Gideon the Cutpurse (14 page)

* * *

Abruptly Gideon's expression changed and he held up his hand indicating to Peter that he should be quiet.
"Wood smoke," he said. Peter followed him as Gideon set off purposefully down the slope, leaving Midnight to graze on the long grass. There, in a deep hollow that would have provided shelter from the worst of the wind and rain, they came across the smouldering remains of a large bonfire. All around it the grass and bracken had been flattened in a wide circle. The stripped carcasses of roast rabbits and some kind of bird, probably pigeon, lay scattered about. Two small wooden chests, empty apart from a soiled, torn nightgown, had seemingly been abandoned.
Gideon's eyes darted everywhere, taking in every detail. He picked up a discarded flagon and sniffed at it. "Brandy," he said. "And no sign of horses...these were a gang of footpads. Six of them at least, I'll warrant."
"What are footpads?" asked Peter.
"Footpads roam the country in search of innocent travelers. They are oft-times more to be feared than highwaymen, for they attack in groups and are likely as not more vicious--for without horses they cannot make a swift escape and so must overwhelm their victims."
"But how can you be sure these are footpads?" asked Peter. "Perhaps these were just tourists having a picnic."
Gideon looked puzzled. "Tourists? Picnic?"
"Never mind," said Peter. "Maybe they were just travelers stopping for breakfast."
"What traveler would leave good chests like these behind? No, Master Peter, these men were interested only in what these chests contained. We have discovered a gang of footpads."
Gideon bent down to pick up a small rag, which he shook out and held by one corner. Traces of blood streaked out from a central crease in the material.
"Never let another man's blood blunt your blade," commented Gideon in a curious, deep voice as if he were thinking of someone. It put Peter in mind of the Tar Man. Gideon flung the rag onto the glowing embers of the fire. Peter shuddered.
"Let us hope that Ned Porter and his accomplice were not in league with them," said Gideon. "Come, we must return to inform the parson. This is ill news indeed."

* * *

Midnight carried them back to Lichfield through the drizzle. The horse had picked up his master's mood. His velvet nostrils flared and his very coat seemed to bristle with nervous anticipation. Gideon constantly scanned the horizon for signs of the gang of footpads, every sense on full alert. But if the footpads were there, invisible and watchful, they chose to remain out of sight, screened by trees or hedges or stretched out at their ease at the bottom of ditches. Peter held on tight as they galloped back, and he felt the tension build up in Gideon's back each time they rode through woods and copses, and afterward his relief when they emerged unscathed.
"They are out there. I can feel it in my water," said Gideon.
"But aren't we safe from them on horseback?" asked Peter.
"It's easier than you might imagine for a group of men to pull over horse and rider. And the bones in a horse's leg are not difficult to break." And then he quickly added, "Do not fear, Master Peter. Sadly, I have needed to learn how to hold my own against bad folk."
Peter, however, was not as scared as Gideon supposed. Why should he be, sitting on the back of this magnificent animal in the company of a man who had defeated a notorious highwayman single-handedly?
By the time they were within a mile of Lichfield the roads became much busier, and Gideon felt that there was now little likelihood of attack. Midnight's pace slowed down and they fell to talking again.
"Mistress Kate suffers grievously, I think, from being wrenched from her family. Do you not feel sick for your home and your time too?"
"I do...but I don't see so much of my family in any case. Mum and Dad work abroad a lot. Margrit, the au pair, looks after me while they are away."
"Your mother works?"
"Yes. Lots of mothers work in my time."
"And yet you have a servant?"
"Yes," answered Peter, puzzled. "Well, sort of. Why shouldn't we?"
"If you have the money to pay a servant, why would your mother need to work?"
"She doesn't just work for the money--she likes it."
"Perhaps work is different in your time. And your servant is an Irishwoman? I like the Irish. They are always ready with a song or a jest."
"I don't understand."
"Mistress O' Pear. Is she Irish?"
"Er...our au pair is German, if that's what you mean. Anyway, things are different for Kate--it's hard to explain. She comes from this big family. They're quite close, I think. My parents have really important, stressful jobs. I guess they're just too busy to notice me most of the time."
"I have few memories of my mother in moments of idleness," said Gideon kindly. "I think it is in the nature of things that parents are forever occupied." He pointed to the swallows skimming low over the fields through clouds of midges. "Look at the birds in search of food to feed their chicks from dawn to dusk. Parents mostly do not have the leisure to be with their children. It is why you have brothers and sisters to play with."
"I'm an only child."
"Ah...," said Gideon. "Lord Luxon," he continued, "in whose employ I remained for almost seven years, was an only child. He had a father so wealthy he never knew anything but leisure. And yet his son was none the better for it."
"Was he the one you told Mrs. Byng about? The man who always went to Tyburn for the hangings?"
"The same. When Lord Luxon was on the verge of manhood, just a little older than you are now, his father cut open a ripe red apple at dinner and found that a worm had eaten deep into its flesh. His father was always hard on him. Without warning, his father turned on him in a great rage and said, 'You are like this apple, rotten at the core. I can never be proud of you. I doubt that I ever shall.'"
"What had he done that got his father so angry?"
"I do not know. I heard the story from his servant. But what boy has done nothing of which he is ashamed? Nor is it uncommon that a parent asks more of his child than the child has it in his power to achieve. And it seems to me that it is often the eldest child who suffers most in this way.... Alas, Lord Luxon's father died soon afterward. It is a hard thing to have lost the respect of one's father. It ate into Lord Luxon. I believe it is his tragedy."
"Why did you work for Lord Luxon if he's such a bad man?" asked Peter.
"I had no choice in the matter."
"Will you tell me about it?"
Gideon nodded. "If you like. It is not an extraordinary tale. Many children have had far worse fates."
Gideon took a few moments to gather his thoughts. Peter hoped they would not reach Lichfield before he arrived at the end of his story.
"My mother and father and eight out of my nine brothers and sisters are all dead," he began.
Peter gasped. "That's awful!"
"It happened many years ago."
"Then who brought you up?"
"My mother until I was ten and then...someone whom I have no reason to remember with affection."
Gideon told Peter how his father, a skilled cabinetmaker, died when he was two, leaving his mother to bring up her large family alone. Shortly afterward one of his elder brothers died suddenly, and the whole family left Somerset to settle in Surrey, in a small village called Abinger, where his mother's only surviving sister lived. His mother remarried an Abinger man, Joshua Seymour, and they had two children--a boy, Joshua, and a girl. One March, when Gideon was ten, the village was blighted with a virulent outbreak of scarlet fever. After a bad winter when food had been scarce and bronchitis had already weakened several members of the family, the scarlet fever could not have arrived at a worse time. Only ten-year-old Gideon and his young half brother, Joshua, then six and a half, survived. The two boys watched ten members of their family buried in the same week. On her deathbed Mrs. Seymour wrote to the rector begging him to find a home for her two youngest boys. They were both, she wrote, honest, God-fearing boys who knew their letters and were not afraid of hard work.
And so it was that the local squire acquired two slaves in all but name. Unpaid, mostly hungry and cold, and regularly beaten, the Seymour boys had a wretched childhood, but at least they had each other. Only when the squire was away on business, or on Sundays, when they were dressed in good clothes and displayed in church as an example of their master's generosity, did they know any respite.
On his fifteenth birthday the cook gave Gideon a tankard of cider to celebrate the day. Unused to strong drink, Gideon sent a Japanese bowl crashing to the floor in the stone-flagged entrance hall at the same moment that the squire returned empty-handed from a frustrating morning's pike fishing. The squire dragged Gideon outside, tore the shirt from his back, and beat him until he bled and then, when Gideon fainted, revived him with a bucket of icy water. Poor Joshua watched, helpless, from the scullery window, tears streaming down his face.
That night Gideon vowed to run away and start a new life, swearing to young Joshua that he would come back for him at the first opportunity.
"But why didn't you tell somebody?" Peter wanted to know. "Surely the local police or magistrate or whatever you call them could have made the squire stop beating you. It's against the law to beat children like that in my time. They'd put you in prison if you were found out."
"Against the law! If that were the law of this land, there would be more people in prison than without! But that is wondrous to hear--no hangings! No beatings! Why, the future must herald paradise on earth!"
"Well, not exactly.... So did you escape in the end?" asked Peter.
"I was foolish. I ran away that very night. I should have waited for the spring. I headed for London but did not get even as far as Esher."
Gideon described how he soon finished the provisions of bread and cheese he had brought with him. He avoided the roads in case the squire's men came after him. He became hopelessly lost crossing the interminable farmland under sunless skies and almost died of cold, sleeping rough under frozen hedgerows. Twice he begged poor farmers for something to eat but both times he was chased off their land. Finally, after ten days, weak from a feverish chill and lack of food, he came to a decision. He must either steal something to eat or die. He sank to his knees onto grass stiff with frost and prayed for forgiveness. He reasoned that he had promised to rescue Joshua, and that if he died, his young half brother would be forever at the squire's mercy.
Arriving at a small farm close to Oxshott, Gideon observed the house from a distance until he saw the farmer walk off into the fields with his dog. He crept into the farmyard and, drawn onward by the tantalizing smell of baking, found himself at the kitchen door. His heart pounding, Gideon peeped in through the grimy window. On the scrubbed wooden table he saw three pies. There was no sign of anyone. Gideon slowly pushed open the door, which creaked alarmingly, and stole into the kitchen. He almost changed his mind and got ready to run out again, but then he remembered Joshua. He grabbed hold of one of the pies. Fresh out of the oven, it was red hot and he was forced to drop it back onto the table with a loud clatter. Convinced he had alerted the house to his presence, Gideon froze, straining to hear footsteps, but all was silent once more. Then he snatched a spoon off a dresser and broke through the thick suet crust. A cloud of steam rose out of the pie, along with an irresistibly savory aroma. He lifted a spoonful of meat and rich gravy to his lips and blew on it to cool it down. What bliss it was to feel hot food in his belly. He swallowed another spoonful and then another and another, knowing that he ought to make his escape while he had the chance.
It was the deep growling of the dog that he heard first. The farmer's wife, who had been tending a sick calf in the barn, had seen Gideon enter the kitchen and had run off after her husband to fetch him back to deal with the intruder. Now the farmer stood at the kitchen door, wielding a scythe in one hand and restraining his dog with the other. The dog, a large mongrel with a rank, shaggy coat, was baring its teeth and straining to leap at Gideon's throat.
"No food has passed my lips these five days past! Have mercy!" cried Gideon.
It took the farmer half a second to make up his mind, and then he released his hold on the dog. Gideon hurled a wooden stool at the animal and dashed into the inner hall and out through the front door. He headed into the barn and jumped onto a pile of firewood stacked at one end. The dog was at his heels and, with the adrenalin rush of fear spurring him on, Gideon hurled himself upward and managed to catch hold of one of the supporting beams. His legs hung precariously above the dog's snapping jaws. After several attempts he succeeded in swinging both legs over the wooden beam. He locked his ankles together and inch by inch started to heave and slide himself over to the nearest corner of the barn, where he could see chinks of light breaking through gaps in the rough slate roof.
The farmer, whose shriveled face told of a life full of hardship, started to shout at Gideon to come down, telling him that there was no escape and that he'd teach him to steal his supper.
"What is he doing to our roof?" shrieked his wife as Gideon thumped desperately at the slate tiles with his bare fist. They heard the crash as first one and then three or four slates smashed onto the cobbles in the farmyard below. Gideon hauled himself through the hole he had made and clambered up the steeply pitched roof. He straddled the ridge, one leg over each side, and looked down at the irate farmer far below, as he tried to get his breath back. The foul dog barked incessantly. Then Gideon noticed two things in quick succession. He watched the farmer stoop down and pick up a stone and take aim. At the same time, in the narrow lane in front of the farmhouse, Gideon could see an elegant figure on horseback wearing a splendid sky blue jacket. The gentleman's attention had clearly been drawn by all the commotion. The stone whizzed through the air and found its target. Half an inch nearer and Gideon would have lost an eye; as it was, the stone stung his cheekbone and it was his grip that he lost. Gideon slithered down the roof, grasping hold of the edge of the hole he had made. The sharp slate cut into his fingers, and his legs jerked this way and that trying to find a foothold.
Suddenly two tiles gave way under his weight. Gideon slid down the roof, his nails screeching down the slate, as his fingers scrabbled after anything to hang on to.
This is the end,
he thought.
My neck will be broken. This is punishment for my wickedness.
Time itself seemed to slow down and in that instant Gideon saw everything with a terrifying clarity: There was the dog, foaming at the mouth in a frenzy of excitement; next to it the farmer who was craning his neck upward, an expression of triumphant expectation on his face. And then there was the
clip-clop
of hooves as the fine young gentleman rode his black mare into the cobbled yard.... It was at that moment that Gideon glimpsed a rusting pulley attached to an iron bar that jutted out of the barn wall. Instinctively Gideon shot out his arm and seized hold of the bar. He swung like a pendulum perhaps six feet above the yard. This was the dog's chance. It leaped up and sank its teeth into Gideon's left calf, opening up a gaping, bloody wound as the animal fell back to the ground. Screaming with the pain of it, Gideon struggled to lift up his knees out of reach of the dog.
"Call that dog off, sir!" shouted the young gentleman. "The lad cannot defend himself!"
Startled at the gentleman's sudden appearance, the farmer turned around to look at him. "What is it to you, my lord? This thief stole my supper!"
"And he must pay for his supper with his legs? Here, take that. It will buy you a dozen suppers."
The gentleman threw down onto the muddy yard a handful of coins, which the farmer's wife quickly retrieved.
"Call off your dog at once if you don't want to feel my whip on your back."
The farmer scowled at the gentleman but made no move. Gideon, who was fast losing his grip, was by now no longer able to raise his knees. The dog attacked again. This time the other leg. Gideon let out an agonized scream as its teeth tore into his flesh. A shot rang out as the gentleman fired his pistol into the air and the petrified dog sped out of sight. The gentleman positioned his horse under Gideon and commanded him to drop.
"You'd better come with me. Can you ride?"