She laughed. ‘The English Wolf. A somewhat romantic name.’
‘Not my invention, believe me.’
‘So, how did you come to be a privateer aboard a French ship with such an exotic nom de guerre’ she enquired.
His eyes narrowed and he turned his concentration back to the road ahead, a muscle twitching in his cheek. ‘That really is none of your concern.’
She had stepped over the unseen boundary in their burgeoning friendship. She let the silence pass between them before she tried a different tactic.
‘Where is home for you?’ she asked.
He gave her an infuriated glare. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Agnes.’
‘You asked me if I was James Ashby’s mistress; I think that entitles me to ask you a few highly personal questions,’ she responded.
His mouth quirked and that intriguing half smile lightened his countenance. ‘Home, what’s left of it, is Eveleigh Priory, near Chester.’
‘And your family?’
He sighed. ‘I really am really not deserving of this interrogation, Mistress Fletcher, but as you are so curious, I have a perfectly respectable mother and sister who, I sincerely hope, will be very pleased to see me.’
‘Are they expecting you?’
He glanced at her, his face concealed by the brim of his low-crowned hat.
‘I thought I might surprise them.’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Eight years ago.’ He paused, and added in a tight voice, ‘They probably think I’m dead.’
Agnes studied his profile. Only the slightest twitching of a muscle near his mouth betrayed any emotion.
‘Then I have no doubt you will surprise them,’ she remarked bitterly. ‘I don’t understand why you would not go there now. If I were in your place … ’
He glanced at her, a flush of colour rising to his cheeks. ‘You are not me, Mistress Fletcher. I have the King’s business to contract first.’
She stared at him. ‘The King’s business? But I thought this was about Tobias Ashby.’
His mouth tightened. ‘It is,’ he said in a clipped tone. ‘Ask me no more questions, or I swear I will leave you on the side of the road and continue alone.’
Chastened, Agnes dropped back. Now they had left the city behind, they were the lone travellers on this stretch of road. Ahead of them stands of trees loomed out of the autumnal mist, their leafless branches stark against the grey sky. Ealing Common. An eerie silence, unbroken even by birdsong, settled on the skeletal trees.
Daniel stopped his horse, loosening his sword in its scabbard. Agnes came back alongside him and he turned to look at her.
‘I don’t like this,’ Daniel said. ‘Can you handle a pistol?’
‘Why do you ask?’
He unbuckled one of the two pistol holsters on his saddle, removed the guns and checked the priming. He held one of the weapons out to Agnes.
‘I want you to take this.’
‘No need,’ Agnes said.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘Agnes, this is not a moment for womanly sensibilities about weapons. I would prefer it if you took the pistol.’
Smug, self-satisfied, sod, she thought, fumbling in the specially designed pocket of her cloak.
She had the satisfaction of seeing a look of utter surprise cross Daniel Lovell’s face as she held up her own pistol, a pretty object with a highly polished wooden stock inlaid with silver filigree.
‘Good God,’ Daniel blasphemed. ‘Do you know how to use it?’
She gave him the look of contempt he deserved. ‘Of course I do. My brother had many faults, but he gave me this and taught me how to use it. He said a woman should know how to defend herself in time of war.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘A sensible man and tell me, have you ever had cause to use it?’
She could hardly lie. ‘No. Not in anger.’
He shrugged. ‘Keep it hidden. We’ll move a little faster to try and clear the common before the dusk sets in.’
He kicked his own horse into a trot and Agnes followed suit, moving easily to the smooth gait of the horse. It had been a long time since she had ridden astride but there were some things you never forgot.
Despite their heightened vigilance, the attack, when it came, still took them by surprise.
An unearthly cry caused the sturdy black horse to break stride, going down on its haunches as a huge man leaped out of the cover of the bushes to seize its bridle. Daniel threw himself out of the saddle, landing with surprising agility on his feet, with his sword in hand.
Agnes’s mare skittered sideways as a second man with a greasy hat pulled down low and a kerchief tied around the lower part of his face reached out and pulled Agnes from the saddle. She uttered a stifled scream as a knife pressed against her throat and an arm circled the upper part of her body, immobilising her.
She shuddered at the sight of the hand, with only stubs of fingers that pinioned her.
Her right hand tightened on the butt of the pistol she held concealed in the folds of her skirt, but with the villain’s arm pinioning her, she could not raise her arm to fire it.
‘Your purse and your goods or I’ll cut the lady’s throat!’ the man holding her called out.
The second man let go of the horse’s reins and, brandishing a cudgel, lunged for Daniel. He dodged it easily.
‘Put down your weapon,’ the first man said. ‘Or I will kill your pretty little friend.’
The knife pressed harder into her neck and Agnes uttered a small squeak as it pierced the skin and her blood, warm in the cold air, trickled down her throat.
‘Be quiet!’ The man’s mouth came so close that she could smell the stench of onions and rotten teeth.
Daniel looked around and his eyes locked briefly with Agnes’s. A fire burned in the grey depths and a shiver ran down her spine. He turned his attention on the man holding her and, without breaking eye contact with Agnes’s captor, he laid the sword on the ground and straightened, raising his hands.
‘Let her go,’ he said in a low voice.
The man holding her relaxed a little, exhaling a breath of foul air in her ear.
‘What’s this then?’ Agnes’s captor loosened his grip, the questing stubs of his fingers running around her neck, awkwardly extracting the chain of the locket.
‘No! Not that.’ Anger replaced fear and Agnes jerked her elbow backwards, straight into the man’s soft underbelly. The breath left his body with a soft ‘Oof’ and he staggered backward, the knife falling to the ground. Agnes whirled around and planted her knee in his crotch. He went down, whimpering.
Balancing her pistol in her hand, Agnes stood over the man, pressing the pistol to his temple. He stopped moaning, his eyes, wide and fearful, fixed on her face, his hands still clutching his abused private parts.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw, Daniel retrieve his sword and turn once more to face the big man. The man, whose gaze had been diverted by his companion’s fate, remembered too late and flashed at Daniel with the cudgel but Daniel sidestepped, his sword catching the man’s arm. The footpad looked at the blood that welled through his sleeve, gritted his teeth and came at Daniel snarling, with the cudgel above his head. Daniel neatly stepped under the upraised arm, the momentum of the man’s charge skewering him on the slender blade of the Spanish sword.
The footpad stopped and looked down at the sword that pierced his chest, surprise registering in his eyes. The cudgel dropped to the ground, and as the man sank to his knees Daniel put a boot to his chest so he fell backwards, allowing Daniel to retrieve the sword. Agnes looked away, sickened by the sucking noise as the sword came free, followed by a bright spray of blood.
Daniel turned to the brigand who knelt cowering at Agnes’s feet, his hands still pressed to his groin.
‘We didn’t mean no ‘arm,’ the man whimpered. ‘Let me go, guvnor. I served His Majesty in the wars. Lost everything, I did.’
Agnes glanced up at Daniel. The fire had gone from
his eyes and he lowered his sword. ‘Who did you serve with?’
The man licked his lips. ‘Lord Hopton.’ He held up his left hand, or what was left of it. ‘That’s all the thanks I got. Lost me fingers at Naseby. No good for workin’ after that. Wife and kids died of starvation one winter and I took to the road.’ A glimmer of hope gleamed in the man’s eyes. ‘You won’t turn me in, captain?’
Daniel jerked his head at the man’s companion. ‘Your friend’s dead.’
The man shrugged. ‘Don’t have friends in this game. If you hand me over, they’ll ‘ang me. Let me go.’
Daniel glanced at Agnes and gave a curt nod. She raised the pistol away from the man’s head.
‘Get on your way,’ Daniel said.
The man scrambled to his feet. Clutching his greasy hat to his head, he took off into the woods as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.
Daniel wiped the blade of his sword on a grassy tussock and restored it to his scabbard. He secured the placid bay mare and turned to Agnes.
‘You’re hurt.’
She raised shaking fingers to the cut on her neck. ‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘Let me see.’
Lifting her chin, he narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the cut.
‘Let me just clean it a little. I’m afraid there is blood on your collar.’
From a pocket inside his jacket he produced a square of neatly laundered cambric edged with lace and pressed it against the cut, wiping the trail of blood that led to her throat.
‘Hold that there for a moment. It’s almost stopped bleeding,’ he said.
‘What’s this?’ she enquired, holding out the pad of cambric, now stained with her blood.
‘A kerchief. They’re the height of fashion in Paris.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve been to Paris?’
He smiled. ‘And met the King of France.’ His fingers closed over hers, returning the pad to her neck.
‘It’s too dainty for your taste,’ she said.
A smile twitched his lips. ‘A lady gave it to me,’ he said. ‘A keepsake.’
She pressed the cloth against the wound, her gaze dropping from his. ‘I see.’
His fingers circled the chain of the locket that the villain had pried from her neck. His touch sent a shiver down her spine.
‘A pretty piece,’ he said. ‘Is it special?’
Agnes snatched it from his fingers, stowing it away out of sight beneath her collar.
Daniel stepped back and studied her for a moment. ‘None of my business, apparently?’
‘None!’
‘So in addition to the use of a pistol, did your brother teach you that interesting manoeuvre, Mistress Fletcher?’
‘He taught me a few useful things.’
And then left me, she thought.
‘Remind me not to annoy you,’ he remarked drily.
Agnes checked the kerchief. The cut seemed to have stopped bleeding.
‘Enough of this chatter,’ she said, indicating the dead man. ‘What do we do with him?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘He isn’t going anywhere. We’ll alert the next village we come to and they can deal with him, but I will save the sensibilities of the travelling public and move him out of sight. Can you take his feet?’
Agnes recoiled. ‘Touch him?’
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not going to hurt you and I can’t manage him alone. Have you never seen a dead man before?’
‘Only those who have died peacefully in their beds,’ she admitted.
Taking a deep breath, she hefted the man’s feet as Daniel lifted him by the shoulders. As they moved him, the corpse let out a groan.
Agnes screamed and dropped the man’s feet.
‘It’s only air escaping his lungs,’ Daniel said. ‘Pick up his feet again.’
‘You have obviously had more experience with corpses than I,’ Agnes said hotly, lifting the man’s muddy and disgusting feet again.
‘Too much,’ Daniel agreed. ‘This’ll do. Behind this fallen log. I’ll mark the place.’
Agnes removed her gloves and wiped the muddy objects on the damp verge as Daniel laid the dead footpad straight, covering the corpse’s face with the man’s own jacket. He carved a cross into the bark of a nearby fallen tree to mark the spot.
Returning to Agnes, he hefted her back onto her horse and led the animal along the road. They encountered the black horse munching peacefully on a sweet patch of grass a hundred yards away. At his touch the horse obediently raised its head, allowing Daniel to swing into the saddle. Sensing that it was not going to be made to go back the way it had come, the black horse turned with its ears pricked, pulling at the bit.
Daniel glanced around at Agnes. ‘Do you suppose that beast of yours can move faster? This one wants to stretch its legs.’
‘You mean a race?’ Agnes felt the same thrill of the challenge she had felt when George had issued it. She had been the better rider and George knew it, but it never stopped him trying to best her. It would be interesting to see if Daniel Lovell was made of sterner stuff. She pulled her hat from her head, securing it under her leg and with a whoop kicked the mare into action. Too surprised to resist, the mare took off at a hard canter. They passed the black gelding and she heard Daniel’s answering ‘Huzzah!’ and the thunder of hooves behind her.
She drew rein at the next crossroads with Daniel half a length behind her. He drew level with her, laughing.
‘What did your mother call you?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘A hoyden,’ she replied, fishing out her crushed hat and restoring it to her head.
They glanced at each other, and for a brief moment the look they exchanged said nothing else, except that they were both young and the hard ride had been fun and a chance to forget the cares that they carried with them.
They stopped at an inn for the night and Daniel reported the encounter with the footpads, although he failed to mention the man he had allowed to escape. In the inn parlour, the story of their adventure provoked much shaking of heads and comments about the state of the roads these days, with so many disaffected soldiers taken to brigandry.
Daniel’s coin bought Agnes a bed for the night in a communal room and a meal. As she pushed the unspeakable mess that passed for some sort of stew around her trencher, she ruminated on the day’s events.
‘Do you suppose the story he told was true?’ she wondered aloud.
Daniel shrugged. ‘It rang true to me.’
Agnes sighed. ‘I’ve led a sheltered life, it seems.’
He tipped his head to one side. ‘Not so very sheltered. Few women of my acquaintance would know how to handle a pistol.’
Agnes felt a flush of pleasure rise to her cheeks at the unexpected praise, if that’s what it was.
‘But what of your parents?’ Daniel asked.
‘My father was killed at Naseby and my mother died two years later,’ Agnes said. ‘It was just George and I … until Worcester.’
He paused in skewering a piece of unidentifiable meat. ‘Worcester?’
‘George had been restless for a long time,’ she said. ‘He was only seventeen when Father died. Too young for the responsibility of my mother and I and also too young for the war.’
‘And your sister?’
‘She married James before Father’s death. After the King’s murder, George sent me to live with Ann and James and sold off the estate to pay his debts.’
‘And George went to Worcester,’ Daniel said in a hard, flat voice.
‘Yes, and never came back. He escaped to the continent.’
Daniel quirked an eyebrow in an unspoken “And?”
‘He died there. Drank himself to death I was told, although the truth is that he passed out in a drunken stupor on the side of a road one winter’s night, caught lung fever, and died within the week.’ She sighed. ‘He was long lost in drink before he went abroad.’ She bit her lip, the grief at her brother’s end long since resolved into a dull ache. ‘No
better than that poor wretch today. What about you, Daniel?’
‘My father and my brother are dead. As to the rest of my family, our home was largely destroyed in ’48. My mother, sister, grandfather and I were reduced to living in a few habitable rooms. I am hoping they are still there,’ he added.
‘But why do they believe you to be dead?’ Agnes searched his face.
Daniel shrugged. ‘I was taken prisoner after Worcester and sent to Barbados. They would have good reason to think me dead.’
‘Why?’
His eyes flashed in her direction. ‘Because no one returns from Hell.’
She lowered her gaze. ‘They would have mourned you,’ she said. ‘I envy you, going home to a family who loves you.’
She thought of the only family she had left in the world, Henry and Lizzie, and felt the now-familiar tears prick the back of her eyes. She pushed back her chair and excused herself to take solace in the cold dark of the communal bedchamber. Mercifully, there were few travellers at this time of the year and she had the verminous bed to herself. She curled into a ball and, clasping the locket, she allowed the silent tears to fall.
***
Although they encountered no further trouble, the weather closed in and rain and icy sleet turned the roads to a muddy bog. The inns they stayed in were verminous, the food often inedible, and sodden cloaks and boots did not dry overnight. Even the horses seemed fed up as they trudged along the lanes, cloying mud past their fetlocks, their heads lowered.
To Agnes’s credit she had not uttered one word of complaint, but after the encounter with the footpads she seemed lost in her own thoughts and they travelled mostly in silence. Her silence suited Daniel. She had already proved herself too curious about his past and his reasons for being back in England.
Exile's Return Page 8