Spirit of the Highway

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Oh Cutch. I grew out of stories of Robin Hood years ago. And I’m not sure I —’

  ‘You don’t see me as Maid Marian, then?’ He grinned.

  ‘Give over!’ I pushed him on the shoulder. ‘I’m in enough trouble. What would happen if news got around that I’m holding up the highway?’

  He shrugged. ‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. You’re an outlaw, aren’t you? You’ll get the blame for anything that goes on anyway.’

  ‘But it will draw more attention to us.’

  ‘You’re on the run already, what difference will it make? It need only be once. I’ve done it before, it’s not such a hard task. The New Model Army used to call this road the River of Gold. We relieved many a London merchant of his coin, or his provisions.’

  His words took me back to a night when I met Abigail on the highway last summer, trying to hold up the Royalists on their way to the King. Silly girl. She’d got herself into a proper mess. The memory seemed so long ago. I mused over it, but Cutch was still speaking. ‘Best go over Wheathamstead way, catch someone on their way back from market. Of course it’ll be pot-luck what they’ve bought, but you can usually rely on bread and oatmeal for a start.’

  The thought of proper bread made my stomach rumble. I felt myself waver.

  ‘After that, if we have to move on again,’ Cutch said, ‘we’ll at least be prepared, and provisioned. We can be well on our way by the time the alarm is raised.’

  ‘No. We’re not moving on. And highway robbery’s a crazy idea.’

  ‘You got a better one? Or do you want to live on rabbit stew for the rest of your life?’

  16 - HOLD-UP ON THE HIGHWAY

  ‘I’m going back,’ I said. ‘River of gold, you said. Well it looks like there’s a drought. We’ve seen nobody for hours.’

  Cutch was right. I’d held out a few more days, but we were constantly hungry, and rabbit stew now made me gag. For a few nights during the dark of the moon, we’d hidden in the trees by the highway, but the only folk who passed us were drovers with their flocks, and itinerant beggars with their bundles, and they looked just as ragged as ourselves, and we could not face the idea of robbing people so poor.

  ‘Just a little longer,’ Cutch said. ‘We need cash too if we can get it. My blade needs sharpening and we’ve no whetstone. I can’t make one of those out of sticks and bracken. Happen a travelling tinker will sell us one, if we can pay. And if we can get a razor we can shave, make ourselves look different.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘If I looked different I could risk going to market.’ Cutch fingered his pistol, which was loaded in preparation.

  ‘Put that thing away. It makes me nervous. Better to save your powder. We could get ourselves a pheasant or two instead of —’

  ‘Hush! Something’s coming!’

  I strained my ears. He was right. I dragged my scarf up over my face, tipped my hat lower. Cutch did the same, until only a white split of face remained.

  Hoofbeats, and the trundle of a carriage.

  ‘You know what you have to do,’ hissed Cutch.

  The white blazes of the horses were what I saw first, and the glint of silver on the coachmans’s livery.

  I gripped my reins tighter until the last moment. When the coach was almost upon us I yelled, galloped out into their path. The horse nearest me stalled, the other neighed, tried to escape its traces. The carriage veered to the side, almost toppled, amid a creak of timber and metal.

  ‘Git on!’ The coachman lashed his whip, but the horses were spooked now, and trod on the spot, ears flicking back, eyes white.

  I levelled my musket at the coachman’s chest. ‘Halt!’ I cried. But he had seen the gun and was already dropping the reins.

  He held up his hands. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  A gentleman stuck his head out through the window, an older man of fifty years or more, with a grizzled moustache and white about the face. No. It couldn’t be.

  I fell back as if I’d been scalded. Jacob’s father, Mr Mallinson, the village constable.

  ‘Cutch! Cutch!’ I hissed, from behind my kerchief, but Cutch did not heed my frantic calls. Of all the fingers of fate! I bent my head lower, prayed Mallinson would not recognise me, reined my horse back into the gloom of the overhanging trees.

  ‘Drive, damn you!’ Mallinson yelled at the coachman, but his servant kept his hands high.

  ‘Get out.’ Cutch leapt into view, gestured at Mallinson with his pistol.

  ‘What the …?’ Mallinson had not expected two riders. ‘What the devil do you want?’ he asked, jutting his chin in a display of bravado.

  ‘What you got?’ Cutch asked, his voice muffled, nosing his pistol towards him.

  ‘Nothing. Just a sack of turnips and some eggs. From my sister’s hens.’

  ‘Hand over your purse,’ Cutch said.

  ‘I will do no such thing. I am responsible for Law and Order around here, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be robbed in my own village.’

  ‘Out. Or would you rather leave your brains on the road?’

  Mallinson heaved himself down, stood like an ox. Cutch pointed his pistol at Mallinson’s chest. ‘Stay still,’ he ordered. Then he called to me, ‘Search the carriage.’

  I was reluctant to come into view. I saw Cutch turn to look for me, but a moment’s inattention was all Mallinson needed. He bolted, dodged for the driver’s seat.

  ‘Stop him!’ Cutch yelled. A flash and a crack, and Mallinson staggered and almost fell. Cutch looked down at the gun as if he’d only just seen it.

  Mallinson scrambled up next to the terrified coachman, took up the reins and yelling and cracking the whip urged the horses into a standing start. The coachman’s astonished face was the last thing I saw as the carriage careered down the road.

  I ripped the scarf from my face, slithered down from my horse. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I shouted. ‘Do you want every man jack to know we’re here?’

  ‘I didn’t expect it to go off.’

  ‘We only held up the bloody constable, didn’t we?’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘That was Mallinson! Oh Lord, we’re for it now. He’ll have every able-bodied man on our tails quicker than lightning.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something? Call it off?’

  ‘I tried, but you wouldn’t listen.’

  Cutch shook his head in disbelief. Then he dropped down to his knees. He put his finger to the ground, brought it up to look at it. ‘Blood. I must have hit him.’

  ‘God’s breath!’ I tried to say more but could not even speak. We’d shot the constable. Jacob’s father. What would Abigail think? It was a disaster. I paced up and down, unable to be still. Cutch and his stupid ideas.

  The St Alban’s road was close to our hideout, and soon people would be searching. We’d have to move on. I mounted my horse without a word, galloped off down the track into the forest. Behind me I heard Cutch’s horse crash through the undergrowth. At the charcoal burner’s cottage I dismounted and began throwing all my things into a bag.

  Cutch jumped from his horse and grabbed me by the shoulder. ‘Whoa! What’s all this?’

  I pushed him away. ‘You’ve ruined it. We can’t stay here. We’ll have to move on, go places where he can’t find us.’

  ‘If he’s hurt, it will be a few days before he comes looking.’

  ‘He’s Jacob’s father! You shot my best friend’s father! I can’t believe this is happening.’

  I caught the hurt in Cutch’s eyes when I called Jacob my best friend.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean …’ I held out my arms in an apology.

  ‘Piss off,’ Cutch said.

  ‘Calm down,’ I said putting a restraining arm on his shoulder. He threw up his arms to ward me off, more violently than he intended, and before I knew it my fists were up. Cutch covered his head to protect himself, an expression of disbelief on his face.

/>   I caught myself just in time. I took a deep breath, regained some control.

  Cutch exhaled. He saw my anger drain away, watched me lower my shaking hands.

  ‘Suppose we’re in deep trouble,’ he said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  We packed up our bags and scattered the fire, tried to return everything to its previous condition, before setting off back through the forest taking the back roads south of the village towards Symondshyde Great Wood, the only other forest in this area that might afford us cover.

  ‘Our horses give us away,’ Cutch said. ‘Best hobble them somewhere else.’ He set off leading both horses with a hobbling rope slung over his shoulder.

  We lived rough for three days, prayed that search parties would go North where the hold-up had happened, and not South. After that much time I was going crazy to know what was happening; if they were still looking for us. ‘I’m going to go to the Manor,’ I said. ‘Find Abigail and talk to her, find out about Jacob’s father and what’s happening.’

  ‘She’ll not be pleased,’ Cutch said. ‘When I walked her home, she made me promise I’d get you out of the county.’

  ‘You’d no right to promise that,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s your fault we’re in this mess.’

  ‘You’re on your own then. It’ll be the gallows if they catch us sniffing round there.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I’m in enough trouble. Shooting a constable is a hanging offence, and I want to keep my neck, thanks very much.’

  *

  The night was bright with a three quarter moon like a broken sixpence, and I had no difficulty picking my way on foot through the trees. A bag was slung over my shoulder for any provisions I could find, and a sharp blade was sheathed in my belt. You couldn’t be too careful. After the disaster with the pistol, I decided to leave firearms behind. Too risky — one wounded constable was enough.

  The edge of the wood bounded the highway and then I would be on open ground. I paused to ponder my route, whether to stay close to the hedge, or whether to run for it. It was as well I did, for there were hoofbeats approaching, and the jangle of a bit. My heart thumped in my chest. I retreated into the trees, took out my knife.

  The rider was on a big dark horse, no blaze or markings. Despite the mild night, the figure wore a cloak with the collar half-up over his face and a low brimmed hat. Up to no good, was my immediate thought. I was ready to jump back in case his horse should sense me, but suddenly he pulled off the track into the wood. Was he looking for me? There was nowhere I could go. He’d see me if I ran for it. Panicked, I scanned my surroundings for a hiding place. Nothing but trees. A nearby elm had a low foothold. I put my boot on it and, grabbing a branch, hauled myself silently upwards into its branches.

  From this vantage point I could see the man. He was doing nothing, just sitting there, waiting. Someone else must be coming; he was waiting for someone. I dare not move.

  Sure enough, a few moments later a bent old chap leading a pack-donkey approached. It was late to be out, for an old codger like him, I thought. The donkey was weighed down with a heavy wicker pannier on each side. I glanced to the horseman on my right. He was dismounting, hitching the horse to a tree.

  When the cloaked stranger came into the road from the forest, the man startled. ‘Ho! Made me jump,’ he said crossly.

  The man in the dark cloak seemed to rush towards him all at once, the cloak swirling around them both. The hiss of a sword being drawn. A small mew, like a kitten. Moments later the old chap lay on the road, unmoving. My hands began to tremble, I gripped tighter to the tree. Was he dead? I stared at the motionless heap on the road.

  The donkey seemed to notice nothing amiss. It stood stoically as the man rifled through its owner’s pockets, even when the highwayman extracted bundles from its panniers and threw them to the side of the road. When the thief had what he wanted, he led out his horse and loaded his saddlebags.

  My hands were numb, my backside too, but I dare not shift a muscle. My stomach gave a rumble and I pressed one hand to it willing it to be silent. The man paused by his horse, looked sharply behind him.

  My stomach rumbled again. The man crept over to my side of the road, peered into the undergrowth. I held my breath, prayed my stomach would be still. The man waited a few more minutes, listening, but then the donkey brayed and caught his attention.

  He ran to his horse, mounted and cantered away down the road in the direction of the village. I listened to his hoof beats fading. His horse has lost a shoe, I thought. Then I realised this was a stupid thought.

  Soon as he was out of earshot I almost fell out of the tree. I rushed over to the old man, but even from a few yards off I could see the sticky black stain spreading in the moonlight, and an oozing slit in the place where the collar should have been. Christ.

  I bent over for a closer look. Poor old thing seemed even smaller and frailer than when he’d been upright. Some good wife would be waiting for him. What should I do? I couldn’t tell anyone what I’d seen. I wandered over to the donkey, stroked its nose. ‘Hello, fella. What’s happened to your master, eh?’ My voice was shriller than usual. ‘What was he after, hey boy?’

  Hell’s teeth, I was talking to a donkey. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  I felt in the panniers, found they were full of rounds of cheese. A cheese merchant. I wanted to laugh. It seemed ludicrous. At the same time as I had that thought, my mouth watered, and I realised I had to get out of there. If anyone else came, they’d think I’d done it. I remembered Cutch’s words, that they’d blame everything on me. I gave an inward groan. Resisted the thought of that delicious cheese.

  17 - DARK ENCOUNTER

  My legs felt like feathers as I skulked along the hedges with the dim lights of the Manor drawing me forward through the dark. Leaving the old man in the road felt wrong. I sent prayers heavenwards for his soul. The irony of the situation had not escaped me though — how close I was to being that masked highwayman, slitting someone’s throat for a few provisions. Hadn’t we almost done the same? The only difference was, we hadn’t deliberately set out to kill anyone. Not that they would believe us, of course.

  There had been something ruthless and efficient in the way that masked rider had delivered the old man’s death. I turned to look over my shoulder. He’d put the fear of God into me all right.

  When I got nearer to the house I stopped just outside the barn. The sweet, musty-hay smell of it almost made me choke. It seemed years ago that we had held our first Diggers meetings there; that I had looked over at Kate, her face all shiny-eyed as she listened to me lay out our Diggers plans for a free future. Her face was the only one I saw in that gathering. It had a glow about it. I remember thinking, by all that’s holy, I’ve fallen in love.

  I was getting maudlin. I pushed her from my mind. Dare not think of her somewhere inside the house — probably dining off silver platters with Thomas Fanshawe who had run away from the war and had probably never seen a dead body in his life.

  I forced myself to move onwards in the shadow on the outbuildings towards the yard. I scanned the shadows but could see no movement. There was a candle still burning in the kitchen. I crept towards it. Fingers crossed it was Abigail, still up. I peered through the greenish glass.

  Abigail was there, polishing the copper bottom of a cooking pot. Her back was to me, and she was rubbing slowly. I saw her shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. I went to the kitchen door but it was locked. Back to the window. I tapped on the glass, but of course she could not hear me and I daren’t tap any louder.

  ‘Turn round,’ I willed her, but she carried on rubbing at the pan.

  At one point she glanced over her shoulder at the window, and I caught the glint of tears on her cheeks, saw her face was shadowed with pain. I tapped again, louder, but she did not see me out there in the dark, and turned back, stared down at the pan in her lap. In desperation I pulled out a white kerchief, flapped frantically at the window.

 
‘Ralph!’ The voice behind me made my heart seem to shoot into my mouth. I whipped round, to see Kate’s wide eyes less than a foot from mine.

  She grasped me by the arm. ‘Quick, into the buttery. Downall’s out here somewhere.’

  I followed her into the cool, windowless darkness, heard the rustle of her skirts on the flagstone floor, the soft thud as she closed the heavy wooden door behind us. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you know half the county’s searching for you?’

  ‘I came to see Abigail.’

  A pause. ‘Not me?’ Her joking voice held a trace of disappointment.

  ‘I hear your husband is back. Abigail told me of your plans for the house. They didn’t include me.’ My whisper echoed strangely in the dark, but I could not keep the jealous tone out of it.

  ‘Fool. I care nothing for Thomas,’ she said. ‘My heart is taken already, by a blond gentleman farmer who wants to change the world.’ Her words hung in the blackness.

  A sudden miaow. Kate muffled her cry of surprise as soon as it escaped her lips. We both bent over to find the cause of the noise. ‘It’s only the cat,’ she whispered, ‘he must have followed us in.’ I stretched out my hand to feel for it, and my fingers found the back of her hand as she stroked the cat’s soft fur. I closed my hand over hers, caressed her thumb with a gentle touch. Time stretched, I could hear her breathing. The feeling of her soft skin made me want to cry. Suddenly I was overwhelmed. I pulled her to upright, felt for her face with my fingers, but only found the starched linen of her collar. I traced my way up to her chin, and onto her lips. Her mouth opened to let my fingers in. So soft, so tender. The sharpness of her little teeth opening to her tongue.

  Urgently I put my mouth there, kissing her long and deep, drinking in her woman’s smell of starch and roses.

  Outside, the noise of boots on the cobbles.

  I froze like a tree to the spot, dare not even breathe.

  The cat miaowed again, I felt it twine around my legs, pressing for attention.