The Mark of the Golden Dragon (39 page)

"Oh," I respond. "Politics from you, Richard? I thought such a simple soldier did not mess with that sort of thing." I give him a poke.

"Umm. Well, it appears the King is leaving," he says, looking over at the entrance where the King's party is exiting.

He turns and graciously gives a small royal wave to the crowd and then is gone. There is a great hubbub as people congratulate each other on having been in the presence of the King of England, Scotland, and Wales.

We rejoin Charlie and Sidrah after the crowd around them disperses.

"I think I shall return home soon," says Charlie. "I have done what I came to do. I have met the King of England. I have been named Special Trade Representative of His Majesty, a title that I believe will hold me in very good stead." He chuckles. "
And
I have had the delight of seeing many former classmates grovel at my feet. Yes, most satisfying, but time to be off."

"When will you go, Charlie?"

"On Friday. I have several dinner engagements planned."

"I will be sorry to see you go, Chops," I say, laying my hand upon his arm.

"Ah, well, I must get back. I am sure my enemies have made much of my absence and will need to be chastised," he says, patting my hand. "Perhaps we shall meet again, dear. After all, you
do
get around."

"I am sure of it, Charlie," I say. "And thank you for adopting me, Father. Does that mean I shall be in your will?"

He laughs. "We will have to negotiate that part of your adoption."

"That we shall," I say. "Now, let us all be off for one last night at the Cockpit, for this week we will have work, and I fear it will be hot work, indeed."

I put my hand on Lord Allen's arm.

"Come, my gallant Hotspur, I am feeling apprehensive and in need of some cheer."

At least I will get to see you soon, Jaimy, and I pray that all goes well ... but I just don't know...

James Fletcher, Highwayman
In the Saddle and Waiting
On Blackheath Moor

Jacky!

I have received reliable word that Harry Flashby, yes, that despicable bastard who has brought us both so low, will be on the Plymouth coach this night. How long I have waited, oh, how so very long! But now the base coward will be brought to bay. At last!

My pistols are primed, my sword is sharp. You will be avenged this night, dear girl, I promise it!

Jaimy

We've managed to get a coach very much like the regular London-to-Plymouth carriage, and we are heading down Blackheath Road toward the Blackthorne Inn, probably for the last time, for better or for worse. Liam is driving the team of four horses, his hat pulled low over his face in case Jaimy is capable of recognizing anybody in his current state of madness.

On the seat across from me in the coach, Harry Flashby sits, well bound up and glaring. We have given him a decent shave. And, oh, how I shall always remember the look on his face as the smiling Mr. Lee Chi approached him with a gleaming straight razor in his hand. We have dressed Flashby in new black trousers, black shirt, and boots. After all, when first we took him, he was wearing only his underclothes. We have his gag in place and the curtains are drawn because we do not want him attracting attention. Night has fallen, but there is a very bright moon rising, with ghostly clouds scudding across its pale and pitted face.

Next to Flashby are Davy and Tink, and beside me sits Captain Richard Allen, a dark gray cloak hiding his scarlet regimental uniform.

I am too nervous to make much small talk on this journey. A knot of worry is gnawing at the pit of my stomach...
Oh, Jaimy, what if things should go wrong, horribly wrong?

But if I am too full of dread and apprehension to make cheerful conversation as we clatter along, Richard most assuredly is not.

"There is a very good chance you will be killed this night, Flashby, old boy, and we do hope you will make a good show of it. After all, you have the reputation of the Black Highwayman to uphold," says Lord Allen to the gagged and moaning Flashby.

"We don't want future romantics to think he met his end as a groveling, sniveling coward, now, do we?" continues Allen, plainly enjoying Flashby's discomfort.

More grunts from Flashby, who finds his tormentor not finished quite yet. I know that Richard senses my unease and is doing this to cheer me, and, admittedly, it does help ... a little.

"For the love of God, Flashbutt, hold up your head! Don't you realize that stories and poems will be written about you? Yes, it is true!" he proclaims. "Think of it ... dewy young girls heaving great palpitating sighs and hugging their well-worn and tearstained copies of the sacred poem to their breasts, and all you have to do, for your part, is to perish nobly. Not too much to ask, is it, old top?"

On we go along the road that is now a pale ribbon of light under the glowing moon.

"Now there
is
a slight chance you might survive this night, in which case you will certainly be hanged at Newgate as fast as that can be arranged. Enough proof has been planted on you to ensure that, I promise you ... Yes, the evidence will be circumstantial, but it should prove damning. I can see it now—'Oh, the Highwayman stood on the gallows, his head on high, and proclaimed...' et cetera, et cetera. You know, all those things noble characters say when their noble necks are about to be stretched."

Flashby's face has by now turned a rather unsightly shade of pale, as he finally realizes just what is planned for him. I take the opportunity to remove the black silk mask from my purse, the one with the gathers so well described by Mrs. Beasley, the very observant seamstress, and tie it about Flashby's neck so that it will be ready to be yanked up into place when the time comes. And yes, I had stuffed all that cheap jewelry I had purchased at that pawnshop into Flashby's pockets, making sure that some spilled out so that all could take note.

That done, I draw back the curtain and stick my head out the window to look down the road we have just traveled. There is a cloud of dust back there, and I know it has been raised by Richard's company of Royal red-coated Dragoons, who are trailing us by a quarter mile. They bear orders to stay out of sight behind that hillock at the turn of the Blackheath Road until they are called. They lead Richard's horse and a few extra mounts.

Hmmm...
I'm thinkin'...
they'd better stay in the rear. It won't do for them to be spotted. Hey, what's that?
High on the crest of a hill I see a boy, framed by the rising moon, standing beside a horse, looking back from whence we had just come.

Uh-oh...
Could it be that Bess, the landlord's daughter, who has so far proved herself most cautious, has allies in her enterprise?
God, I hope not...

Hope or not, the boy bounds into the saddle and pounds off to the south. Maybe it's nothing ... but maybe he's headin' to the inn ... Maybe he will tell...
Oh, Lord, let us beat him to the spot...

I pull my head back in.

"We're gettin' close. Everybody ready? Remember, we must stay hidden. We don't want to spook him and send him flying off after all this trouble we've gone to. Got that? Good."

All nod, with Davy and Tink each putting their hands on a Flashby arm, and holding him upright. Richard loosens his pistol in its holster and says, "Ready, Princess. Let's get to it."

Liam leads the coach around the treacherous tight turn and there ... there ... there in the moonlight on his great black horse, stands the Black Highwayman of Blackheath Road, his mount rearing, his black cloak swirling around him.

"Stand!" he roars, pulling out his pistols. "Stand and deliver to me the base coward I know rests within that coach! Bring out Harry Flashby now!"

"Tink! Davy!" I hiss, yanking the gag from Flashby's mouth and pulling up the mask. "Put him out!" My shiv is already in my hand and I use it to cut the bonds that bind his wrists.

Davy kicks open the door and Flashby is tossed out to lie squalling and writhing in the dirt.

"No! Fletcher, please! Don't do it," croaks Flashby, now on his knees. "I beg of you! Mercy!"

The Highwayman looks down upon him, ignoring the rest of us.

"Take this pistol. You shall have the first shot." He tosses the pistol to the ground in front of Flashby.

I jump out of the coach and pull back the hood from my head.

"No, Jaimy, don't do this," I plead. "He's not worth it! He's—"

There is the sound of approaching hoofbeats, the sound of a horse being ridden desperately hard.

"NO, JAMES! WATCH OUT! IT'S A TRAP! RUN! RUN!"

The Highwayman's head jerks up to see Bess, the landlord's daughter, come pounding toward him.

"THERE'S A BAND OF REDCOATS BEYOND THAT HILL!" she screams. "YOU MUST FLEE! RUN!"

The girl jumps down from her horse and runs to his side and wraps her arms about him.

The Highwayman, confused, looks down upon her, his remaining pistol still in his hand.

"Jaimy! No!" I yell. "It's me, Jacky! Put down the gun! We can work this out!"

But it turns out we cannot work this out. Not now, not ever...

Flashby, now unbound and seeing confusion all about, reaches down to pick up the pistol that was tossed to him. To my horror, he aims and fires. Following the flash, I see the bullet find its mark. No, it doesn't penetrate the dear body of the Black Highwayman but instead goes straight into the chest of Bess, the landlord's raven-haired daughter.

She jerks and slumps to the ground.

Flashby, realizing that he has missed his target and can only expect a bullet in return, jumps up and runs away, up the road and toward the safety of London.

The Highwayman drops his pistol and sinks to his knees in the dirt beside his stricken girl, gasping as her heart's blood flows out of her. He gathers her to his own chest and holds her.

"James..." she whispers. "I..."

"Hush, dear Bess," says Jaimy, for it is now plain that it is he, the mask having dropped from his stricken face. He buries his face in the thick mass of her long black hair. "Just you rest now..."

I come up to him. Maybe I shouldn't, but I do.

"Jaimy ... please ... we must fly from here, we must..."

But he does not see me. His mind is closed to all but the girl who lies dying in his arms.

He places a kiss upon her brow as she gasps her last breath on this Earth and slumps lifeless against his chest.

"All I ever loved..." whispers Jaimy. "Jacky ... and now Bess. All I ever loved in this world ... gone ... taken from me..."

His left hand holds the girl's body, while his right searches through the dust and finds the unfired pistol. He fits it into his fist and lifts it...

Wait, Jaimy! Flashby's gone. You can't hope to hit him! You can't...

But it ain't Flashby he's aiming to shoot ... no, it ain't...

He lifts the gun and points the barrel to his own head, his eyes dead.

"NO!" I scream, and throw myself over the pistol. His finger tightens and the gun fires, tearing a hole in my shirt and a narrow burning groove in the skin of my belly. "JAIMY! DON'T YOU KNOW US? WE'RE YOUR FRIENDS! THERE'S LIAM, AND DAVY, AND TINK ... THE
DOLPHIN!
THE FORETOP! OH, DON'T YOU KNOW US, JAIMY?"

But he doesn't know us. No, he doesn't...

He gently lays the girl's body down and rises into a crouch, facing me.

"Demons ... all of you. Jacky's dead. My Bess is dead ... They're all dead ... and you have come here to torment me, you hellish fiends, you..."

Jaimy, his face a mask of pure insane rage, fixes his mad gaze upon me.

"No, Jaimy, it ain't like that, it ain't!" I plead. "We're your friends! I'm your girl, I am—"

What I am is standing there pleading with him as his fist comes rounding about and slams into the side of my face.

Oh, God! The shock, the pain!

I fall back and my head hits something hard and my senses cloud and I ... I can't get up, I can't ... I swim in and out of consciousness. Through the thudding pounding of my brain, I hear shouts...

Here, Delaney, get this rag over his face! That's it. Don't breathe it yourself, man, it'll knock you on your ass. Ah, yes, Mr. Fletcher, be calm now, that's it, relax ... just relax ... Everything's gonna be all right. Good. He's out. Jones, Tinker, get him in the coach.

I groan and roll over in the dirt.

Christ! She's got blood on her front! Here, hold her!

I feel my dress being ripped open.

Thank God, it looks superficial! Get her into the coach!

I am lifted up and my swirling senses slowly return to me. I find I am leaning against Richard Allen and being held up by his right arm.