.

  When the bag was full, he closed the lid and turned. Which was when he was punched in the face.

  WEDNESDAY

  Near Rogate, Sussex

  “I warned you not to go,” the man muttered from high in the saddle as his black gelding negotiated sticky mire that had, until yesterday, been a firm trackway between dense gorse thickets. The horse snorted gently as if for answer, earning a patted neck, while its rider, as craggy and weather-beaten as his oversized buff-coat, continued unabashed. He craned his reedy neck sideways to address one of his two companions. “Did I not, girl? Don't go to Idsworth, says I, for some kestrel-eyed bastard'll know your face and trouble will surely follow. Is that not what I said?”

  The girl in question, diminutive upon a bulky roan mare, seemed pained to agree but nodded nevertheless. “That's about the size of it.”

  The first man cackled triumphantly, revealing rotting gums that sprouted crooked, amber teeth. He was extremely thin, his coat hanging off his bony frame as though it had been draped over a broomstick and his shoulders were severely hunched, giv
ing him the look of an ancient tree, bowing against the passage of time. His face was lined deep by years, furred in wintry white bristles and given a hawkish aspect by a long nose that was hooked and red at the tip. “But do he listen to old Eustace? Do he Hell. Now look.” He cackled again, ruefully. “Shite on a short stick.”

  Behind the old man and young girl, Samson Lyle said, “My decision to pay my respects to Ursula Spendlove has no bearing upon our current predicament.”

  Eustace Grumm twisted all the way round to face him. “If you weren't at that God-forsaken ghost village, you would not have supped at Chalton.”

  The sun had not yet fully risen but a grey light showed the way as the narrow track joined an established bridleway, sunk deep over time, so that it was thickly fringed by brown bracken and bare lime trees.

  “If he had not gone,” a fourth voice spoke in the gloom, “my brother would have no hope at all.” Amelia Spendlove, peering over Lyle’s shoulder, fixed Grumm with a furious glare that made him turn quickly back to the bridleway. She rode pillion on Star’s broad back, clutching tight at the highwayman’s midriff. She had dispensed with the apron, replacing it with Lyle’s spare coat against the cold, the hem of her skirts now brown with mud.

  The trio of horses drew together as they eased watchfully out onto the cloying bridleway, collectively nervous of the peril posed by the wider road’s high banks.

  At the front, Grumm muttered, “And I’d be snug in my bed, none the wiser.” He looked up as he spoke, scanning the darkly tangled boughs for signs of movement or the telltale glow of a slow match. Louder now, he said, “Not traipsing out through this bliddy muck and this bliddy cold.”

  “It is not that cold,” Lyle said, running a gloved hand over Star's pricked ears as the animal took up position between the other mounts so that they travelled three-abreast. He studied the looming banks too. The thick blanket of rotting leaves, the gaping entrances to badger setts and the craters left by uprooted trees. It was a wolf-grey morning, the kind that could conceal all manner of danger. Crows cawed as they swirled high above, an unseen brook gurgled somewhere nearby but otherwise nothing stirred. He let a hand drop to the butt of his pistol all the same, reassured by its presence in the saddle holster. His arm pressed against Amelia’s and he felt her tense. Withdrawing it quickly, he said, “And at least the rain has finally relented.”

  Before Grumm could muster what would doubtless have proved a less than sanguine response, Amelia cut in, “I would have no hope either.”

  Lyle’s instinct was to play down her statement as hyperbole but they both knew he had saved her, despite her initial resistance, from the close attentions of Marek and his swash-and-buckler men. “You are safe now,” he said.

  “And you are certain that boy will find my father?”

  Lyle nodded. “Young Hector is most reliable.” When he and the girl had bolted for the little rear door and the yard beyond, leaving Wardley Spendlove on the tavern floor had been a wrench for them both. Yet Lyle had wanted someone trustworthy to remain and the old man had been the obvious – the only – choice. The first thing he had done, after riding Star into the rain-lashed night, was locate Hector, a shepherd’s boy with the body of a seven year-old and the mind of the shrewdest card-sharp. “He’ll find Master Spendlove and deliver the message.”

  “Tell it again, Samson,” Bella said, with unapologetic relish. “These men were sailors?”

  “With Blake's fleet, 'pon the Diamond.”

  “Thought the venerable General at Sea,” Grumm sneered, “was down haranguing the Diegos.”

  “Blockading Cadiz,” Lyle confirmed. “Part of the fleet has returned for a refit. This Marek and his lads have been enjoying the pleasures of Bankside during shore leave. He mentioned he had competed at the prize play and he certainly has the physique for it. Now they're returning to port.” He cast his mind back to the previous night, replaying Marek's words. Seeing again the nonchalant brutality in that slab-like face, the predatory strength in his bearing. A chill formed on the surface of his skin. “They were hard sorts. Not common ruffians. Dangerous.”

  “And you have 'em riled,” Grumm said bitterly. “Shite on a short stick.”

  Bella glanced across at Lyle, her long, mousy hair falling over a face full of freckles. “Best you ran away, then.”

  Lyle winced at her choice of words. “Not a decision from which I derive a deal of pride, I assure you. But I struck a deal with Marek, which has bought us time.”

  “You should have stayed clear of the whole bloody show, if you ask me,” Grumm commented.

  The arms wrapped at Lyle’s waist tightened a fraction. “You would have had him sit back and quaff his wine,” Amelia retorted acerbically, “while those vile creatures tortured my little brother for a book he does not possess?”

  Grumm harrumphed theatrically into Tyrannus’s thick neck, declining to pick a fight. Lyle stifled a grin.

  Bella said, “Your old school master got the stones to keep up with these sailors?”

  “To protect his son?” Lyle replied. “Aye, I’d stake my life on it.” And that had been the plan, such as it was. Hector had told Spendlove that he was to stay with Marek’s men. Take his pony and trap and shadow them all the way south, so that Lyle would be free to fathom an answer to Botolph’s sorry predicament. Once they reached the coast, Spendlove was charged with noting the location of the sailors’ lodgings and then finding an old associate of Lyle’s who could provide a safe house where he could sit tight. Lyle and Amelia, meanwhile, had galloped Star hard all the way back to the Ironside Highwayman’s bolt-hole, a tavern on the edge of the village of Rake, there to rouse Bella and Grumm, his companions in life and accomplices on the road, just before the sun took a foothold on the eastern hills. Now they travelled south as the sodden fields crackled and the birds began their song.

  Bella, who was around twelve, they reckoned – though the matter was oft debated – clicked her tongue in gentle encouragement as her horse negotiated a felled log. “What now?”

  “We shan't attack them,” Lyle said. “I confess I had considered it.”

  “I bet you had,” replied Grumm with dark amusement.

  “Why not?” Bella asked, a lack of years never equating to a lack of courage. “The three of us can take them, can't we, Samson?” She glanced at Amelia, perhaps reflecting upon the tale she had heard regarding Duncan’s stolen whip and added, “Four of us.”

  “I believe you could best anyone, truly,” Lyle said.

  “Ambush them on the road,” she scoffed. “We know where they're headed.”

  “Marek's men are not common bandits,” Lyle chided, though he could not stifle a laugh. In truth, while her bravado might one day be the end of her, he was proud of the indomitable young woman she had become. Dorothy Forks had been her name when first he had made her acquaintance. That meeting, on a thickly forested road not vastly dissimilar to the one on which they now travelled, had occurred by way of a proposition. Little Dorothy, a raggedy, snot-nosed snipe with a well-practised curtsy that was as coquettish as it was repellent, had stepped into Star's path and offered all manner of favours in return for a few coins. Her pimp had lurked nearby, propped against a knotted blackthorn as he monitored the exchange with hungry eyes. Lyle had promptly snapped the stick over its owner's pate, scooped the girl into the saddle and offered her a different life. She had thrown herself headlong into Lyle's strange existence, taking on the daylight guise of respectable alehouse mistress, while at night she played accomplice to the region's most notorious highwayman, all on the condition that Dorothy Forks would cease to exist.

  Bella pulled a sour face. “Well I think we ought to fight.”

  Grumm snorted. “We'd get ourselves killed, you daft mare.”

  “Tempting as it is,” said Lyle, “we would not stand a chance. These are seasoned fighters, not green recruits.”

  “So are the Mad Ox's troopers,” Bella countered, “and we best them all the time.”

&nb
sp; “This is different,” Lyle answered levelly, conjuring this new adversary's image in his mind. The blue eyes twinkling from within that broad, florid face. The sardonic smile of neat, white teeth beneath that bristling upper lip. The cavernous scar blighting the man’s cheek. He said, “The threat is real. I sense Marek and his company are capable.”

  “I'm glad it's not all wool in that skull o' yours,” Grumm interrupted him brightly, evidently feeling an argument had been won.

  “Yet I cannot leave him to the mercy of those men.”

  Now the old man wrenched himself about, glaring at Lyle with blazing eyes. “And I wonder if your wits have finally turned to suet, Major. You’d risk all our lives for a lad you barely knows?” He shifted his gaze to Amelia. “I am sorry, miss, it is a crying shame but-”

  “You're in the right of it, Eustace,” Lyle interrupted, “but his father and mother mean a great deal to me.” And that fact was the axis about which his every thought revolved. Master and Mistress Spendlove had not raised Samson Lyle. Yet the task had been owned by parents who were as distant from each other as they were to their young son. They had money, the Lyles, a modest acorn of inheritance nurtured into a formidable oak by guile in the mercantile world, which ensured comfort at home that precious few could rival, especially when the first of the wars began. But his parents' match had been one made by others. A marriage of convenience that would forge alliances and oversee transactions but utterly inconvenient for those whose lives it would affect. Young Samson knew from almost the moment he could walk. A coldness between his mother and father. An estrangement in mind if not in body that was the hallmark of their union, a wedge driven between them, first by bitterness, then later by wine.

  Thus, his modest, erudite and kind schoolmaster had stepped, unknowingly at first, into the breach. He had taught Lyle in a scholarly fashion, of course but also in life's intangibles. How to conduct oneself in polite company. How to treat others with respect and kindness. How to stand tall and defend a principle. Ursula Spendlove had made her own mark in Lyle's life, showing a young, impetuous man patience and empathy. She and her husband had demonstrated, in their quiet, unassuming manner, how successful a marriage could be and Lyle, when the time came, had modelled his own upon theirs. In so many ways the Spendloves had had a formative influence on Samson Lyle. Ultimately, he had to save Botolph, because he could not let them down. Could not disappoint Ursula's memory.