Sovay (6 page)

CHAPTER
6

S
ovay opened her eyes.

‘Don’t move,’ a quiet voice commanded. ‘Leastways, don’t move quickly.’

The gunman stepped back and brought a lighted candle close to her face. She tried to see beyond the halo of light but could only make out the dark shape of a man. A velvet sleeve, a lace cuff, the gleam of rings on the hand that held the gun. Apart from that, nothing.

‘I wanted to see what manner of cove thought to set up against me.’

‘And what do you find?’ Sovay kept perfectly still, staring at the gun trained on her.

‘An interesting kind of cove, indeed.’ Her coat had slipped. He used the barrel of his pistol to part the loosened ties of her shirt. ‘One I hadn’t thought to see.’

Sovay looked at the empty holster hanging up on the door. He had taken her pistol. She took another from under her coat and aimed it at his midriff.

‘What kind of highway man would I be,’ she asked, ‘with only one pistol? Drop your gun, sir, or it will be the worse for you.’

His eyes held hers for a further moment; he seemed to come to some kind of decision.

‘I’d call you a sneaking kind of a fellow, hiding a second weapon like that.’ He laid the pistol on the table and held his hands high, ‘And one full of surprises.’

She reached forward, flipping open his coat with the barrel of her gun.

‘Lay down that one,’ she ordered. ‘That one, too.’

He had a veritable arsenal under his jacket.

‘Are you going to check my boots?’ He took the cork out of the bottle and poured himself some wine. ‘You’re not going to kill me.’

Sovay kept her gun trained on him. ‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘You’re not the killing kind. Shall we declare a truce?’ He laughed and bowed with a flourish. ‘Captain Jake Greenwood at your service.’ He sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Now, would you care to tell me who you really are and what you think you are up to.’

Sovay told him as much as she thought he needed to know about herself and her background. When she had finished, he smiled.

‘Well, Miss Sovay,’ he said. ‘And what led you to take up a life on the road?’

‘I did not do it for gold and silver.’ Sovay thought it better not to tell him about her unexpected find at the bottom of the wallet.

‘So you deprive some poor cove like me of a living!’ He laughed, then his expression became more serious. ‘Then why?’ He regarded her with curiosity. ‘Only a fool with a gallows wish would take up such a life for the thrill of it. I can’t think of a quicker way to get yourself hanged. And I think you no fool, Sovay.’

‘The first time, it was a private matter.’

‘And the other times?’

‘A different private matter.’

‘So did you find what you wanted? Did you settle this, ah, private matter to your satisfaction?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Although I fail to see what it has to do with you.’

‘That is where you are wrong. Whatever it is you took is valuable to someone. He wants it back badly. You would be advised to get rid of it as soon as you can. The roads are being watched, extra patrols are out, anything like that is bound to affect us all.’

‘How do you know? How does he . . .’

He shrugged. ‘News travels fast on the road. The individual in question has spies everywhere.’

Sovay had made an enemy. The same man who had sent the tipstaff to arrest her father, who had collected all the evidence against him. The hair prickled on her scalp at the thought of him turning his attention on to her.

‘Who is he?’ she asked.

Greenwood paused, as though considering whether it was wise to tell her, then he said, ‘His name is Dysart. He casts his net wide and has many in his pay, large and small. There will be a reward for information given.’

‘Is that why you are here? To rob me and claim the reward?’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I have no liking for his kind. I was just curious, that’s all. Now, who knows of your disguise?’

‘Gabriel.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The son of our Steward.’

‘Can he be trusted to keep quiet?’

‘He helped with the robbery.’

‘So we can presume yes, unless he wants to hang by your side. The fewer who know the better. Any more?’

Sovay thought hard. There was the American. She had almost forgotten that he knew. And now this highwayman. And the Gilmores. What had possessed her to hold up Sir Royston’s carriage? That was foolish. She had allowed her judgement to give way to recklessness. She could see the wisdom in the highwayman’s words. When she had first ridden out, she had not been seeking thrill or adventure, but she had become more and more enraptured by those very things. The excitement and danger had kindled emotions that she had never before experienced. She had never felt so alive as she did up on the heath, hearing the creak of the wheels, the snort of the horses as a coach drew nearer, seeing the surprise on the faces of those she confronted, knowing her own life could be over in an instant but sensing their fear was even greater. But she saw now that she had ventured into unknown regions. The ground was quaking beneath her, threatening to pull her down.

‘I assume you are going to London,’ the highwayman was saying. ‘I go that way myself. We should leave. Now.’ He parted the heavy curtains. ‘It is nearly dawn. The skies are clear. A fine morning, although it won’t last. We should be going before the inn is stirring.’ He stood to the side of the window and peered out. ‘There’s no knowing who may already be about.’

‘Why should I go with you?’ Sovay was still not sure that she should trust this man.

‘Why not? It is safer to ride with a companion. The road is a dangerous place. There are all sorts of bad characters on it. Surely you know that?’

He grinned at her, his teeth white in his tanned face. His strong, even features had just the right edge of rugged manliness and there was an insolent smile in his dark blue eyes. He was undoubtedly a handsome man and he knew his attractiveness to women. His upper lip was marked by the thin line of a moustache, which made him look like the King in a pack of playing cards, and he wore his long, dark chestnut hair loose to his shoulders. It was as though he’d missed his time by a hundred years. He had chosen his clothes with care, with exactly the right kind of show and flamboyance. His plumed hat lay on her bed; he wore a silver and black cut velvet jacket and quantities of lace at his cuffs and throat. He looked every inch the dashing highwayman: tall and straight limbed in buff-coloured breeches and thigh high jackboots turned down to the knee.

His horse was as fine as his owner. A beautiful dark bay with a refined, chiselled head, a slightly dished face and the high tail carriage that spoke of Arab blood. Sovay expressed her admiration as she led Brady out of his stall.

‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘he’s a good horse. I took a fancy to him one day on the Newmarket road. Some young gentleman had a long walk home. You have a remarkably handsome grey. Fine head on him.’

Brady shied away from his stroking glove. Sovay put a hand on his dappled neck to calm him.

‘He’s a splendid horse all right, but too distinctive, too identifiable. You’ve got a lot to learn, and no mistake.’ Greenwood helped her up into the saddle, and then mounted himself. ‘We must stable him as soon as we get to London, or he will give you away.’

A curtain twitched up in the top gable window at the front of the inn. The room was cheap and small, but it was perfect for its occupant’s purposes. It was high, near to the sky, and it gave a good view of the arch that led out of the yard, as well as the road before it.

Digby Clayton was an early riser. Only the owls are up before Digby, was one of his sayings. He watched the two of them ride off together down the London road and then sat down to write on a slip of paper. When he had finished, he folded the paper over, and over again. Then he opened one of the narrow cages he carried in his saddlebags and took out a bird. He crooned to it, caressing the iridescent feathers on the back of its neck, and then stroking it gently under the throat as he attached the note to a band on the bird’s leg. He opened the window and, with a few final soft words of encouragement, he let the bird go.

The pigeon sat on a chimney pot for a few moments, head cocked, and then it took off, circled once above the red roofs of the town, and flew off south for London.

CHAPTER
7

A
s Sovay and the highwayman went on their way to London, Gabriel met Fitzwilliam in the yard of the Mitre Inn.

‘Why don’t you travel inside with me?’ the young don said as he surveyed his fellow passengers. They looked a dull lot. ‘You can tether your horse behind. The weather is promising to turn inclement and I could do with some good conversation.’

The sky threatened rain and, as he spoke, the first heavy drops began to fall. Gabriel did not relish the thought of a soaking, so he readily agreed. The coach took the new London road up Headington Hill and on to the capital. Despite Fitzwilliam expressing a need for good conversation, he was soon asleep. Gabriel watched the unfamiliar countryside go by and wondered how his horse was faring. Travelling in the carriage was uncomfortable and he would have made much greater speed on horseback. He wondered if he had made the right decision, but was as soon as fast asleep as his companion.

Gabriel was woken by the guard blowing his horn as they approached the White Hart, the last inn before London. The coach came to a halt in the yard and he stepped down, glad to be out, although even with both feet on solid ground, he still felt the rocking motion of the carriage. The passengers were directed to a dining room, while the guard checked his weapons and the driver saw to the change of horses.

The dining room was towards the back of the inn. The fee for dinner was half a crown, the price included in the ticket. A long table had been set out for the passengers, with bread, knives and a scattering of forks on a cloth that had served at least another sitting, maybe more, judging from the stains upon it. The passengers took their seats and various dishes were brought out and spread along the board. The food was plain, but there was plenty of it. They only had twenty minutes and Gabriel was hungry. He set to with a will, even though the scalding broth burnt his mouth, the steak was tough, the boiled mutton more fat than meat and the potatoes floury on the outside and hard within. His companion ate with rather less relish, but declared it ‘Not half bad. No worse than we get in college.’

The guard’s horn summoned them back to the coach. Gabriel elected to ride rather than travel inside. He disliked the motion and the stuffy interior of the carriage. The guard was relieved. He could use another pair of eyes and Gabriel looked as if he might be a useful man in a fight.

‘Look to your weapon, sir. Make sure that it is primed and ready for use,’ he advised as they prepared to set off. ‘The next stretch of road is lonely and much infested with highwaymen and robbers.’

‘This is a likely spot.’ Greenwood drew off the road. ‘Now you can learn something. The way narrows, see? Trees crowd close. The road is ill kept. It’s been raining and the ground is always sodden.’ He pointed to numerous pools and meres. ‘I will position myself here where the coach has to slow to negotiate the marshy ground. You go to the top of the rise, keep yourself well hid, and whistle when you see the coach coming.’ He grinned at Sovay. ‘You can whistle?’

‘Yes. I can whistle,’ Sovay replied. ‘But why are we doing this?’

They had ridden through driving rain and she was wet and miserable. All she wanted to do was get to London as soon as possible.

‘Because I’m a highwayman,’ he explained patiently. ‘It’s my occupation. You aren’t turning gutless on me, now? You have already done enough to hang twice over. What difference will one more excursion make?’

‘No, I do not lack the courage, if that’s your meaning. I merely meant that it will cause delay.’ She looked through the rain dripping off the brim of her hat. ‘How do you know there is even a coach on the road? We could wait all day.’

‘I heard the horn and saw them in the yard of the White Hart. You must learn to use your ears and eyes if you wish to live much longer.’ He paused. ‘You don’t have to do the fleecing, if that’s what bothers you. Just stand look out.’ He leaned forward in his saddle. ‘If you want to stay with me, you will do as I say.’

‘That is not what bothers me,’ Sovay replied, stung that he would think her squeamish in any way. ‘I’ve done enough of that to hang twice over, as you say. I’m in a hurry to get to London, that is all. What if I choose to leave you here and go on my own?’

‘Oh and what will you do there?’ He gave a scornful laugh. ‘In five minutes you would be relieved of that fine horse, at the very least. If you ever want to be Miss Sovay again in your fine house, if you ever want to
see
your fine house again, you need my services. So look sharp.’ He consulted a handsome pocket watch. ‘By now, they’ll have finished their inedible mutton and will be on their way.’

Sovay did not like being ordered about by him, but she decided she would do as he said. She might need his help when she got to London. She hid in a brake of young trees and positioned herself where she could see the road and felt some of the old excitement returning. A coach was approaching, just as he had predicted. Sovay loosened her weapons, her heart beating harder, she felt the familiar prickle at the back of her neck as she eased her mask into place. She put two fingers to her mouth and prepared to whistle. Then she saw the horseman riding alongside. There was something familiar about him. She craned forward. There was something about the horse, his seat, the way he held the reins. Then she was sure. Her mouth dried and her whistle died. The black horse with a white blaze was her brother’s, Starlight. The rider was Gabriel.

She broke cover just as the coach gained the top of the rise, galloping down the hill in front of it. The lead horses shied and the driver struggled to control them as the coach began to slide on the muddy slope. Gabriel rode fast to gain the front horse and grab his bridle to steady him down and bring the rig to a halt before the whole thing overturned. The guard reached for his gun, fearing an attack, and let off a shot after the retreating horseman.

‘What are you doing?’ Greenwood was furious. ‘It was waddling down just right, like a fat goose to the slaughter!’

‘I had to warn you. Stop you. I know the horseman.’

What was Gabriel doing here? She had no time to speculate. The guard had had time to reload and had noted the place where she had turned into the trees. A shot whined through the branches above their heads. Worse. The gunfire had alerted others. There were cries and shouts, the clatter of hooves on the road, more gunshots. A ball hit a tree, showering them both with leaves and splinters of wood.

‘That was near.’ Greenwood flicked a splinter from his sleeve. ‘It’s a horse patrol. We better make ourselves scarce. Follow me and keep your head down. I presume you can ride that fine horse of yours. This’ll give him a chance to stretch his legs. Get rid of all this,’ he drew his sword and cut the bundle tied to the back of her saddle. ‘It’ll slow you down. When we get to the edge of the trees, ride like the devil is behind you!’

Sovay’s clothes spilled across the muddy ground, but she had no time to worry about that or what she would wear when she got to London. From down on the road and from the fields on both sides of them, men shouted and weapons discharged in white puffs of smoke. Sovay spurred Brady on, following the fleeing highwayman as he wove a way through the close-growing trees. She clung to her horse’s neck, all the while trying to avoid the flying bullets and the low-growing branches which threatened to take off her head.

Gabriel glimpsed the fleeing horsemen stitching their way through the woods and breathed a sigh of relief as they broke across a patch of open ground to freedom. Their speed left the pursuing horse patrol scattered over the hillside with no likelihood of catching them. The guard on the coach let off another shot, but his line of fire was fouled by trees and by the time the horsemen broke cover, they were too far away for him to do any damage.

‘Did you see who it was?’ the driver asked.

‘Jake Greenwood, like as not,’ the guard replied. ‘I recognise that plume in his hat. Showy bugger. T’other on the grey is new to me.’ He scowled down at Gabriel. ‘You had the scoundrel clear. You could have got ’im. Winged him at least.’ He hawked and spat. ‘You country lads ain’t the shots you crack yourselves up to be, that’s for certain.’

The passengers settled back now that the excitement was over and the driver cracked his whip for their onward journey into London.

Gabriel trotted along behind, lost in thought. He had recognised the horse at once and held his fire. He wouldn’t mention it to Fitzwilliam – he didn’t want to complicate matters – but this was a puzzle indeed. What was Miss Sovay doing in the company of a real highwayman?