Evolution Expects

by Jonathan Green

  Lashing the reins with an urgency born of a forbidding dread, the driver urged the panting horses onwards, in the vain hope that they might yet outrun the approaching menace.

  The crack of a pistol shot exploded from out of the darkness and the sheeting rain close by – closer than expected. The horses whinnied in alarm, rearing up onto their hind-legs, the carriage slewing across the mud-slick road behind them.

  The driver gave a weak groan and toppled from his seat, landing with a wet slap, face down in a puddle of black water. There was a cry of alarm from inside the carriage and a shrill womanly scream.

  Two figures on horseback appeared from out of the darkness, their steeds trotting over to the carriage, the horses carefully stepping over the prone body of the wretched driver. Both figures wore water-proofed capes against the rain, which ran in a constant stream from the corners of their tricorn hats. One sat tall in the saddle, long-limbed and possessed of a certain breeding, judging by his stance, his features as sharp as a knife. The other was shorter and stockier, the pistol that had taken the driver down still smoking in his hand.

  Someone inside the carriage fumbled the curtain that was draped across the window of the carriage door, and a middle-aged man’s sagging face peered out, his mouth open in an ‘O’ of shock and surprise. On seeing the two dark riders, he gave a pitiful moan and pulled the curtain shut again.

  The stockier of the two highwaymen directed his steed over to the carriage door and, grasping the handle firmly in one gloved hand, pulled it open sharply.

  As well as the portly, middle-aged gentleman, his powdered wig askew, next to him – wearing a dress that was all ostentatious petticoats and over-fussy satin and pearls, a tight bodice and whalebone corset beneath, accentuating the swell of her breasts – was the dirty old man’s considerably younger and more attractive female companion.

  The highwayman’s eyes sparkled as his gaze lingered on the young woman’s heaving bosom. The girl whimpered again, fear writ large upon the delicate face.

  “W-What is the meaning of this?” the portly gentleman spluttered, having at last found some modicum of courage and his tongue.

  The brigand’s eyes snapped back onto him and in an instant the flintlock pistol was raised and aimed at the man’s jowly, fish-white face. He was sweating profusely, despite the cold.

  “Oh yeah,” the stocky highwayman said, as if suddenly remembering what they were there for, “your money or your life.”

  “Now, now, Mr Abershawe, there’s no excuse for poor manners,” his partner said, speaking for the first time as he too brought his horse closer to the open carriage door, “especially when in the presence of a lady.”

  Peering out from under the brim of his tricorn hat, this second gentleman of the road grinned at the young woman, and gave her a knowing wink. The light and shadows spread by the swaying lantern hung from a pole beside the driver’s seat accentuated the man’s strong bone structure, revealing a ruggedly handsome face half-hidden by a couple of days’ beard growth.

  Where Abershawe sounded like a man who had smoked too many pipes, the other’s accent had more of the banqueting room than the bar-room about it – a cultured tone that was seemingly at odds with his chosen profession.

  And the second highwayman’s horse was just as striking; a roan stallion with a white flash on its muzzle.

  “This is utterly outrageous!” the portly passenger jabbered. “Who are you, sir, and what is the meaning of this?”

  “I, sir, am Richard Runyan, Esquire, and this is my associate Mr Joseph Abershawe,” the dandy highwayman said. “You might have heard of us, me in particular.”

  “No, sir. I have not, sir!”

  “You haven’t heard of ‘Galloping Dick’ Runyan?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Shame. But no matter. And I would have thought the meaning of this little escapade was apparent. As my colleague put it so concisely, your money or your life. We’re here to relieve you of your valuables.” He grinned saucily at the young woman again, “And I have to say there are a few other things I wouldn’t mind relieving you of as well, ma’am.

  “And now that we’ve had the decency to introduce ourselves to you, perhaps you would like to return the courtesy.”

  “I’ll have you know, sir, that I am Sir George Sackville. And also let it be known that I shall see you swing for this.”

  In the silence that followed Sir George’s foolish threat, the ratcheting click of Mr Abershawe cocking his pistol could be heard quite clearly over the drumming of the continuing downpour.

  His voice like steel, the charming highwayman said: “I was asking the young lady.”

  “Cassandra. Cassandra Tyrrell,” she replied, boldly.

  “Tyrrell, eh? Not the Tyrrell family by any chance?”

  The quaking Sir George shot his companion a bewildered glance.

  “The very same.”

  “How interesting. Now, you must understand that we don’t want to kill anyone, do we Joe?”

  “What about him?” Cassandra pointed at the rain-washed body of the driver, his face sunk into the worsening quagmire of the road.

  “He was unlucky,” Abershawe rumbled.

  “So if you would like to ensure that you hold onto what little good fortune you still have, perhaps you would be so kind as to place your valuables in this,” Runyan said, passing a velvet bag through the open door of the carriage. “And don’t forget your wallet, Sir George, or that fine pearl necklace, milady.” The highwayman’s gaze lingering on the shapely mounds of breasts once more.

  Sir George didn’t need to be told twice.

  “And that pretty trinket of yours,” Runyan reminded the girl, meeting her furious blue-eyed stare.

  She put a hand to her bosom and fished for something hidden in her cleavage, a hankie, the highwayman supposed, to dab the startled tears from the sparkling sapphires that were her eyes.

  Quick as a flash, she pulled her hand free again, only now there was a tiny lady’s pistol there, fitting snugly in the palm of her hand, and it was pointing at Abershawe’s chest.

  The brigand barely had time to register his shock before the sound of the gun shattered the night around them. Blood sprayed in the darkness. The force of the shot threw the highwayman backwards out of the saddle. He landed heavily in the mud and didn’t move again, black blood oozing from the hole cauterised in the middle of his forehead.

  Abershawe’s horse whinnied and shied, trotting backwards, away from the thunderclap crack of the pistol and the acrid stink of gunpowder. At this Runyan’s steed shied too, rearing up on its hind-legs.

  “Whoa, Quicksilver! Whoa there. Easy boy!” Runyan pulled on the reins with one hand while trying to calm the horse with a pat on the neck at the same time.

  As the dandy highwayman struggled to soothe his skittish steed the young woman dropped the pistol on the floor of the carriage – its single shot discharged – and, grabbing hold of the sill above the door, she swung herself out of the carriage, into the driver’s position and the pouring rain.

  Taking up the reins, with a shout of “Yaah!” she whipped the horse between the traces into motion and the carriage pulled away into the encroaching night.

  Galloping Dick Runyan was left reeling, watching as the carriage disappeared into the night, until the wildly swinging carriage-lamp was swallowed by the trees crowding the sides of the road.

  CASSANDRA TYRELL DARED a look back to where Sir George Sackville bounced and slid across the seat inside the carriage. His expression of abject terror and uncomprehending disbelief was illuminated for a moment by the fitfully swaying lantern.

  “Are you alright, my lord?” she shouted over the drumming of the rain and the jolt and splash of the carriage wheels.

  Sir George simply stared back at her, his mouth agape like a goldfish.

  “W-Who are you?” he managed at last. “Who sent you?”

  “Let’s just say you have friends in high places, Sir George. Friends who want you
to make this meeting.”

  II

  All The King’s Men

  THE ALREADY TIRED horses couldn’t maintain the pace set by Cassandra as she fled with Sir George. But even though their initial burst of speed did not last for much more than a couple of miles, she kept the animals moving at a steady trot, flecks of foam flying from their bits, hoping that it was not far now and knowing that Sir George had to make the meeting. That was her prime objective. Everything else that might follow after hinged on that one fact.

  The rain passed over, the clouds tugged apart by the rising wind, and the moon broke through, casting its monochrome glow over the rugged countryside. But there was still no sign of their destination, when the carriage crested another rise and Cassandra caught sight of horsemen on the road ahead.

  She reined in the horses, slowing their advance to a gentle trot, but ready to lash them into a gallop again at a moment’s notice.

  Their silhouettes black against the grey pall of moon-washed clouds, shapes began to coalesce from the darkness. As she brought the carriage closer, brass buttons gleamed in the guttering orange glow of the carriage’s lantern.

  When the carriage was still a good ten yards from the waiting redcoats, a voice hailed Cassandra.

  “Good evening, milady,” the leader of the troop said, doffing his hat to the dishevelled-looking young woman in the driver’s seat, unable to hide his look of surprise on finding a woman at the reins. “It is not the sort of night to be out on the road, is it?”

  “Indeed it is not, sir,” Cassandra called back.

  The officer jumped down from the saddle and approached the carriage. He walked slowly past her, one hand stroking the horse closest to him, taking in her sodden state. Then he peered inside.

  “Excuse me, my lord, but you must be Sir George Sackville. Am I correct?”

  “You are, sir,” the peer managed with something like his old assertive authority, born of a cultivated sense of superiority. “And who are you?”

  “I am Lieutenant Riggs of His Majesty’s First Royal Dragoons and you will be pleased to hear that we are here to escort you to Lambton Hall, where your attendance is anticipated. The roads aren’t safe, you know,” he added, taking in Cassandra again.

  “We know,” Cassandra said bluntly.

  ANOTHER FIVE MILES along they came in sight of candlelit windows and, following the line of guttering torches that had been set out on the approach, Sir George Sackville’s carriage entered the courtyard of Lambton Hall.

  Waiting on the steps before the main entrance to the house, was an appropriately-attired steward with all the apparent charm of a sparrow hawk about him. Cassandra eyed him just as suspiciously as he regarded her.

  “Welcome back, lieutenant,” the steward said, as a footman scurried to open the carriage door. “And good evening, Sir George,” he added as the still-shaken peer stepped down unsteadily from the interior. “I trust you had a good journey.”

  “No, I did not! Quite frankly, I’m just happy to be alive.”

  Before the peer could say any more, with a clattering of iron-shod hooves on cobbles, a second troop of red-coated cavalrymen entered the courtyard. Their commander – his athletic build obvious to Cassandra even through his uniform – jumped smartly down from the back of a white stallion and approached the steward, saluting him before speaking.

  “As you know, sir, we are due to return to Durham tomorrow, but this night we have apprehended a dangerous criminal. We will take him back with us on the morrow to face the magistrates, but might we keep the blackguard incarcerated within some suitable cell for the night?”

  It was only then that Cassandra noticed the man, strung between the two horsemen bringing up the rear of the party.

  “But of course, Captain Drysdale,” the steward said. “I am sure Sir William will be most gratified to hear that you have done such an effective job of keeping the roads safe for his guests. I am sure that we can find some suitable iron ring you can chain the rogue to.”

  “I will mention Sir William’s cooperation fully in my report,” Captain Drysdale said and ushered his men forward, the two at the rear dragging the prisoner between them.

  Now it was Cassandra’s turn to be taken by surprise, as the prisoner – covered from head to toe in mud – glanced in her direction and she found herself looking at the grinning face of Galloping Dick Runyan.

  Captain Drysdale and his men dealt with, the steward turned his attention to the peer and his unusual companion.

  “Please, Sir George, if you would like to step this way,” he said, directing the peer up the steps towards the grand entrance as Cassandra climbed down from the carriage. “And perhaps your... driver would like to make herself comfortable in the stable block.”

  “This young woman is not my driver. In fact she saved my life. No, sir, she stays with me!”

  “Very good, your lordship,” the steward said, smiling graciously and giving a sycophantic bow. “The other guests are this way.” And with that, the steward led Sir George Sackville and his guardian into the house.

  III

  The Legend of The Lambton Worm

  “YOUR GUEST SUITE is this way, Sir George,” the steward said as he led them through the candle-lit halls and galleries of Lambton Hall, his shoes tapping on the polished marble. He turned to double-check that Cassandra was still following them and looked her up and down disdainfully. “Please try not to drip on the floor.”

  “So this is the legendary Lambton Hall,” Sir George said, gazing at the paintings and displays of armour adorning the walls of the long gallery.

  “Legendary is the word,” the steward agreed. “Are you familiar with the story associate with this place?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “What story?” Cassandra piped up.

  The steward came to an abrupt halt that caught Sir George unawares. “Why, the legend of the Lambton Worm, of course.”

  “Oh, I do love fairy stories,” she said with a delighted clap of the hands. “Do tell!”

  “I would not presume to impose upon his lordship’s time in relating the tale now,” the steward said unctously.

  Sir George shot him a disdainful glance. “Humour the girl.”

  “Very well, my lord,” the steward said, the ingratiating smile back on his face in an instant. He cleared his throat and, as they resumed their slow amble along the galleried hall, the steward told his tale.

  IN HIS YOUNGER days, when he was still but heir to his father’s great estate, Sir John of Lambton, later Knight of Rhodes, was a callow youth with little respect for the teachings of the Church and with little will to keep the Sabbath day holy. One Easter morning, when he should have been attending Mass, he went a-fishing in the Wear.

  And while he sat beside the Wear, his line trailing in the water – cursing his bad luck and affronting those who passed by on their way to morning prayers – he felt his line go taut, for he had snagged a mighty catch, and battled to land what he thought was a great fish. But when he did at last pull his catch from the raging torrent, he was appalled to see that, rather than a trout or pike, he had hooked himself something more akin to a worm than a fish. It was an ugly creature, something like a lamprey or an eel, but its head was like that of a salamander, with nine holes on either side.

  Disgusted by the unsightly appearance of the worm, believing he had caught the Devil himself, the heir of Lambton cast the creature into a nearby well and now, with a contrite heart, straightway sought to make amends for the wrong he had done Almighty God by profaning the Sabbath with his actions.

  Having sought absolution for his sins from his father’s confessor, and following a night during which he was plagued by the most terrible visions of the very pit of Hell itself, the next morning the young Sir John embarked upon a perilous pilgrimage to the Holy Land, there to aid with the liberation of the Holy City from the heathen Saracen and the Turk.

  Having taken up the sign of the Cross, for seven long years he battled the infidel, for
getting his former life and earning many battle honours. But he also became disillusioned by the unending war, the unrelenting heat and the unnatural agues that bedevilled God’s soldiers, and a deep sadness grew like a canker within his heart.

  But during those seven long years, the devilish worm that he had caught and cast into the well had grown too, grown to a prodigious size having feasted on the livestock thereabouts until it was so large that it coiled itself about a certain crag, earning that benighted place the name of Worm Hill.

  The monster held the lands of Lord Lambton in thrall to its terrible appetites. It devoured lambs and oxen both, and drained the milk of nine cows day in, and day out, which the people were wont to provide, lest it fall upon man to satisfy its unholy hunger.

  Many had tried to slay the worm and many had failed, for if the monster’s flesh was rent asunder by any blade, the wound, no matter how severe, would heal in an instant, flesh and bone would simply knit together, uniting the severed parts.

  Having completed his seven years of penance, Sir John Lambton – now Knight of Rhodes – returned at last to that blighted place he had once called home, and with him hope returned as well.

  Realising that he was to blame for the dire predicament in which his father’s faithful vassals now found themselves, Sir John set forth to do battle with the fell worm.

  He met the monster in battle at its hilltop lair but was thwarted by its unholy powers of rapid healing. Accepting that it was his duty now to put an end to the unnatural creature, he sought counsel from another creature vested of unnatural powers, and came at last to the dwelling of the Witch of Lambton.

  And so, when next the Wear was in spate, Sir John scaled a rock that rose from the middle of the churning waters, clad from head to toe in armour bristling with blades, each as a sharp as a razor’s edge. Having baited his trap, there he waited.