The Highwayman's Footsteps (15 page)

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!

“S
top!” 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.

“Will, it is I!” Relief surged through me as I heard Bess's voice and then her footsteps as she slipped from the horse and ran to retrieve the purse. “Well done!” she said, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Come, we can both ride Merlin. Hurry!”

The boy kicked like a wild thing and it was all I could do to hold on to his legs. Desperate situations require desperate measures: I hit him hard on the thigh with my fist. Still he struggled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a stone. Reaching out quickly, I picked it up and hit him again, harder, on his bony hip this time, with the sharp edge of the stone. He screamed.

“Be still!” I shouted. He did so, falling silent, apart from his laboured breathing, which came in suffocating sobs. His face was buried in the dirt and I knew very well what that felt like. I ought perhaps to show mercy – now that we had reclaimed the purse, there was no need to take vengeance further.

Once I was sure that he would not try to struggle free, I carefully lifted myself from his legs and rose to my feet, dusting myself down and feeling a degree of pleasure at my success. I rubbed my bruised elbow.

Bess was smiling at me as she put the purse back in her skirts. I smiled back at her. For the first time, perhaps, it seemed that she accepted me as her equal.

Her equal! Was I not above
her
in station? And she a girl, too!

“We shall leave him here,” she said. “If you would be so good, gentle sir, as to help me into the saddle, then we…” She stopped. She was looking over my shoulder and what she saw turned her white. I twisted round.

Two figures stood there. Their arms hung loosely at their sides, their huge hands open. Two men. Large men.

Grinning.

B
ess moved by instinct towards her horse.

“Leave it!” barked one man. “It is ours.”

Bess obeyed, even moving further away than she had been before. At that moment, I knew not why she did so.

I had need of a weapon. The stone still sat in my hand, but that would not suffice. Not against two large men who looked as strong as bulls. And the boy to help them.

Still the men stood there. They were some twenty yards away. I tried to judge whether I would have time to pick up a piece of wood I could spy a few feet from me. But what would Bess do? I was still trying to decide my next action when I heard a noise behind me. I swung round. The boy had climbed to his feet. And he was not alone. Another older boy stood by him now, with a nasty grin and a mouth entirely empty of teeth. His eyes were white and rheumy, his skin badly marked by pox, and he had the appearance of something from the other side of the grave. I shuddered. He held a thick wooden club, a piece of jagged metal sticking from it.

My mouth was dry. I could not swallow. Thoughts spun like a storm in my head. This could not be happening! How had we allowed ourselves to be trapped? How could we possibly escape?

Bess was whispering from the side of her mouth, so that only I could hear. “Be ready. Watch me.”

Oddly, through my near-panic, a voice of calm came to me. It was not Bess's voice, though hers, too, sounded steady. It was a voice from deep inside me. And it said, “Be brave. And you shall succeed.”

And so, barely breathing, but thinking, thinking fast, controlling my thoughts, I waited, watching her. I would not let Bess down.

I was ready.

“Now!” she shouted and, without thinking what she wanted me to do, I dived for the piece of wood. As I did, I saw the men move towards us. And from the corner of my vision, I saw Bess pick up her skirts and run, fast as a hunted hare, towards the horse. In astonishment, I saw her crouch and then spring through the air, twisting as she did and landing in the side-saddle. I had never seen that done – I could not imagine how any lady would even think of trying, and if I
had
thought about it I would never have thought it possible. But there Bess was, sitting in the saddle, apparently without pain from her injury, gathering the reins and urging Merlin to a gallop.

Straight at the two huge men.

On some instinct, I twisted round, just in time to swing my piece of wood at the yellow-haired boy as he leapt at me. It hit him round the side of the head with a terrible crunch and he crumpled to his knees on the ground, clutching his ear, blood trickling from his fingers.

The toothless boy hesitated, but only briefly, before a grin split his pockmarked face again and he came towards me, moving jerkily, with the club held in front of him. I was about to raise my stick to hit him too, when Bess shouted, “No!” and I whipped round.

I saw a knife blade rise and begin to fall. I did not have time to raise my arm high enough – all I could do was hurl myself desperately to one side. The knife slashed through my sleeve, but I felt nothing else.

Scrambling to my feet, I saw Bess jerk the reins upwards, making her horse rear up. How could she not fall? But she did not, and I felt a thrill of ugly pleasure as I saw one of the men trip as he tried to dodge the horse's legs. He was felled with a terrible cry and lay groaning on the ground, blood pouring from a wound in his head.

There were still two assailants left, though they had less spirit for the fight. Even the thick-set man hesitated, his black eyes darting from side to side as he judged his next move. I kept the young one in my sights, swinging the stick in front of me, ready for him, waiting for the moment when he might leap towards me.

“Go now!” I shouted at them. “While you still have a chance!”

“Give us t' money,” snarled the larger man, his voice ugly with menace.

“Not while there is breath in my body!” I retorted. I do not know where such fury came from. Perhaps the exhilaration of fighting back, the thought that, with two of them disposed of, Bess and I had a chance. A small chance, but nevertheless a chance.

But two things happened at the same moment. One was that my mind flitted for no good reason to thoughts of my horse, Sapphire – where was she? What had Bess done with her? And while I was distracted so, the injured man pushed himself to his hands and knees and then, in one swift movement, his feet. He stood there briefly, shaking his huge head and making a noise which was something between a groan and a bellow. Blood covered one half of his face. He wiped his eyes.

And began to move.

T
he injured man lurched towards Bess and Merlin. The other man hurled himself towards me with a cry, his knife slashing downwards as I ducked again. Bess's horse was rearing but now the boy was running towards her too, hitting the horse from behind. Landing on the ground again, Merlin lashed out in fear with a well-aimed back foot and the lad collapsed once more, screaming and clutching his leg.

Surely someone would hear us? Surely someone would come to our aid?

Everything was happening too quickly. I did not know if I had been cut with the knife, but if not then I could not say how not. I lashed out in every direction with my stick, the sounds of blows hitting their mark mixed with the sounds of our grunts and yells. Merlin reared again and whinnied in panic.

A shout from somewhere above us was followed by the liquid contents of a bucket landing on one of the men, plastering his hair to his head and producing a maddened roar.

One of the men went down again – I do not know if I hit him. The thin one soon stopped his grinning when Bess whipped him across the face with her reins. One man only was left, seeming undamaged, still holding his knife. I lashed out frantically, swinging my long stick wildly in front of me, just managing to keep him at bay because my stick was longer than his arm. Every time he lunged, I parried him, as I had often been taught by my fencing master – though I had never fought for my life in any rapier lesson.

Suddenly, he lunged forward again, his eyes wide. Wielding my stick, and trying to dodge to one side, I hit him on the side of the head, but weakly now. My strength was fast fading and there seemed no power in my arms. Black spots rushed across my vision and red rain poured down. I wiped my hand across my eyes – blood, bright, horrible. I had not even felt the blade against my skin.

But worse was to come.

My breath escaped in a weak moan. I sank to my knees, all strength leaving my legs. Roaring in delight, my assailant came at me again with his knife. I rolled to the side, sending him tumbling, and caught sight as I did of the thin boy on his feet once more, his trousers torn and blood coming from a gash in his leg. With a furious face, he leapt towards Bess, from the side, where she could not see him.

That was all I needed to urge me to desperate action – summoning my ebbing strength, rolling away from my opponent, I lashed out at the boy's legs with my stick. He turned, but he did not fall. I leapt to my feet and hurled myself at the boy, hating his snarling pock-marked face.

“No! Behind you!” yelled Bess and, without looking round, I threw myself to one side. The man's knife came flashing down, passing the place where I had been only a moment before.