The Highwayman's Footsteps (22 page)

“Everything,” I said. “Everything. All this. We are not important, are we? All this will be here when we are long gone.”

“You are wrong,” said Bess. “That is why we're important.
Because
we're not on this earth very long. The place is not important. People are important. What we do is important. Nothing else matters.”

But she stood and looked with me all the same. And I thought about what she'd said. It sounded new and bold and strange. Was she right? All my life I had been taught that we are unimportant – although some are more unimportant than others – and that God will judge.

But on what will God judge us if we do nothing important?

Eventually, out of breath, hot-faced, we came to the top of the hill and Bess hurried towards the place she was looking for, gathering up her skirts as she deftly made her way along an almost invisible path. “Here!” she called, and I followed her. I could hear the noise of the waterfall now, could see its silver ribbon falling further down the hillside, but it was only when we scrambled over one final rock that I saw it fully.

Below me, as if from the cliff face itself, the water dropped from a hidden spring, crashing onto the rocks as it fell before twisting down the hillside. I could feel a fine spray across my face, lifted by the sifting wind. A seagull flew up from a ledge, squawking in anger, and wheeling and circling over the tumbling water.

Bess pulled my arm. She pointed over to our left and I followed her.

And there, nestled in a hollow, facing south where the sun would strike first, protected from the wind on three sides, was a patch of royal purple and gold crocuses.

Now Bess became quiet. I kept my distance, sitting on a rock, watching her, feeling the breeze in my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face, allowing the sound of the waterfall to crash over me. She picked a large handful of the flowers, one by one, slowly, without speaking. Then she walked to the top of the waterfall and I watched her stand there. She paused for a few moments, fingering her father's locket on the chain around her neck, before she threw the flowers into the torrent.

Her hair, black and twisting, blew in the wind, like tumbling water itself. I could see her face from the side. She did not look sad. She looked alive. And I thought how fortunate she was to have someone to whom to bid farewell, someone to join one day.

Bess walked to me, her eyes shining, watering in the sunshine or the wind. “We shall remember Henry, too,” she said. And she bent to pick more flowers. I did likewise. And together we walked to the edge of the waterfall and together we dropped crocuses into the torrent for Henry Parish, to show him that we had not forgotten and that we would never forget. For as long as there were crocuses and for as long as we had breath in our bodies, we would not forget him and why he died.

As we made our way back to the cottage, talking of this and that, we saw in the distance a long line of soldiers taking a road along the valley. Their red coats marked them for who they were. We stopped and watched them ride.

“How I hate them,” said Bess, quietly but with bitter venom in her voice.

I kept my silence. I hated them too, perhaps as much as she did. But it was what
we
did that was important, was it not, not what they did or even what they did to us?

Bess and I were better than them, I knew that. And we would do the right thing, whatever that might cost.

That evening, Bess took a stringed instrument from a heavy chest. A cittern, I knew – and all too well, since I had had to endure the unnatural playing of one of my sisters on many an occasion.

Bess held the cittern easily against her body and began to draw her fingers softly across the strings, turning the pegs at the end until it made the sounds she wanted. I could not tell which notes were the right ones – I had no skill in music-making. Without strangeness, though smiling to me in acknowledgement that what she did was for me to hear, she began to sing. The words were not familiar to me, but then I had not heard ballads sung before. And as she sang, I saw that there was another reason I could not know the words – this ballad told of Henry Parish and these were Bess's own words. As she sang, sometimes repeating or changing fragments so that they might better fit the rhythm, I marvelled at this skill: to put a man's life and death into words and to reach a listener's heart. That is an art indeed.

Her voice was light and strong, soft at the edges, a voice of gentle warmth. It was like nothing I had heard, but then I suppose I had only heard my sisters' thin and wavery voices. Perhaps I had never before heard anyone sing from the heart. But soon I found myself thinking not of Bess or her voice, but only of Henry Parish. How surprised he would have been to be immortalized like this. And, perhaps, how proud.

I recall her words:

It was through hearing the
Ballad of Henry Parish
that I did, at last, begin to remember him well. I understood now his life and his death.

A
little over a week later found us in Scarborough once more. This time the horses were not with us: Sapphire's injury was healing but she was not fit to ride many miles and Merlin, too, needed to rest, so Bess decided we should walk to the road and hope for a horse and cart to pass and take us to the town. Why we must go to Scarborough I did not know – it seemed too far and my memory of what had happened there last time was all too fresh. But Bess had something on her mind and when Bess had something on her mind there was little I could do about it, as I was coming to learn.

She had said we would find a cart to take us, and this is indeed what happened. And so, shaken, sickened and cold, we soon found ourselves breathing in the sea air once more. We climbed down gratefully, thanking the carter, and I followed Bess towards the tavern where One-legged Jack lived. This time, I was permitted to follow Bess inside.

I was assailed by noise and heat and the roar and shouting of men, the smell of ale and gin, the air thick with fire smoke and roasting meat and tobacco. Several dogs lay beside their masters, one of them gnawing on a hollow bone. But the men seemed scarcely to notice us. I felt my arm being pulled – it was Bess. I had not heard her calling to me. She guided me through the crush of bodies, and through a doorway, into another room. She dragged the door closed behind us.

Here, one man only sat, by the fire, smoking a thick cigar, one leg before him, the other leg no more than a stump sticking straight out. Seeing Bess, he lowered his tankard with a crash which splashed dark beer onto the table. Placing his cigar on a plate, he held out his arms towards her and she went to him and let him kiss her hand. While they greeted each other I had time to examine this man, One-legged Jack, as I assumed him to be.

I could not decipher his position in society. His face was coarsened by dark stubble, yet the line of his jaw and his cheeks were strong. His jacket, though long and well cut, was tired, its claret colour now dull and somewhat dusty, yet a stiff lace collar, as white as I had ever seen, garnished his throat. Two large gold rings sat upon his fingers, and the embroidery on his waistcoat was ornate, but his hair was undressed, hanging almost to his shoulders, not quite straight, neither bewigged nor curled nor even tied in a pigtail. His voice, however, was strong and mellow and spoke of education and good birth.

“And whom do we have here? This must surely be the lad of whom you spoke?” He gazed directly at me, his green eyes bright and inquiring. He looked me up and down, slowly.

“Yes, this is Will,” said Bess. “You can trust him. He has proved himself true.”

“You did not tell me that fortune had smiled when she made his face. That his eyes were dark and steady, his nose and jaw strong and straight. Is it possible that this had escaped your notice? Are you not your father's daughter? He had an eye for beauty.”

I blushed under such comments and know not what showed on Bess's face.

“It matters only that he can be trusted,” she said, with perhaps a certain sharpness.

One-legged Jack still looked at me and I stared straight back, though trying not to look insolent. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said, holding out my hand, which he took. It was a firm grip, which lingered while he looked into my eyes before letting my hand go.

“Who is your father? Bess told me that you are well-born, which I can see for myself and she told me that you are a runaway. Where are you from?”

“He will not say,” Bess answered for me.

“He shall say now,” said One-legged Jack.

“I am from near Hexham. Beyond Durham,” I added, unnecessarily, somewhat flustered by his questions.

“Yes, I am aware of the whereabouts of Hexham. But you did not answer my other question. Who is your father?”

I paused, just slightly, before answering. I did not wish to tell them. Had I not left that life behind? And yet, I knew that I must say.

I took a deep breath.

“M
y father is Charles de Lacey.”

A gasp came from Bess. One-legged Jack became very still of a sudden, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Bess. “You should have asked.”

“I did ask. He would not tell me. I did not think… I could not have thought'”

“You should have thought. Remember what your father taught you: knowledge is all.”

“What do you know of my father?” I asked, confused, startled by their manner on hearing his name.

“He is a High Sheriff, is he not?” When I nodded, he continued. “But your father is not all he seems. He is also the Member for Parliament, of course. A popular man, then, you would attest?”

“I don't know. I don't know of such things.” I could not imagine my father being popular. Nor could I imagine him caring for such things as popularity – although of course, he would wish for the necessary votes. I had never thought on it. I simply knew my father was the Member for Parliament and that the absences that this caused were the happier parts of my life.

“He is indeed a popular man. More popular than a man of his corruption should be.” The man was looking at me, judging my reaction. I did not rightly know how to react. I did not understand what I was hearing. He continued. “Do you know what we mean by a pocket borough?” I shook my head. “It is where the constituency is in the pocket of the Member for Parliament. To be precise, he buys the votes, generously giving money to those who vote for him. As for those who choose to vote for another, he might throw them off their land. His land – because it is, of course, all his land.”

Why did I feel such shame? Why did I care so when I heard what my father had done? Had I not already decided I was no son of his? You might think I should be pleased to find good reason to despise him, but I can assure you it gave me no pleasure at all. I was of his blood and his shame was my shame.

Bess was looking down at her hands. She knew all this already – but she had not known that this man was my father. What did she think of me now?

One-legged Jack was still speaking. “But there is more. There are people whom I know. People who will tell me things. And then I tell the people I trust, people who will carry on the work that I can no longer do.” He gestured towards his leg before continuing. “Seeking out corruption and fighting it in the only way we know. We have heard tell of many men, wealthy men and men of the middling sort, lawyers, magistrates and the like” – his mouth twisted in distaste as he said this – “who use their positions to rob from the poor, storing up ill-gotten rewards for themselves. We merely work to redress that balance. And your father, the honourable Charles de Lacey, High Sheriff, is only one of many men who have come to our attention in recent months. And my people have told me more about him. Do you wish to know what we have discovered?”