Spirit of the Highway

by Deborah Swift

  I paused behind the wall before I could cross the field to mother’s back garden. Goodwife Boardman was outside her cottage next door, hanging up her washing over a line, and I did not want her to see me go in. Strange — Mother’s shutters were closed. It was unusual at this time of the day. But then again, it was going to be another scorcher of a day, so maybe Mother had decided to keep them closed. My attempt to reassure myself with reason did not work.

  A harsh cawing. I looked up. Three black crows had landed on the roof, were pecking at the thatch. My heart started to ache in a way that I did not like.

  Goodwife Boardman went back inside and I slipped like a stoat past her washing. The door was ajar. I pushed it open.

  ‘Mother?’

  No answer. I squinted, let my eyes get used to the gloom. It was eerily silent. Usually at this time my little sister Martha would be at the table with her handloom.

  ‘Mother?’

  I could not move any further into the room. There was something by the hearth. Mother’s iron-soled clog. It stopped me in my tracks. I’d never seen the underside of her shoes before. Behind the chair, one bare foot in a pale stocking. On the cold flag floor. She was twisted at an awkward angle, the linen of her summer petticoat showing white under her cotton skirts. No. She wouldn’t like showing her shift. But even from here I knew that her head was not hanging how it should. Blood. Too much blood. Dizzy. Get me out. Out.

  I staggered to the front door, clung to the doorframe, hung over. Not sick. Not now. It was not real. I’d go back in, in a minute, and she’d call out, ‘Ah, t’is you!’ just the way she always had. There was something else, something nagging at the corner of his mind. A surge of hot fear took my knees from under me. I gripped the doorpost more tightly before turning and going back inside.

  ‘Martha?’ I called.

  No reply.

  William? Where was William? One glance in the crib was enough. His face was just the same as when he was sleeping. Smooth, unlined, innocent. His little lips slightly open beneath a button nose. I almost expected him to cry. Except that he couldn’t. Not with that kitchen knife still in his chest like that.

  ‘Martha!’ I shouted, ran up the rickety stairs to the sleeping loft, threw aside pillows and bedding. Back down, out the back door. Into the stall where the cow chewed and looked at me with doleful eyes. No Martha. I leapt into the yard, yelling her name, not caring that Goodwife Boardman would hear. The chickens ignored my frenzied shouts, scratched their elegant talons in the dust.

  Then I heard it, a noise, from the hen hutch, the sound of singing. ‘Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly …’

  I flung the door open.

  ‘Ralfie!’ She was crouching there, lining up the eggs in a row, instead of putting them in her basket. She smiled at me, grabbed hold of the knee of my breeches, her curly hair full of wisps of straw. ‘Help me count the eggs?’

  I dropped to my knees, enfolded her to my chest, hugged her tight. Thank God, thank God.

  ‘Ouch!’ She wriggled down. ‘Hurts. How many?’

  ‘Five. Yes, five.’ It surprised me I could still count.

  ‘Let’s show Mother.’

  I grabbed her by the hand. My mind raced, sorting through all the possibilities. ‘No. Mother’s poorly, she needs some quiet time. We’ll go to the church, to the Vicarage?’

  ‘Shall I bring the eggs?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Bring them. But be quick.’

  ‘Carry!’

  Usually I would make her walk, but not today. I scooped her up, ran to the Vicarage, hammered on the door. When it opened, Goodwife Preston tried to close the door, but I forced it open, pushed Martha through.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said desperately, knowing my reputation as a ruffian. ‘Please. I need you to keep Martha safe. Don’t let her go outside, don’t let any strangers in. Promise?’

  Goodwife Preston took a hard look at my face, and shepherded Martha inside. ‘Eggs! How lovely. Go on in, dear, and put them on the table.’ Once Martha was out of earshot she asked, ‘What is it? What ails you?’

  ‘Someone has …’ I swallowed, ‘My mother is dead. And my brother. Murdered, both. Send your husband to her house to pray for their souls. I can’t stay. You know why.’

  ‘You must come in. I know my husband would want to —’

  ‘No. They’ll arrest me if they find me. Please, just keep Martha safe until Abigail can come for her.’

  *

  I blundered away from there with my world all in pieces. The fact Martha had survived had blunted the reality of the scene in my mother’s cottage. Now it came back in grisly detail. Somehow I blundered my way to the woods, struggled onto Titan. A few moments later and I trotted up the main highway, dazed.

  It was odd to trot, just like I was going to market on any ordinary day. A cottager who was drawing water from the pump on the green, stopped and pointed me out to his neighbour. Only then did I realise what he was doing, and that I shouldn’t be on the open road. At the next bridleway I turned into the shade of the woods. Birds were singing, the field poppies still flowering. It didn’t make sense. Blood seemed to hang in my nostrils.

  I needed to think. What should I do? They’d have to be buried. What if it really was Copthorne who’d done this? I should tell someone. But who? Not the Constable.

  Best not to think. It couldn’t be Copthorne. Couldn’t have anything to do with him. Just ride. Ride back. Find Cutch. He’d know what to do. Where was Cutch when I needed him?

  19 - A PLAN

  My body moved, though my mind was numb. I tethered Titan on a loose rein so he could graze. A while later, I heard hoofbeats but I did not move. Nothing seemed to matter. I stared at the grass as if it was strange stuff, the like of which I’d never seen before. Soft stuff, like a woman’s hair. Yet my horse was eating it. Why?

  Nothing made sense. I was orphaned, the sharp sense of being parentless in the world, was a physical pain. Father and Mother both dead. And little William. I made an effort to think. I seemed to have lost myself, lost who I was.

  The horse’s chest crashed through the undergrowth and its hooves cut into the turf as it skidded to a stop.

  Cutch leapt off. ‘Downall’s planning a rebellion,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I overheard him at the Star and Ship and Copthorne —’ Cutch crouched down beside me. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘My mother and my brother. Both dead.’ When I said the words it felt like I was lying, that it couldn’t be true.

  ‘Who? Tell me.’

  I told Cutch everything I could remember.

  ‘Listen,’ Cutch said. ‘It’s Copthorne. He’s here, in Markyate. I was coming to tell you.’

  My insides dropped. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘The cellarman at the Star and Ship. Said a stranger had just been in, asking after directions to the Manor. I paid up quick, and followed the man at a little distance. I’m sure it’s Copthorne, I caught a glimpse of his face. Same pointy snout and arrogant sneer. He turned to look when he heard my horse, but I kept my head down, looked as if I was ambling home drunk. Sure enough, he turned down the drive to the Manor on his big black beast.’

  I was already on my feet, so light-headed I was almost staggering. ‘The Manor? I’ve got to go there. He’ll be after Abigail.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Cutch gave me his cupped hands to leg me up into the saddle. ‘Look Ralph, go slow. Don’t rush in, it might make things worse —’

  ‘What could be worse?’ I was already setting off at a canter. I turned to yell over my shoulder. ‘We need to get her out of there. Her and Kate.’

  ‘Abigail won’t realise, will she?’ Cutch shouted, already kicking his horse on after me.

  I reined my horse to a stop to wait for him.

  ‘She won’t know about …’ Cutch paused, looked away. He could not speak of my mother and William. ‘Listen Ralph, we need to get in quietly. If Copthorne sees us coming, he might do something rash. Please, just think a moment.’
r />   ‘No time.’ I slapped my heels again into Titan’s flank and set off along the track, ducking my head under the whipping branches. I heard Cutch’s horse panting to keep up. By the time we got to the road I’d reconsidered, and could see Cutch had a point. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘Their best chance will be to get them out quietly.’

  ‘There’s another problem,’ Cutch said. ‘Downall. He’s rallying some men to throw the Fanshawes off their lands. He had a disagreement with Thomas Fanshawe over the stealing of grain and livestock. Thomas had reported him to Mallinson.’

  I reined to a halt. ‘How do you know? Have you seen Kate?’

  ‘No. I was mad as hell. I’d had it with you and that snooty Jacob, so I went to the tavern. I was going to turn you in, tell them where to find you.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Would have. But thought I’d have a few first, take the edge of it all. But then Downall and his cronies arrived. I kept my head down and listened. Sounds as if Thomas turfed him out for stealing. Made Downall furious. He was raging against the Fanshawes like a bull. Now he’s set on taking the estate for Parliament.’

  ‘Mallinson won’t have it, surely?’

  ‘I’m not so sure, half the village is on Downall’s side by the looks of it. John Soper’s stirred them up, saying you and Kate Fanshawe broke his son’s arm. Wouldn’t like to be in your Kate’s shoes when they arrive. He’s mustering a small army.’

  ‘Oh God. When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Then we must hurry.’

  I could die, I knew that. From what Cutch had told me about my father, Copthorne deserved his revenge, and I’d seen him not only fight in battle, but kill in cold blood. But if I’d been at home like I should have been, instead of on the run, Mother and William might still be alive. Guilt made me want to curl up by the hedge and never come out.

  I swallowed. I’d have to face him, even though my insides were churning like a whirlpool.

  ‘Best lead the horses to the old barn, then go on foot,’ I managed. ‘I went that way a few days ago.’

  ‘Did you see Abigail?’

  ‘No, but ...’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You went to see her?’

  I did not answer.

  ‘Fool,’ Cutch said. ‘You always have to stick your neck out, don’t you?’

  *

  We tethered our mounts behind the barn. ‘You stay here a moment. I’ll go and check if Copthorne’s horse is still in the stables,’ Cutch said, ‘then have a squint at what’s going on in the house. At least if they catch me, I can make some excuse.’

  Cutch gave me the thumbs up from the stables. So Copthorne’s horse was there. Cutch scuttled across the yard, half-crouched, and crept round the side of the house, looking for the windows. Thank God dusk was falling and he would be less easily seen.

  It was an agony of waiting. I chewed at the quicks of my nails, until he came running back to me. ‘He’s in there,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He’s in the parlour, sitting right next to Kate. There’s a fire lit, and he’s talking to Thomas Fanshawe. They look friendly, like they know each other.’

  ‘What about Abigail?’

  ‘I saw her in the back dining room, putting glasses and sherry sack on a tray.’

  I exhaled a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘The back door’s locked. When I peered through the window, Abigail looked up and I knocked to get her attention, but she couldn’t have seen me out here in the dark, because she turned and took the tray through to the parlour.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have heard you. She’s deaf, remember? We’ve got to get inside.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The front door’s too close to the parlour windows. I guess all we can do is get in the back somehow, try to overwhelm him. I’ll go for Copthorne, and you must try to get Kate and Abigail clear.’

  ‘What about Thomas Fanshawe?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s the wild card. I’ve no idea whether he’ll fight or run. But we’ve got surprise on our side. Try to get the girls to the horses. Tell Abigail … not to go home. Send them to Jacob’s.’

  We checked our swords, I primed my pistol.

  ‘Cutch,’ I reached out to touch him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks. You’ve been a good friend. The best.’

  ‘Stop that nonsense. I’m a rough old dog, and I know it. No heroics though. In and out. We don’t want to get mixed up with Downall and his men.’

  20 - CAVALIERS AND REBELS

  The window to the pantry was open just a crack.

  I prised it open as wide as it would go. ‘Look,’ I whispered to Cutch, ‘can you squeeze through that?’

  ‘What do you think I am? A blooming ferret?’

  ‘Sssh. You’ll have to take your tackle off,’ I said.

  Cutch unbuckled his sword and I gave him a leg up. He slithered rather elegantly through, and a moment after the door to the kitchen opened. Cutch grinned, offered a mock bow. I frowned and thrust his sword back at him, just as a ginger streak shot between my legs into the house.

  ‘Flaming cat,’ Cutch said.

  We tiptoed inside, Cutch with his hand on his scabbard to stop it rattling. Gently, I unsheathed my pistol and crept down the hallway, avoiding the rushes strewn near the door, in case their rustling should give us away. Outside the parlour door I paused, straining to hear.

  A soft, high-pitched voice. An aristocratic voice that could not help but irritate me; Thomas, talking of his grandiose plans for the estate. ‘We’ll rebuild the stable block with four new stalls and a bigger hayloft above. Might build a new coach house too.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea. How many carriages do you keep?’ Copthorne’s voice was pleasantly oily. Bastard.

  A loud miaow by my boot made me jerk and almost pull my trigger. I froze. I tried to move the cat with my boot, and Cutch tried to pick it up and move it away, but it yowled indignantly and carried on nosing at the door. Plaintive miaows filled the hall. Stupid animal.

  ‘What’s that?’ Copthorne’s voice.

  ‘Just the cat. I thought she was outside. I’ll go and let her in,’ Kate said.

  Cutch and I exchanged glances. As soon as she opened the door they’d see us.

  It had to be now.

  I turned the handle and pushed the door open hard. Kate was just on the other side of it. She shot backwards into the room. Then everything happened at once. Cutch made an attempt to grab Kate by the arm, but she was confused and thrust him away. ‘What the ...? Leave go!’

  ‘Ralph?’ Abigail dropped the tray of glasses on the side table, where they shivered and chinked.

  ‘Get up,’ I said, pointing my pistol at Copthorne. In one glance I took in the pair of pistols at his belt, and no sword.

  Copthorne did not budge, but Thomas stood slowly. He was smaller than I thought, head and shoulders below me, but his navy velvet coat was immaculately tailored, his brown hair neatly oiled to his head. He spoke in a sing-song as if talking to an idiot. ‘Now put that gun down, Chaplin.’

  I swung my pistol to face him, and he backed off hurriedly, hands up.

  Cutch had Copthorne covered with his pistol and at the same time was trying to shepherd Kate out. She threw off his guiding hand. ‘What is all this?’

  ‘Abigail, Kate,’ I said, in my firmest most measured tone, ‘go outside and wait there.’

  Neither of them showed the slightest sign of doing what I asked. ‘What do you want, Ralph? Haven’t you caused us enough trouble?’ Abigail shook her head in disbelief.

  I kept my pistol trained on Copthorne’s chest. ‘Outside. Now. We won’t do this in sight of the ladies.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Kate said. ‘Mr Copthorne is our guest —’

  ‘Whatever cock and bull tale he’s told you, this man is not to be trusted,’ I said without turning my head. I wasn’t going to risk taking my eyes off him.

  Copthorne patted the arm of the chair, one leg crossed nonchalantly over the other. ‘A challeng
e, huh? I won’t lower myself to duel with the likes of you. Shoot if you must,’ he said carelessly. ‘You should be wiping my boots, like the rest of your class, isn’t that so, Fanshawe?’

  Thomas’s expression was troubled. He did not know how to reply. His mouth opened, then closed again.

  Cutch glanced over, waiting for me to act, but I was at a loss. I’d expected Copthorne to fight, to draw his sword. I could not shoot him in cold blood, sitting in a chair, and he knew it. He was watching me through narrowed eyes.

  ‘You’ve had your revenge Copthorne,’ I tried. ‘There’s been enough bloodshed. Lord knows I’m sorry for what my father did, but you’ve had your revenge. Cromwell’s defeated you. The war’s done, we should let it go, get back to our lives.’

  ‘Not whilst there’s a King should be on his throne, and the devil lives on in Cromwell’s army. Fanshawe agrees with me, don’t you?’

  Thomas dismissed him with a shake of his head. He turned to me. ‘Whatever it is you want, it’s best solved through talking like sensible men, not coming in here frightening my wife half to death.’

  My wife. The words rang in my ears.

  I jerked my pistol towards Copthorne. My vow to be reasonable evaporated. A red haze had sprung up in front of my eyes. I pictured my mother and William, lying where I’d left them, on the cold floor. ‘You murdering bastard.’ I could barely get the words out. ‘Get up.’

  ‘Abigail, talk to your brother,’ Thomas appealed, ‘make him see sense.’

  ‘Ralph, please —’ Abigail began to speak but I cut her off.

  ‘No,’ I shouted at her. ‘You don’t understand.’

  Copthorne’s hand moved towards his belt. I caught his movement and took a step closer. ‘Don’t try it,’ I said, ‘or I’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.’

  I had to get him out of there. I took a step nearer, but without warning he catapulted up out of his chair.

  Abi gasped, took an involuntary step back, but she was too late. Copthorne snaked a hand round her shoulder, to try to take hold of her neck. Taken by surprise, she staggered backwards, landed heavily against the side table. It toppled and the tray and glasses fell to the floor in a shatter of glass. Copthorne seized Abigail’s arm and wrenched it up behind her, forcing her up onto tiptoes. She gave a yelp of pain.