Apprehension filled him. ‘Go on your way, sirs,’ Luka cried. ‘We have nothing worth robbing, and if you try, I’ll set my dog on you.’
‘If you do, I’ll shoot him,’ a familiar voice said gruffly.
Luka’s blood turned to ice. Coldham!
Without thinking, he turned and bolted, Emilia running beside him. Every step, he expected to hear the bang of a pistol, but Coldham evidently did not want to fire in the middle of the high street. Instead, he heard the thud of running boots. Luka put on speed, but it was no use. He was seized, and given a blow over his ear that made his head ring. Rollo snarled, and sprang, and was knocked down with what sounded like a heavy cudgel. The big dog fell with a whimper, then lay still.
‘Rollo!’ Emilia screamed. ‘Rollo!’
A hand was put over her mouth, and she was dragged, kicking and squirming, towards a large black coach that was drawn up in the shadows opposite the inn. Though both Luka and Emilia fought with all their strength, they could not get free. The coach door was dragged open, and they were thrown in. Coldham climbed in after them, slamming the door behind him. Light from the lantern over the inn door fell on his face as the horses were whipped into motion. It was a face that had haunted their dreams the past few nights, heavy, black-jowled, with mean slits of eyes and a pugnacious nose. He wore a long leather coat and steel helmet, and carried a thick stick. One hand rested on the pistol he wore thrust through his belt.
‘Rollo!’ Emilia panted. ‘You’ve killed Rollo.’
Coldham grunted. ‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Why? Why?’
‘Savage brute. Bit me once. Won’t do so again.’
‘How could you?’ Emilia sobbed.
‘Easily,’ Coldham said, sounding amused. ‘Do it again in an instant.’
Emilia wept as though her heart was breaking. Luka stroked back her tumbled black curls but kept a wary eye on Coldham, who lay back in his seat, watching them. The only light came from a lantern hanging by the driver’s seat. It swayed back and forth over the interior of the coach, so that Coldham’s ugly snout sank in and out of darkness.
Luka was furious with himself. Why had he not guessed that Coldham would overtake the coach and ride on to Southampton, to capture them once they had alighted? He and Emilia should have got out somewhere on the road, and lost themselves in the woods.
Now Rollo was dead, and they were caught, and all hope of rescuing their families was gone.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Luka could barely manage to frame the words.
‘Back to gaol.’
‘Why? Why chase us all over the country?’
Coldham cleared his throat and spat. ‘Filthy thieving gyps,’ he said. ‘Hate the lot of you.’
‘But why?’ Luka was genuinely bewildered.
‘Gypsies stole away my mam,’ Coldham said, after a moment. ‘Cast a spell on her and ran off with her.’
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ Luka said disbelievingly. ‘Why would they?’
A giant hand, gloved in steel, came whistling out of the darkness and cracked him hard across the face. Luka’s head snapped back and thudded against the seat. Emilia caught her breath and scrambled up beside him, putting her arms around him. Silently they stared at the black hulk of a man brooding in the far corner.
‘I tell you, they did,’ Coldham snarled. ‘Came along one day and sang in the village square, smiling and smirking and winking at the girls, and the next thing you know, my mam just off and went. Didn’t even say goodbye.’
Luka and Emilia did not believe a word of it. The Rom liked to keep themselves to themselves. It was very rare indeed for a Rom to marry a gorgio, and when they did, they either had to leave their family and become a gorgio themselves, or their gorgio wife had to adopt Rom ways, which very few were prepared to do. They had heard stories of children being stolen by gypsies, of course, but their grandmother had told them that it was all rubbish, and they had believed her. Privately both children thought it more likely that Coldham’s mother had just left her husband, which was not surprising, if the father was anything like his son. They did not dare say so, though, but sat there in silence as Coldham poured a bitter, icy flood of spite and hatred over them.
‘Lazy, sly, filthy, lying, thieving devils, black as your Satan-loving hearts. You should all burn in hell! You think I do not know that it was your ancestor who forged the nails that crucified Jesus Christ Our Saviour? You’re a cursed race, cursed to wander forever . . .’
On and on he ranted. All courage and strength and hope drained out of the children as if he had punctured their very spirits. They could only stare at him, exhausted and terrified, and feel the shadow of the gibbet fall upon them.
Very slowly, as if her limbs had turned to petrified wood, Emilia moved her right hand to her left, and groped for the chain that hung about her wrist. Her fingers found the familiar shape of the misshapen coin, and closed upon it.
Please . . . she thought. Please.
There was a loud bang, right outside the window, and a bright flash.
The horses reared and plunged, the coach swerved and skidded to a halt, and a loud and cheerful voice cried, ‘Stand and deliver!’
At once Coldham slid off his seat and crouched by the door, his hand going to his pistol. There was a commotion outside, horses neighing, men shouting, and then the door was wrenched open. As Coldham lunged forward, his pistol jerking upwards, Luka threw himself off the seat and landed a heartfelt kick in the big man’s posterior. Coldham fell sprawling out of the coach. His pistol discharged harmlessly into the dirt, much to the startled relief of the highwayman, who had been almost knocked over by Coldham’s unexpected exit.
‘Oddsblood!’ he cried.
‘Please!’ Luka cried. ‘Help us! We’ve been kidnapped . . .’
‘He’s a bad, bad man,’ Emilia said. ‘Please help us.’
They could see nothing of the highwayman but a pair of glinting eyes under a big feathered hat.
‘He killed our dog,’ Emilia said, her voice wobbling.
‘Oddsblood, a bad man indeed.’ The highwayman put out one big booted foot on Coldham’s back as he tried to rise, and pushed him back down into the road, then raised high the coachman’s lantern so it fell upon Emilia and Luka. ‘By the heavens above, it’s a couple of children. I thought you sounded young. Now, what bramble have I landed myself in? I heard there was a government agent travelling this road, and thought to have a little fun, and maybe some gain as well, but the kidnapping of children? That’s serious stuff.’
‘He is a government agent,’ Luka cried.
‘He’s like a spider in a web of intrigue,’ Emilia put in dramatically.
‘He grabbed us . . .’
‘He nabbed us . . .’
‘He hit us . . .’
‘. . . slapped Luka right across the face!’
‘He wants to throw us in gaol.’
‘He’s a bad, bad man,’ Emilia said again.
The highwayman was frowning. ‘Where did you get that coat?’ he demanded, so unexpectedly the children were thrown off balance.
Luka looked down at his neat brown shooting jacket, with the scorch marks at the shoulder. ‘A lady gave it to us.’
‘A very sad lady,’ Emilia said. ‘Lady Anne.’
‘Lady Anne? Lady Anne who?’
They screwed up their faces, trying to remember. Coldham groaned and struggled to get up again, and the highwayman booted him between the shoulderblades, knocking him back down. ‘Where?’ he demanded. ‘Lady Anne of where?’
‘Tanglewood?’ Emilia guessed.
‘Lady Anne Willard? Of Tanglewood Manor?’
‘You know her?’ Emilia exclaimed in surprise.
‘I do indeed,’ he said, frowning. ‘She’s my sister.’
The children were staring at him, trying to absorb the implications of this, when Coldham again tried to get up, roaring with rage. The highwayman deftly knocked him out with the cudgel. He lifted Emilia out o
f the carriage and set her on the ground, and then helped out Luka, who was unexpectedly trembly in the legs.
‘I think you two had best come back with me,’ the highwayman said. ‘It’s late, and I cannot be leaving you on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. We’ll go back to my hideaway, and you can tell me how you happen to know my sister, and in the morning I’ll decide what to do with you. Just give me a moment to see what other goodies this most unpleasant-looking man has for me.’
The children nodded, and sat down together on the stony bank by the side of the road. It was very dark, but Luka could see the road was surrounded on either side by rough heathland, with big sprays of brambles and gorse bushes that provided good cover for the highwayman to hide. The coachman lay limply on the road nearby.
‘Is he dead?’ Emilia whispered.
‘Lord, no,’ the highwayman said, turning Coldham over and bending to rifle through his pockets. ‘I’m no murderer. I just gave him a good crack on the head when he tried to draw his pistol.’
The highwayman pulled out a bunch of keys, a heavy bag of coins, and a few other odds and ends which he examined closely by the light of the lantern. He pocketed the bag of coins, and then went to toss the keys and the other things down by Coldham’s unconscious body.
Luka cried, ‘No! Please. Wait.’
The highwayman paused in surprise as Luka hurriedly rummaged through his bag until he found a candle. He pressed the candle against the lantern until the wax was warm and pliable, and then carefully took an impression of each of the keys. The highwayman watched quizzically for a while, then busied himself tying up the two men and dumping them in the coach.
He lifted high the lantern and shone it into every corner of the coach, then expertly opened up some kind of secret drawer under one of the seats, extracting a folder of papers and another two bulging bags of coins. He made a noise of intense satisfaction in his throat, and thrust the papers and the coins into the saddlebags of his own horse, a beautiful bay that had been waiting patiently by the side of the road. He hid the coach behind a large bush, and unhitched the four horses, running his hands over their legs appreciatively.
‘Should get a pretty penny for these lot,’ he said to Emilia. ‘I know a fellow in Salisbury who will paint them up and sell them for me, none the wiser.’
She nodded her head. ‘It’s a shame they’re black,’ she said. ‘Much easier to disguise a grey.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s a pretty young lass like you doing knowing such things?’
Emilia flushed. ‘Oh, I’m guessing.’
‘Good guess.’
She smiled and dropped her eyes.
‘A boy who knows how to take an imprint for a key to be copied, and a girl who knows how to disguise a stolen horse,’ he said with a grin. ‘What kind of company have I fallen into?’
‘I could say the same,’ Emilia retorted, and he laughed.
‘Can you ride?’ he asked. ‘Because I’d like to get away from here fairly quickly.’
She gave him a scornful glance, then vaulted up onto the back of one of the coach-horses, which was no easy task as it was fifteen hands high.
‘I guess that means “yes”,’ the highwayman said.
Luka had finished taking an impression of the keys, and was carefully tucking them back into Coldham’s pocket, making sure there was no wax left on them to make the big man suspect they had been copied. He then joined Emilia and the highwayman with a smile of pure joy on his face.
‘I have a feeling these could be very useful,’ he said to Emilia as he tucked the wax impressions carefully in the bag.
‘You think they’re the keys to the gaol?’ she whispered sceptically. ‘But would the pig-man have them?’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Luka said. ‘Only one way to find out.’ He winked at her. ‘Besides, even if they’re the keys to his dear old father’s cottage, they still may come in useful. I like to be prepared.’
‘After all, they could be the keys to his strong-box,’ Emilia replied, grinning.
‘Exactly.’ Luka deftly leapt onto the back of one of the other horses, his monkey’s tail whipping round his neck as she fought to stay on his shoulder.
‘Let’s go!’ the highwayman cried, and gave a wild cry, whipping up his horse. At once the bay was off, galloping along the road, the two other coach-horses racing along behind him.
‘Be careful!’ Luka called. ‘This road is full of potholes!’
But the highwayman only laughed, and galloped on, the lantern tied to his pommel casting an uncertain light on the road ahead. Emilia and Luka followed at breakneck speed, huge clods of mud spraying up from the hooves of their horses, the darkness hurtling past them.
The Highwayman’s Hideaway
The highwayman rode under a heavy branch, lifting it with one hand. Luka and Emilia came close behind, bending over their horses’ necks. Hidden beyond the big tree was a narrow bridle path, gleaming white in the darkness. They rode along in silence, and finally came to a rough camp in a small hollow. A tent was slung over a rope tied between two bushes, and there was a dead fire in a circle of stones.
‘Home sweet home,’ the highwayman said, dismounting gracefully. He unsaddled and hobbled his mount, then laid a fire. Emilia and Luka were so tired, it was all they could do to dismount. They slithered down and unbuckled the bridles with fingers that did not seem to want to work properly. The highwayman helped them hobble the horses nearby, then they all sat around the fire, grateful for its warmth.
Luka and Emilia could not help feeling a little scared of the highwayman, even though he had spoken to them kindly. He had taken off his big feathered hat, and in the light of the fire they could see he was a young man, long-limbed and lean, and dressed like a gentleman in a velvet coat with lace cascading over his wrists. His face was olive-skinned and bony, with hollows in the cheeks and deep-set eyes that looked to be as dark as Luka’s.
‘You look a bit like Lady Anne,’ Emilia said shyly. ‘Are you really her brother?’
He gave her an ironic bow, the fingers of one hand brushing the ground as he bent low. ‘Lord Harry Morrow, at your service.’
‘If you’re a lord, why are you working the bridle lay?’ Luka demanded.
‘I prefer to call myself a knight of the road,’ Lord Harry responded.
‘Road pirate, highwayman, whatever you want to call it, it’s not what you expect a lord to be doing,’ Luka said.
‘What else am I meant to do?’ he replied bitterly. ‘My estate has been stolen, my house burnt to the ground, my family are all dead . . .’
‘Lady Anne isn’t dead,’ Emilia said.
‘She is to me.’ Lord Harry’s voice was hard and cold.
‘Because she wouldn’t do anything to help when you were fleeing the king’s last battle?’
‘So you’ve heard the story. Which makes me very curious. Who are you, and why do you know so much about my family?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Luka said.
The gentleman leant back against his saddle. ‘I’m in no rush.’
So Luka and Emilia told him a short version of their tale, and as he listened he smoked his pipe in silence, his brows drawn close together.
‘So you say this Coldham man has been chasing you across the countryside? It seems a most unlikely tale.’
‘But it’s all true!’ Luka exclaimed hotly.
‘I don’t necessarily disbelieve you, lad. I did, after all, find you in his coach. I’m just wondering if there’s not more to this than meets the eye. If my information is correct, he’s a government agent, a pursuivant, whose job it is to hunt down Catholics and Royalists. Old Ironsides has spies everywhere. I’ve heard tell he can greet a man and tell him exactly when and where he raised his glass in a secret toast to the king, when the poor man thought he was among friends.’
Luka thought about the young man at the Angel Inn. He shivered and crept closer to the fire.
Lord Harry regarded him through h
eavy-lidded eyes. ‘I’d quite like to know where your loyalties lie. Tell me, are you for the king or Parliament?’
Luka was too tired and dispirited to be tactful. ‘I’m for myself, my lord,’ he said bluntly. ‘We gypsies say, when we are dying, “Bury me standing, for I’ve been on my knees all my life.” Well, it’s true. We were branded and whipped and hanged when a king sat on the throne, and there’s no difference now a Lord Protector sits there instead, as far as I can see.’
Lord Harry frowned and examined his shabby boot.
‘Well, me, I’m for the king,’ Emilia said. ‘The Roundheads killed my father and took our horses, and left us with nothing. I was only a baby when the old king had his head cut off, so I don’t remember what life was like back then, but I know things could hardly be worse than they are now. Maybe if the new king came back, he would have learnt some kind of lesson and rule better than his father did.’
‘And maybe he’d be worse,’ Luka pointed out.
‘Oh, no, he’s a great man,’ Lord Harry said eagerly. ‘I fought with him at Worcester, and a braver prince never lived! Again and again he charged into battle, calling to all the men by name, and when it was clear the battle was lost and the common soldiers began throwing down their arms, he cried to them that he would rather they shot him then and there than surrender. All through the city we fought, till the gutters ran with blood, but still he would not give in. It was only when it was clear that the day was lost then he was convinced to flee, and even then his men had to drag him away.’
He sighed and looked into the flames, tears glittering in his eyes. ‘It was a miracle he got away. Indeed, it is a sign of God’s favour that he was preserved.’ He lifted his cup to the stars, then drank deeply.
‘Martha says it’s a sign of God’s favour that Parliament won the day,’ Luka said.
Lord Harry glanced at him and, unexpectedly, laughed. ‘Indeed, I guess we all believe it is by God’s Providence that we are delivered, when in truth it is probably nothing more than blind luck.’