Spirit of the Highway

by Deborah Swift

  My pistol was useless in my hand. Too late to fire. I might miss, catch Abigail instead.

  ‘What was it your father did?’ Copthorne said. ‘Oh yes, he took my family outside, lined them up against the wall. Want to know what that feels like? To watch your little brother weep in terror?’ In one smooth movement Copthorne released Abi’s arm, pulled out his pistol and pressed it to her neck.

  Abigail could not have heard him, but she’d felt the gun against her skin and caught his intention. She’d been struggling, twisting like an eel, but now she was still, terrified to move. Copthorne dragged her backwards with startling efficiency. He took the gun away from her neck to loose one shot over her shoulder at me, but Abigail jerked to try to free herself. Above me, the ceiling splintered, and a shower of plaster dust peppered my shoulders.

  Copthorne backed away down the hall half-throttling Abigail with an arm clamped around the neck. She was still, like a doll, one lace trailing from her boot.

  Careful. I steadied my aim. Easy now, watch out for Abigail. My finger hovered on the trigger. Damn. I couldn’t get a clear view. It was then I heard the noise outside. Like a rumble. And voices. Where were they coming from?

  The distraction was enough for Copthorne to drag open the front door and push Abigail outside, hustle her back against the wall. I flew after them just in time to see him prepare to press the pistol to her temple.

  It was now or never.

  I fired. Sparks flew from my pan, the backfire jerked the pistol up. Copthorne’s pistol discharged fractionally after mine, but thank heaven my shot had hit him and he misfired. The ball whistled up into the air. Abigail sank to her knees, whimpering prayers, covering her head.

  The smell of singed cloth filled my nostrils. I saw Copthorne clutch his upper arm, where my bullet had grazed him.

  A short wiry figure shot out from the shadows behind me and dragged Abigail to her feet and round the side, round the wall of the buttery. Cutch. Thank God.

  The wall next to my ear spattered me with brick. Copthorne was still firing at me. Instinctively I ducked, shoved my pistol back in my belt and unsheathed my sword before he had time to reload. I was halfway across the yard when I glanced to the left. The drive was a mass of wavering torches.

  A chant reached my ears, ‘Beat the devils out! Beat the devils out!’

  Copthorne turned to look but suddenly the yard was full of people. With dread I saw the silhouettes of spades and forks and cudgels.

  ‘There’s one!’ came a shout.

  Copthorne took one look at them and sprinted for the house. One of the men raised his shovel and brought it down hard. I winced as it glanced off Copthorne’s shoulder, but he did not seem to feel it, he kept on running, clutching his upper arm.

  Kate and Thomas were standing in the open doorway of the Manor, but they saw Copthorne coming and heaved the door shut. Not quite in time. Copthorne hurled his weight at it and the door gave. Moments later he was behind it. I heard the rasp of metal as the bolts slid home.

  Shit. I had to get out of there before the mob saw me. I flung open the door of the buttery, and dived inside. To my surprise, Cutch and Abigail were there, pressed against the wall. Abigail’s eyes were pools of fear. I grabbed her hand, squeezed it tight.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cutch hissed.

  ‘Put your back to the door! Downall’s rebels. They’re in the yard.’

  I peered out through the stone slot window. In the dark people milled round the back of the house. There must have been hundreds of them. I smelt ale and sweat. They hammered and shoved at the door, rained a few blows. I pressed my back to the door alongside Cutch.

  The door shook with a thump that sent vibrations ricocheting up my spine. But when the door did not give, they gave up. It was obvious the main body of men were at the front of the house. The chant, ‘Devils out, devils out,’ came from the front lawns.

  I risked taking a peek through the window. Like bees on the swarm the yard suddenly emptied.

  ‘They’ve gone round the front,’ I said.

  The chanting suddenly stopped. ‘What now?’ I whispered.

  ‘Come out, by order of Parliament!’ came a loud voice.

  ‘Downall,’ I said.

  ‘Thomas Fanshawe! Don’t make me break down your door. This house it to be given up by order of the Protector. No harm will come to you if you come out quietly.’

  I took Cutch to one side, turned my face away so Abigail could not read me. ‘Take care of Abigail. Make your way to Jacob’s soon as you can get away. I’m going into the house.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy. Downall and his rabble will soon be all over it, and he’ll relish the chance to get even —’

  ‘I’ve got to. Copthorne’s in there with them. He’s unhinged. You know what he did to my family. And I fear for Kate. Thomas is useless, they won’t be able to hold them off on their own.’

  ‘And you think you can?’ He shook his head. ‘Wait a minute. Whose side are you on, Ralph?’ Cutch grabbed me by the shoulders. ‘Think! You might not like Downall, but these men are doing what we fought for. Taking back our lands from those who have controlled it too long. What will you do? Fight with Fanshawe and Copthorne on the Royalist side?’’

  I hadn’t seen it like that. It stunned me.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I twisted away from him. ‘I’m sick of “sides”. Kate’s in there. I’ve got to get her out. Copthorne’d slit her throat without thinking twice. And there’s a rampaging mob at her door.’

  ‘You know they’ll kill you. You’ll be giving them a cast iron excuse to —’

  ‘Ralph? What is it?’ Abigail appeared between us. In the dark she could not read our conversation. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.’

  Her dear, puzzled face wrung my heart. It was enough to convince me to move. I pulled open the door, took a deep breath. If I did not go now, Abigail and Cutch would easily dissuade me. Copthorne and I had unfinished business, and if anything happened to Kate through my fault, I’d never be able to look myself in the eye again. The shouting at the front of the house was louder. I glanced at the window in an agony of indecision.

  Wordlessly Cutch handed me his best sword, the one he’d got from Copthorne at Worcester.

  ‘Thanks, you don’t have to —’

  ‘Come out alive, won’t you?’

  21 - THE NOOSE

  Damn. The back door was locked and though Cutch had been able to squeeze his stringy shape through the pantry window, I knew my broad shoulders would never fit between the gap. I prowled the back of the house keeping close to the walls where it was blackest, and hearing all the time the shout, ‘Devils out, devil’s out!’ waxing and waning, like waves breaking on a stormy beach. I stopped at the dining room at the back of the house. It had one window with wide enough mullions which would just about allow a man to pass through, but the glass was leaded in panes. I eyed it dubiously. It would take some smashing.

  Even if I could get in that way, it would leave another access for Downall and his men. I weighed it up, but was too impatient to hesitate for long. It was the only way.

  I waited for the chant to begin again to cover my noise, then smashed through with the pommel of my sword. Jagged diamonds of glass and lead stuck stubbornly to the window frame, but I ignored them and forced my way past, shielding my head with my doublet sleeves. My feet crunched on broken glass. I prayed nobody in the house had heard me.

  Light spilled through the door from the hall, where the sconces must be lit. I crept towards it, sword at the ready, and tentatively pushing open the door, peered to my left. There was no sign of anyone as I crept down the corridor towards the drawing room. I didn’t go in, in case Downall’s mob saw me from the outside.

  A scuff of footsteps above. So they were upstairs. Silently I trod up the shadowy staircase, step by step, my breath loud in my ears, fearing to hear a board creak and give me away. At the top of the stairs were two doors and
I did not know which one to try.

  ‘Drop your sword.’

  I whipped round.

  Copthorne’s pistol was two feet from my chest. A large gash in his left shoulder had stained the velvet of his doublet with dark blood, and I could see the rip in the sleeve where my shot had hit him. He paid the wounds no attention. His expression was cold, neutral. Only his mouth betrayed a slight smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Drop your sword,’ he repeated.

  We’ll see about that, I thought. I lowered my weapon slowly to the ground, until I heard the thud of metal on board, then flinging myself upwards in one leap, I brought the sword sharply upwards to disarm him.

  But he’d guessed my trick and was ready for me.

  A blinding pain in the top of my head. Groaning, I fell sideways. My sword clattered to the ground. Through blurred eyes, I saw Copthorne examine the butt of his pistol, wipe it on his breeches.

  My head throbbed so much I could hardly see. He gestured through the door. ‘Your friends are waiting inside. You will fight with us.’ He put the pistol to my back and pushed me forwards. Was it loaded? Not worth taking chances. I put my hand to my head, felt dampness there. Blood.

  I staggered, grabbed hold of the door frame. It was slippery beneath my palm, but I clung on, nausea threatening to overwhelm me. The world was hazy. My sword. I’d left it downstairs. Kate. Where was Kate? My thoughts tumbled over each other trying to find a purchase.

  Thomas’s shadowed face appeared from behind the door. ‘They’re asking us to come out,’ he said to Copthorne, a tremor in his voice. ‘They’ll break the door down. We should try and get ourselves away.’

  ‘Coward.’ Copthorne snapped from behind me. ‘I’m the officer here. Now get back inside. You’ll follow my orders.’ A hard push and I cannoned into Thomas, and went sprawling on the floor, nose crunching down onto the floorboards. When I looked up, it was to see the pale hem of Kate’s dress, as she crouched next to me. Thank God, she was safe.

  A deafening blast and Kate jumped back. Next to me a ragged hole in the floorboard smoked.

  ‘Keep away from him,’ Copthorne said.

  I crawled to kneeling. ‘Do as he says,’ I begged her. Her eyes were wide with shock.

  My legs felt like feathers, I could not stand up. There was nothing I could do in this state except bide my time, look for a chance to get her out of there.

  Copthorne picked up a musket and thrust it at Thomas, then he thrust another to me, but I had no powder or shot to load it. ‘Get to the window. Anyone tries the front door, or the windows, shoot.’

  Thomas fumbled to take hold of the weapon. He was white-faced and dishevelled. Shakily, he rammed the ball down his musket, and struck a flint.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Copthorne, pointing his pistol at him.

  Thomas peered gingerly from the window, then pushed open the casement. A waft of night air.

  ‘Fanshawe! Come out, or we’ll come in and get you.’ Downall’s voice.

  I stood up, grasping the wall for support, Kate ignored Copthorne’s plea to leave me, and propped me by the elbow. The room swung into focus. Think, man.

  I gave Kate a look that I hoped was reassuring. ‘Find me powder and shot,’ I whispered.

  ‘I’ll not be driven from my own house,’ Thomas called out of the window. ‘Go home now. We can discuss everything peaceably in the morning.’

  A murmur of dissent from the men outside. ‘The Manor don’t belong to you no more,’ said another voice. ‘It belongs to Parliament, and we’re here to see they get it.’

  Thomas hesitated. ‘They’re saying —’

  ‘Are you for the King or not? Out of my way!’ Copthorne strode over to the window, elbowed Thomas aside, wrenched the musket from his grasp, aimed and fired. Ignoring the smoke, he flung the weapon back at Thomas’s feet. ‘Reload,’ he said.

  Outside, a woman started to scream.

  He’d hit someone.

  I staggered to the window, with my empty musket in my hand. Below us the lawns were massed with people. I blinked, my eyes struggling to focus, uncertain at what I was seeing. There must have been a hundred people, more even, pressing in, forming a ragged circle around a body lying on the ground in front of the main door. A woman in a bright white coif crouched there over the splayed out figure on the drive. When she turned I recognised her straight away. Goodwife Soper.

  ‘Fire! Or I’ll shoot you dead.’ Copthorne pressed his pistol to my back.

  ‘It’s empty,’ I protested. ‘I need powder and shot.’

  Copthorne grabbed it turned it on me and pulled the trigger.

  When it didn’t fire, he shoved me out of the way, fired his pistol into the crowd.

  A sharp crack, and a roar from outside. I reeled away from the window. They’ll lynch us, I thought. The war was not over after all, and we were on the front line of the battlefield.

  Immediately there was the sound of splintering wood and breaking glass below. Thomas took hold of Kate’s hand, whispered, ‘Quick, wife! The back stairs.’

  I saw Kate snatch her hand away. She looked to me, her face full of questions.

  ‘Go!’ I mouthed.

  Copthorne was reloading. He pointed the pistol at my chest, threw me powder and shot and told me to prime my musket. I obeyed, with one eye watching Kate.

  She hesitated, eyes brim full of anguish.

  ‘Come on!’ hissed Thomas.

  Still she hesitated. She shook her head at him.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, I —’

  ‘No.’ She cut him off. ‘Everything I love is here.’ She cast her eyes to me.

  Thomas stiffened. His mouth twitched with unspoken words. Then he pulled back his shoulders as if to show he did not care, gave me a long hard stare. ‘I see you’ve overstepped your duty, Chaplin. If I ever get out of here, I’ll see you rot in hell.’

  Downstairs, the noise of boots and the clang of iron in the front hall. Doors banging downstairs. Copthorne rushed to the window.

  Thomas held out his hand one last time, but Kate lowered her eyes. Thomas shot me one last look of hatred before he turned tail and ran.

  I grabbed my chance. My knife hissed from its scabbard and I leapt up behind Copthorne, but he turned and the metal barrel of the pistol clashed against my knife. He tried to fire, but the barrel was empty.

  I thrust the knife towards his throat, but it stopped a whisker shy of his skin. Was I going to turn into my father? I swallowed, unable to finish it.

  Copthorne’s eyes flared wide when the death blow did not come.

  Shouts on the stairs, the clatter of boots.

  ‘Lock the door,’ I yelled to Kate.

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ I pressed my blade closer, ‘I have no need to shed more Copthorne blood.’

  ‘What do I care? My family died for the King. It would dishonour their memory if I did not fight,’ he said. ‘I swore I’d not wait for Heaven’s justice. I’ll not give in, not until the last of Cromwell’s dogs has his teeth in the dust.’

  ‘Ralph?’ A wary voice from the corner. Kate. The single word conveyed a warning.

  An enormous bang as something hit the door. Copthorne startled, but I held him tight to the wall. ‘Too late,’ I said. ‘They’re here. You should have taken your chance whilst you could.’ I saw something flicker in his eyes that could have been fear.

  Kate whispered, ‘Lord have Mercy.’

  She hurried to my side just as the door burst its lock and flew open. A crowd of men stormed in, manhandled it aside like driftwood.

  There was no time to do anything before they were upon us. The smell of old hemp shirts, leather and drink. I grabbed Kate by the arm, but they lifted her bodily and despite my clinging, her hand slipped from my fingers. No! I tried to follow, but she was out of the door carried on a wave of shouting men. My arms were grasped on each side. One man pulling one way and one the other. I thought my arms might leave their sockets.

  ‘This way!’ growled the man on my right
.

  They dragged me to one side, but I just had time to glance across the room. Copthorne was using his pistol to bludgeon anyone within reach, but a heavily moustached man wrenched it from him, slugged him on the head with the stock of it. The blow made my own head throb in recognition. Copthorne’s eyes glazed over as they dragged him away ahead of me. Thump, thump. His boots banged against the wooden stairs.

  ‘We’ve got him!’ My arms were pinioned by the two burly farm-workers, and others were pushing me down the stairwell in the dark. It was hard to see, the men were black moving silhouettes against the flickering light. People made way for us, then fell in behind until we emerged into the yard in a great tide of people with us at the head of it. Over on the lawn there was still a knot of shadows surrounding the spread-eagled body of John Soper.

  Before me, the crowd parted to show Copthorne, lying in a crumpled heap on the cobbles. The buttons on his waistcoat glinted dully. His pale jaw was slack. A dark bruise over one side of his face. He did not move. It was obvious he was dead.

  I searched the mob frantically for Kate, but she was already pulling herself up to standing from where she had been thrown down.

  ‘What means all this?’ she shouted, her voice high and imperious. My heart went out to her. She was still intent on being the lady of the manor. It was a brave attempt, but futile.

  Downall stepped forwards, and the crowd waited expectantly. He had their attention, being the big bullying brute he was. ‘Where is your husband?’

  Kate lifted her chin. ‘He ran away.’

  Downall walked slowly up to her, grabbed her roughly by the hair. ‘I won’t ask you again. Where is he?’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ I said. ‘She tells true. He’s gone. He took his horse and left.’

  Downall turned to me, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘You traitor. Royalist scum.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘Here’s the man who broke Ned Soper’s arm, and shot his father stone dead from that window.’ He pointed back to the house. ‘I say we hang him.’