“Titus?”
“Our footman, of course! Apparently, should the thieftaker prove successful, our only debt to him will be half the value of any stolen property recovered and our profound gratitude. I checked with Mr Edgeworth, and he confirmed it is the case.” Her expression showed she was expecting Rebeccah to congratulate her on her thriftiness.
Rebeccah commanded her racing heart to slow. The incompetence of most thieftakers was well known. In fact some were unlikely to come across their quarry unless they tripped over him or he gave himself up. Pray God she hired one of those.
“And if the thieftaker should fail?”
“Then we owe him nothing. But he won’t, Beccah, for with Titus to advise me, I have hired Samuel Josselin.”
Josselin? Why was that name familiar? Oh no! Didn’t he succeed in tracking down the notorious Charles Meade when all others failed?
“You may rest easier in the knowledge that the rogue will not be free to take liberties with your person for much longer. He is as good as hanged. … And now I must go and pack.” Anne turned and began to ascend the stairs.
“As I told you last week, Beccah, tomorrow I am going to the country to stay with Anne Locke.” The ‘two Annes’, as they had been known at school, were still fast friends, and her pleasure in the forthcoming trip was evident. “Mary.” Anne glanced to where the dumpy maid was waiting. “When you have put away those things for my sister, will you send Nancy to help me?”
“As you wish, Madam.” The maid curtseyed and hurried away, leaving Rebeccah staring up at her sister’s retreating back with a mixture of anxiety and anger.
***
Chapter 3
The old man in the powdered wig eyed Kate’s pistol and sniffed. “I’ll make you a wager, Sir.” His travelling companion, a young clergyman by his clothes, rolled his eyes.
“Will you, by God?” Kate had encountered some strange reactions to being held up, but this was a new one.
“Ay. Consider yourself to be a good swordsman, do you?”
“Good enough.”
The overrouged ancient, who from his garb and the coat of arms on his carriage door could be none other than the Earl of Avebury himself, cocked his head to one side. “Then I have 20 guineas that say you can’t beat my chaplain in a fair fight.”
“My lord!” protested the chaplain.
“Remember who pays your wages, Berrigan.”
The clergyman sighed, and examined his fingernails.
“Let me get this clear.” Kate resisted the urge to scratch her head. “You want me to fight a man of the cloth?”
“That’s the size of it. Rapiers. No daggers. First man disarmed is the loser.”
A thought struck her. Maybe this was the Earl’s way of stalling for time. Backing out of the carriage, she satisfied herself that no men in the Earl’s livery were rushing across the moonlit heath towards them, and ducked back inside.
“Well? What do you say, Sir?” Avebury’s eyes glinted. “Think my chaplain might be too much for you?”
This was madness. If the old man had 20 guineas on him, Kate should simply demand he hand it over. But the wager intrigued her. What could a chaplain know about swordplay? “What’s to stop me from relieving you of the money even if I lose?”
The old man smiled, revealing stained, gapped teeth. “Your word.”
Kate snorted. “The word of a highwayman?”
“Of a fellow gamester, Sir.”
She pursed her lips. The chaplain was wearing neither swordbelt nor baldric. “Do you even own a sword, Sir?” Berrigan nodded “And you have no objection to this bout?” He glanced at his employer, opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head.
Avebury cackled. “That’s the ticket.”
Kate hesitated a moment longer then pulled a coin from her coat pocket. “Heads, we fight. Tails, I just take the money. Agreed?”
The Earl rolled his eyes. “Agreed. For heaven’s sake, man, get on with it.”
She tossed the sixpence. Three pairs of eyes followed its spinning progress before it clattered onto the carriage floor beside the chaplain’s scuffed shoes.
Heads.
The Earl rubbed his hands together and turned to his employee. “It’s up to you then, Berrigan. Lose and the money’s coming out of your wages.”
“My lord!”
Kate retrieved her sixpence and backed out of the carriage. The chaplain stepped down, walking past the bound figures of the footman and coachman to retrieve a rectangular case from among the Earl’s luggage. Avebury’s stubby legs dangled out of the door as he settled himself on the carriage floor for a ringside view.
She removed her hat, baldric, and coat, and drew her sword. The clergyman took an elaborately tooled scabbard from the case, unsheathed a swept-hilt rapier, and made a few practice passes with it. Kate’s eyes widened as the finest Toledo steel glimmered in the moonlight. This was no novice.
The Earl chuckled and she threw him a filthy glance before returning her attention to the man in the black cassock. He lifted his rapier in salute, then assumed the on guard position. She did the same, muscles tensing in readiness.
For a long moment they eyed one another, then Berrigan engaged her blade. Kate found the going easy at first, but she didn’t relax. He was merely gauging her reach, she knew, testing her mobility and defences. Once he had her measure, he would begin in earnest. And so it proved. Soon a flurry of controlled yet vicious strokes had put her on her back foot. Grimly, she parried, riposted, twisted, and lunged, evading a slash to her masked cheekbone by the fraction of an inch, watching her opponent’s eyes for clues as to his intentions and finding few. At last, with difficulty, she managed to regain the initiative and to force Berrigan back a few steps.
By mutual consent they broke off to regroup. Her forearm stung, and she saw that her sleeve now sported a bloody slash. The chaplain was unmarked and though his colour was heightened, his breathing sounded even. Kate’s shirt, on the other hand, was soaked and her chest was heaving. She wished she could take off her disguise and wipe the sweat from her face.
“Better than you thought he’d be, ain’t he?”
Kate ignored the Earl’s taunt and kept her eyes on the chaplain.
“Ready?” Berrigan raised his blade once more. She nodded.
This time, when the chaplain’s edge came cutting towards her, she was ready. Parry. Riposte. Quick forward step. Upward cut. Ward. Duck and roll. Oof! She scrambled back to her feet.Slash. Lunge and thrust. Determined to finish this quickly, she pressed her attack with all the energy she could muster.
Silvered blades flashed in the moonlight as the combatants swayed to and fro, the heath echoing to the sounds of feet stamping on turf, lungs gasping, and the clash of steel. Horses whinnied and rattled their traces as Kate pressed Berrigan backwards towards the carriage, until he recovered himself and forced her in her turn to give way step by grudging step. This time it was Clover who nickered a protest and moved out of her mistress’s way.
Kate lost all track of time and of the reason they were fighting. This was no longer about guineas but about which of them was the best. She slid out of Berrigan’s body charge, turned, and engaged his blade again. Then, just for the barest moment, she found herself inside his guard. Quick as thought, out snaked her rapier.
“‘S blood!” The oath revealed, if his expert swordsmanship hadn’t already, that he hadn’t always been a clergyman. He pulled back and examined his cut sleeve and bleeding forearm. His gaze when it returned to hers was edged with respect.
“Better than you thought I’d be?” He gave her a rueful nod. “Shall we finish this?” She resettled her grip, raised her rapier, and stepped forward.
Traverse. Lunge and thrust low. Almost got him then. Disengage. Slide. That was too close for comfort. Parry and riposte. Horizontal cut. Devil take him, but he’s good! Ward. Reverse cut. Didn’t like that, did you? Circle. Feint. Diagonal rising cut…
They were so well matched, the
bout could have gone on forever, but suddenly Berrigan, straightening from a crouch, caught the heel of his shoe in the hem of his cassock, and for a crucial moment his balance went and his attention wavered. Kate brought the flat of her blade up hard, aiming for the knuckles which at this angle weren’t protected by the swept-hilt. He yelped and in spite of himself loosened his grip. With a deft flick, she disarmed him and watched, chest heaving, as the expensive sword sailed through the air and landed several yards away.
“Deuce take it! You let a common highwayman beat you, Berrigan. Shame on you.” They ignored the Earl’s indignant shout.
“My wager, I think.” A relieved Kate held out a hand.
Still flexing his stinging fingers, the chaplain straightened. “Indeed, Sir.” He clasped her hand and shook it, then indicated the bloodied slashes on both their forearms. “We were evenly matched, you and I. May I ask where you learned to use a sword?”
Kate was silent, remembering long summer days spent with Ned and Ralph in the yard, using wooden swords to start with then progressing to the real thing. Her goodnatured brothers had been overjoyed when at last she had succeeded in besting them, but she had found the victory oddly dissatisfying. “My brothers taught me.”
“They taught you well.” Berrigan bowed and she returned the gesture.
While the chaplain retrieved his weapon, wiped it clean of grass and dirt, and slid it into its scabbard, Kate put on her coat and hat and wished she had a change of shirt in her saddlebag. The bewigged old Earl had struggled to his feet by the time she returned to the coach. His expression was disgruntled.
“My winnings, my Lord.” She held out a gloved hand.
He dug in the capacious pocket of his coat, pulled out a leather purse that clinked, and flung it at her. “Here, damn your eyes!”
Not very sporting. She plucked it out of the air, checked its contents, grinned, and bowed. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
The night air felt wonderful against Kate’s face and she took off her tricorne to allow it to cool her hairline.
“Hardest 20 guineas I’ve ever earned,” she grumbled, as she let Clover set her own pace across the springy turf and heather. For all Kate’s complaining, a sense of wellbeing suffused her. Berrigan had been no mean swordsman, yet she had beaten him.
She had left Avebury’s coach far behind, and the track she was following was barely discernible in the moonlight. But even by night she knew the heath like the back of her hand. As she rode past a copse of spindly trees, a barn owl took flight with a hiss and a flap of pale wings. She turned her head to watch it begin a long, slow glide, its unwinking gaze fixed on the ground below. Lord help any small rodents tonight.
Somewhere a dog fox barked. Had Kate been of a superstitious bent, the shrill, lonely call combined with the ghostly shape now sweeping low over the heath would have made her shiver. Instead she pictured herself in the snug of the Rose and Crown, ale in hand, telling of tonight’s duel. Some of her friends would applaud her audacity. But Stephenson would most likely call her a fool for risking injury in pursuit of what was hers already. And he would be right.
Yet if I had to do it all again, I probably would. She chuckled and shook her head.
The southern edge of the heath came in sight, and more importantly, the highway alongside it. Though badly maintained, the surface would be easier going than the uneven thatch, occasional bog, and rabbit holes that posed a constant risk to both horse and rider. Kate urged Clover up the gentle incline, and seconds later hooves were clattering on stone.
Kate had been humming to herself as she rode, lulled by the rhythmic motion, thinking first of the duel with the Earl of Avebury’s chaplain then of the kiss she had given Rebeccah. How else to account for her lapse of attention? Too late she registered the approaching clip clop of hooves and jingle of harnesses.
A group of dragoons, their scarlet coats black in the moonlight, rounded the bend up ahead. Public discontent about the prevalence of footpads and highwayman in and around London had been growing more strident. Perhaps this armed patrol was the result. Whatever the reason, it was unfortunate. Though Kate was no longer wearing her mask and kerchief, the mere fact of her presence abroad at this hour would be enough to raise their suspicions. And should they discover her gender and the contents of her saddlebags ….
“You there, halt!” bellowed the dragoon captain, using his tricorne to whip his horse into a gallop. With whoops and shouts, his men spurred their mounts and followed.
“That’s all I need,” muttered Kate, “to play the fox to their hounds.”
Muttering an apology for bruising Clover’s mouth, she hauled on the reins, and urged the mare off the highway. Close by was an area of dense woodland that Kate knew well but hoped her pursuers didn’t.
As she arrowed towards it, a loud crack was followed by something whizzing over her right shoulder. She ducked in reflex, then glanced back and saw one of the soldiers was lowering his musket. Glancing forward once more, she found she had reached the edge of the wood and Clover was about to plough between two trees, speed unchecked.
“Whoops!” Kate ducked a low branch intent on removing her hat and reined in Clover to a less suicidal pace.
As she made her way deeper into the wood, the tree trunks crowded closer, muffling the shouts of her pursuers. Whipping branches left sap and scratches on her cheeks, and the leaf litter churned up by Clover’s hooves added an earthy note to the aroma of rotting wood, fungi, and foliage.
The track Kate was following led eventually to a clearing, and as Clover thundered through it, past a startled badgers’ sett, a blackbird burst from the undergrowth with a loud chattering cry of alarm. Kate managed to keep her seat as the mare shied, but it was a near thing.
“Steady, girl!”
After a heartpounding moment, she regained control of her mount. Somewhere close by, a twig snapped like a musket shot. With a muffled curse, Kate kneed Clover into motion once more.
She took a deer trail that led down a wooded, steeply descending slope. Twice Clover lost her footing, first on a stone, and then on a protruding tree root, each time sliding several feet. Kate soothed the snorting mare and made noises of encouragement, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder.
The sound of running water grew steadily louder. At the bottom of the incline, she paused to let Clover catch her breath, then guided her towards the line of trees marking the brook. Urging the mare past an overhanging willow and into the shallow water, Kate turned her towards the north. Clover shook her mane in protest then resigned herself to placing her hooves carefully on the stony bottom. The brook burbled, and Clover’s legs swished, and in the distance Kate could hear the dragoons shouting and calling to one another.
They went several hundred yards upstream before Kate was satisfied. With a squeeze of the knees and a light tap of the reins, Kate urged the mare up the bank. Once on dry land again, she turned onto a bearing that would, if her sense of direction was up to scratch, bring her back to the point where she had entered the wood. The dragoons would not expect that. At least, she hoped so.
And so it proved. Soon, to her relief, the shouts, curses, whistles, and sporadic crack of twigs underhoof had faded. The sounds of the night returned. Somewhere, an owl hooted. It was a peaceful sound.
She slowed Clover to a comfortable pace and patted her lathered neck. This time, the fox outwitted the hounds.
When at last she emerged into the open, there was no sign of pursuit. Somewhere deep in the dense woodland’s heart, the dragoons were searching for her. Kate gave a satisfied grunt and headed Clover back towards the deserted highway. An hour later than she had planned, she turned the mare’s head towards London
“Where have you been?” Alice put her hands on her hips.
Kate raised an eyebrow and finished closing the door. “Pardon me, my dear. I intended meeting you at the Rose and Crown, truly, but other … matters detained me.” She gestured at herself, and the landlady’s eyes widened a
s she took in Kate’s scratched appearance.
Kate dumped her saddlebags on the floor, and hung her hat and baldric from the door hook.
“It’s just as well you were delayed.” Alice stepped forward to help Kate out of her coat. “Or you’d be sharing a cell with John Stephenson.”
“What the Devil?” Kate stopped unbuttoning her shirt and stared at the other woman. “What happened?”
“Josselin.”
“Samuel Josselin?”
“Who else? We were enjoying a quiet drink in the snug, and in comes the thieftaker and a band of his bullyboys armed with sticks and truncheons. They were looking for you.”
Kate frowned. “Me?” This is an unwelcome development.
“‘Blue-eyed Nick’ at least. … Said they had reliable information you frequented the Rose and Crown.”
“Did they, by God!”
Alice nodded. “I was never so frightened in all my life. They took their cudgels to any who refused to answer their questions or who so much as looked at them ill, especially the Mollies, poor wretches. I’ve never seen so many broken heads and bloodied noses. One of the fiddle players had his own instrument smashed over his head…. And all the while, Josselin just looked on with this strange smile on his face.” She shuddered. “That monster!”
Kate resumed her unbuttoning and took off her shirt. “And Elborrow stood by and did nothing?”
“Even if he hadn’t been so badly outnumbered, he hadn’t much choice, Kate. I was close enough to overhear their conversation. Elborrow was furious. Asked what did Josselin think he was doing, for he paid Bodenham Titt well to leave the tavern alone.”
“The Beadle, eh? I knew Elborrow had someone in his pocket, just didn’t know who.” Kate scratched her chin. “What was Josselin’s reply?”
“He couldn’t give a fart what Elborrow’s prior arrangements were. He’d just paid the Beadle a handsome sum for immunity, and if his men broke limbs or even killed some of the regulars in the course of tracking down a felon, it was no skin off his nose. Especially since they were most likely pickpockets and footpads who would be no loss to society.”
Rebeccah and the Highwayman Page 6