I walked a distance from the building and, after removing the cloth, cast the leeches and their jar into a ditch. Returning, I picked up an armful of firewood and pushed open the door, calling out as I did so.
The girl lay where I had left her. There seemed no improvement in her condition, as far as I could say. She was shaking, with cold or ague I did not know. I removed my jacket and laid it on top of her, and spread my cloak upon her too. She stirred slightly but neither opened her eyes nor spoke.
We needed a fire. There was a risk, I knew, that someone might see the smoke. But the snow was falling outside and the girl needed warmth.
Collecting tiny dry sticks and pieces of straw from the corners of the room, I began to build the fire. I had seen a flint and steel in her bag and I did not ask her permission but fetched them now. I was not accustomed to making fire like this – fire had always been available at home, and servants to bring it to me. It took me many strikes before the burning sparks lit the straw. When the first small flames begin to crackle and lick and spit, I smiled.
As the morning passed, the girl mostly slept while I busied myself to make our shelter better protected from the weather. I constructed a means of placing boards across the two small windows, though I left them open now to allow the light in. I filled our water bottles and wrapped our food so that no vermin might reach it. I checked the priming of our pistols and put the powder and shot where I could grasp them easily if I had need of them.
From amongst the bare trees behind the building, I searched out a fallen branch and used my knife to strip the small twigs from it. With only a small adjustment to its width, it fitted into the slots behind the door, making a sturdy barrier if we should have an unwelcome visitor.
Once I woke the girl to give her physic but I did not change her dressing, preferring to leave it a while longer.
In all, I was pleased with my preparations. All that could be done, I had done, and the girl and I would be comfortable here until she was well enough. I had not forgotten about her horse and how I had promised to fetch it. But I did not choose to remind her. Secretly, I did not want to go. It was safer here, and warmer, and I had company. Not, I grant you, that a half-conscious girl was much company, but any company is better than none.
But nor had she forgotten her horse. She woke with a start at around midday, trying to sit up, but quite unable to do so. “I must go!” she gasped. “My horse! I have to fetch him. He needs me.” I helped her to sit and she passed a hand over her forehead, pressing her temples between finger and thumb, closing her eyes for some few moments.
“I said I would go, and I shall,” I said, with more confidence than I felt inside.
“No, I must go. Help me up. Hurry!” she snapped.
Well, we would soon discover how strong she was, I thought to myself. I helped her up, supporting most of her weight, and she swayed against me.
Her teeth were clenched as she slowly straightened. “There!” she said. I let go and she clutched me tight.
“Very well,” I said. “Are you ready? You will need to carry your bag.”
Her knees crumpled and she slowly sank to the ground, breathing heavily. “It is better,” she insisted. “I will be as good as new. Soon.”
“Two or three days. If you do not first worsen,” I added for good measure.
She did not reply and I took her silence for agreement.
“Help me outside,” she said. “Please.”
“No!” I was exasperated by her stubbornness. “You cannot move from here. You draw a map and I will fetch your horse. I ride well. And if you still do not know whether you can trust me, remember – I could have killed you, or left you, at any time since yesterday.”
“No, you misunderstand,” she said, that slight smile again as she looked directly at my eyes. “I need to go outside.”
“I … oh! Of course!” I realized what she wanted and blushed hotly as I did so. A lady would never … but then a lady would not find herself in such a position. I moved over to the door and hoisted it open. A gust of snow blew in and we both shrank from its chill. I helped her to her feet again and we made slow, painful progress towards the entrance. I could only admire her fortitude. She made no sound, except the slow, strained noise of her breathing. She seemed to become stronger as she moved and although she was still hunched over, with one hand holding her side, by the time we were in the open air she was walking by herself, though slowly. She turned to look at me, still smiling, though with a white face. “Thank you, kind sir,” she mocked. “I can manage on my own now.” And, blushing again, I went back into our refuge and busied myself noisily doing nothing in particular.
When she returned, ashen-faced and with a dusting of snow on her hair, I helped her settle down again onto the ground and I shut the door, placing my heavy branch across it. A few more logs on the fire made it burn more warmly, though I did not wish to make too much smoke.
“Clear a space on the floor,” she ordered. “So I can draw a map.” And she did, using a stick in the dirt. The journey would take perhaps three or four hours, she said. If I did not get lost, or if I did not give up, she added with a contemptuous tilt of her mouth. I wished to tell her then how I had risked death for her that morning, how a horse had died as the price of curing her, the price of her returning strength and sharp tongue. I wished to tell her that, for a coward, I had faced danger more bravely than I had expected.
But I held my tongue. After all, perhaps she would say I had not been so very brave and perhaps she would be right – all I had done was to run away. The horse – well, how brave was it to shoot a horse which would die anyway? No, I had proved nothing except that I did not give up easily.
“I will not get lost. And I will not give up,” I said simply, looking straight back at her. She looked down to her map and she could not know how afraid I felt inside.
I wanted to propose to set off in the morning at first light. But I did not say it – I knew that the horse, if it was not sheltered, might not survive the night if the cold grew too intense. A native pony, thick-haired, stocky and long-maned, could survive the worst the moors could muster, but her thoroughbred, as I guessed it must be, might not. And even though it was not my horse, I could not take that risk either.
When she was sure that I had understood the map, and when I had packed what I needed in my bag – food, water, and my knife – I slid my two pistols into my belt, and tied the shot bag and powder horn to it. I saw her settled as comfortably as was possible, leaning against a wall, everything she needed within easy reach. I placed two more logs on the fire, setting three more beside it, and made ready to leave.
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly. In her fever, she had forgotten that I had already told her.
As I opened my mouth to answer, something prevented me from saying my full name. I had been accustomed to know myself as “William de Lacey, younger son of Sir George de Lacey, High Sheriff and Member for Parliament,” but now I said only, “Will. Will.” I said it twice to convince myself. I liked the name Will; I liked its simplicity. It was better than William, and better by far than William de Lacey. I did not change my name in order to deceive her. I did it for myself, choosing to be free of William de Lacey, to be plain Will, with no burdens, no expectations.
But I admit, too, that it suited me that she did not know more.
“What is yours?” I asked her.
“Bess,” she said.
Will and Bess. Bess and Will. I was glad that she would know me as Will. I knew nothing about her and she would know nothing about me until such time as I was ready.
Two things only I remember as I went through the door: her black eyes looking at me, deep as a well; and her voice, weakened again by her fever, saying, “I’ll look for you by moonlight.”
What did she mean? Was it her confused mind, the fever talking? Perhaps that was not what she said. Perhaps her real words had floated away onto the whistling of the wind outside. Who knows?
I did
not have time to wonder. I plunged into the thinly swirling snow, pulling my hat down tightly and gathering my cloak around my body. I tried not to think how much I would rather be sheltered and safe in that ruin with her, than out here, alone.
As fast as I could, I marched down the road and away from the village. I knew I must walk some six or seven miles along this road, perhaps for an hour and a half if I kept up a steady speed. Indeed, when I had been walking for what I reckoned must be such a length of time, and with a twilight gloom beginning to fall, I came to a crossroads, with just the signpost Bess had described. I took the left turning and continued up the lane, towards unfamiliar hills.
In the winter afternoon, the ghostly silence of the moors wrapped me up and drew me into their dangers and mysteries. I shivered and hunched my cloak more tightly around me.
Would I find Bess’s home, and her horse? Or would a passer-by find me some days later, a stiff corpse, and wonder who I might be?
Chapter Fourteen
Snow starts as something mysterious, something wonderful and magical. On the moors it can quickly turn dangerous. Landmarks disappear and trees change their shape for the approaching traveller. I did not know the landscape even without the snow. With it, I lost my sense of direction.
But Bess’s instructions were clearly given, drummed into me in that impatient way of hers. She had told me to follow the lane upwards until I came to a row of six poplar trees. These I quickly found. From here I was to leave the lane and continue in the same direction as the trees, always heading upwards, until I came to the brow of the hill. There I would find a standing-stone, shaped like a cross, and on this cross I would find marked the four points of the compass. North-east from here, and no more than thirty paces, I would find a wall with a stile, which I should climb, and then follow the line of the wall, downwards and then up the next hill. At some point, I would have to leave the wall, but I should always aim for a hill of a particular shape, which she drew for me in the dirt. Over the brow of this hill, I was to search for the source of a stream, amongst some large boulders on the very edge of a small pine wood. Bess said it would take not much more than an hour if I made good progress.
Driven by fear of becoming lost, and of being frozen to death, I kept up good speed and, less than an hour later, found myself at the top of the hill, breathless and sweating despite the cold. I looked in all directions, peering through the softly swirling snow. Where was the stone cross?
Which way? Either was possible. A mistake could herald disaster, as the snow was now falling so thickly that my footsteps were covered within minutes of being made.
It was by now late afternoon and the winter light was fading fast, grey gloom shrouding everything. I could see only a few yards ahead of me and the shapes of rocks and trees were like ghosts, staring at me through the veil of snow, waiting to see which way I would go.
I did not have much time if I were to reach the bottom of the valley before darkness fell completely. Bess’s home was over there somewhere, on the other side, but I had to choose the right path down the hillside or I would find myself in a treacherous marsh. Bess had warned me, though I already knew well enough the stories of people walking to their death on these moors, the ground turning to lethal silt without warning to those ignorant or foolish enough to venture into this region unprepared.
I had to choose a direction. Straining my eyes, I thought I could make out the darker shape of something ahead and I made towards it. I was glad of my thickly-woven winter cloak – if it had been thinner, my whole body would have been as wet as my drenched thighs.
Luck was with me once more. There was the stone cross, rising like a stern friar in front of me. I hurried towards it. So thick was it that I could not have put my arms around it, and tall, taller by far than I. I looked up at its cold strength and gave thanks to God for signs and crosses and the men who in early times had placed it there for the sake of travellers.
With my fingers, I traced the marks which depicted the points of the compass, and hurried in a north-easterly direction, counting my steps as I went.
Sure enough, there was the wall, the stile. My heart leapt! How could I have been afraid? Almost laughing, I scrambled over the stile, and followed the wall as Bess had instructed. Running now, towards the next brow, the cold air sharp in my throat, I hoped against all hope that I should not lose the way. Could I be sure this was the right hill? In this fading light, perhaps the shapes played tricks on my eyes?
At the crest of this hill, I stopped, leaned forward gasping, trying to quieten my breathing so that I could listen for the sound of water, as Bess had told me I must. Nothing. Still nothing. Had I made a mistake? I looked around, desperately. From which direction had I come? Should I retrace my steps and return to the stone cross?
The emptiness was huge, all-encompassing.
And then – suddenly – the unmistakable sound of water ahead of me! Bess had said that beside this spring was the path I was to take down the hillside, starting between two rocks taller than the others. Sure enough, her directions had been good once more – here were the rocks and here the path. I hurried down it, taking care on the slippery stones, all my senses alert. There was no need to worry about soldiers here. My greatest danger was in slipping. I held my arms out for greater balance and to break any fall. But I found that I was sure-footed and my confidence grew as I sped down the path. Nothing could hurt me! I would reach Bess’s home and find her horse. I would ride it back to her and then … well, then I would see what might happen. I need not think further than this task. Luck was on my side and God would provide.
Would He not?
Perhaps the spirits of that place heard my boastfulness. Perhaps I forgot that Bess had told me to seek out the turning to the left. Perhaps I simply went with too much haste. Whatever the reason, I missed the fork in the path.
At first, I did not suspect anything was amiss, so keenly did I speed down the hill, so blindly did I follow that path. It was only when I came to the bottom and found no dry-stone wall that I slowed down. It was only when my feet began to slip and then sink, bringing me to a standstill, that I remembered her instructions and understood my mistake. Stunned, with panic sending a clouding rain over my vision, I stood stock-still. The wind slapped icy water at my face.
The marshes! I had come to the marshes. I should be nowhere near them. I turned, or tried to. I pulled one foot from the mud, bringing my boot only with difficulty. My left leg was deeper in the mud beneath the snow. The more I tried to move, the more it sank. I fell forward onto the ground, digging my hands into the grey slime. A flurry of wind blew fresh snow into my face. Lying as flat as I could, I very slowly began to pull my leg from the mud. It would not come. The harder I pulled, the more the mud sucked it back.
Fear and loneliness threatened to overcome me.
With every jot of strength, and anger at the weather which seemed to shriek its laughter in my face, I fought my fear and forced myself to be calm, and at last, with a horrible sucking sound, my leg came free. I was safe.
But I would not be safe if I stayed much longer. Weeks or months later, I would be found, a ragged skeleton and no one to say who I might have been. I must move. I must go backwards – I could only be a pace or two from safe ground, I reasoned with myself. I slowly raised my body onto my hands and knees and crawled backwards. When I thought I was surely safe, I stood up, carefully, feeling the ground firm beneath me as I straightened. Now, all I had to do was turn and walk back the way I had come. Inch by inch, I turned until I judged myself to be facing in the right direction. The blizzard now was swirling so thickly that there was nothing my eyes could tell me.
I took a step forward …. and sank once again to my ankles. Heart thumping, I slowly dragged my heavy foot out, and placed it but a short distance to the right. It sank again. Which direction was I facing? Which way had I come? Which way was safety?
Chapter Fifteen
I stood, motionless, desperately trying to judge which way I m
ust be facing, to decide what to do. I was shivering now, not only from the cold. My father was right – I was a coward. I knew this because my mind was crying out to be led to safety. I was desperately clinging to life, whatever that life might hold. I wished that anyone were here instead of me.
I think I shouted. I shouted to the wind, to God, to no one at all, for I knew no one could hear. I screamed out my fear and my fury and my prayers.
It was at this moment that I saw it – though even now I cannot be sure. I blinked. Could I have imagined it? A light. Far ahead of me, moving slightly, swaying in the wind, like a lantern held at shoulder height.
I blinked again. The light disappeared. But no! There it was again. Swinging. Moving away from me slowly. I peered into the growing darkness, my wide eyes stinging in the whipping snow. Wiping my hand across my vision, I strained to see. Yes! It was a light.
But then again, perhaps it was not. I still could not be sure what I saw. I am still not sure now.
I had a choice: I could ignore the light, or I could follow it. Something drew me on, something which I will never understand. It was not bravery. It was something deeper. We are drawn to light as moths to a flame, even if the flame may singe our wings.
The light seemed to move in one direction. And disappeared. Now it appeared again, swinging in the same direction, and disappeared once more. The next time this occurred, I thought perchance that whoever held the lantern meant me to move in the same direction as he had moved the light. I took one step. The ground was firm. The light moved again. I stepped again in the direction indicated. Firm ground once more. Could I be rescued? I began to dare hope so.
The Highwayman's Footsteps Page 5