Once More, Miranda

by Jennifer Wilde

  Alert, cocky, confident, I merged into the crowd, becoming an integral part of the mass of humanity. I was pushed and jostled at every turn and held my own, shoving aside a gin-sodden fishwife who stumbled against me, stepping over a man with a bleeding face who had apparently just lost a fight. A leering youth with a twisted nose smacked my bottom and seized my left breast, squeezing tightly. He yelped in agony and released me promptly when my knee slammed up into his groin. Observers hooted with laughter. I moved on, paying no mind to the incident, savoring the smells of gingerbread and roasting chestnuts and wishing I had a penny to buy some. Horses neighed. Babies wailed. Stray dogs leaped about, snarling and yelping.

  Above the din of the crowd the deep bell of St. Sepulchre’s could be heard tolling mournfully. It was rung only when a condemned man was on his way to Tyburn. The cart would be arriving soon. The show would begin. I noted a number of my cronies working the crowd this morning, craftily sizing up potential marks, as, indeed, was I. I saw Nimble Ned edging closer to a fat merchant who foolishly had a gold watch fob dangling across his paunch. Jaunty, freckled Ned stumbled clumsily against the merchant, apologized profusely and brushed the man’s lapels, disappearing quickly into the mob with the fob safely tucked into his pocket. Effective, I thought, but my own technique was much more subtle, and I was cagier, never making my snatch without a clear avenue of escape. Better to find a mark on the edge of the crowd, where it would be easier to make a getaway. Better, too, to wait until the execution began and there would be more distraction.

  The crowd stirred, moving en masse as a great clatter of horses sounded. An elegant coach was approaching, flanked on either side by fierce-looking soldiers holding pikes aloft. “Make way! Make way!” those in the lead shouted, and the whole procession headed directly into the thick of the crowd, heedless of bodies blocking the way. There were anguished screams and cries as people tried to get out of the way. Men, women and children were pushed back, shoved, trampled as soldiers and carriage moved forward to the space cleared in front of the gallows by the other soldiers.

  “Cumberland!” someone yelled. “It’s th’ Bloody Duke! ’E’s come ’isself to watch th’ fun!”

  I had already moved back to an elevated stretch of ground on the outskirts of the crowd, and I had a good view of the activity before the towering gallows. The soldiers stopped, dismounted. The door of the white and gold carriage bore the royal insignia. Coachman and grooms wore the royal livery. A hush fell over the crowd as the door was opened, white steps let down and a grotesquely corpulent figure in powdered wig clambered out. His bloated, puffy face had a vile expression, the tiny piglike eyes squinting, the fat mouth curling petulantly. He wore white leather pumps, white silk stockings, pale lime-green satin breeches with a frock coat to match. Lace cascaded frothily from throat and wrists, and diamonds flashed brilliantly as he moved ponderously to speak to one of his men.

  It was my first sight of royalty. I wasn’t the least bit impressed. Like thousands of other loyal Englishmen, I had utter disdain for the stolid, German-speaking Hanovers, as dense, dimwitted a lot as ever sat on the English throne, and William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland was the most despised, the most feared man in England. Known as “The Bloody Butcher” after his brutal and bloodthirsty campaign against Bonnie Prince Charles in Scotland, he was his father’s favorite son and undoubtedly a superb commander, utterly ruthless, completely cold-blooded, but he was also a coarse, foul-tempered slug. The Scots hated him with passionate intensity, quite naturally, but he was scarcely less hated by his own countrymen, who felt he was trying to undermine the position of his brother Frederick, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne.

  A special seat had been arranged for him near the gallows. He waddled over to take it, puffing heavily, propping his chin on his fat hand and scowling impatiently. Subdued at first, distinctly hostile, the mob decided to ignore his presence and were soon as rowdy as before. I saw a man and a woman, shopkeepers from the look of them, carrying the limp, bloodied body of a small child out of the crowd. The woman was sobbing uncontrollably. The man’s face was ashen with grief and rage. The child was obviously one of the victims of the trampling when Cumberland’s troops forced their way into the midst of the crowd. Such incidents, common enough, hardly endeared the Bloody Duke to the populace.

  The bell of St. Sepulchre’s had continued to toll all the while, and now the condemned man’s cart could be seen approaching, followed by yet another troop of soldiers carrying pikes. The hangman sat up in front on top of the coffin, the prison chaplain behind him, while the prisoner stood in back, bareheaded, chin held high, his wrists tied behind him. He was a young man, surely no more than twenty, a handsome lad with windblown raven locks and clear blue eyes, and there was something undeniably noble about his profile. He wore a plum-colored velvet frock coat and breeches, rumpled and dusty from prison. I noted that his white lace jabot was tattered and smeared with dirt.

  The crowd roared, making way for the cart, but there were some people who stood as silently as I. Perhaps they felt as I did. A grievous sadness swept over me as I watched that handsome youth step down from the cart, calm, dignified, facing a hideous death with incredible bravery. It wasn’t right. He was so young. He had merely been supporting the man he believed the rightful king. A man shouldn’t die for that. No man should have to die the way this youth was going to die, in unspeakable agony. I turned away, sick, detesting the rulers who condoned such savagery, detesting the people who flocked to watch, relishing every moment. Sometimes the human race seemed downright despicable. Tough I might be, primarily interested in my own survival, but a person had to have some feelings, even though they were bothersome and made life so much more complicated.

  Bracing myself, ignoring the gleeful noise as the prisoner climbed up the steps to the gallows, I put feelings aside and set about my business. I had come to pick pockets. Pick pockets I would. The crowd was concentrating on the forthcoming spectacle now. The time was perfect. Now, to find a likely-looking mark. I strolled casually on the outskirts of the crowd, observing, speculating, selecting my victim with great care. I had already discarded a number of possible candidates when I spotted the two gents standing together on a slight rise of ground, immediately behind the mob.

  Perfect. The thin chap in black didn’t look very promising, but the big blond looked like he’d have prime pickin’s, and I had a clear getaway if anything went wrong. I moved a bit closer, inspecting them without seeming to do so, idly patting an unruly auburn wave. Both men were tall, the blond, heavily built, strong and solid, agreeably husky without being in the least overweight. He wore rust velvet knee breeches and frock coat, white silk stockings and wonderful brown leather pumps with tempting silver buckles. His broad face was open and pleasing, the chin cleft, the wide mouth sensual. Under other circumstances the dark brown eyes would undoubtedly be twinkling amiably, and the tousled golden blond hair added a boyish touch. He looked a good-natured sort, a wealthy idler who probably spent his time at the gaming tables and in the company of beautiful, compliant women.

  His companion was a good two inches taller, six feet three if an inch, and he was extremely lean, with broad, bony shoulders and the strong, wiry build of an athlete. He stood very straight, blue eyes fiery, his long hands balled into tight fists. He seemed to literally crackle with tension, and one sensed great violence just beneath the surface, barely repressed. His hair was shiny jet black, thick and straight, one heavy wave slanting across his brow, his face lean, handsome and intimidating. His black pumps were the worse for wear, I noted, the pewter buckles not worth a farthing. His thin black cotton knee stockings had been clumsily darned, and though elegantly cut by a fine tailor, his black breeches and flaring black frock coat had a slight greenish tinge, the unmistakable sign of age.

  A dangerous number, that one, I thought. Penurious, too, it would appear, although that sharp, finely chiseled face had a distinct aristocratic stamp. Not one to tangle with, him. His friend, though … bo
und to have a fancy pocket watch, maybe even a purse full of gold coins, and those silver buckles.… If only he were alone. If only he weren’t with the scowling, fierce-lookin’ chap with the murderous blue eyes. Instinct told me to move on, find another mark, but the pair presented a definite challenge.

  I continued to watch them, debating whether or not I should take the risk. Alone, the husky, pleasantly attractive blond would have been the perfect mark. Even if he caught you, even if one of those powerful, well shaped hands clamped around your wrist, a pitiful, craftily worded sob story would induce him to let go. He reminded me of a sturdy, sleek, overgrown puppy, even though his expression was suitably grave at the moment. If the blond was a puppy, his companion was one of those lean, vicious German dogs, a Doberman, tense and bristling and ready to spring. He had the killer instinct, that one, and if I were wise I’d give him a wide berth.

  The crowd was impatient as the chaplain spoke a few words to the prisoner, piously holding his Bible and no doubt contemplating the profits he’d make when he published his own version of the condemned man’s confession. The young man shook his head, foregoing his opportunity to speak the traditional final words to the assemblage. The Duke of Cumberland leaned forward in his chair, watching avidly as the chaplain stepped back and the hangman dropped the noose over the handsome youth’s head, settling it about his throat and giving it a quick, professional twist. The husky blond took his companion’s arm, indicating that they should leave. The man shook the hand away fiercely, spitting out harsh words I was too far away to hear. I sensed that he knew the prisoner, that there was a close tie between them.

  I told myself he’d be too intent on the proceedings to pay mind to anything else. I’d sidle up to the blond, make my snatch and be long gone before either of them knew what had happened. Confident of my skills, much too confident for my own good, I wasn’t one to turn my back on a challenge. And so, brushing a fleck of soot from my faded violet-blue skirt, I took a deep breath and sauntered idly toward the two men and straight into the arms of a relentlessly tempestuous future.

  14

  Rowdy, raucous, the crowd waited impatiently as the hangman made a final adjustment, stroking the thick rope almost lovingly. The youth in plum velvet stood very still, staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to the noose around his neck. Cumberland leaned forward in the plush, gilded chair that had been provided for him, gripping the arms with fat hands, a greedy, rapacious gleam in those tiny pig-eyes. Behind him, the swells in Mother Proctor’s Pews smiled and chatted, some of them standing to get a better view of the proceedings. The hangman clicked his tongue and nodded, satisfied the drop would insure the maximum pain without breaking the neck. Hanging was a fine art that required the most skillful touch. If done properly, by a master, the victim could dance on air for almost twenty minutes, gasping and gurgling and enduring unspeakable agony before death finally freed him.

  “I think we’d best leave now, Gordon,” the large blond man said. He had a lovely voice, deep yet soft and soothing. “It’s madness, subjecting yourself to this horror, and the lad your first cousin.”

  “He was a damned fool. They all were, both my brothers as well, following that inept, irresponsible young idiot. Oh, the Bonnie Prince has charm enough, I’ll grant that, but if he ever had two brain cells that functioned at the same time it would be a miracle. That’s what I told them when they asked me to give my allegiance.”

  The words were harsh, spoken in a cold, clipped voice that sent shivers up my spine. The blond looked uneasy, a worried frown creasing his brow.

  “You’re bitter, Gordon. You’ve a right to be, both your brothers slaughtered at Culloden, your family estate confiscated, you forced to eke out a living on Fleet Street pandering to the vilest public tastes. It’s enough to turn a man sour, I admit, but this obsession you have—”

  “I’m a Scot, Bancroft. Perhaps not a loyal Scot. The majority of my countrymen consider me a coward for not taking to arms like my brothers, consider me a traitor for writing that article exposing the Bonnie Prince for the nitwit he is—”

  “Thank God, you did,” the blond interrupted. “If you hadn’t penned the article, if you hadn’t made your stand quite clear, if you hadn’t already been living in London and—”

  “But I’m a Scot nevertheless,” the tall, lean man continued, ignoring his companion’s interruption. “I can’t stand by and see my kin slaughtered, can’t see my home wrecked and looted, my property confiscated without vowing to do something about it. I’m just grateful my parents weren’t alive to see the destruction.”

  He spoke the words in that same chilling voice, and it somehow made them doubly effective. His lean, not unattractive face was devoid of expression, but the clear blue eyes burned fiercely with all the emotions he so sternly repressed. I could sense the cold rage, the pent-up violence, the thirst for revenge seething just beneath the surface. Wrestling with a private demon, that one, I told myself, edging a step nearer. The blond in brown velvet rested his hand lightly on his friend’s arm.

  “You’re a Scot, true, and a good one, but—it’s over, lad.”

  “It isn’t over for Angus. Not yet. I thought he had more sense than the others, and now—” He cut himself short, grimacing. “Would that he’d died on the moor with Ian and Davy.”

  “Your cousin has already shown himself a noble youth. He’s going to die a brave death. There’s no need for you to watch it, to torment yourself this way. It can only add fuel to your—to this insane obsession. I shouldn’t have permitted you to come. Dammit, I should have drugged you, should have locked you in a wardrobe, bound you hand and foot.”

  “You’re my friend, Bancroft,” the Scot said coldly, “the only friend I have in this bloody, barbaric country. I’d hate for you to do something that would spoil our friendship.”

  “Aye, mate, I know what a thorny, bristly, surly chap you are. I also know the fine, sensitive fellow who dwells beneath that savage facade. I fear no man, but I wouldn’t dream of riling you. I saw you in that fight at the Three Boars, saw what you did to the bloke who shoved you. I don’t think you’d turn on me, but I’d risk like treatment if I thought it’d help rid you of these crazy ideas you’re nursing.”

  “You’re a good person, Bancroft. A good friend.”

  “I try to be. It’s hard with a savage like you.”

  “He’s going to pay,” the Scot said calmly. “If it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to see that Cumberland pays. Look at him, leaning forward, eyes glittering. The sod’s actually licking his lips.”

  “Gordon!” his companion warned. “Remember yourself. Those words could get you arrested.”

  He glanced around nervously to see if anyone had overheard, but those in front of the two men were too intent on the show to have paid any attention to the reckless words, while I, a few feet away, wore an expression of the utmost innocence, totally unaware of the blond gent and his friend. The crowd roared as the ground vanished beneath the feet of the condemned man, as the rope tightened around his neck and he began to swing. There were loud cheers as he twitched, struggling in spite of himself, kicking out in agony. The hangman rubbed his hands, extremely pleased. Cumberland continued to lean forward in his chair, almost toppling out of it as he savored the spectacle.

  “Jesus,” Bancroft muttered.

  The tall, lean Scot at his side showed no emotion whatsoever now, standing perfectly straight. Those sharp, harsh features might have been sculpted from the hardest flint. I moved a bit closer, ever so casual. Bancroft winced, not wanting to watch, unable to tear his eyes away. I was standing not more than a foot away from him now, a little to his rear, waiting for the ideal moment. He was sure to have a gold pocket watch, maybe a purse. I longed for those silver buckles as well, but I’d lost my penknife two days ago and hadn’t had time to steal another one. The people directly in front of the two men were stamping and hooting, stumbling a little, and one man reeled back, almost crashing into the blond. Perfect. H
and like air slipped into the plush velvet pocket, closing around a small, round metal object, brought it out, tucked it into the bodice of my dress. Easy as could be. Nothing simpler. Now for the purse. Must be in the other pocket.

  I shifted position, standing behind the man now, to his right. I waited a second or two, and then my hand drifted foward like the lightest feather and floated into the other pocket, feeling the chamois bag, feeling the delicious weight of the coins within. I clasped my fingers around it carefully so there would be no warning jangle and then withdrew my hand. Iron bands clamped suddenly around my wrist, squeezing so hard I feared the bone would snap. A pair of fierce blue eyes burned into mine. The Scot stared at me with cold, venomous hatred, his thin lips stretched into a tight, vicious smile.

  “Lemme go!” I cried. “Lemme go!”

  “Caught you, you little vermin. Thought you were being clever, didn’t you, slut?”

  “Ow! You’re ’urtin’ me!”

  I tried to pull away. He gave my wrist a savage twist that almost brought me to my knees. Hercules himself couldn’t have broken free of that grip, and I was a poor, hungry street urchin. I dropped the bag. It clattered at my feet. Bancroft turned, bewildered, only now aware of what was happening. I cried out as the Scot gave my wrist yet another twist and needles of terrible pain shot up my arm.