The Highwayman's Footsteps

by Nicola Morgan

  Strangely, however, amongst all this was a new shiver of pleasure, of rightness. This was my father; this was the man I hated. With even better reason than I had thought. And if I had felt any trace of guilt at my lack of respect for him, I felt no guilt now. Though I did indeed feel shame for my blood, my family, my inheritance. How could I prove myself better than them?

  “We must act!” And once I spoke, my anger could not be held back. “We must act to stop him. We must tell someone. Surely such evil cannot go unpunished. Tell me what to do, and I will do it!”

  “Be patient,” said Jack. “This will require careful planning. And cool heads. I had thought to wait until a time closer to the next election, but the knowledge that you are de Lacey’s son changes matters, changes them considerably. I believe I shall lay aside my other plans and see this one to its conclusion first. You may have knowledge that will help us.” He stroked his chin, looking past me, into nothingness.

  “Ask anything,” I said. “I will do anything.”

  Bess had kept her silence for some time but now she spoke. “Will must surely know his father’s movements, when he goes to the assizes, when he may be carrying money, his travelling companions. With such information, we could hold up his carriage. Think of that – not only do we take back money that is not rightfully this man’s, but his son plays a part in it! That would be justice indeed!” Her face shone. Any lingering trace of her earlier illness had now disappeared and she seemed full of fire.

  “I had been thinking so myself. How good is the boy with pistols? How skilled is he on a horse? How do you know you can rely on him in danger?”

  Bess answered at once. “There’s no one better on a horse and he has proved himself strong in danger.” She looked at me.

  Jack spoke to me now. “And pistols, lad? Can you handle weapons?”

  “Yes, sir, I can. I know how to use pistols, although I have never … I have never had cause to use one in anger. And I am schooled with a rapier, of course.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “No, sir,” I replied, somewhat sickened by this sudden question.

  “Do you hope to?”

  “No, sir, I do not hope to.”

  “Good,” he replied. “I hope you will not need to. It is enough that you know how to. I would not like a hothead as Bess’s accomplice.”

  One-legged Jack called for ale and meat, and soon there arrived a steaming calf’s-head pie and liver sauce, with hot pickled cabbage making a vibrant red splash on the enormous wooden platter. My mouth watered as I smelt its flavour, and I recalled that this was the first hot meat I had eaten since leaving home. It was, I think, the food I have most enjoyed in my whole life.

  As we ate together, we talked more of our plans. It was a strange feeling, very strange, to be talking so seriously of a crime we would commit, and yet talking of it as though it was the right action to take.

  Was it right? Certainly, what my father was doing, if Jack were to be believed, was wrong, very wrong. But did that mean we were right to act wrongly against him? Can a wrong deed ever be right? Shall we be judged on what we do or on what is in our hearts? And what if someone were hurt or even killed in our action? Did we have the right to make such a judgement?

  A part of my mind did not think we were right. And yet I was caught up in it and willingly too, I confess. It was easy to tell myself that what we did was just, to repeat it over and over in my head, to listen to Bess and One-legged Jack, to go with my heart and to hear what I wanted to hear; but it was less easy to believe it fully. It was less easy to banish the small dark doubts that crept up on me every time I stopped to think.

  And so I tried not to think too hard.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  As we left that place, Bess and I were in two very different conditions. She was burning with enthusiasm and certainty, talking more than I had ever heard her do. She did not stop to see whether I shared her fervour.

  I, on the other hand, felt a heavy burden upon my shoulders. This time, it was not a burden of fear, but of doubt and confusion. I had known what I thought of my father before – I feared and disliked him. It had been very simple, though perhaps it had not felt so at the time. But now, it was not so simple. For now, mixed in with fear and dislike, I felt also shame. It was no longer a matter of what he thought of me. It was a matter of what he was.

  And, therefore, what I was.

  One-legged Jack’s final words to me were ringing in my ears. He had clasped my hand and looked deep into my eyes. “Be true, Will. Be true to yourself. And take care of my friend’s daughter. Take care of Bess.” Then Bess had said something, that she did not need to be protected. And Jack had smiled sadly at her and touched her cheek as he said, in a voice quieter than usual, “A friend is a good thing to have, Bess. Your father was a friend to me. Why, I even forgave him for being of Scottish birth! He cared for me and never was I ashamed of his help. You have need of a good friend too. Look after each other.”

  Now, Bess was walking fast towards the New Brough Barr, the entrance to the town of Scarborough. It was a market day, and many folk walked and rode in the streets. In the spring sunshine, faces shone and men and women stopped to gossip with acquaintances, not hurrying hunched in the cold but raising their faces to the new season.

  Bess stopped for me to catch up. By her face, I think she saw that my spirits were low.

  “Let us have some entertainment, Will. I have an idea which will make you think on good things. There were two reasons I came here today – only one was to speak with Jack. The other was … well, you shall see. Follow me!” And she took my arm, smiling so that I could hardly remain looking sad.

  Where were we going? What was Bess’s plan?

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  I knew the streets by now. And I kept my hands in my coat pockets in case of quick-fingered thieves.

  My attire marked me as neither wealthy nor poor: I wore a working coat belonging to Bess’s father, and my own brown breeches, clean stockings and buckled shoes; my hair was tied in a simple pigtail, topped with a soft flattened hat. Bess was wearing her skirts again. She had a plain shawl of dark red around her shoulders, and pattens to keep her feet above the mud. And mud there was on those streets, slippery, stinking pools of it. The dung of horses and cattle and dogs, together with rotten potato peelings and thawing carcases of dead cats, mixed with human waste thrown from high windows, filled the gutters, sometimes spilling up onto the pavements.

  Sunlight, darting through the gaps between buildings, glittered in our eyes as we hurried along. It was not easy to watch where I placed my feet or to avoid knocking into persons travelling in the opposite direction. Every now and then, shouts from a postillion would alert the crowds to an oncoming carriage, and passers-by would leap aside with shouts of anger as stinking mud splashed up from the wheels.

  I began to long to be back on the empty moors, which seemed like home to me now. In the town, humans, animals, seagulls, carriages, all jostled together, vying for space. On the moors, there was air to breathe and space between everything. Here, the ugly mark of humankind was etched everywhere. On the moors, people passed unnoticed, leaving no shadow, like the ghosts and spirits that shared the air. I could not imagine ghosts in the town, in these busy streets.

  We were approaching the place where the market was. The stalls were set out much as before, some on the pavements, others in the street. Bess was watching in both directions, looking from one side of the street to another, until suddenly she stopped, pulled me into a doorway and pointed. I saw at once what she was pointing at.

  The gap-toothed crone. I had forgotten her! In all the fear and horror of the last few days, I had forgotten the old hag. How unimportant she seemed now! Yet I remembered how I had vowed to repay her for her treachery. She had deserved it, but perhaps this mattered less now. It seemed somehow unimportant. And yet … and yet, how I did hate her.

  “Stay here!” said Bess. “Keep a close watch on her.” And b
efore I had had a chance to ask her what she intended, she had gone. I saw her black hair, neatly dressed beneath her bonnet, disappear around a corner, and then I was alone in the crowds.

  I shrank back into the doorway and watched the old woman. I watched her grin as each buyer approached and I watched her weak eyes darting here and there, watched her gnarled hand put coins in her bag, watched her spit rheumy liquid onto the ground, watched her hook a finger into her ear and gouge out what was there.

  Nowhere did I see Bess. How long was I to wait here observing the old crone?

  I let my thoughts wander. I no longer worried about being recognized. Already, I felt invisible in this busy, unseeing place. My old home, my old life, my family – all seemed entirely strange to me now.

  I cannot say for certain what feelings I harboured for my family at this time. Did I feel sadness when I thought of them? Did I regret that I might not see them again? I cannot say clearly. I did not believe they thought with sadness of my absence and I did not like to think on this. So, I put such matters from my thoughts.

  One thing I do know: whenever I thought of that place, I could not help but think of Blackfoot, my horse, and wish he were with me. And my spaniel puppy. I believed that the servants would look after them well. I hoped that Saul, the stable boy, would be entrusted with Blackfoot. I hoped that my sisters were not spoiling my puppy. He would need to be trained properly. For certain, I could not trust my sisters to do that. I could only hope that the good people on my father’s estate would watch over them. And there were good people, I knew.

  I hoped my brother would play no part at all in the care of either my dog or my horse. My skin went cold at the thought, as I remembered how he had poisoned my first horse, Serenade. And how he kicked his own hunting dog when it did not understand his commands, or when he simply wished for something to kick…

  Had I put my animals in danger by running away?

  There was Bess! Her shawl was wrapped around her head now and she walked purposefully towards the old woman’s barrow. The distance was too great for me to hear what was said but I could see the crone’s face. I saw her wildly wandering eyes light up at the prospect of another purchaser. I saw Bess handle some jars and pots. My heart jumped when I saw her toss a pot into the air and catch it before it reached the ground. I saw the old woman’s eyes narrow in distrust and, perhaps, anger. She watched Bess, who was now rummaging in her deep pockets. I saw the woman frown, open her mouth to say something, and then look down at what Bess was holding out to her. I saw confusion pass across her face, as she took it.

  What was Bess doing? I could not see the object in the crone’s hand. But I could see her confusion turn to fear. I could see her step back, try to speak, try to return the object to Bess. But Bess was gone, hurrying away, through the crowds, leaving the black-mouthed crone shaking, looking around from side to side, her eyes wide. Another purchaser came to inspect her wares but hurried away again, disturbed no doubt by her ghoulish look, her staring eye and open mouth.

  Soon Bess was back at my side, her face bright with excitement. “Did you see?” she asked.

  “Yes, but what did you do? Why is she so afraid?”

  “I have put a curse on her. I went to a woman I know, a friend of Aggie’s, who knows about such things. I bought a cursing stone and I have given it to her. But I have not finished. There is something that you must do. I told her that the curse will only come to pass when she sees someone whom she has wronged. When she sees you, she will know that the curse is working. All you need do is approach her and let her see your face. She will remember you. And then we shall watch her suffer!”

  “Do you believe this? Do you believe in such curses? The men of the church say we should trust in God, not in witches.”

  “I do trust in God. I trust in many things. When I gave the money to Aggie’s friend, when I made the curse, I prayed to God as well. God and witchcraft can both help us, can they not? And we need do nothing. If God does not wish to see the old woman punished, then doubtless He will ensure that the curse fails. Who knows why these things happen, but I know that they do. Now go and let the woman see you.”

  I hesitated. Bess urged me on. “You wanted her to suffer, did you not? You deserve this much, after what she did to you. You could have died and she would have cared nothing. All that will happen to her is some illness or pain or misfortune. Go on!”

  I walked towards the crone, my palms sweating. There were no soldiers or any persons of that sort to be seen. There was nothing to concern me.

  Should I do this? I could not be sure.

  And yet, I hated her! As I came nearer, I recalled her evil look when she had called the soldiers. And then I recalled the scream of the falling horse and the look in its eyes before I shot it dead. That horse would not have died, had it not been for her treachery.

  So, full of anger, I walked towards that gap-toothed hag and I stood in front of her and watched as she looked up. And, with a thrill of true pleasure, I watched the horror spread across her face as she recognized me. Her hands flew to her mouth and she let out a moan, collapsing onto her stool.

  “Do you recall me?” I asked. She nodded, mutely. “I, too, recall you,” I said, and turned away from her, slipping amongst the crowds.

  As I ran back to Bess and as we made our way from that place, we heard a crash and a commotion from the direction of the old woman’s barrow. Briefly, we stopped to watch. We could not see clearly but it seemed as though she had collapsed across her wares, scattering broken jars everywhere. We heard her high-pitched keening, and the shouts of people as they tried to help her.

  We disappeared from there as quickly as we could. And, I confess, I felt joy as I thought of the justice of it. I do not know whether it was the curse, or her fear, and I do not know what happened to her next. But I care only that she deserved to feel that horror, to believe that she had been cursed.

  It was justice. And I took great pleasure in it.

  My pleasure did not last long.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  We heard the shouting of the news crier, sensed the movement of people towards him. What had happened? At first, I felt only slight interest, the interest of the crowd as we allowed ourselves to be swept along. By the time we reached him, people were passing snippets of the story to each other.

  There had been rioting. Civil unrest. In Hexham. The militia and the people were rioting against the authorities.

  Even then, I could not know the whole truth. Why was everyone so angry? Did they not like riots? I had heard that the masses like to riot.

  People had died. Many people. Some said twenty. Others said dozens. Shot by the militia from neighbouring Yorkshire, because the militia of Northumberland would not shoot their own people. But the orders had been given by the authorities in Hexham. To shoot the rioting people and militiamen of Hexham.

  And why had they rioted? Because they objected to the unfairness of the ballot which took men away from their families and enrolled them in the militia. My father’s militia.

  Only then did I begin to understand.

  But there was worse.

  The authorities had hanged a man for his part in the riot. An old man, seventy-four years old, they said. They had hung him without trial. They had not waited long – he was hanged, in public, the morning after the riots. They would not listen to the truth: that the old man had not even been in Hexham that day. He was innocent. They had hanged him and left his body on the gibbet as an example to others.

  An innocent old man, hanged at dawn, without a proper trial.

  And the man who was responsible for this atrocity?

  The High Sheriff.

  My father.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Then, indeed, did ice truly grip my heart. Bess took hold of my arm and guided me, sensing my distress. She pulled me away from the crowds and hurried me back towards the New Brough Barr, till we were outside the town walls.

  “Say nothing,” she urged. “We w
ill talk when we are alone. Say nothing now.” And she led me away.

  I willingly followed. I wanted more than anything to be far from this place, away from these people who would have strung me by my neck from a tree had they known who I was. Whose son I was.

  Gulls screamed overhead as we hurried along the road, and the smell of salt and sea freshened the air as we left the sickening animal smell of the town behind. I found myself hurrying towards the dark moors as though they would give me sanctuary. I think I did not breathe properly until we were away from the sounds and smells of Scarborough town and within sight of the familiar hills. I wanted to cleanse my mouth of spittle, to rid myself of its poison.

  Yet the poison was not in my mouth. The poison was throughout my body. My father’s blood beat in my heart. How would I ever forget that? How could I rid myself of him entirely? Or would I for ever carry the burden of what he was and what I was?

  We soon found a carter who was willing to let us be carried in his cart for the greater part of the journey. Bess and I sat in near silence as we rocked and swayed our way into the hills, and my thoughts became slowly numb as we rattled along the rough tracks. At last, we came to the place where we must get down and walk alone for the last mile up into the hills.

  A light misty rain began to fall and cold seeped into my skin. I wrapped myself tightly in my jacket, and shivered.

  It was nearly dark when we came to Bess’s cottage once more. Wearily, we walked up the last part of the track. A sharp evening wind rustled the trees and shifted the loose straw in the yard. The horses whinnied in welcome as we looked to their needs. We knew we must tend to them before we thought about ourselves. And, indeed, it was a comfort to do so.

  By now, I knew what needed to be done in the cottage and I set about lighting the fire and closing the shutters against the night, as Bess lit oil lamps and began to fetch vegetables from her stores to make a warming soup. She brought carrots and potatoes from an outhouse – this, she had told me, was where they had lain bedded in sand to keep them from spoiling over the winter – and some cabbage from a jar of vinegar. I watched her chop them deftly, add a scrag of veal to the pan of water, throw in some dusty herbs from where they were hanging to dry, add a scoop of salt from the box beside the fire, and begin to stir the mixture in the large battered pot above the flames.