Spirit of the Highway

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Do something!’ Kate shouted.

  Jacob shook his head.

  ‘I’m here.’ I tried to reach Kate, but she was bending over the body on the floor.

  ‘Ralph!’ she cried. ‘Ralph, my love, talk to me. Don’t leave me.’

  ‘No! I’m here!’ I tried to touch her, but my hand flew through space. I could not gather myself together. I was all whiteness and nothingness.

  A hammering on the front door. With a thump I was back inside my body. I groaned, began to tremble. I was cold as ice.

  Jacob rushed to the window. ‘It’s my father,’ he said, ‘and reinforcements.’

  Copthorne staggered past us out of the room.

  ‘Stop him!’ Kate cried.

  I tried to hold her words somehow, but they drifted from me. I could not move. The world was coming and going.

  ‘Ralph,’ Kate said, ‘hold on. You’ve got to hold on.’ She put her warm fingers on my forehead, brushed away the hair. Tears fell onto my cheeks. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said, trembling fingers pulling my shirt over the wounds. ‘We’ll build that Diggers’ dream right here at Markyate.’

  My breath rasped shallower now. No energy to breathe. Must tell her. Tell her what? My mind could not get a purchase.

  Kate began to sing the familiar song, so low and sweet; it hurt me to hear it:

  You noble Diggers all, stand up now, stand up now,

  You noble Diggers all, stand up now,

  The good land to maintain, seeing Cavaliers by name

  Your digging doth disdain

  Stand up now, stand up now, Diggers all.

  Your houses they pull down, stand up now, stand up now,

  Your houses they pull down, stand up now…

  Kate’s voice broke, she pressed her lips to mine, but somehow mine would not move to kiss her back. Her voice quavered back to life, defiant now.

  ‘But the gentry must come down and the poor shall wear the crown …’

  ‘Stand up now, Diggers all,’ I whispered, but the words did not come. ‘I love you Kate. I’ll never leave you, I promise.’

  Her deep green eyes held mine. ‘Dearest heart,’ she said.

  But suddenly I was flying away from her, like a petal blown in the wind. I fought to go back, but there was not enough substance left of me. Just such love and longing that my whole body seemed to glow with it.

  ‘Ralph!’ Kate was shaking the person on the ground.

  Tell her it’s all right! Sit up, damn you.

  But I could do nothing.

  I tried to go towards her, but a voice calling my name stopped me. I turned. It was Mother, with William in her arms. A great rush of emotion blew me into pieces. Her image wavered, flickered, but she smiled. My thought was clear as a spring. ‘I thought you were …’

  She nodded. She had read my thought.

  ‘Am I ...?’

  Her answer ignored my question. ‘Go after Copthorne,’ she seemed to say, ‘finish the story. I’ll watch over Kate whilst you go.’

  I felt myself attached to Kate, with a thread as strong as steel, but part of me wanted to move, to fly free in this new free body I had become. With a spurt of will-power, I gathered myself. With a rush, and hardly meaning to move, I was outside looking down on the highway.

  23 - RETRIBUTION

  Along the road Copthorne galloped, on his big black beast, like a streak of sorrow. And after him, Jacob and his father and the constable’s men, pounding through the rain. Over the bridge across the swollen river, over the county boundary, they pursued him.

  Jacob’s horse grew tired and wanted to slow, but he urged it on. Steam rose from the horses’ flanks, foam flecked their necks, but Copthorne’s horse turned into the woods and pelted down the bridleways as if it had quicklime on its heels.

  At length they came to a wide expanse of grass with scarcely a tree in sight. There was nowhere Copthorne could hide. On the other side of the common, the edge of the forest beckoned. I saw him throw a sharp glance behind, and on seeing the party of six men gaining on him, clap his spurs to his horse’s flank and forge on towards the woods. If he got there he would soon lose them, I knew.

  The thought came to me, if I was dead, I could not die.

  I drew together, concentrating myself into a small point of intent, then flew like a hawk round the black beast’s ears. The horse sensed me. It threw back its head and shrieked, reared on its hind legs, hooves thrumming the air. But the iron shoes passed right through me, all I felt was a frisson, a metallic tingle. Copthorne grew angry, flapped his reins to push his horse on, but it trod on the spot, wild-eyes staring at me, despite his curses.

  Copthorne threw himself down and ran for the cover of the trees. I kept pace with him easily, gliding over the wet grass as he tripped and stumbled. I could smell his fear — a fetid odour like a fox on heat. His horse gave a shrill whinny and bolted back along the clear common.

  The drumming of hooves grew closer, and made me slip quick as a will o’ the wisp into the trees. Next time I looked they were almost upon him, but Copthorne kept on running, right in the path of the horses, his breath panting fast in his throat.

  A thump and he was down, caught in the legs of Jacob’s horse. The crack of a bone, the clank of a scabbard as it hit the ground. The soft suck of horses’ hooves in mud and flesh. The men jumped from their mounts and bodily pressed Copthorne’s flailing arms into the earth.

  They kept him there, groaning, face squashed into the mud. He looked small, and pale and younger than I remembered, for I felt both old and young together. His face was a mass of gashes, his body battered and bleeding. The air bristled, the horses sidled uneasily.

  A rush of affection for Jacob, so serious-faced, so solid, holding Copthorne down, but gently, so as not to hurt him too much.

  After a few more minutes another party of horsemen arrived, riding slower.

  ‘It’s Father,’ Jacob said, to his companions.

  Constable Mallinson looked down from atop his horse. His left arm was still in a sling. He stared down at the broken body of Copthorne. Jacob let him go, and he rolled over, gasping for breath.

  ‘You’ll hang,’ Constable Mallinson said to him.

  I remembered the feeling of the rope on my neck and wanted to cry, but I had no eyes to do so. Another wasted life. How foolish men were. My sadness swelled like a storm cloud. It made me want to move, to swirl like a tornado. I shot off into the woods to weave between the trees. Overhead the crows flew up from their roosts with indignant cries, their black, glittering eyes fixed on Copthorne.

  24 - THE WAKE

  The autumn rain had softened the ground. Cutch and Jacob helped the sexton dig graves for my corpse, for those of my mother and for poor William, whilst Barton and the other Diggers had dug with Ned Soper for his father. Now Abigail and Kate stood under the trees at the edge of the churchyard arm in arm, red-eyed and silent waiting for the coffins to arrive. Most of the villagers were there, a respectfully quiet crowd, with long grey faces and curious eyes. So many deaths in one week, it had sobered them all.

  You want to know if love survives death? Well I can tell you that it does.

  I have never felt such a love as on that day, watching my Kate draw herself up in church and address the congregation. Her face was pale but determined, her copper hair a splash of fire against her sombre gown. She held herself like a queen.

  ‘I make you all a solemn promise,’ she said. ‘That whilst I am able, I will offer every man a strip of land to till if he wants it. That as far as possible we shall live by our own hard work. Jacob Mallinson has agreed to oversee it, with the help of his father. Those who fought for the right to their own future shall have it.’

  ‘What does your husband say?’ Ned Soper’s snide voice came from the back, hastily hushed by the women beside him.

  ‘He says nothing,’ retorted Kate. ‘He has fled to France, and until he returns, the future is in your own hands. You can work with me or against me. We have seen what
war does to those we love. Let’s have no more of it.’

  As she spoke I felt her think of me. A sudden shaft of light, as though I had flared momentarily brighter. And my love expanded in response, a spark shooting into flame. It was the feeling I had when I looked into her eyes, a love so intense it was pure pain.

  Kate was moving down the church, the whisper of her skirts soft against the flagstones. I reached out to her, but my hands were like smoke, too weak to catch her. Her thoughts turned instead to Abi who was waiting for her, head bowed in grief in the family pew. The first vestige of unease trembled through me. What if they forgot me? I saw Kate squeeze Abi’s hand to give her comfort, felt Abi’s sad memories of me run through my body like a fish through water.

  ‘Why didn’t he fight?’ Abigail asked her.

  ‘Because he had conquered himself. It was the bravest thing I ever saw.’

  *

  After the service and the burial Kate and Abi set off to walk back to the Manor together, accompanied by Jacob and my old friend Cutch. How sturdy he looked now, when I had thought him quite scrawny next to my well-muscled frame. My sister Elizabeth ran to catch up with them, her blue silk ribbons trailing from her bonnet in the breeze. Cutch smiled warmly at her, but her eyes were only on Jacob.

  She pressed her way between Jacob and Abi and started to talk animatedly, flashing her arching eyes at Jacob, about what sort of food Mistress Binch might have provided for the wake. I wanted to reprimand her, tell her to leave well alone, but I could do nothing. I buzzed like a fly round her head, hoping to give her a headache at least.

  It was then that I saw them, just behind the stand of yew trees near the lych gate. The solid outline of Jack Downall and a man in a sober well-cut doublet and wide-crowned hat. Mallinson had told Downall to leave the county, find work elsewhere. Something about the way he was hiding in the trees was not right. The two men were talking low and quiet. They shook hands and Downall went across the fields away from the church and the rest of the congregation. A slight smile warmed his usually sullen features. I flew over to follow the other man to see who he might be. It was then I saw he was limping, an uneven gait that reminded me …

  Grice. The old overseer of the estate that had been sacked by the Fanshawes. His pinched face was unmistakeable. It gave me a jolt that scattered me. What was he doing here? I hadn’t seen him since Abigail and I left him tied up in the forest waiting for the Royalists to finish him. His presence was a bad omen. I followed him, close to his neck, seeing the strands of greying hair straggle from beneath his hat, the dark line of stubble at his jaw. He shivered and turned a moment, looked down the path behind him. His eyes were calculating and sharp. At first I thought he’d seen me, but then his gaze shifted from side to side and he whipped his head back to the front.

  A carriage stood idling for him by the lych gate and he heaved himself in, gripping the doors with bony white hands. His wooden boot banged against the running plate, and he dragged it inside. Moments later the carriage bowled away in the direction of Wheathamstead.

  What was he doing here, talking to Downall?

  I must tell Kate.

  But Kate and Abi were walking companionably towards the Manor, oblivious.

  I tried to get their attention. Kate! Abi! I cried out with all of my being. Kate stopped, I felt her think of me. She turned to look behind. Ralph? But Jacob took her arm, smiled in sympathy and led her on.

  No! Please, you have to hear me! Grice was here. Please someone, listen.

  But nobody heard me. I had vowed to Kate I would never leave her, that no matter what, I would always be there to protect her. But what use was I now? I called and called, until I was too disintegrated to muster myself.

  I ached then in frustration, for the body I had lost. For the dear sweet feeling of the ground underfoot, for a mouth to speak, and hands to touch, and a heart to beat faster when Kate looked my way. It was agony to see Kate and Abigail turn into the big stone gates, not knowing that Downall and Grice had been here in Markyate, just out of their sight.

  If I was going to make them hear me, I’d need practice, I realised. I’d need people to think of me too, to keep me strong. When people remember me I grow brighter, my body becomes a pale mist like a shadow in reverse. But when I’m absent from people’s minds I become so transparent I’m imperceptible.

  I swooped down the driveway after them in a stream of vapour and intent.

  25 - RESTLESS SPIRIT

  Although the door to the Manor House was locked, I entered through the crack under the door, and found them in the bed chamber. Abigail had untied Kate’s back lacing and was loosening her bodice, but Kate told her she could manage and bade her go. Abigail kissed her cheek fondly and picked up her night light. As soon as she’d gone, Kate slumped onto the bed, face white with exhaustion. Funeral feasts are long affairs and I knew she’d played the role of hostess without thought for herself. Now she lay on her side on top of the covers, too limp to move.

  After a few moments she sat, slipped off her bodice to reveal her chemise. She thought she was alone in her chamber, and guiltily I realised I might see more than she wished me to see. Should I go? The air around me where my body once was, still ached for her touch. I’d thought of it so often, our fevered coupling on the flagstone floor, and last week I would have been hungry to see another glimpse of her naked skin, but now? Would it have any meaning for me now, in my changed state?

  She pulled her chemise over her head, and I saw the swell of her breasts above it. Oh yes, it still had meaning. The sight turned me all a-tingle, as if I might even be able to make myself more solid, more tangible. Kate paused with the chemise bunched in her hand. Her thoughts of me swirled around the room like whirlpools, but their movement gave me renewed strength.

  ‘Kate?’ I called.

  She turned slowly, eyes alert, wide, scanning the room.

  ‘Ralph?’ Her voice was a whisper as she strained to see me.

  ‘I’m here.’ I sent the thought with all my might.

  Her hand reached out into empty air.

  I conjured the image of Downall and Grice, just as I had seen them, by the lych gate. I squeezed the detail from the scene, the slub-weave of Downall’s fox-coloured jerkin, the way Grice’s hat shadowed his face right down to the stubbled jaw, hoping to make the picture sharp.

  Kate stood up and paced the room, anxiety creasing her white face. ‘Ralph? Are you there?’

  Yes! I pushed my presence into the silence.

  She paused, held her breath. Her thoughts said, ‘I feel it. I can feel the danger, but what should I do?’

  Was she talking to me?

  I had no answer. The room fell into a pregnant silence again.

  ‘Ralph, if you’re there, then give me a sign,’ she said.

  What could I do? I summoned my strength, moved over to the candle on the mantel. I’d flicker the flame, even snuff it out. At least I could try.

  With a supreme effort I plummeted towards the flame. A crash and the room plunged into darkness. I heard Kate’s sharp intake of breath.

  God’s truth, I’d done it! I was stronger than I thought, the whole candlestick had tumbled to the ground. My elation was short-lived; my energy was spent, fading.

  The sound of running feet. The door burst open and the light from the hall sconces flickered into the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Abigail rushed in. ‘Something fell. I felt the vibration of it.’

  Kate’s face was blank with shock. ‘Ralph. He was here, I swear it.’

  Abigail put her arm around her shoulders. ‘Don’t. I know it’s hard, but he’s gone. He’s not coming back.’

  ‘He knocked the candle off the mantel.’

  Abigail stooped to pick up the candlestick, jammed the nub of wax back in its holder, lit the wick and set the light back on the mantelpiece. Sighing, she shut the casement window with a bang. ‘Only the wind,’ she said.

  ‘He was here, I know it.’ Kate said, grasping her by the wri
st.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ Abigail said, ‘and it will feel longer tomorrow. Try to sleep.’

  Kate’s face was troubled and uncertain, but Abigail patted her on the arm and withdrew. As soon as she’d gone, Kate came to the candlestick and weighed it in her hands, unfastened the latch and pushed the window open. The slight breeze ruffling the trees made the candle flame dance and waver, but it did not blow out. Not even when she held it outside at arm’s length.

  ‘He was here,’ she murmured, ‘I swear it. Either that, or grief makes me lose my wits.’

  *

  They hanged Copthorne on Finchley Common. The sight of his feet dangling off the ground gave me no pain. He seemed to brush through me as his spirit went, not wanting to tarry. Not like me, tied here somehow by love.

  I heard someone in the crowd ask who he was. ‘Chaplin, the highwayman,’ the woman answered.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I thought. But so a legend was born, that I was hanged on Finchley Common. Copthorne, Chaplin, what did she care? It was an easy mistake to make. And in truth, it is good to be spoken of. I burn brighter then. The living fear to die, but the dead fear to be forgotten.

  So I must tell this story, and keep on telling it, because it is the only way I can summon the strength I need to help Kate, to keep her there — where her feet can touch the good sweet earth, her hair blow in the wind, as she looks out over the land she loves. I am more use to her dead than I ever was alive. I am her inspiration to build the future.

  Historical Notes from the Author

  Ghosts in the Seventeenth Century

  The belief that people might manifest themselves as spirits after their death was widespread during the seventeenth century. It was part of a religious world view that accepted other magical creatures, including witches, fairies, elves, brownies and hobgoblins.

  Catholics believed in Purgatory, a place between Heaven and Hell, where the person could repent of their wrong-doings, and then move up to Heaven or, if not, downwards to Hell. This limbo was where ghosts resided, caught between the living world and their ultimate destination. But with the Reformation, belief in Purgatory disappeared and instead souls were judged almost immediately and were sent down to eternal flames or up to salvation. However, belief in ghosts could not be squashed in Protestant England. After all, people argued, the Bible has ghostly appearances such as Samuel to Saul (Samuel 1:28) and Moses and Elias seeing Christ (Mark 9:4), and doesn’t this suggest that God believes ghosts exist?