He laughed at that. "Sir Ardell Early."
She raised a single brow in amusement. "Not a great likeness, though perhaps similar in height. Besides, Sir Ardell is a bore, and not many here would know him."
"That was my hope." He stepped forward a fraction. "Why did you not raise the alarm before? Why not now?"
"My uncle is a vile man, Major. He despises me, I despise him. We must suffer one another, since he is my only living kinsman, but that does not compel me to like him." The corners of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "And I like you. Lord knows why, but I do. I suppose you were kind to me, even as you threatened me with that ghastly pistol you carry." She shuddered, casting her gaze to the grass between them. "But will you tell me the truth?"
"Truth?"
Now she searched his face again, her dark visage illuminated by the warm glow from the house at her back. "They say you ride against the government for the memory of your late wife. Is that really why you turned outlaw?"
He nodded. "Aye. She was murdered in vengeance for my betrayal. Her and my unborn child."
Felicity's fingers went instinctively to her lips. "Oh, Lord. I am sorry, Major. Truly."
He looked away, unable to meet her eye. "No matter." He found himself walking amongst the dense barricades of ivy and honeysuckle. She was with him. "The passage of time serves to numb the pain, if not the fury," he said after a short while. "I have rebuilt my life. Made my money. I am, I suppose, content. But I'll wage my private war until there is no more breath in my lungs."
"And why did you betray them?" she asked tentatively.
"I joined the Parliamentarian struggle when I was a child, Miss Mumford. Served under Cromwell at the age of sixteen at Naseby. A boy before the drums began to beat: a man after they fell silent. Campaigned against all the bitter uprisings of the second war and rode with our newly made force in the third. I saw many terrible things. Too many horrors to number. And yet none of that mattered when we went to Ireland. Women and children. The infirm, the weak. They were as rodents to us, and we exterminated them as we would a nation of rats. It was no longer war. I decided to ride away. A decision that I have paid for every moment since."
They reached the end of one of the ivy corridors where it met with the sheer face of the high wall. The moonlight was shut out of this corner and it was utterly dark. "Why are you here, Major?" Felicity asked. "It is unimaginably dangerous for you."
He hesitated, wondering whether a confession would be sheer folly. But she had known it was him, and done nothing about it. "I would free a prisoner held by Goffe's men," he said. "Your uncle's strongbox..."
She smirked. "The one you ruined?"
"Aye. It contained a letter mentioning this man. One James Wren. He will be transferred from Newbury to Portsmouth."
"When?"
The sounds of giggling carried to them on the breeze and they both looked round. Nothing came from the darkness. Another couple escaping the crowds.
"That, Miss Mumford, is my difficulty," Lyle said. "It did not indicate when."
"Watch the road," she suggested bluntly.
He shook his head. "Wren was a prominent Cavalier. The guard will be heavy."
She arched an eyebrow. "Too heavy for the great highwayman? Could you not leap out in surprise?"
"Imagine a cat leaping out upon a flock of sparrows, only to discover that they’re hawks."
She laughed at that. "So you require time to plan."
He dipped his head. "I need to know when he will be moved. And I had hoped Sir Frederick would attend this evening."
Her jaw dropped. "And you were simply going to ask him?"
"Yes."
She laughed again in the darkness. "You are a strange creature, Major Lyle, that is for certain." Before he realised she had moved, her hand was on his cheek. It was warm and he angled his face, pressing against it. She was so close, though he could only discern her outline in this sepulchral recess of the garden. But he could smell her, and feel her breath.
He inched away. Just a fraction, but enough to break the trance. She was perfect to his eyes, and that knowledge hurt him. Brought guilt crashing through his chest to invade his heart. He thought of Alice.
Then she moved, closing the divide just as he had opened it, climbing to the tips of her toes, and her lips were on his, parting a fraction so that he could feel the lambent tip of her tongue. And then she was gone, stepping away from him as his rushing pulse hammered in his ears.
"He is here," she said. "He does not condone such events, of course, but even dour men like Uncle Frederick concede such frivolity must be allowed on occasion. Hippisley is to be rewarded, for he served the revolution well, and his allegiance must continue to be nurtured. His charisma holds a deal of sway here in the Downs, so says my uncle."
"Where is he?" Lyle managed to say, his mind still clouded by her actions. "Where is Sir Frederick?"
She gave a sharp, bitter chuckle. "Uncle will not dance, or be seen to give it his blessing. But he is here. Put that mask back on, and follow me."
The drawing room was on the far side of the house, looking out onto the front courtyard via a pair of large, rectangular windows that were crammed full of diamond-shaped panes of glass. Samson Lyle waited in the corridor outside, watched with disinterest by a bored looking footman, but he caught a glimpse of the room's interior as Felicity Mumford half-opened the door and bustled in. Lyle watched as she walked, skirts hissing like a chorus of serpents behind, and, just as she disappeared inside, he spotted two familiar faces. One was that of Sir Frederick Mason. He wore no hat, but the rest of his attire had not changed since the robbery. Felicity had said that he disapproved of such events, but Lyle could see that such a claim was a stark understatement, for the sober black coat and plain white shirt were conspicuous in their absence of colour. Mason sat at a large table scattered with papers and scrolls. He studied one intently, not looking up as his niece entered, a quill poised in his right hand. The other man was standing at his shoulder. He wore the attire of a soldier, even donning a breastplate for the occasion, though it was no masquerade costume. Kit Walmsley, Mason's bodyguard, was grim-faced and alert. He looked up immediately upon seeing the door open, one hand reaching for the hilt of his sword, and frowned when he saw that it was her. For a heartbeat his little eyes flickered past her shoulder to stare at the doorway. They met Lyle's gaze, held firm. Walmsley cocked his head to the side like a confused hound as he stared at Lyle, and then the door slammed shut.
Lyle did not know whether to linger or make good his escape. If Walmsley had somehow recognised him, then trouble would be quick on his heels. But he could not afford to flee. He needed to know when the authorities planned to move James Wren, and the chief lawyer to the Major-General of Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire was the only man who had that information. He had come too far to let the night's efforts go to waste.
A bell tinkled gently from somewhere further down the passageway, and the glum footman trudged away, leaving Lyle alone. He edged closer to the door. The murmur of voices carried to him, muffled and too quiet to discern, but no shouts came forth, no hue and cry was being raised. He held his breath, stepped back. The door handle clicked, light streamed out to illuminate the dull corridor, and there stood Felicity Mumford. She stared hard at him, gave the tiniest shake of her head, and called a friendly farewell over her shoulder. Lyle needed no further encouragement and made to leave. He strode quickly over the polished tiles, footsteps echoing in the confined space. He could sense Felicity walking behind, deliberately slower, and knew she was making out that she was not associated with him. Then he heard a man’s voice, deep and authoritative. He recognised it immediately. It was Walmsley.
Lyle cursed viciously and picked up the pace, searching for somewhere in which he might hide. There was some kind of altercation behind, raised voices, a man and a woman, and he knew Walmsley had accosted Felicity. His instinct was to double back, knock the bodyguard onto his rump for speaking to her thus
, but knew he could not. He did not even glance round at them, instead reaching the end of the corridor, pushing through a small doorway, and finding himself in a room full of liveried servants. They called to one another angrily, anxiety the common vein through each voice. The room contained a large table at its centre, men and women round the outside, each in position by various work-surfaces. One woman in heavily stained apron stood like a sentinel before an imposing hearth, overseeing a pair of young lads tending the fire. Above the flames, spitting and hissing as teardrops of fat plummeted into the white-hot embers, a pig turned on a spit, its skin darkening from the heat. Lyle realised he was in the kitchens, the very heart of the house, and he recalled that the little antechamber where he had encountered Maddocks and Hippisley was on the far side. He ran now, dispensing with any show of decorum, baffled members of the house staff left slack-jawed in his path.
He passed through to the chamber beyond, pleased to discover it empty and silent. He considered going for the little studded door that would take him into fresh air, but he knew he had to find Grumm. With a pounding heart and twisting guts, Lyle entered the main hall.
The ball went on unhindered, ignorant to his private fear. Lyle plunged into the throng, forced to use more force than he had wanted as he cleared a path, much to the consternation of the revellers. Hands grasped at him, wanting to know why he shoved so rudely, and then he heard the word he dreaded. His name. His real name.
The hall fell silent as one. The musicians up in the gallery ceased as though some mystical conflagration had devoured their instruments in the blink of an eye. He kept going, kept pushing his way through the bodies.
"Lyle!" Kit Walmsley's stentorian voice ripped through the pungent air again. "Samson Lyle! You will halt, damn your eyes!"
And then he knew it was over, for more and more masked faces were looking at him. Those strangely blank expressions examining him as though utterly dispassionate, yet behind the disguises he knew they would be far from disinterested. A few brave souls placed themselves in his path, slowing his flight, then others grasped his shoulders and arms, clawing, dragging. He felt as if he waded through molasses. A huge paw landed hard on his shoulder, wrenched him round, its match grasping at his face until the mask slid free. Silence again. Samson Lyle had been captured, the wolf run to ground. Kit Walmsley's wide, ruddy face grinned back at him as the former Roundhead tossed Lyle's mask away in disgust as though it were a lump of rancid meat. His nose was still swollen, the nostrils scarlet tinged, and his eyes were slung with heavy blue bags.
Lyle's brain raced. The colours and scents and sounds of the evening swirling like storm-harried leaves. Christ, he thought, but it was all over. They had failed. A year of evading - taunting - the authorities had come only to this. A pathetic flash in the pan, his audacious shot at greatness fizzling to nothing, the powder dampened by arrogance.
"I see your snout has yet to recover," Lyle said defiantly.
Walmsley's hand fell to his sword, thick fingers snaking round the grip. The stunned revellers gasped, letting their quarry go so that they might move clear.
Samson Lyle punched the stout old soldier in the face. It was not as hard as it might have been, for he had only time and space for a straight, sharp blow, but Walmsley's recent wounds were fresh and vulnerable, and his nose caved in like a sodden honeycomb. He wailed, the anguished bellow reverberating around the high ceiling as he staggered backwards. He did not fall, but blood spouted freely down his chin and between the fingers that pressed over the damage in a futile attempt to stem the flow and numb the pain. Lyle saw his chance, rushed into Walmsley, shoving him back further with one hand and gripping his sword hilt with the other. The blade rasped free as its owner fell away, and Lyle spun on his heels. The crowd screamed, sheered away from the glittering steel like a flock of sheep in the face of a rabid dog, and a path soon opened up.
"That's two blades you've given me now, Kit!" Lyle called over his shoulder. "You really are a tremendous benefactor!"
Walmsley brayed into his cupped hands. Lyle laughed. The crowd screamed. More shouts erupted as Lyle moved, though this time he recognised them as the soldiers who had been set to guard the room. There would be at least four, he knew, perhaps half a dozen, and each would have a musket. But they would not dare discharge the lethal weapons amongst the packed gathering, and he gauged there might be a few moments to carve a path through to the entrance hall that he remembered from when first he and Grumm had entered.
"Lyle!" another challenge snarled above the panicked din.
Lyle turned to see a familiar face. "Ah, the Mad Ox. Have you enjoyed your evening?" He backed away, the gaudily clad revellers parting like the Red Sea to let him through. "What was it you said? Sir John's guests are little more than preening popinjays and wanton harlots, was it not?"
Colonel Maddocks advanced passed the reeling Walmsley, his face dark with barely restrained fury. He had been duped and he knew it. He did not draw his pistol, for the crowd was too deep and fluid to guarantee their safety if a shot were discharged, but his brutish broadsword was in his hand in the blink of an eye. "You're trapped, Lyle," he said, voice a seething rasp. "Fodder for my hounds."
"We shall see, Ox," Lyle replied as calmly as he possibly could. He had reached the doorway now, and backed into the entrance hall where the choir had earlier sung so sweetly. They were still there, bunched like penned lambs, but now their mouths were shut, eyes wide, faces pale.
The entrance hall was different than Lyle remembered, if only by way of atmosphere. When he and Grumm - Ardell Early and Winfred Piersall - had crossed its polished tiles, the place had been a picture of serenity. The choir chirping like baby birds, the candlelight flickering, the mirrors and tapestries bringing brightness and warmth to the grand stone structure. But now the room was one of bleak horror. The mirrors reflected only stunned faces and sharpened blades. Men, women and children pressed back in a terrified crush against the walls, desperate to be away from those who would brandish cold steel on so merry an occasion.
Lyle ignored the cries and gasps. He was an animal cornered, senses suddenly keen. His enemy stalked into the chamber too. Behind him the revellers were pressing into the doorway from the ballroom, desperate to witness the confrontation unfold, as long as they stayed safely out of range. Maddocks was sneering, swishing his heavy blade out in front, beckoning Lyle onto its tip. He had plenty of courage, Lyle knew well, but no doubt revenge gave the colonel an extra impetus this night. After all, their last meeting had ended in abject humiliation for Maddocks, despite the fact that Lyle had hardly behaved with any chivalry.
Maddocks lunged. He did not have the finesse of Walmsley, but nor did he require it. His tutelage had been gained on the field of battle, and he knew how to fight without the airs and graces of the fencing masters. His arm was extremely strong, the blade a single-edged cavalry sword that was intended for cleaving rather than duelling, and though Lyle parried easily enough, he was forced to give ground simply to avoid being overwhelmed by the sheer power of his old comrade. Lyle jabbed with the blade he had taken from Walmsley, striking out at Maddocks' sword arm, but the colonel was alive to the threat and patted it away.
"I will fight you!" Samson Lyle bellowed, but he did not mean Maddocks. "All of you! Every soul here!" The crowd murmured uneasily.
"You will not fight after this day!" Maddocks spat back. "You have nowhere to go, Lyle! Nowhere to hide!" He glanced about at the assembled faces. "This is Major Samson Lyle. Look upon him. See the fear in his eyes. This is the Ironside Highwayman. Maker of the republic, breaker of oaths. Deserter! Traitor! Outlaw! He has no home but the road. No cause but the memory of a dead wife!"
This time Lyle attacked, thrusting the long rapier at Maddocks' face. The colonel swept away the threat with contemptuous ease, whipping the point of his own sword at Lyle's lower ribs. Lyle parried, flicked his thinner, lighter weapon up in a darting riposte. He felt the point scrape at something, jumped back to assess, and saw that
a thin crimson line had been drawn vertically down the centre of Maddocks' wide chin. Maddocks looked stunned. He lifted a hand to the graze, winced as he stared down at bloody fingertips, and a low, guttural growl seeped from his throat.
The colonel lurched forward, fat droplets of blood flinging from his chin to spatter the floor. He slashed the air between them in a series of lightning arcs that threatened to smash through Lyle's defences and eviscerate his chest. Lyle barely had time to react, recoiling and parrying, the shuffle of skirts and feet ever-present as the ring of onlookers surged out of the way. He blocked a low strike, then one from on high, twisted out of range of the next, and felt his back collide with the cold wall. Women screamed on either side as Maddocks advanced, bringing across his blade in a savage horizontal swipe designed to cleave Lyle in half. The highwayman managed to get his own steel in its path, but Walmsley's rapier was no match for the solid weight of the broadsword, and Lyle felt his stomach turn as the thinner blade snapped in two. It was enough to send Maddocks' blow skittering off to the left, beyond Lyle's elbow, and a spray of hot wax showered the side of his face as a fat candle was cut in two. He dropped the useless hilt, hooked an arm around Maddocks' elbow so that the colonel's sword was locked against the wall.
They were inches apart now. "You'll be strung up on the Downs, Lyle," Maddocks rasped as he struggled to wrench his sword arm free, his fetid breath invading Lyle's nostrils. "It is over."
Lyle kicked the soldier hard in the crotch, twirling away as Maddocks cried out. He stared about the open space, searching for a weapon, anything he could use. Out the corner of his eye he caught sight of a man dressed all in green. From behind the green mask, eyes of pale blue glistened. Lyle thanked God, because it was time to leave. "Bella!" he shouted.
Maddocks had straightened. His face was deep red, breathing laboured, his eyes like bright orbs. He still clutched his heavy blade, and he levelled it, the point in line with Lyle's throat.
Highwayman: Ironside Page 7