Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  Mathieson leaned forward in the saddle and surveyed him thoughtfully. The boy kept his hands behind him, but when he first had burst out from the long grasses he had been clutching a knife and a piece of wood. Hiding from his tasks, no doubt, while he whittled a wooden pistol, or a doll for his sister. Mathieson could sympathize with such truancy, and he smiled and said kindly, “My apologies did I frighten you.”

  “Ain’t f-frightened,” the boy gasped, his lips pale and the freckles standing out like small beacons all over his white face.

  “Glad to hear it.” Mathieson was weary of his questioning, and it was doubtless a waste of time, but, “You’ve a fine pair of eyes,” he said. “Do they see well?”

  The boy looked puzzled and a little less ready to swoon. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve been—er, resting on this hill for some time—have you?”

  Cautiously, the bright head nodded.

  “If I was ready to pay—sixpence, say—for information, d’you think you could remember everyone you’ve seen?”

  “Ain’t seen any rebs, if that’s what you means, milor’,” said the boy, taking on a bold and swaggering air. “Else I’d have ambushed the dirty traitors and tied ’em up and drug ’em to the village constable.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re a patriot. However, I’m not after Jacobites, but my horse. He was stolen by thieves last night, and I’ve been riding like fury trying to come up with the villains. Three men, and a chestnut stallion with—” Mathieson stopped, his heart giving a great leap, for the young face was suddenly alight with excitement.

  “I saw ’em, your honour! A fine big horse with long ears, a white blaze on his face, and two white stockings—be that the one?”

  “Your bright eyes just earned you sixpence!” Mathieson took out his purse. “Now, tell me—which way were they going?”

  “Shrewsbury, I ’spect sir. Likely they’ll try to sell your horse on market day.”

  Mathieson spun him a coin. The boy caught it and gave a joyous squeal, but pointed out honestly, “You said sixpence, your honour. This is—”

  Mathieson was already riding away, and his voice echoed after him. “Keep it! A bonus!”

  The sun was setting before Mathieson caught his first glimpse of the thieves. Three of the filthy swine, just as Reed had said. And dear old Rump, moving with his peerless, silken stride, God love his hooves and hocks! By Beelzebub, but the big clod bestriding him would pay dearly for his villainy! Still, it would behoove him to take them by surprise, rather than to attack now, for two could keep him busy while the third rode off with Rump.

  He kept them in sight, therefore, staying always in the shade or behind shrubs, as they journeyed on through the peaceful countryside. They were heading for Shrewsbury all right. He smiled unpleasantly and eased his sword in the scabbard. He’d see to it they never reached that bustling town!

  The sunset was glorious and when it began to fade he edged nearer, determined that they not escape him, even if he had to take them on, all three. The wind had dropped to a fitful breeze on which was borne the tang of wood smoke. He rode past a farm where cows stood hock deep in the rich meadow grasses, chewing complacently. A tantalizing smell of cooking wafted from the open windows of the whitewashed house. Faint with distance a bell chimed the hour. Eight. Small wonder he was hungry. He dismissed such a minor annoyance and spurred the grey eagerly as the three thieves skirted the edge of an area of marshland. Cover was harder to come by here, with fewer trees and shrubs, but he noticed that the thieves never looked behind them, apparently convinced they had been too clever to be followed. They passed into the woods where the thick branches screened out most of the crimson light, and without warning were lost to sight.

  Mathieson drew the grey to a halt, slipped from the saddle and held the animal’s nostrils, listening intently. Nearby, a woman was singing, and surprisingly, it was a quaint little French lovesong, sung with an impeccable accent. The scents of woodsmoke and cooking blended with another smell. He frowned, puzzled. Fresh paint …? He tethered the grey, drew his sword, and crept forward, crouching a little, moving rapidly over the thick carpet of bracken, the garrulous birds covering the few sounds his boots made upon twigs or fallen leaves.

  He could hear male talk now, interspersed with low laughter, and was again surprised because the voices were cultured and did not employ the strange Romany language of gypsies. There were more than three men by the sound of it, and womens’ voices as well. His brows knit in vexation. He would have been better off to have confronted Rump’s captors when first he’d seen them. They were evidently members of a large gang of horse thieves. It might not be quite so simple a matter to reclaim Rump as he had imagined.

  He could hear the crackle of flames. The trees thinned and he viewed a large shadowy clearing around the edges of which stood six large caravans. Cooking pots hung suspended from iron trivets over the two fires which blazed in the open central space. A plump young woman with abundant dark ringlets bent over one of the pots, stirring the contents and peering at them anxiously. She wore a cream-coloured gown; a white towel was tied about her waist, and with her free hand she held her voluminous skirts clear of the flames. Nearby, a slender young fellow clad in simple riding habit and knee boots sat cross-legged on a blanket, poring over what appeared to be a map; he was not wearing a wig, and his light brown hair was very short and curled close against his head. A tall, dowdy looking middle-aged woman was perched on the steps of one of the caravans, peeling potatoes. At first Mathieson thought she was alone, but a peeled potato suddenly shot past her to splash into her bowl, and he saw then that she was assisted by another female inside the caravan, of whom only the lower flounce of a pale green gown, and two small slippered feet were visible. Directly opposite, beyond the caravans, was an improvised rope paddock in which a dozen or so horses and donkeys were grazing and where a very small woman wearing a frilly red cap stood with the three thieves, admiring Rumpelstiltskin.

  ‘Is a regular robber’s roost, all right!’ thought Mathieson.

  From behind him there came sudden rapid hoofbeats. A man shouted, “’Ware! A spy! ’Ware!”

  Without an instant’s hesitation Mathieson leapt into action, sprinting straight across the clearing for Rumpelstiltskin, his dagger whipping into his left hand, the colichemarde glittering in his right. The man on the blanket sprang up, grabbing for weapons. A woman screamed. Running at top speed, Mathieson whistled loud and clear. Rumpelstiltskin whinnied shrilly and reared, trying to get to his master, but two of the men clung to his head, pulling him down. The hooves thundered very close and Mathieson knew that he could not reach Rump in time. He felt a rush of air, ducked, and the horseman shot past, the clubbed musket he aimed whizzing so close to Mathieson’s head that his tricorne was sent flying. The individual who had been sitting on the blanket sprang forward, sword in hand. The largest of the thieves ran to the attack swinging up a hefty cudgel. The tall and powerfully built rogue who’d worn the stocking cap was closest and darted in with rapier levelled. Mathieson engaged the rapier and with a strong glizade sent it spinning from his attacker’s hand. The curly-haired fellow’s sword would get him, if the cudgel didn’t, he thought grimly, but he parried the one, and with a swipe of his dagger, deflected the other. Then he was out of time and luck. The cudgel smashed the sword from his hand. The rapier wielded by the man in the stocking cap was again thrusting at his throat. He flung himself to the side, felt a swift burn of pain as the rapier sliced across the side of his neck, and swore furiously as merciless hands grabbed and held his arms, a vicious grip wrenched at his hair, jerking his head back, and the rapier was aimed again. Mathieson had a brief and confused impression that at some time he had met this dimly seen lout.

  A piercing scream cut through curses, shouts, and confusion. A feminine voice shrilled frantically, “Stop! He is a friend! Don’t hurt him!”

  The man from the blanket beat the rapier away with his own sword and said in a lisping drawl, “Not
thporting, old boy. He ith quite outnumbered, you know.”

  The man with the rapier growled a curse, but his weapon was restrained.

  The strong hands did not by an iota yield their grip, but neither did Mathieson continue to struggle and every head turned as a girl ran down the caravan steps flinging out her hands in supplication.

  Astounded, Mathieson saw a small face convulsed with anxiety, lips still parted from her cry—the upper one a trifle short but curving very sweetly to meet its mate. She was tiny and slender but nicely shaped, with a delightfully ample bosom.

  “The devil!” he gasped. “Miss Bradford!”

  6

  Fiona Bradford fairly flew across the clearing, the wind whipping her pale green skirts, the men making way for her. “Let him go!” she cried frantically. “Oh, you have cut him!” She flung herself between Mathieson and the large man with the rapier. “Torrey! How could you? Let him go!”

  Torrey! Mathieson started, but he saw now that it was so. Even in the dim light, he might have recognized this man save that one sees what one expects to see and it had never occurred to him that the unshaven thief wearing the stocking cap might be the same gentleman he’d met in the company of the Bradfords.

  “He’s a spy, Fiona,” growled Torrey angrily.

  “For what possible reason would I spy on you?” snapped Mathieson, wrenching free of his captors and extricating the handkerchief from his pocket.

  “I cannot imagine,” murmured the wigless young man who lisped. “You are acquainted with the gentleman, ma’am?” The words were calm and unhurried, the accent was undeniably cultured and, despite the lack of his wig, from close-cropped head to shining knee boots, there was about him the air of poised assurance that speaks of breeding.

  “He is Mr. Mathieson, the gentleman who came to help me in the storm.” Fiona gazed anxiously up at the intruder’s scowling features. “And I am greatly indebted to him, which—”

  “Which is why we rescued his horse,” put in another voice.

  Holding the handkerchief to the shallow cut across the base of his throat, Mathieson stared in deepening astonishment at the diminutive female who made her way through the throng.

  Lady Clorinda Ericson bore little resemblance to the richly clad aristocrat he had met that morning. Her fashionable orange gown had been replaced by one of simple grey cloth. The expensive wig was gone, dark hair rather suspiciously untouched by grey was braided and wound into a neat bun behind her head, her only concession to fashion being that bright red cap, richly frilled and threaded by a pink riband, but having not a particle of lace. Yet she was still every inch the great lady, and her dark eyes seemed more bright and roguish than ever as she went on, “How very clever of you to find us, Mathieson.”

  His mind was whirling with conjecture, but wrath was still uppermost and he responded curtly, “My lady, how it comes about that you are here I cannot begin to guess. But you are in error. My horse was stolen rather than rescued! I followed the thieves here, and was nigh murdered for—”

  “And you demand an explanation,” she interrupted, adding to his bafflement by smiling up at him and patting his arm without the least appearance of embarrassment. “Quite right. You shall have one, but—”

  “We need explain nothing,” interjected Freemon Torrey harshly. “With respect, ma’am, the less this fellow hears, the better! He is a threat to us all, as you know, and—”

  Her face flushed with anger, Fiona interrupted in turn, “We know nothing of the sort! Mr. Mathieson is a brave gentleman who very gallantly rescued me and Picayune. And in return he has been most unkindly dealt with.”

  At this point the largest thief hove up through the dimness and as the light from the fires fell upon him Mathieson saw that it was milady’s coachman—Cuthbert. “Very likely, miss,” he said in his growl of a voice. “Still, what Torrey says has merit. We took Mathieson’s horse so as to—”

  “You own it, do you? Now damn your lying hide!” Enraged Mathieson sprang at him but was at once seized again, and jerked back.

  “Mr. Mathieson,” said my lady, her sharp voice cutting through the commotion, “pray do not swear. I cannot like swearing, and it says in the Bible—”

  “‘Thou shalt not steal,’” he interpolated. “Furthermore, madam, to involve this innocent girl with a band of horse thieves is—”

  “We ain’t horse thieves, curse your insolence,” roared Torrey, glaring at him.

  “You blasted well admitted you stole my horse.” Mathieson strained against the hands that held him. “And if you’re not thieves, I’d like to know what—”

  A sturdy, broad-shouldered young man with a pair of muscular but bowed legs sprinted across the clearing.

  “What is it, Alec?” asked my lady sharply.

  “Rrrredcoats!” he panted.

  The burr to the “r” was pronounced. ‘He’s a Scot, by Beelzebub!’ thought Mathieson, and was stunned by an idea as fantastic as it was unexpected.

  Mervyn Bradford had run up after the Scot and now said in a low and breathless voice, “We’re rehearsing, don’t forget! I’ll—” He caught sight of Mathieson and exclaimed, horrified, “You! What the devil—”

  There were certain army officers who had good reason to most earnestly desire a discussion with Roland Mathieson. Chief amongst these was Lieutenant Brooks Lambert (formerly Captain Lambert), who held a gentleman he knew as Roland Otton directly to blame for his demotion. There were other bones of contention between the two men, and the lieutenant was known to be of a vindictive nature, wherefore Mathieson intervened tersely, “What rank is the officer?”

  The young man named Alec looked bewildered, but answered, “Captain.”

  Mathieson, poised for sudden flight, relaxed.

  There was no time for more. Into the clearing rode a troop of dragoons, a craggy-faced captain at their head, with sabre in hand and triumph in his eyes.

  “No, no!” cried Bradford imperiously, his back to the soldiers, his warning gaze on Torrey. “’Tis all wrong! Like this …” He struck a pose, flung up one hand and recited with booming resonance, “‘I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.’”

  Very pale, Freemon Torrey stared at him blankly. There was an instant of taut silence. Mathieson’s quick wits grasped the situation. Stepping forward, he quoted with equal drama but from the wrong play: “‘It goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy in thee, shep—’”

  “Be still, sir!” interjected a harsh voice. The captain had dismounted, and now stamped towards them; a chunky man of about five and forty, with formidable chin outthrust, and pale rather watery grey eyes narrowed and suspicious. “What are you people about, hiding here in the forest?”

  Bradford responded grandly, “We make camp for the night, sir, we do not hide. And we are about nothing more menacing than to perform our entertainments. You behold a troupe of humble players. We wander hither and yon across the bosom of this noble England, doing what we may to bring a fleeting joy, an escape into tears or laughter, a veneer of the arts, to lonely village, true-hearted yeoman, and simple peasant.”

  “Indeed?” Clearly unimpressed by this rodomontade, the officer gestured to his men and the troopers spread out around the clearing. “Pray bring a ‘fleeting joy’ to some humble soldiers,” he went on with a sardonic curl of the lip. “My name is Lake. I’d like to hear yours, if you please.”

  Bradford swept him a flourishing bow and introduced himself, then added, “This lady is my mother, Mrs. Clorinda.”

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ thought Mathieson. ‘Then he must be “the idiot”!’

  Looking worried suddenly, Bradford demanded in a normal voice, “What crime have we committed? Is there some law that says we may not make camp here? I was told ’tis open land. Have we to—”

  “One hopes you have committed no crimes, Mr. Bradford,” the captain interrupted brusquely. “In which case you have no cause for alarm. It will be necessary however, that your caravans and possessions be
searched, and that each member of your—er, company, provide some proof of his or her identity.”

  The troopers dismounted, some requiring documents from the “troupe,” others stamping off to search caravans.

  “My gracious,” exclaimed Lady Clorinda, shrinking closer to Bradford. “What ever are you looking for, sir? We’re honest folks. We haven’t done wrong.”

  Captain Lake shrugged and took the sheaf of papers Bradford offered. “England is littered with Jacobites fleeing their just desserts. One in particular carries a list of traitorous conspirators. A reward of two hundred guineas is offered for his capture.” He raised his voice. “D’you hear that, you people? Two hundred guineas!”

  “What doth he look like?” lisped the thin young man, interested.

  The captain returned Bradford’s papers. “Would that I knew. Like you, perhaps, whatever your name is. Your identification.”

  “My name ith Heywood, thir. I have only thith letter.”

  “You are an actor, also, Mr. er, Thaddeus Heywood?” asked the captain, glancing in a bored fashion at the letter.

  Torrey sniggered and said a wicked, “Why, yeth, of courth.”

  Heywood flushed, and although no champion of the rights of others, Mathieson experienced a deepening of his desire to deck Mr. Torrey.

  “I am a dramatitht, Captain. I write, or rewrite whatever play we plan to give, according to the number of people we have, or lack.” Heywood met the officer’s cold stare with an engaging smile. “Now, really, thir. Do I look like a dethperate fugitive?”

  Lake did not deign to reply, stretching out an imperative hand for Mathieson’s identification. “Sergeant,” he shouted, while running his eyes down the letters given him, “set the other men to searching the caravans and that atrocity of a coach, and—” He checked, then looked up keenly, “You did not use your own name whilst in the army, Mathieson? Might one ask why?”