“Botolph is like a brother to me,” Lyle said, dragging his thoughts from the hapless lad's parents, “though he knows it not.”
“Well he ain't no brother to me,” Grumm muttered.
“And that is why you are free to turn Tyrannus around if it please you.”
“Good,” Grumm grunted, patting his horse's neck appreciatively. “Then I shall.”
They rode on in silence. The bridleway climbed a steep slope for a hundred yards, its leaf-littered banks diminishing. As it reached ground level, distant hilltops visible like dark etchings through the trees, it opened onto a broad fair-meadow of long grass that shifted with the vagaries of the wind. A nye of pheasants exploded from cover at the appearance of the riders, feathers flying as a half-dozen screeching birds scattered pell-mell in panic, while a small roe deer meandered further off, apparently untroubled as it tore up wads of grass and absently skirted patches of vicious-looking gorse. Thick stands of thistles marked a track across the field, flanking the hoof-worn route like a malevolent avenue. With their dark leaves and razor spikes, they were miniature pike-blocks to Lyle's eye and his mind wandered like the fawn, transporting him to other, distant fields, gore-spattered and smoke-wreathed. He had been blooded, the teenaged Lyle, at the decisive Battle of Naseby but the conflict had not ended there. Parliament's remodelled and formidable new army, with Lyle in its ranks, had barely paused for breath when they had been dispatched to deal with Royalists in Wales. Then it had been riots back in England, more Cavalier resistance in Kent and a new threat from the north as the Scots Engagers had crossed the border having made an alliance with the imprisoned monarch. There followed Preston and Winwick Pass, clashes of arms that had simultaneously annihilated the Engagers, ended the Second Civil War and made a man out of Samson Lyle. He could still smell those battles. Still hear them. Yet nothing could have prepared him for Ireland. The beginning of the end of his old life.
He had been a war hero by then. A dashing, deadly major in the formidable cavalry of the all-conquering Army of Parliament, sent to quell resistance across the sea. Except that war in Ireland was different. It was more brutal. Crueller. A conflict fuelled by hatred rather than principle. Finally came Limerick, where Lyle had seen and done things that had brought him such horror, such remorse, that he had thought he might drown in his own shame. He had turned his back. Ridden Star hard to the sea and then on to England. Ireton, his friend and master, had dispatched troops to intercept him and, somehow, they had reached Lyle's home first. He had arrived to discover that she was already dead. Alice; how he missed her. She was long gone. She was bones. A memory. Yet not a single hour slipped by without her haunting him.
“What's the bliddy plan, then, you mad bastard?” Eustace Grumm's coarse voice grated across his bow.
Lyle blinked hard, forcing pin-pricks from his eyes and images from his head. He smiled at the Cornishman. “We find Marek's missing book and give it back.”
Grumm sniffed. “He's probably offed the boy regardless.”
“No, he wants his property. Botolph is surety. It makes no sense to kill him.” In the distance a thick pall of smoke belched from what was probably a charcoal-maker's ferocious fire. He watched it gather above the trees. “Not yet, leastwise.”
“Well then,” Grumm replied with mock primness, “that's all tied up in a nice neat bow. We search the countryside for a special little book and just hand it back to Marek. No trouble.”
Lyle laughed. “Ye of little faith, Eustace.”
“Well forgive my sceptical heart, Samson Lyle but how in bastard blazes are we going to find the damnable thing?”
“We'll find it, old friend,” Lyle answered, “because I know who really took it.”
#
East Meon, Hampshire
The loud rap at the door echoed the length of the huge hall, forcing Colonel Francis Maddocks to look up from the thick stack of papers that had found their way to his table seemingly moments after sunup. With an irritable grunt he sat back in the chair, its polished stanchions creaking under his muscular frame and pushed the piled communiques away. “Come!”
His hair, raven black but shot through with silver flecks, fell loose about his shoulders. He quickly swept the strands away from his face as the young, mud-spattered soldier strode into the grand chamber on loping legs that were stick-thin and disproportionately long. Maddocks raised a single brow. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, Lieutenant Grimes?” He stood, moving away from the enormous hunk of oak and crossing the line of intricately patterned turkey carpets that had been laid out on his arrival. He reached the nearest window, a large rectangle of diamond panes and stared out at brooding skies that had dumped so much rain upon the outbuildings, orchards, forests and hills. The road that ran adjacent to the hall was empty still. In an hour or two it would be a morass. He turned to look quizzically at Grimes. “It is no easy ride from Petersfield in this weather. You must have departed before the sun.”
Grimes, lobster-tailed helm wedged in the crook of his arm, bowed low, a particular effort for his willowy frame and, noticing watery filth forming a puddle about his tall boots, danced a brisk sidestep to put himself clear of the plush rug. The movement, all legs and arms, put Maddocks in mind of a giant crab scuttling across a rock. Grimes was a sallow specimen, with lower eyelids that exposed red-raw flesh where they drooped but his hazel eyes glistened with awe as they roamed the hall. “I was woken by word of a fracas, sir.”
“Splendid, is it not?” Maddocks said, noting the lieutenant’s interest. “When touring Major-General Goffe's territory, I am ever thankful to reach this place.” He laughed as an image of his townhouse overlooking Petersfield marketplace pushed itself to the fore. “Tis more befitting of a man of my dignity than a view over cattle pens.”
“It is like a fortress, sir,” Grimes answered, still marvelling, “with walls so stout.”
“Malmstone and flint,” said Maddocks, “four feet thick.” He could understand the younger man's wonder, for in a village of timber and thatch, the ancient complex of Court Hall was as unusual as it was intimidating.
Grimes's mouth twisted in evident distaste. “An old bishop's lair, so they say.”
Maddocks nodded. “The Bishops of Winchester, no less. Maintained as a home and as a court house too. Praise God, such trappings were stripped from those ne’er-do-wells when their posts were abolished.” He spread his own gaze appreciatively about the room. The hall itself, a throwback to times long faded, was almost fifty feet long, he reckoned and near thirty wide. The high, cavernous ceiling of black beams held up a magnificent louvred roof of many thousands of tiles and the glowing hearth could have accommodated an entire boar for the spit. Major-General William Goffe governed the region on behalf of the Lord Protector but it was his hand-picked commissioners and their military facilitators that did the real work. To the likes of Maddocks fell the enforcement of law and the reformation of public morality. Gambling dens, playhouses and baiting pits were to be suppressed. Public gatherings were to be broken up, old Royalists kept at bay, seditious activity crushed. Drunkenness, sexual licentiousness, foul-language and blasphemy were all to be severely punished, while alehouses known for clientele of an unruly nature could expect to be closed. And all that fell upon Maddocks's shoulders in the eastern and southern parts of the County of Southampton. To that end, he was compelled to travel, almost like a monarch of old, embarked upon perpetual progress. He had a dozen regular rest stops and of those, this was by far his favourite. If only it were his permanent residence, he thought ruefully but that privilege had been bestowed upon one of the Army grandees who had come out of the late war with gold-lined pockets and the ear of the Protector. The only condition to snapping up the manor at auction for a veritable steal was that the old bishop's court would be made available whenever it was requested by the new regime. “Now then,” he said, clapping his hands. “This fracas.”
Lieutenant Grimes scratched a chin crammed with white-headed pimples. He sn
iffed wetly. “Up in the hills, at Chalton. The Red Lion.”
Maddocks knew the place and waved a dismissive hand. “Drunks comparing pizzles, no doubt.”
The lieutenant licked thin lips nervously. “I fear it was a deal more serious than that, sir.”
“Anyone die?”
“No, sir but there was some trouble with a parcel of foreign sell-swords, led by a fellow named Marek.”
That gave Maddocks pause. He felt his features tighten, though he fought to remain impassive. “Mercenaries?” he said incredulously. “In Southamptonshire? What were they about; doing battle with sheep?”
“A lad was beaten,” Grimes answered.
“Not badly, Mister Grimes, or he would not have dragged himself all the way to your door.”
Grimes shook his head, though the brown hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and mud did not shift. “It was not reported by the victim, sir. They drank the inn quite dry, these sell-swords. The tapster was forced to travel to town in order to replenish his ale.”
“And he took the opportunity to lodge his complaint with you.” Maddocks stared out of the window. The muffled sound of a watermill cranked and thudded outside. “Foreign mercenaries,” he muttered, considering the assertion. “Man by the name of Marek. I wonder.”
“He is known to you, sir?”
“Perhaps. Not mercenaries, Grimes,” Maddocks said, for it just did not ring true. The old sovereign’s three kingdoms had been infested with rough, godless killers during the civil wars. Men who had crossed from the conflict in the Low Countries when coins and enemies had begun to run dry. But those days had long faded. The creation of Parliament's New Modelled Army had initially stifled the need for such men. “Our final victory,” he said aloud, “has ensured a peace that shall, God willing, last until Jesus' return.” He snapped his fingers. “Not soldiers, Grimes but sailors. Pirates in all but name. Blake's squadron are in. The lawless knaves in his employ are worse than Barbary corsairs. General Goffe has petitioned the Protector on the matter, on account of the propensity of those same villains to roam his jurisdiction betwixt London and Portsmouth. Heathens in the main. Irish and French, Musselmen, pagan and Papist.” He strode back to the desk, plucking a small, pale-green pod from a pouch that lay beside the papers. He offered it up. “Cardamom?” When Grimes politely demurred, Maddocks took a second to split open the thin outer shell with a well-practised thumb, tilted back his head and upended it into his mouth. A cascade of tiny seeds scattered his tongue and he chewed vigorously. “Restores the breath,” he explained when Grimes stared in evident bewilderment. “In short, we have a pure Army and a rotten Navy. That's your answer. But what concern is it of mine? I would not readily interfere with Blake's crews on account of a mere brabble in a tippling house.”
“He was abducted, sir.”
“The Chalton lad? The one they beat?” Maddocks grunted. “Condemned with shapely legs, was he? Months at sea and all that.” He smothered his own mirth when he read only unease on his subordinate's face. After all, the lad had not ridden from Petersfield to share a jest. “Presumably you have dealt with this matter yourself, man?” He paused as a troop of horsemen, clad head-to-toe in leather and metal, thundered past the window to draw up outside Court Hall. When the thrum of their hoof-beats had ebbed, Maddocks continued, “Did you not make direct for Chalton?”
“I did, sir. The miscreants had already departed.”
“They will be travelling down to Portsmouth,” Maddocks said. “Hardly a pebble in a dung heap. Ride the lanes. Track them down, bring them in and free the bloody boy.” Again, Grimes's expression struck a note of disquiet and Maddocks began to lose patience. “Lieutenant,” he snapped, “speak plain. What the devil is this about?”
“The Ironside Highwayman,” Grimes said pointedly, “was present at the Red Lion. Almost came to blows with the foreign ruffians.”
Maddocks could not keep his features impassive this time, his brow screwing unbidden into a dark frown. “Indeed? You're certain?”
“Tavern-keeper told me so, sir. By his account, the sailors accused the Chalton boy of stealing something from them. Something precious. The Ironside Highwayman was supping therein and took it upon himself to intervene.”
“He would not easily pick such men as enemies. The thief must have been a member of his sordid little gang.” Maddocks knitted his fingers across his stomach. “Tell me they ran the blackguard through. Lord above but it would save me a deal of trouble.”
“Alas, no,” Grimes replied.
“Then?”
“There was something of a standoff, sir. Concluding only when the bandit pledged to recover the missing item.”
They were interrupted by a thump at the massive, iron-clasped doors. “Come!” Maddocks barked. The door opened and a servant ushered another soldier inside. He was a middle-aged man with close-cropped auburn hair, a broken nose and neat, white teeth. Maddocks acknowledged the man who had ridden at the head of the newly arrived group of cavalrymen with a curt nod. “Major Smith. Welcome. My man will bring refreshment forthwith.” The major, as muddy and travel-worn as the lieutenant but devoid of the junior officer's temerity, gave his thanks and walked directly to the far end of the hall and the hearth's warming embrace. Already he was plucking off his leather gloves and shrugging his way out of the saffron coloured scarf – the mark of Colonel Maddocks' Regiment of Horse – that swathed his torso.
Maddocks turned back to Grimes. “This precious item. The Highwayman has it?”
Grimes shook his head. “He claimed not, sir but this Marek declined to believe him.”
“Of course he declined,” Maddocks gave a snort of amusement. “A weasel like Samson Lyle would not risk his skin for a stranger. You are aware of his treachery, yes?”
“Was a major,” Grimes said, “in the Parliament's remodelled army. Fought to great acclaim, so I heard. A friend to General Ireton and,” his voice took on a note of dread as he spoke the names, “even, they say, to the Lord Protector himself.”
Maddocks nodded, unable to keep the sourness from his face or tone. “And to me, more's the pity. But he lost his nerve. When King Jesus called for warriors in Ireland, Lyle's ears were deaf. His pride and his cowardice condemned him to turn his coat and then his tail.”
“They say his goodwife was killed,” Grimes ventured tentatively.
“A mishap.” Maddocks shrugged. “A tragedy, without doubt but not intentional. Troopers were dispatched to his home. Goodwife Lyle behaved rather rashly and was injured by one of the horses. If blame is to be apportioned, let it befall Lyle himself, whose treason brought about all. Now the Almighty sees fit for the knave to wander the roads with a price around his neck. Eventually, God willing, the price will be replaced by a noose.” He hooked a thumb into his breeches. “Chalton, then. What was taken?”
“Treasure, sir and a book of some kind. The tapster knew only that.”
Maddocks sighed heavily, not wishing to leave the comforts of East Meon prematurely. “I suppose I should investigate this business myself. Thank you, Lieutenant Grimes. You were right to inform me.” He pressed the balls of his hands into stinging eyes. “Outlaws, pirates and treasure in our sleepy hills, eh? Whatever next?”
From the fireplace, a deep voice intoned, “You've heard the madman's rant too, Colonel? A good tale spreads on the wind, I do declare!”
Both Maddocks and Grimes looked to the medieval hall's far end. “Major Smith?” the colonel prompted.
“The madman,” Smith said in jovial fashion, his palms held flat towards the heat. “Deserter, taken by my lads at Havant. Red-handed, no less, in the act of stealing parchment.”
“What of it?”
“We found a deal of booty in his possession. Treasure, of sorts, that he claims he stole from pirates!” Smith brayed with laughter. “He's a talented storyteller, I'll give him that. A shame he'll soon swing for his crimes.”
Maddocks turned back to the lieutenant. “Mister Grimes, rouse the men,
if you please.” He left the table and went to a low chest, upon which his sword and scabbard lay. Collecting them up, he added, “And fetch my horse.”
#
Finchdean, Hampshire
Lyle had only Amelia for company when Star loped towards the hamlet nestled deep in the wooded hills. Misty fingers lingered stubbornly on the highest slopes, writhing over the treetops as the half-hearted breeze worked to push them clear.
“What happened to him?” Amelia asked as they came off the last hill and followed the line of a hawthorn hedge towards the clustered thatches.
Lyle felt her weight shift to the side and realised she was inspecting Star’s coat. “Exploding gun at Worcester Fight.”
She traced the patch of pink, mutilated skin that blighted the beast’s flank. “Must have been a big gun.”
Lyle nodded. “A scrap of iron near cut him in twain.”
She straightened again. “I do not remember the war.”
“Then you are fortunate.”
“Bella told me about what happened.” She hesitated, then ventured in a small voice, “To your wife, I mean.”
“Bella has a big mouth.”
“I… cannot imagine…”
“No,” Lyle said curtly, “you cannot.” He immediately regretted his tone, adding, “It is why my war continues.” The addendum had been designed to offer some explanation, as if the information would go some way to softening his brusqueness but all it did was invite the memory of Marek’s scornful words and they crowded in, like birds descending upon a new-sown field. He may dress like a cavalry officer but that does not make him one. Did the jibe ring true? Had he become, in truth, no different than a common footpad? No different than Whistler? He glanced down at the accoutrements of a warrior. The sword and the pistol. The dagger and the hammer. Baubles now. Used occasionally and then mostly for threat above substance.
Highwayman- The Complete Campaigns Page 21
