The Locket and the Flintlock

by Rebecca S. Buck

  “You could develop the mind of a criminal yet.” Len smiled. “I have paper and ink, I’ll fetch them for you. I’ll send Julian to deliver the letter.”

  “It would be better if he could send it by the post, do you not think?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” she laughed and made for the horses, where most of her belongings were still loaded on the saddle.

  *

  Len did not miss the way Julian eyed Lucia’s letter suspiciously when she handed it to him and asked him to see it into the post safely. She did not blame him; it was not a lack of trust on his part, more an urge to defend her and his friends. Peter and Isaac had still not arrived on the hilltop. Len forced herself to harden her heart. One of them was the traitor. Maybe even both of them had betrayed them, who could guess for what reward? Either way, they were lost to her and she could not dwell on it now. There was no time for anger or sentiment. Decisions had to be made.

  Did Lucia find it strange? Len found herself pondering what her pretty hostage was thinking. How did Lucia see her now? She seemed to have become accustomed to Len’s manner of dress and deportment. But what of her occupation, her ability to lead a gang of outlaws? Did she seem hard to Lucia? Eccentric or indecent? Or did Lucia begin to understand what this way of life necessitated? Had her eyes finally been opened?

  Though it had been her intention from the start to make Lucia see that another reality existed but her own sheltered one, she could not quite help a pang of regret, as if she had somehow destroyed Lucia’s innocence. And yet innocence was not the helpful virtue the world painted it to be. She sighed and cursed herself.

  Why did it matter what Lucia was thinking, and what her opinion was of Len? She knew she was anxious for Lucia to see the woman, not just the outlaw with a mask and flintlock. And she knew why. The thought of Lucia’s approval, of something beyond approval, was almost unbearably wonderful. But she could not allow it to influence her actions. Lucia’s expression was pensive, as if she was thinking of the family who would be worried for her. But Lucia had been given the choice and refused to return home. She was a prisoner no longer but here at her own volition. Len would not force her will upon the other woman. And thus Lucia must learn, for she was in as much danger as the rest of them now.

  Len watched as Lucia stood on a part of the grey ruin and mounted Oberon. As she settled in the saddle, she looked about her with something like regret. Something had changed in Lucia during that long, cold night on this hilltop. She did not yet understand that it was not the hilltop that had caused it, it was not a change she would leave behind. It was in her heart and her mind and would be with her always. Lucia straddled worlds now. There really was no going back.

  Len smiled a little sadly and pulled herself up into the saddle behind Lucia. She slid one leg either side of the horse’s flanks and eased herself closer to Lucia. She felt the other woman’s heat along the whole front of her own body and clenched her jaw hard against her body’s impulsive reaction to the sensation. She reached around Lucia to grip the reins. Lucia shivered. Well, it was cold and Lucia was not warmly dressed. And yet the sensation of a woman shivering in her arms was something Len found difficult to ignore. She had never thought to feel it again.

  Oberon stirred beneath them and recalled her to her senses. She thought quickly over her plan for the day. Julian had taken the elder of the frame-breakers—whose name was Daniel—with him, since he would need a guide to their hideout. The younger man—called Tom Smith—who was distinctly ill-at-ease without the support of his companion would lead her and William, already mounted on his bay mare, to this mysterious place of safety and plotting.

  Len nudged Oberon and he surged into life. She steered him in the wake of the guide. Since Tom Smith was on foot, they would make frustratingly slow progress. Len only hoped Tom had good sense enough to lead them a route that would keep them safe from discovery.

  They made their way down the opposite side of the hill to that which they had climbed the day before. Here a kind of faint track wound its way down to the level ground, between tufts of long grass still painted white by the frost. Occasionally Oberon slipped on a patch of mud frozen hard and Len tightened her arms about Lucia’s frame as she regained her balance.

  At the base of the hill, this path joined with a broader track, but their guide instead cut through a gap in the hedgerow immediately across from them. They followed him as he turned to walk alongside the hedge on the field side. The ground was more uneven here, and the ride was not smooth. Their progress felt painfully slow, and gradually a knot of tension returned to the pit of Len’s stomach. She hated the sense of not being in control of this journey across country.

  In truth she had spent half the night wondering if her selfish desire to deliver justice to her father was clouding her judgement. Why trust the frame-breakers? Why lose some of her control over the actions of her band and give it to a pack of disgruntled textile workers? Was she really taking the safest and wisest course? The anxiety had made it impossible to sleep and weighed heavy on her tired shoulders now.

  They crossed several ditches dividing the fields. After about half an hour, they found themselves on a small track which skirted a hamlet of five or six cottages. Though Len prided herself on her knowledge of the local countryside and she knew the distance they had travelled, she found the hamlet was unfamiliar to her. A brown-and-white dog, tied by a length of rope to a stake in the yard of one of the cottages, barked furiously at them as they passed. Len held her breath, full of anxiety the barking would draw unwanted attention to them. She felt Lucia tense in her arms until they had passed by the yard and the dog had desisted from its noise.

  After this, they began to cross the country again, turning briefly onto what appeared, to Len’s consternation, to be the turnpike, before breaking through another hedge to ride at the side of a fallow field. Gradually, Len began to relax once more. It surely would not be too much longer before they reached their destination. Sometimes she had to trust in others.

  Suddenly a sound out of place reached her ears. She stiffened in the saddle and removed one of her gloved hands from the reins to signal to William behind them to stop, as she pulled Oberon to a halt. Ahead, Tom Smith noticed and turned questioning, anxious eyes on her. They all listened carefully. Len could feel Lucia’s pounding heart, and she was suddenly conscious of her proximity to the other woman. She heard the odd sound again, only this time she recognised it. Abruptly, she threw herself from the saddle, pulling Lucia with her. They landed heavily on the soil, and Lucia cried out slightly as her ankle jarred. Lucia looked askance at Len, but she held her finger to her lips and glared in such a way there was no mistaking her message. Now was not the time for questions.

  They remained crouched on the ground as William, who had dismounted with just much urgency, came to squat next to her. He held his mare’s reins, as she did Oberon’s, and they both pulled the beasts towards the fortunately dense hedgerow, which was just about the same height as Oberon’s ears. Thankfully, William’s mare was a little shorter. Tom Smith joined them on the ground and Len saw his hands were trembling. She had little pity for him. This new threat was his fault for leading them too close to danger.

  “The turnpike runs alongside here?” she demanded of him in a whisper.

  “Yes,” he confirmed. Len fought her rising anger. It would do no good and Tom Smith was too frightened to pay heed to his error.

  “I heard horses,” she said. “You know the militia patrol the turnpike, looking for frame-breakers and highwaymen?”

  “Yes,” Tom Smith’s eyes were filled with terror. Len saw Lucia’s expression alter as she heard the sound too. Distant yet horribly nearby, a horse whinnied. Listening keenly, Len made out the rhythmic rattle of metal against leather. Then the hoof falls were unmistakeable. This was certainly not a solitary traveller.

  Len did not take the time to comfort Lucia, though the woman had turned almost white with fear. The best comfort would be protection. She peered
through the branches of the brown winter hedgerow, scarcely breathing, her free hand on the butt of her pistol. She would not be so foolhardy as to take on a militia patrol, but the weapon at her side gave her some reassurance.

  Lucia watched Len and prayed she would stay hidden, not expose herself to danger. Suddenly the danger was real and sharp. The heavy anticipation clarified for her the nature of the life this woman and her men led. Her own loss of property at Len’s bidding, her abduction, even a night on a frozen hilltop, all seemed a dream compared to this. Her pulse throbbed vehemently in her temples, and her throat was so tight she felt she could not breathe; then she gasped for air too quickly, and her head began to swim. It struck her fully then: these moments decided questions of life and death. By the end of the day, her three companions could all be in dark gaol cells, awaiting the noose. What would become of Lucia herself should such a dreadful fate befall them was not, strangely, uppermost in her thoughts.

  William’s mare shifted position behind them, and Lucia started, the noise the horse made terribly loud as they crouched in deathly silence at the base of the hedge. William looked up at her anxiously and reached up a thick-fingered hand to pat her shoulder soothingly. Oberon stood calmly, as though he was used to such dramas.

  The ground close to the hedge had not yet seen the sunlight and was still frozen white and solid. Though it prevented them sinking into the mud, the cold began to creep through Lucia’s thin shoes, numbing her toes. She envied Len her leather boots. Unused to being kept in such a position, her knees were aching, and she was forced to put one hand onto the ground to keep her balance. Len could apparently stay crouched and motionless all day, if it were required of her.

  Lucia’s attention was snatched back to the other side of the hedge, as she heard a man’s voice raised in laughter, alarmingly close. The heavy thud of the hoofs and the rattling of bridles and other clanking, most likely of weaponry, were more distinct now. There was more laughter. Clearly a morning patrol of the turnpike was a light-hearted business. Lucia had a sudden thought of her brother, so far away in Spain, and wondered if he had been forced to hide in hedgerows from patrols of enemy cavalry. A wave of sickness and hot fear swept through her.

  Len was still stock-still, watching. Lucia copied her, trying to see through the brown branches to the road beyond. It struck her that since she could see the road rather clearly, they would themselves be equally visible should one of the soldiers choose to peer through the hedge. She prayed silently they would have no cause to do any such thing.

  Suddenly a horse’s legs came into view. She held her breath. The first horse was a chestnut with white socks. There were another four horses following. Shifting her gaze upwards, she saw the boots and breeches of the riders, clearly military issue. She could even make out the red coats, the green facings, of their uniforms. Lucia had danced with the officers of the militia at balls, talked with them in sitting rooms, and now she sheltered behind a hedge, her feet numb and her legs aching, not daring to breathe in case she should be discovered by them and, in so doing, betray her three companions. Never had she felt so responsible for the welfare of another human being.

  At the soldiers’ sides she saw the dangerous glint of curved sabres. These were not regular soldiers, and she doubted they would have given Napoleon’s columns fighting for Spanish territory any cause for concern, but she knew they would still have been trained well enough in the skills of the cavalry officer for those sabres to be a real danger. She shuddered and, in her mind, urged Len—whose hand was still on her pistol—to remain behind the hedge, in hope of safety.

  Thankfully, Len showed no signs of imminently attacking the patrol. Maybe she had never had that intention, or maybe if it had been one or two men she would have taken the risk. Lucia wondered what Len was thinking, how she made the decisions she had to.

  Lucia could not watch as the men rode past. All it would take was a sideways glance to notice Oberon’s black ears in the hedgerow, or for William’s mare to shift again. She heard one of the military horses whinny as if she sensed the presence of two of her kind nearby, but her rider urged her on with a cross word and a jab of his spurs.

  None of them moved until the militia were not only out of sight but also until they could no longer hear any trace of their clinking and thudding, of their grating laughter on the slight breeze. Tom Smith broke the silence first, exhaling all of his fear in one breath and then swearing softly, rubbing his face with unsteady hands.

  Len rose to her feet and rubbed Oberon’s velvety nose. “Good lad,” she crooned softly to him.

  William also stood and patted his mare. To Lucia’s surprise, he offered her his hand, which she accepted, grateful for the help in straightening her stiff legs. Pain seared through her frozen knees and into the ankle she had jarred when Len had forced her rather hurried dismount from Oberon’s high back. She gasped but bit the cry of pain away quickly. She looked at William, whose face was unreadable, and wondered what had made him suddenly willing to offer her assistance. She saw Len glance at him in a similar fashion and, as his eyes met hers, he looked away.

  Lucia understood. Len’s point had been proved, Lucia had shown she could be trusted. It would have been very simple for her to have risen to her feet, cried out to the militia patrol, and seen Len, William, and Tom Smith on their way to the gallows, herself on her way back to her family. The fact she had not done so had clearly convinced William she had no intention of informing the authorities about them and had never done any such thing. Despite her still-thudding heart, she was almost glad of their close encounter with the agents of justice, since the outcome was to her advantage after all.

  Another result of their brush with danger was a marked change in Lucia’s own feelings. Where she had previously felt as an impostor in their small group, like a creature from another world set apart from their own, all at once she felt as though they were her people after all. The officers of the militia in their scarlet coats were her true social acquaintances, the men who were employed to make her family and their like feel safe and, she suspected, to provide the ladies with gentlemen in uniform to dance with in the assembly rooms. Yet now they seemed to her as enemies, as surely as if they were in fact Napoleon’s men come to English soil. Lucia had crossed a boundary somewhere, and she had not even been aware of its happening, only that it had, indeed, been crossed.

  William helped her mount Oberon and Len was quick to mount behind her. Lucia felt the solid warmth of her at her back and closed her eyes as Len’s arms slid around her body to reach for the reins. Even in the midst of such danger, Lucia could not help a feeling of belonging, of being where she was meant to be. She opened her eyes and wondered how on earth Len’s arms could be the place she was meant to be. There didn’t seem to be an easy answer. She sighed. Len still had not spoken, but Lucia sensed a trepidation in her she had not noticed before the encounter with the militia. And Len was also angry. Lucia could tell from the rigidity of her body and the urgency with which she kicked the horse forward.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tom Smith had underestimated the amount of time it would take them to reach the frame-breakers’ hideout. Len grew angrier with every passing minute, though she kept her composure. Clearly these frame-breakers thought themselves invincible by daylight. Perhaps they felt safe behind their daytime status as impoverished artisans. Such a cover was not a luxury Len and her men had. By the time they reached the edge of the forest her whole body seemed to be aching with the tension of holding back her resentment. And yet the warm, solid presence of Lucia’s body so close to her own brought a comfort she did not like to admit to herself.

  They did not approach the forest by one of the roads that cut through it, rather they crossed more fields and edged an estate of parkland, which Len recognised as Rufford Great Park. Finally she had a bearing on where Tom Smith had led them. Instantly she knew she could have navigated a safer course across the country than Tom Smith had provided. It was of no matter now though,
as they forded a shallow river and found themselves beneath the trees. The horse’s hooves crunched through the thick carpet of yellow and brown fallen leaves, stark black branches overhead. In summer the green canopy would cut off the light from the forest floor, the trees were so thick here. Len allowed herself to breathe deeply again. She was back in her element, surrounded by timeless and strong trees, shadows to protect her, nothing but the rules of nature to plague her. She loved these ancient woodlands, so long the shelter of outlaws.

  The very air itself seemed to change once they made their way between the tall trunks, following no apparent path. Tom Smith knew his direction with some certainty now. Len was content to trust him now the group was shielded from common view. The sunlight reached through to the leafy floor, yet somehow lost its strength, as though its warmth was torn to pieces on the bare branches. It was colder here, and they inhaled a damp scent of mould and moisture, with none of the crispness of the winter morning about it. Yet Len found comfort in that.

  They rode through the woods for around twenty minutes until they came to a small clearing. Tom Smith stopped and turned to her expectantly. Looking beyond him, Len had her first view of the frame-breaker’s hideout. She had not been sure what to expect, but the place presented a very dismal prospect indeed. She found herself, against all good sense, disappointed with what she saw. General Ludd’s army trailed no glory at all. They squatted in a cold, damp, overgrown clearing.

  The trees leaned inwards into the clearing, making it darker than the woods around it. Clearly the rain penetrated the forest here, for the ground appeared boggy, the leaves stuck into it and rotting quickly. To one side of the clearing was a circular area of stones surrounded by large logs, apparently a place to make a fire. To the other side was a building. Len wondered how such a place ever came to be here in the depths of Sherwood Forest. It was not like the house she and her men had found in the woods close to Foxe Hall. That was an old servant’s or gamekeeper’s dwelling and had once been quite respectable. This was a virtually ruined cottage, with the appearance of not having been lived in for at least a century. One storey high with low eaves, the thick thatch of the roof was rotten and holey. The windows were glassless, dark openings in the muddy brown of the walls, which might once have been whitewashed. Ivy grew over most of the building, long tendrils reaching out away from the cottage, as if looking for further masonry to conquer but finding none. The whole building sloped alarmingly towards the middle of the clearing. Both the building and the clearing were deserted. In fact, the silence was almost too perfect.