The Highwayman's Footsteps

by Nicola Morgan

  Bess spoke up. “Sir Jack sent us,” she said.

  He seemed not to hear, clanged his hammer again, and then dropped the horseshoe into a bucket of water, where it hissed violently.

  Bess raised her voice. “We have come from Sir Jack. One-legged Jack.”

  “I ’eard,” said the blacksmith, gruffly. “And who art thou?” His thin face tapered to a point at the end of a jutting jaw, and his eyes were narrow as he inspected us. His cheeks looked as though they had been chiselled from granite, so angular were they. I was minded to tell him to take care of his manners, that he was speaking to a young woman of good blood and a man of better. But I held my tongue. I think I was beginning to understand that I no longer had the badges of my rank to protect me.

  Bess spoke confidently, looking directly at the blacksmith. “I am Bess. Bess Irvine, John Irvine’s daughter.”

  The man looked up once more then, looked properly at Bess, and a smile lit up his leathered face. “Indeed? Then I be pleased to make thine acquaintance. What brings thee ’ere? Wouldst thou take of beer and vittals? My missus’ll…”

  “I thank you, but we are here to buy a horse. My companion” – and at this the blacksmith looked at me with open curiosity, his eyebrows rising when I murmured something in greeting – “is in need of a good mount. Sir Jack said that you have an animal to sell. The horse fair is many months away and I can give you a good price now. I can save you the cost of feeding him.”

  “Aye, mebbe thou can.” The man nodded thoughtfully, wiping the sweat from his brow and then drying his hands on his apron. I noticed the marks from many years of burns.

  “Do you have a horse to sell?” demanded Bess, somehow managing to sound polite and yet demanding. “Shall we look?” She did not delay. I noticed, too, that she had not accepted the blacksmith’s offer of food. She may have had no appetite, I thought, but I was still hungry. I wondered when Bess would have a mind for anyone other than herself.

  The blacksmith wiped his hands again and walked out of the forge towards the stables, with us following his stick-like frame. His legs were bowed and he walked with a noticeable limp, his arms gangling beside him. He had two horses to show us, a bay gelding and a chestnut mare with a white flash. As he began to speak to Bess, she interrupted. “No, my friend will choose. He knows what to look for as well as I do.”

  The blacksmith looked at me with obvious doubt. Perchance he could not get the measure of me. Perchance he wondered at my silence, at my clothes, my youth, the manner in which I spoke. Well, I would show him what I knew. I hoped I would make the right choice.

  He showed me both horses, speaking of their value, their soundness, their speed and trustworthiness. It seemed to me that he wanted me to buy the bay. Perhaps not, but I had the sense that he kept looking at this one quite deliberately, as though drawing me towards that purchase. Indeed, the bay was a perfect age, four years old, strong and steady, with an intelligent face. The mare was younger, three years old according to the man, and looked skittish, perhaps even nervous, jumping slightly when he moved to bridle her.

  I would not be hurried. I wished to know why the blacksmith preferred me to buy the bay. Taking my time, I looked at the bay’s teeth, his eyes, walked around behind him warily in case he kicked. I ran my hand down his legs, over his withers, feeling the muscles there, pausing over the joints. Then I did the same for the mare, soothing her with my hand on her nose and not looking at her eyes until she was ready. I stood slightly to the side so she could see me as much as she wanted. She settled immediately under my touch and I felt a small rush of pride as I heard the blacksmith make a noise of surprise.

  “I should like the mare,” I said decisively, after examining both animals.

  “How so?” said the blacksmith, narrowing his eyes. “This gelding now, ’e be a good ’un. The mare, she be of … unsteady disposition.”

  “The gelding has spavins,” I said. “I need a fast horse, and sound. I prefer the mare. The gelding will not be fit until the summer is well on its way, perhaps not even then. He will be better for gentle use.”

  The blacksmith smiled, straightening his long rickety body. Standing so close to him, I now saw just how tall he was – he must have been more than six foot, by my reckoning. “Well done, lad!” He turned to Bess. “Thou’ll be right with this ’un. A daughter o’ John Irvine deserves good friends. He passed my test. And now, will ye both eat?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I am glad to recount that Bess accepted this invitation and we followed the blacksmith inside.

  I was used to strong smells in public places – all the more so during those last few days since leaving my home with its flowers and lavender water to keep unpleasant smells at bay – and have never considered myself to be faint of stomach, but the stench of that place assailed my throat and made my insides shrink. I tried to breathe as little as I might, fearing some sickness from the noxious air. If Bess noticed, she gave no sign. I did not know what the smell came from but it was bitter and gasping, sticking in the throat like the juice from one’s stomach after vomiting.

  In the room, I counted three children of different ages and a small thin woman. She came to greet me, dragging one leg as she walked, curtsying awkwardly to both of us, or perhaps more to Bess than to me. There were deep lines on her face, a furrow between her eyes, and her skin was flaky and blotched with raw pink patches. A child with a crusted nose sat on her hip, his curly locks framing a pale, quiet face. The other children, aged perhaps four and six or seven years, hung about her. They wore the usual garb of a tradesman’s children, with the oldest boy proud in his breeches; but I thought his jacket sleeves too short and noticed that his feet were bare. The woman’s dress was voluminous enough – near drowning her thin body, in fact – and the apron clean and nearly white, but worn and patched.

  A sound of coughing came from a corner of the room, and only then did I notice another child lying on the bed. I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl, or of what age, but the child moaned weakly after it had finished its paroxysm. Surely there was bad poison in the air here? I could not help but cover my mouth with my hand.

  The woman smiled widely, saying nothing, but pointing to some rough sheets hanging from lines above the fire. I could not see what I was to look at or what she meant to say. She grinned again, nodding and opening her mouth but still saying not a word.

  The blacksmith spoke for her. “T’ missus ’as no tongue. She says she be sorry for t’ stench. Cow dung – it be cheaper ’n soap what wi’ tax, an’ all.” He seemed about to say more, but held his words back.

  I had never thought much about the soap I used at home. I knew there was a tax on it and I supposed that some people could not afford it. But cow dung? Perhaps one would become accustomed to it. I did not wish to try.

  The blacksmith bade us sit down and he and his wife bustled around to bring ale and deep bowls of hot pease pudding, with bread to mop it up. The thick sauce slid easily down my throat and I thought then that I had never enjoyed any dish so much as I did that simple fare. It was as much as I could do not to fall upon it greedily. But, just in time, I realized that I must not: the blacksmith and his wife had not expected guests and, as far as I could see, there was little enough to go round.

  But why did the blacksmith and his family seem so poor? He had a trade, a business, two horses to sell, a forge, a home. Over some ale, which the woman poured generously for us, the blacksmith told us more of their story. And I did not like what I heard. I confess I was happier before I knew.

  The blacksmith and his wife had been childhood sweethearts – at this, he placed his hand over hers and she smiled and nodded. The first child had been born less than a year after they wedded. There followed a second child a year later. At this time, the blacksmith’s father had died and the forge passed to his son. Everything seemed set fair for a thriving business. A third child was born. All the children were healthy, strong, more than could be expected. God smiled on them and t
hey were happy.

  Then the wife had been with child again, a fourth time. Shortly before her time to give birth, she had crossed the path of a fortune-telling hag from a travelling fair. She had no coin with her that day but the gypsy did not believe her and so put a hex on her. Shortly afterwards the woman had given birth. The baby was healthy but when the woman tried to stand, she found that she had lost the power of one leg and arm and her voice had been taken from her.

  They knew then that this was the curse of the gypsy woman.

  The blacksmith had paid every quack and healer thereabouts to find a cure for his wife. Eventually, she had regained the use of her arm and leg, at least for the most part, but her voice never returned. Meanwhile, money had been spent on physic, spells, trickery, as well as a wet nurse for the new baby and then a servant to help. The forge had begun to fail, with the blacksmith preoccupied with his wife and children, neglecting his work. Another blacksmith took their custom.

  But around a year ago, their fortunes had begun to change for the better. The blacksmith, with the support of his wife – who would not see him fail on her account – had begun to bring custom back to the forge, working all the hours that God gave. Once more, they clasped hands and she smiled at her husband.

  Four months ago, two events had occurred. First, one of the children had become ill. Very ill. A feverous cough with a fearful whooping sound. The child could barely breathe. An apothecary had been called and only his skill, good fortune and a very great amount of money had prevented death from coming to their door. The child was now left weakened and with a perpetual cough. More money had gone to apothecaries and quacks.

  And then, the blacksmith had been named in the ballot to join the militia. But how could he leave his mute and weak-limbed wife and four children, with one of them very sick, and no income to provide for their needs?

  So, he had done what everyone did who wanted – or needed – to avoid serving in the militia. He had paid a substitute to take his place. And with the war against France, Russia and Spain draining the army of many men every week, and the army, in turn, draining the militia, there were precious few men left to act as substitutes. And so a high price must be paid – the fearful sum of forty guineas. The money had to be borrowed, and his wife’s wedding ring pawned, and now he must scrimp to repay it.

  Even Bess was silenced by this story. I had known, of course, that some people were poor. But I had thought it was through their own fecklessness or through God’s punishment for their sins – but this blacksmith’s state of affairs did not seem to be caused by either. It seemed caused by man, and not the sufferer himself. Did my father know the hardship of those he drafted into his militia? I had heard him speak harshly of the unwillingness of some of the men but did he think about what happened to the women and children left at home? I do not know if he did.

  These were painful truths to learn. Was this how God ordered the world? Or how mankind disordered it? Where did my father stand in this world? And where did I?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  While we ate and drank, we reached agreement on the price for the horse. It was difficult: the man refused to take more than the horse was worth. His face reddened when we tried to offer more. But I found my own answer to this: as Bess helped the woman take the dirty platters outside to the pump, I slipped a coin under the sick child’s pillow.

  I have never been more pleased with any action of mine than I was with that. I wished I could make the child live, but that would be in God’s hands.

  As we rode away from the blacksmith’s home, with his wife smiling and nodding and the children hanging on her skirts, I breathed deeply in the fresher air. I was riding without a saddle – Bess had said there was one at her cottage. She did not say, but I guessed she must mean her father’s saddle. I wondered how it would feel to ride it.

  The mare – whose name, I omitted to mention, was Sapphire – felt skittish beneath me and it required all my skill to keep her riding straight. But she soon settled under my touch. She had, I thought, been ridden little. But I was well pleased with her. I hoped she would be mine for a long time. I had not forgotten my own horse, Blackfoot – how could I? But I tried not to think of him overmuch. No good could it do to dwell on what I might not have.

  Bess said she had some small purchases to make – vinegar, lump sugar, flour, yeast and hogs’ lard, she said, ticking each one off on her fingers as she made sure to remember, and a few more items which I do not now recall. When we came to the busier streets again, with barrows being wheeled, and wares being shouted, we dismounted and led our horses to a water trough. I waited with both animals while Bess went to buy what she needed.

  As she made her way through the crowds, lifting her skirts to keep them from the sludge underfoot, I watched her, though not closely. I confess my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of my discomfort because I had let her pay most of the money for my horse. We had discussed – if you can call any conversation with Bess a discussion – the necessity for this. But that did not prevent me from feeling discomforted.

  She had said again that I would be of no use to her without a horse, and that if it was my pride which held me back then I could repay her from my share of our booty when we next captured some of the excess wealth of our county’s corrupt masters.

  That, too, discomforted me. It would take more than a few determined words and resolutions to change what I had so often been taught: that stealing was wrong. Was that not true, whether the victim was rich or poor? “Thou shalt not steal.” I had already asked forgiveness for yielding to temptation. What would that forgiveness mean if I merely did the same again?

  But we must put bread on our table, must we not? By some means. And for certain I did not know of any other skill I had which might bring us money. Nor could I, in truth, see Bess sitting composing her ditties for the rest of her days.

  Too much thinking is a dangerous pastime. It was because I was thinking in this way that I failed to notice the boy robbing Bess.

  All I can say is that from the depths of my wandering thoughts I heard her cry, “Stop! Thief!” I whipped my head in her direction: she was some thirty yards away or more, beginning to run. But she could not do so easily in her heavy skirts.

  Where was the thief? There! A boy with thick yellow hair was speeding away from her, darting through the crowds. Towards me. Just before he reached me, he slipped down a nearby street. Passers-by turned their heads, but no one moved to help. Perhaps they could not see what had happened; perhaps they did not care.

  “Stop that boy!” she shouted. “Stop him, Will! He has my money!”

  “Take the horses!” I cried to her and flung the reins from me as she approached.

  I set off, slipping at first on the damp stones. Where had the thief gone? He kept disappearing but I could see the thin crowds parting in startled fashion as he sped through. I had to catch him! This was one thing I could do, after all Bess had done in buying the horse. If I could not retrieve her money, what use was I?

  Darting through the crowds, shouting at them to move, I raced after the splash of yellow hair. I was so angry at his theft that I did not spare a thought for how I too had stolen a purse only a few days before. I knew only that I wanted to retrieve it. For Bess. And for my pride.

  The boy must not escape! He must not!

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Stop!” I continued to shout. “He stole from a lady!” I added. “He hit a lady!” I lied.

  I was fast. I was sturdy and strong. And I was furious. The crowds parted for me and, even though I lost sight of him every now and then, his yellow hair kept reappearing. Closer and closer. Blood was pounding in my head now. My whole body jarred with the shock of my feet hitting the cobbled ground.

  Now he darted across the road. He leapt to one side to avoid a passing carriage, stumbling as he slipped in the slime of the gutter. As the carriage passed, he dashed down a narrow street. I sped after him, not caring where this led, caring for nothing more
than catching him.

  Swerving left, he ran up an alley narrower than the first. The buildings loomed over our heads, almost cutting out the wintry light. The ground was slimy and uneven here, but he was sure-footed. Agile, too, and thin. And very fast. But no faster than I. Fear may have lent him strength but I was spurred on by fury. And I was better than he – I would not be beaten by a common thief!

  No people walked here in these darker streets. If I caught him, what would I do? Or was he perchance leading me to his gang, if he had one? Footpads often did, I had heard. And once there, I would find no mercy, I knew that too. But I tried not to think on it.

  Left again. Surely now we were near the street where we had started? I could hear the crowds, the market, the whinnying of horses, even see spreading light at the end of this alleyway. But the boy had turned again.

  I was gaining on him now, slowly but surely. I could hear his panting, the guttering breaths choking him. With a burst of extra strength, of desperation, I surged forward.

  It was then that I heard the noise behind me. Clattering hoofs. Approaching fast. I could not turn round – there was no time. I cannot describe my fear, how it hit me with a force that almost took the breath from my lungs. But I pushed the thought away. I would not be beaten by terror this time. I was on the side of right. This boy had stolen and I was going to retrieve what he had stolen. God would watch over me because I had not done wrong.

  I had nearly reached the boy now. The noise of hoofs grew louder. I shut my ears to it. When I reached out with my hand, I could almost touch him, almost, so nearly. And then, with one huge effort, I had grasped his jacket. But he was spurred on by fear and he ducked away, slipping from my clutches.

  I dived at him, wrapping my arms around his legs, and we fell together. A sharp pain shot through my neck as it was forced backwards, my jaw against his thighs. My elbow hit the ground hard and I yelled.