I held out my hand, wishing to help her, and she passed me the wooden spoon. As I stirred, and breathed in the steam from that simple food, I began to feel warm again. I smiled at Bess, out of friendship, not because inside myself I felt like smiling. It was a smile to thank her for her understanding and her silence and for not condemning me for who I was.
I think even Bess did not know what to say now. Bess, whom I knew for her outspokenness, her direct questions, her piercing truth, was silenced, struck dumb by my father’s actions. And so I spoke for her.
“That was the man who once was my father,” I said. “Can you understand my shame? That my own father could care so little for the life of a person that he would sentence an old man to death, without even a thought? I am ashamed to be his son.”
“You should not be ashamed. Only your father should feel shame.”
I thought about this. Bess had struck the truth in one simple statement. I could do nothing at all about how my father was, just as I could do nothing about how my brother was. Yet why did I feel the shame deep within me, like a cold fall of snow?
I knew what I must do. I must turn my shame to anger. Only by acting bravely and honourably could I bring justice for that old man, and for the other men and women who had died in the riot. Only anger was the proper response.
And anger was not difficult to summon. Anger was as easy to stir as the steaming soup in front of me. As the wind beat against the shutters of our cottage and the door rattled, as the water came to the boil on the flames before me, as the fire burned on my face and my eyes stung, my shame did indeed turn to anger. I fanned the flames of that anger with my thoughts.
I had seen or heard enough of injustice now – the poverty of the blacksmith’s family, the death of that soldier’s horse, the brutish murder of poor Henry Parish, as well as the tragic deaths of Bess’s mother and father. It seemed that the only way to justice was through human actions: the death of Mad Dog Tim the ostler and the curse on the gap-toothed crone felt like justice to me. Even the choice of victims by Bess and One-legged Jack felt like a better sort of justice than that meted out by corrupt sheriffs and magistrates and men who cared only for their own sort. What did those men think of people of the lower orders? What did they care? And who would fight for the weak and the poor?
I would fight for them. Because I was amongst them now. But also because in my heart it felt right.
All I could do was act as I thought right.
Chapter Fifty-Six
We talked, Bess and I, late into that night, not wishing to sleep. We placed more logs on the fire, stoking it till it burnt with unnecessary fervour, till the flames leapt high into the air and sparks flew onto the stone hearth.
Our plans were laid. My only regret was that we would have to wait so many days before acting. I knew that my father, or one of his servants, took his money to the British Linen Bank in Hexham on a Thursday. We knew, too, that Sapphire’s injury would not allow her to make the journey for more than a week. It would be nearly three days’ ride, and two nights’ rest wherever we could find it, so we would begin our journey early on Tuesday of the following week.
It seemed too long to wait. But we would spend the time in planning, in practising down to the last detail how we would rob my father of his ill-gotten money before he reached the Bank. And Bess had a great deal she wished to tell me about the art of highway robbery. I had now no discomfort at the idea of being taught by a girl – I understood enough to know that Bess must be listened to. My heart beat faster as I thought about what I would do. It was not fear I felt, but excitement. I wished we could act now.
Sleep did not come easily to me that night, or those following. It was not the hard floor – I was well used to that by this time. Nor was it the shame I had felt earlier, on hearing of my father’s terrible actions. It was the knowledge that now, at last, I had the chance to act, to change something, to fight against the injustice of our lives.
When at last I did sleep, on that first night after learning of my father’s dishonour, it was with the memory of Bess’s ballad to Henry Parish still echoing in my ears. She had sung it again that evening. I had asked her to. To pass the time, for something to do before morning came, we had written out some copies on thick paper which Bess kept dry in a drawer lined with a layer of salt. We cut new quills and dipped them in the ink, as Bess told and retold each line and we wrote the words down together. We planned to make only a small number of copies to sell to printers in towns and villages where we might find ourselves in weeks ahead, but each time we wanted to stop, we thought of Henry Parish, and how one more copy would spread his story to more persons, each of whom might tell his story to more. And so we wrote, late into the hours of deepest darkness, till the fire quietened and hissed gently, and the noise of our quills scratching on the paper became part of the sounds of the night.
Outside, the night-loving spirits of the moors awoke and, no doubt, ghosts walked. But we were safe indoors and had no need to fear them. And if some of them watched over us, if the ghostly highwayman looked through the trees at us, then that was the way of things. We could only do what the living can do: hope and pray and act.
And so, as I slept at last, the story of Henry Parish’s death, in Bess’s true words, settled into my head and grew inside me until he became a part of me. I could not know what would happen but my life now was tangled with his, and with Bess’s, with One-legged Jack, and Aggie, and Bess’s parents – the highwayman and the landlord’s red-lipped daughter – and the old man who had lost his life so unjustly on a chill March morning in the year of our Lord, 1761.
I prayed that God, and whatever spirits He might see fit to allow, would watch over us. I could not know if my prayers would be answered.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
A wild March wind whipped the hair into our horses’ eyes, as we set out some days later. As we trotted, and as I felt Sapphire’s stride strong beneath me, I tried to accustom myself to the sword slapping against my leg. It was Bess’s father’s sword, which I had polished the night before until its jewelled hilt sparkled. I had sharpened the blade on a whetstone, too, till its edge felt rough against the flat of my thumb, its steel warm, its double-edge deadly and glinting in the firelight. I would use it if I had to and I would think of Bess’s father as I did so.
I was proud to have a brave man’s sword at my side. I hoped I could be as brave as he.
Our bags were packed with as much as we could carry without overburdening ourselves. We had food and water, flint and steel for making fire, spare clothes, a pair of pistols each, full powder horns and two bags of shot. We had all our money with us, though this was not much – Bess had earned no money since I had entered her life and she had spent much of what she had on buying Sapphire for me. But this robbery of my father’s money was not for us – it was for Henry’s mother and sister.
Once we were on the road west, we met few travellers. Those we passed took little notice of us – two well-dressed young men riding decent horses, one of us with a sword, neither of us with pistols in view. We could have been fledgling merchants, lawyers, two doctors, even students. Our dress was not flamboyant, nothing you would recall if asked: thick riding cloaks, with plain twisted stocks at our throats, hid whatever jackets we might be wearing; our breeches were dark brown and our spurred riding boots long and burnished to a soft shine. Tricorne hats hid the colour of our hair. In Bess’s case, of course, her hat also hid her feminine tresses.
Our journey would be long and tedious. I wished only to reach our destination. We could not hurry, however, as we must keep our horses fresh. We would need their strength when the time came. And so we rested every hour or so.
After some three hours spent travelling west, we came to a small village. Here, we knew, we had to take the road north over the moors. Now we must pray for our safety – a sudden fog, a fall, a band of footpads, any of these could be our doom. There would be no one to help us.
We turned our horses and
took the lane that we saw before us. Behind us, to the south, the sky gleamed like burnished steel where the weak sun was hidden. In front of us, the clouds lowered themselves onto the hillsides, settling like a thick fog. Rain began to fall more heavily now, as the moors folded us into their shadows.
The ground was wet here, wrinkled with streams springing from the earth and pouring down the steep hillsides on either side of us. The path took us along the line of a valley and the slopes steepened until they loomed over us.
Down to our left, we saw the ghostly ruins of a huge abbey, with three rows of arched and empty windows. “Rievaulx Abbey,” said Bess. I had heard of it. I would not have liked to visit it by night, imagining the ghosts of monks wandering restlessly through its cloisters. We stopped to look, but the horses did not like this place, and champed and stamped until we moved on.
We did not wish to spend a night on the moors, and so we pressed on as fast as we safely could. We passed almost no one. The occasional shepherd or goatherd stared at us in suspicion as we trotted by; an old woman carrying a basket stepped aside as we approached, nervous perhaps in case we meant her harm; once, another rider came towards us and we readied ourselves in case he had ill intent, but he tipped his hat to us and we to him, and we were alone once again.
I had no fear of the moors now, and they were welcome to their secrets. Only living people held fear for me, and there were few enough of those in these bleak hills. But as darkness fell on that first night, and as we found ourselves suddenly on levelling ground, the hills and lowering cliffs behind us, my heart began to beat faster.
We spent the night in a simple tavern on the banks of the River Leven. The innkeeper’s wife brought us a steaming pot-boiled hare, accompanied by sea kale boiled white and carrots stewed in a thin pale sauce. I tasted little of it, though I remembered to thank her and commend her for her cooking.
She must have taken kindly to the two of us – decent and well-spoken young men as we seemed to be, for she then offered an excellent gooseberry trifle with a custard so smooth and thick that my parents’ French cook would have been proud to serve it. We declined her claret, thinking to keep a clear head for the next day, and preferred to drink a pale, malty ale instead.
We slept, of course, in the same room, but I went outside to see to the horses to allow Bess privacy while she prepared for bed. An ostler slept above the stable, and I thought of Mad Dog Tim as I spoke to him. But this one – Joseph was his name – seemed keen and honest, as far as I could tell. He did not have a shifty look and he called me “sir”. For my part, I smiled at him as I spoke, for I wished him to like me and to care well for our horses. A smile costs nothing and seems to me a proper way to behave to a person of any deserving sort.
Only since leaving home had I begun to think how one should behave. At home, I had had no call to think.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
I will not pause to tell of the next day, except to say that we covered some forty miles and by nightfall found ourselves, cold, tired, and with aching legs and weary horses, on the edge of Durham, skirting the river which almost surrounds it. Thinking to find ourselves a comfortable bed, we came to a bridge, crossed the river and proceeded into the city under the glowering shadows of the castle.
Early evening as it was, this was the time when gentlefolk would be in their houses, dining, away from the noisy masses. Workers hurried home or lingered on corners, shouting greetings or insults to each other. I counted at least three beggars slumped in doorways and one hobbling along on sticks, his legs bound with grimy bandages. Suddenly a door opened beside us as we passed and out stumbled three drunken women, their dresses awry, their hair spilling from their mobcaps. One vomited onto the pavement, held by the other two.
The smell of the river, of dankness, dead fish and rotten matter pervaded everything. We urged our horses onwards, taking little care to avoid trampling the drunken women.
Ahead, we could see the huge square towers of the cathedral, looming over everything, and soon the cloisters were in front of us, solid, reassuring, and yet cold and stern. They were like a strict schoolmaster – you cannot approach him for comfort, and yet you know that somehow he has your interests at heart.
Near the cathedral, we found what we were looking for: a tavern with a stable. I did not trust the look in this ostler’s eyes, though perhaps I say that only with after-knowledge. Leaving the horses with him, and giving instructions to care well for them, we approached the entrance of the tavern.
Noise surged through the doorway. The noise of angry men fuelled by liquor.
It is easy to say such things afterwards, but it seemed to me immediately that I did not like the look of the men we saw inside, though by then it was too late. Silence fell suddenly, as the men stopped their talk and stared at us with open mistrust. Perhaps we were too well dressed; perhaps simply we were strangers and strangers may spell danger if evil is being planned. A great deal of drink was being consumed by all, and the air was thick with cheap gin and tobacco and men’s sweat.
We kept our bags slung over our shoulders and we stood close together.
A man was standing, red-faced by the fire. All looked to him when he spoke. “We want no strangers ’ere,” he said, his voice loud with liquor and anger, his eyes bright with some unknown fervour. “Ye be not welcome.”
“I am sorry,” I said, speaking as gruffly as I could, trying to appear older than my years, though even I could tell that the modulations of my voice marked me out as someone of higher birth than I wished to show. “We only want…”
But Bess interrupted me. I marvelled that she could disguise her voice so well. “Aye, two beds for t’ night, an’ we’ll not disturb ye more.” She could have been a labourer on my father’s estate.
There was a shifting in the room, a murmuring without visible source. Men looked at each other, scowling, looking for someone to make a decision. “What brings you ’ere?”
“We pass by. Family business. We go northwards, to Scotland,” said Bess, strongly, levelly. Someone spat on the floor.
For a moment, however, it seemed as though Bess’s words had satisfied them. But nothing that she might have said or done could have prevented what happened next.
A man, bleary-faced, greasy-haired, rose staggering to his feet, peering closely at me. He raised his finger, pointing straight. “’Tis ’im. So ’tis.”
My heart began to thump, until I was sure that they could hear it.
“Who?” asked some of the other men. All of them stared at me, their anger burning into me, even if they knew not who I was.
Bess and I began to edge towards the door.
Then the leader, the man by the fire, demanded, “What sayst thou, Thomas? Who be this?”
Three of the men stood up now. Their arms hung loosely by their sides, hands open, ready. They were larger men than I had thought, burlier, like oxen, the sinews of their necks rigid and thick. I tried to watch them all, to see which might move first and fastest. Their faces were red and round, burnished like leather in the sun and wind and rain and years spent on the land. The strength of northern hills ran in their blood. Bess and I would stand no chance against them, whether or no they were drunk. I thought of the sword hanging at my side, but I did not move my hand towards it, though I dearly wanted to.
And now, with horror, as I looked more closely at the face of the man called Thomas, I thought I knew him too. Who was he? I knew him and yet I could not recall precisely. A man who had worked once on my father’s estate, perhaps? Yes, that was it. That was it! He was a gamekeeper, who had been drafted to the militia perhaps a year before. I remembered that there had been some hard feeling, some sullenness amongst the servants that day, some voices raised behind closed doors. But the man had gone – he had had no choice. He had been named in the hated ballot, and the fact that he had a wife with three young children had made no difference.
His voice was rough with distaste. A wet pad of tobacco flew from his mouth onto the floor by
my feet. “’Tis the sheriff’s son. ’Tis de Lacey’s boy.”
Then the wind of their anger rushed through the room and they seemed to swell and grow tall. Chair legs scraped on the uneven floor as they rose to their feet.
“Run!” cried Bess. We leapt towards the door, and I drew my sword as we did so, turning back once more, slashing it from side to side. One man fumbled with a pistol which had lain on the table, but dropped it with a clatter. Two of them stooped to pick it up. The men were slow to move, fuddled as they were by drink and warmth. But they were only moments behind us as we ran for our lives across the dark inn yard towards the stable.
I thanked God for lazy ostlers. This one was eating his supper and had not unsaddled our horses. We grabbed them from in front of his eyes, leaving him wide-mouthed and stupid, and we flung our bags over the horses’ withers. I was about to leap into the saddle when I saw that Bess’s was indeed unfastened, and that she was fumbling with the girth. Silently urging her to hurry, I stood with my back to her, slashing my sword in front of us as widely as I could. A man tried to grab my reins, but one thrust of the sword put him in fear of his life and he leapt back.
I could not rest for one moment – as soon as one of them had been repelled, another two or three would leap forward. But none had a sword and the fierceness in my eyes was enough to show them that I would have killed them if they came too close. And, angry though they were, they were not fighting for their lives and they lacked vigour.
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