The Highwayman of Tanglewood

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Faris tried to calm her rapid breath, tried to keep her hands from trembling. “The Highwayman,” she began, “he did prevail. Did he not?” She was nearly frightened of hearing Old Joseph’s answer

  Yet she sighed with great relief when Old Joseph said, “Is there any doubt?”

  “Did he kill Brookings?” Sarah asked.

  “No,” Old Joseph said. “Such a coward as Lord Brookings did not deserve to die by the Highwayman of Tanglewood’s rapier point. No—the Highwayman crossed blades with Brookings—but it was quickly he defeated him and held Brookings’s throat at the tip of his blade. It was then the two constables—good honest men, they were—arrived in time to hear the coward Lord Brookings confess his sins to the Highwayman of Tanglewood. He had killed his wife—murdered her as she slept. In a fit of rage over her having argued with him in front of the housekeeper of the manor, he had slit her throat with his dagger and paid the magistrate to provide him an alibi.”

  “The devil was in him,” Mary mumbled.

  “It is told that the Highwayman was tempted to slit him—open his gullet with his own rapier’s blade—for Brookings had done no less to poor Lady Brookings two years past,” Old Joseph said.

  “But he did not harm him?” Faris asked.

  “He did not harm him in what he deserved,” Old Joseph said. “But the tale is told that the Highwayman of Tanglewood drug the tip of his rapier across Lord Brookings’s throat, cutting the skin just enough to cause him to bleed and saying, ‘This be where the rope will chafe you—where the knot will tighten and break your neck, you murdering thief.’ That is what Lord Kendrick told Miss Lillias only an hour ago. The Highwayman of Tanglewood indeed rode to Saxton, drew out, and bested Lord Brookings the murderer. They will hang Brookings, it is sure. Perhaps the magistrate too.”

  Sarah sighed and smiled. “It is easier than they deserve. Poor Lady Brookings—throat slashed with a dagger.”

  “Bainbridge will be glad to hear it, I daresay,” Mary said. “No doubt he knew of the murder—having been born in Saxton—his mother still there yet.”

  “We will ask him when he returns,” Old Joseph said.

  “When he returns?” Faris asked.

  “Yes,” Old Joseph said. “He rode out to Saxton two days past to confirm his mother is well. It seems he had heard she was ill and was anxious about her well-being.”

  Faris’s breathing stopped—as did nearly her heart. “Mr. Graybeau has been gone these two days past?” Faris asked.

  “Of course,” Old Joseph said. “He rides to Saxton twice a year or more to ensure his mother’s well-being.”

  “So…so he would’ve been there…when the Highwayman was in Saxton. Bainbridge would’ve been there as well?” Faris asked.

  “You don’t suspect Bainbridge Graybeau of being the Highwayman of Tanglewood do you, Faris?” Sarah asked. She laughed when Faris could only shake her head in unconvincing assurance. “It is sheer coincidence!” Sarah laughed. “Bainbridge is often in Saxton, and the Highwayman of Tanglewood has never ridden there before.” Sarah leaned forward and lowering her voice said, “I, for one, suspect Lord Kendrick.”

  “What?” Mary exclaimed, laughing as she did so. “Why ever would you suspect Lord Kendrick, Sarah? It’s a preposterous notion!”

  “Who is it always tells Miss Lillias the tales of the Highwayman of Tanglewood long before anyone else ever hears of them?” Sarah offered. “How comes Lord Kendrick by this information so quickly? I will tell you how—he was present! It was Lord Gawain Kendrick who bested Lord Brookings in Saxton.” Sarah smiled as everyone looked at her, scowling with wonder. “Has he not been absent these two days? Has not today been the first time he has called at Loch Loland Castle in two of those days?”

  “He was about his business affairs,” Mary said. “Or so milady told me when she gave me the dinner menus these past two nights.”

  “My money’s on a commoner,” Old Joseph said. “What titled man would risk life and limb in championing those who are of common status?”

  “Master Lochlan debates in earnest for—” Mary began.

  “Debates in earnest, perhaps,” Old Joseph said. “But would a titled man risk prison and even death in defense of the farmer? No.” Joseph smiled at Faris. “No. If I were a betting man, I’d put my money firm on Bainbridge Graybeau.”

  There was a light in Old Joseph’s eyes, and Faris wondered—did he know something of the Highwayman of Tanglewood’s true identity?”

  “Lord Kendrick it is,” Sarah said. “I’ll put my money on Lord Gawain Kendrick—for the Highwayman is a skilled swordsman, an excellent rider—”

  “You’re both as silly as two summer geese,” Mary said. “The Highwayman of Tanglewood is a farmer’s son—a local farmer’s son—one sick to dying of watching the rich steal from the poor.”

  “A farmer’s son?” Sarah asked. “A farmer’s son who just happens to possess the same skill with a rapier that the nobles do?”

  Faris’s head was pounding. She did not want to speculate! For all she knew, Mary was right, and the Highwayman of Tanglewood was a common man who had grown tired of tyranny. Yet her own heart wondered at the mystery so hard it pained her. Speculation was rarely a pleasant pastime, and she was worn out by it.

  “I-I think I’ll go for a walk in the evening air,” Faris said, pushing her chair back from the table. It was merely two nights more—two nights, and she would see him again! Yet her heart ached for him, her body longed to thrill at his touch. What harm was there in walking—in perhaps meeting him by chance before their planned rendezvous?

  “It is a lovely night for walking,” Mary said. “But take care you do not linger too long, Faris. You need your rest.”

  “Thank you, Mary,” Faris said. “I will not linger long.”

  Anxious, Faris hurried toward the abandoned cottage at the edge of the Tanglewood Forest. No doubt her silent prayers begging for a chance meeting with her Highwayman would not be answered—still she hoped. It seemed an eternity since last she had met with him—since he had held her in his strong arms and rained passionate kisses on her tender lips.

  Yet as she neared the cottage, as the moonlight shone down upon its abandoned emptiness, her hopes faded as fast as the amethyst of sunset. As darkness enveloped her, Faris knew bitter disappointment. Still, she would wait—wait a day, a night, and a day—then she would see him again. Would she not? Impatience thickened the doubt in her mind—doubt in ever seeing the Highwayman again. What if he could not meet her at the hour they had planned? Worse—what if he would not meet her? What if the Highwayman of Tanglewood had experienced a change of heart or mind since last they met?

  Still, Faris shook her head. He cared for her, she was certain of it! Whoever he was by day—whether stableman, titled lord, or farmer’s son—Faris was certain he sincerely cared for her. He would meet her two nights hence—he would!

  Faris gasped as a hand covered her mouth, a powerful arm encircling her waist from behind. Yet her startle was brief, for she recognized the scent of leather, wind, and meadow grasses.

  “And why be ye out near the forest so late of night, fair Faris of Loch Loland Castle?”

  Such a feeling of relief and joy spread over her, Faris went limp in the Highwayman’s arms as he turned her to face him. Burying her face against the powerful contours of his chest, she began to weep.

  “I feared I would never see you again!” she sobbed.

  “But why?” he asked, gathering her into his arms. “We planned to meet two nights hence. Why do I find ye here now?”

  She could not tell him! She could not tell him she had doubted. And yet, surely her emotions betrayed her. But to tell him of her doubts—doubting was weak, and she would endeavor to be stronger in the future. Therefore, she would not confess her weakness. How then would she explain such tears?

  “I-I heard the tale of your besting Lord Brookings, of your ride to Saxton,” she said at last—and it was true. “I was fearful of your safety
and—”

  “Here ya find me, lass—unharmed and holdin’ ya in me arms, I am,” he said. The rasping, masked sound of his voice comforted her, and the severity of her sobbing lessened.

  “But to Saxton you rode,” she said. “Why?”

  “Ya know well of Lord Brookings it seems,” he said.

  “I-I do,” Faris stammered.

  “Then ya know why I rode—why I rode to see him put into the hands of honest men,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “But why so far? Why so far away from the Tanglewood? Why so far away from me?”

  “It’s weary I am of the tale, fair Faris, and I’m weary of not holdin’ ye in me arms,” the Highwayman said. “I am weary beyond belief this night, and it’s why ya find me here—for I rode here in hopin’ ye would be wanderin’ nearby, that I might find ya and hold ya and taste the very nectar of yar kiss.”

  Faris stiffened for a moment. She pulled away from him slightly, gazing up into the black mask covering his face—the black mask covering his entire head save his mouth and chin, save his mustache and goatee.

  Nectar? Hadn’t Gawain referred to Lillias’s kiss as nectar kisses?

  “You have promised that you are not Lord Kendrick,” Faris said. “And yet…”

  “I am not Lord Kendrick, Faris,” he said. “This I have confessed before. Do ya not trust me?”

  “I do,” Faris said, collapsing against him. “It is only I wish I could be with you more often—in truth I wish…I wish…”

  “To be with me every moment as I wish to be with ye, lass?” he interrupted.

  “Yes!” she breathed, allowing her arms to go around his waist in returning his embrace.

  “Well, it is we are together in this moment, we are,” he said. “So we will forget Saxton and Lord Brookings the murderer. We are together in the moonlight at last.”

  Faris smiled, nuzzled against him, and breathed a sigh. It was true—he was with her now. She would not worry about the danger he had been in previously. He was with her now.

  “You are so quiet in your approach,” she told him.

  “Far I want not to find me neck in a noose,” he chuckled.

  Faris gently pushed herself from his embrace, suddenly shy at having been so willing to be in his arms.

  “Far these past days I’ve thought of nothin’ but ye, lass,” he said. She felt such elation as to send her heart into fluttering.

  “That’s not true,” Faris told him, delighted by his touch, his confessions of thinking of her. “You’ve been a busy highwayman, and that takes forethought enough.”

  He smiled, his teeth dazzling in the darkness. “And each time I bested a rich man, I thought of ye. ‘She’s me prize,’ I’d be thinkin’, and next wantin’ to taste of yar mouth again,” he said.

  “Do…do you think less of me because I’ve fallen so easily into your grasp?” she asked him. She had found herself pondering the matter quite often over the past few days. For it was true—what effort had the Highwayman of Tanglewood exerted in winning her? None!

  He slowly shook his head and whispered, “No. We were meant to be, we were. ’Twas heaven led me to ya that night in the meadow, it was, and now thrice since. ’Twas heaven led me to ya…like a moth to a flame.”

  “And you promise there are no other flames you are drawn to, Highwayman?” Faris asked, as yet uncertain. “Still, it is difficult for me to…to believe such a man as you would choose me when surely any woman on earth would gladly be owned by you.” And it was true. Faris knew the Highwayman of Tanglewood could choose any woman for himself. Why then had he chosen a simple chambermaid?

  “No other flame burns as bright and as lovely as ye, lass,” he said. “What cause would there be to fan another?” He smiled at her, caressing her lips with his gloved thumb. Dropping his hands from her face, he said, “Come with me now, fair Faris. ’Tis time ya understood completely that me heart is in yar hands.”

  The Cottage in Twilight

  Cupping his hands to his mouth, the Highwayman of Tanglewood made a sound like that of a dove. Instantly, his black steed appeared from the edge of the forest. Taking Faris’s hand, he began leading her toward the cottage, the loyal steed following silently behind them.

  The cottage stood just outside the tree line of the Tanglewood Forest, and as they approached, Faris fancied it appeared warm and inviting, even for the darkened windows. Twilight had descended, and the old cottage door creaked as the Highwayman gently pushed it open. As Faris followed the Highwayman into the cottage, she noticed the thick dust on the windows. Very little moonlight penetrated such old accumulation. The darkness of the cottage, the perfect privacy, was ideal for a lovers’ tryst. Faris felt certain the Highwayman would not linger within the cottage did he not feel safety was with him.

  Yet Faris felt disappointed somehow all the same—for the deepened darkness of safety meant the Highwayman’s features were even less visible than before. Furthermore, the Highwayman yet wore whiskers; the dark mustache and goatee about his mouth and chin implied the Highwayman of Tanglewood was not Bainbridge Graybeau. Still, could not a mustache be falsified? A goatee as well?

  “Have ya met the returned young master of Loch Loland yet, then, lass?” the Highwayman asked as he closed the cottage door behind them.

  “Yes,” Faris said. “It was an odd meeting—the first time we met. I was quite afraid I might be dismissed and find myself residing here in this abandoned cottage.”

  “Why would his bein’ odd find ya dismissed?” the Highwayman asked.

  “Oh, he is not odd,” Faris began to explain. “Our meeting was odd.”

  “And how was yar meetin’ with the young master odd, fair Faris?” the Highwayman asked, taking one of her hands in his.

  “I was seeing to his chambers and…and he entered his bedchamber to find me fairly dangling from the draperies.”

  “What?” the Highwayman chuckled. His smile was dazzling even for the dark of the room.

  “I…I was dusting, you see—and thinking I was too busy to call for a ladder, I suppose. Therefore, I scaled the bookcase in his bedchamber as I often have before and was dusting the draperies. Yet when he entered so unexpectedly, it startled me so that I…I lost my footing.” She sighed and added, “I thought certain he would set me outside on Loch Loland’s grand steps and tell me to be gone.”

  “Aye, but he did not, I see,” the Highwayman said.

  “No. He did not,” Faris confirmed. “But let’s not speak of it. It was, after all, so horridly humiliating.”

  The Highwayman laughed low in his throat. “What better thing I could not imagine than findin’ ye in my bedchamber,” he said.

  Faris blushed, delighted with his flattery. Even for the scent of dust in the cottage, Faris could sense the aroma of leather and wind of him. She was warm—warmer than she had been since last they had met. She felt safe and happy in his company.

  “Did ya find him handsome then?” the Highwayman asked next.

  “Master Lochlan?” she said.

  “Yes,” the Highwayman said, smiling. “I already know ya think Lord Kendrick is handsome, I do—lest ya wouldn’t be wishin’ so hard he was me.”

  “I’ve never wished you were Lord Kendrick!” Faris exclaimed. “I only thought you might be he because…because…”

  “Because he is a handsome devil, and ya’re hopin’ I am as well,” the Highwayman chuckled.

  Faris felt her cheeks blush crimson. Of course she wondered if he were handsome! Every woman for a hundred miles wondered at the same of it.

  “In truth,” she began, “I had a notion you might be Bainbridge Graybeau in disguise.” There! She had confessed it, and now she would listen well—try to discern if he was unnerved in the least—if he truly were Bainbridge Graybeau.

  His easy laughter—his instant and obvious amusement—discouraged her, however. “Graybeau?” he asked, still chuckling. “So I’ve gone from being lord of the manor to the best stableman in the country, I have.
Methinks I like that idea.”

  “Are you Graybeau?” she asked. “Graybeau hails from Saxton, you realize.”

  “I do realize it. I’ve heard great things concernin’ yar Bainbridge Graybeau, I have—and, in truth, I am flattered ye would think of me in his light,” the Highwayman said.

  “But you are not he?” Faris asked.

  “I did not say I was not he,” the Highwayman said. “I only said I am flattered you would think I was such a man.”

  “But you were not so flattered in my thinking you are Lord Kendrick?” Faris asked. Why would a man be flattered at being recognized as a stableman but not a titled one?

  “Aye, I was very flattered! Lord Gawain Kendrick is the finest of men,” the Highwayman said.

  “Lillias wishes you were Lord Kendrick,” Faris said. “Or rather that Lord Kendrick were you.”

  “Lillias Rockrimmon wishes her betrothed was the Highwayman of Tanglewood?” the Highwayman said, his smile broadening.

  Faris gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. “I have betrayed Lillias!” she said. “I have said too much!”

  “Do not worry yarself so, fair Faris of Loch Loland Castle,” the Highwayman said. “Her secret is safe with ya still—for it is safe in me.”

  “Still, I should not have said it aloud,” Faris said, feeling tears springing to her eyes. Her dearest friend was Lillias. How could she have betrayed her secret? “Every woman has her own idea…her own dream of who the Highwayman of Tanglewood is in the light of day and—”