The Highwayman Read online

  The Highwayman

  By Eleanor Musgrove

  Inspired by Alfred Noyes’ poem of the same name.

  Published by Eleanor Musgrove 2019

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Text, format and cover design: © Eleanor Musgrove 2019

  Cover image: © Petrafler | shutterstock.com

  Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living individuals are entirely coincidental.

  eamusgrove.wordpress.com | @masqueblanc

  The wind tore at the trees, shaking the whole forest in the darkness. Above the treetops, the clouds resembled nothing more than wild waves tossing the ghost of the poor stricken moon around a watery grave. The long road from the town beyond the hill was little more than a ribbon of moonlight, tossed aside on the purple moor by some unseen hand, and it was by this road, amidst small stones sent skittering by his horse's hooves, that the highwayman came riding up to the old inn door.

  He was a sight to behold, if anyone had been awake to see him; he wore a french cocked-hat pulled low over his eyes, so that it brushed the mask he wore. Beneath his chin was an abundance of lace in the form of a rather fetching – and extravagant – cravat, and a similar lack of modesty could be found in the quality of his tailoring. His coat was the colour of claret, though it took on a slight purple hue in the moonlight, and his doe-skin breeches were fitted so exactly as to make any onlooker wonder if they were simply sewn directly on every evening. Over those breeches, he wore boots that went right up to his thighs, drawing the wandering eye back up from his feet in the stirrups to the jewels embedded in his pistol-butts and the hilt of his rapier. He was an accomplished highwayman, and his attire showed the rewards he'd reaped from his success; indeed, some unfortunate travellers had taken one look at him and thrown everything they had of value at his feet, begging to be allowed to flee with their lives.

  The inn had a courtyard at the front, all uneven cobbles, with the odd forgotten tankard lying around to trip the unwary. The sound of iron horseshoes striking stone seemed to shatter the silence of the night, but no sign of movement came from within the building. Somehow, the occupants must still be asleep, despite his less-than-stealthy arrival. He reached out with his whip to tap on the closed shutters, just to make certain, but the inn was locked up for the night, the windows were barred, and it didn't seem that anybody intended to come out and investigate any strange noise that might have been heard. He took a deep breath and whistled a favourite, familiar tune; only a few bars had passed his lips before the shutters of an upper window flew open. There she was; Bess, the landlord's daughter with her dark, soulful eyes and her full, tempting lips. She was plaiting a dark red ribbon into her hair in an intricate pattern he - with his simple ponytail - couldn't begin to understand, and as she worked her way down the long, thick braid she began to sing the second verse under her breath.

  “Ten thousand miles it is so far

  To leave me here alone,

  Whilst I may lie, lament and cry,

  And you will not hear my moan, my dear,

  And you will not hear-”

  She stopped with a laugh, and called down to him.

  “What brings you here tonight, my dear Tristan?” It wasn't his name, not his true name, but they could not risk the use of his real name while he was so obviously an outlaw. If they had met in the street, in their normal everyday clothes, it might have been safe, but he was every inch the highwayman, and she was in her nightgown, and a false name was all that might stand between them and disgrace, to say nothing of the gallows.

  “I wanted to see you,” he admitted, “and to ask you a rather great favour.”

  “What's that?” She was smiling; no doubt she knew what he would ask for. It was what he always asked for, but tonight was different. Tonight would change everything, for both of them.

  “One kiss, my bonny sweetheart,” he called, and she laughed. “I'm after a prize tonight. I’ll be back by morning, with enough lovely yellow gold to change our lives forever.”

  “Oh, Tristan. Truly?”

  “This sort of prize doesn’t come along often, not in this part of the country. If the rumours are true, it’s enough to solve all our problems. I’ll tell you about it in the morning, when it’s done. But if the law follows hard on my trail, and they manage to keep up with me, then look for me by moonlight.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” Bess whispered, “after all this time...”

  “Believe it,” Tristan assured her, “I haven't failed you yet. About that kiss...?”

  “Of course I'll kiss you.” She leant precariously out of her casement, and he stood in his stirrups to reach for her. He barely managed to touch the tips of his fingers to hers, to his frustration – why had she met him at an upstairs window, and not on the ground floor? - but then she tugged at the ribbon in her hair and the whole plait came undone, long black waves spilling out and down to brush across his chest. He took a deep breath, inhaling his love's sweet scent, and then he kissed her hair in lieu of her lips. There would be all the time in the world to kiss his beloved Bess, once this was done and they had the luxury of leisure.

  He paid no mind to the creak of a stable-wicket, but perhaps he ought to have, for he was not as unobserved as he thougt. The eyes watching from the darkness were the wild, ruthless eyes of a former feral child, the orphan, Tim, who tended the horses. Bess' father had taken him under his wing after the lad had been caught pickpocketing drinkers at that very inn, and he had done his best to become a good citizen. It was no secret, among those who frequented the inn, that Tim's efforts to be good were all in a bid to impress his master's daughter; he had been smitten with her since he first laid eyes on her, a mere boy of ten – and now, at thirteen, his affection for her had not diminished in the slightest. The only people in the county who seemed unaware of Tim's infatuation with Bess were the girl herself, and her father, which was probably for the best. Bess was a woman grown, now, seventeen years old and fond of the young ostler as a sister might love a brother; soon enough she would be expected to marry, and Tim was hardly likely to be considered a reasonable suitor. Oh, but he adored her, in his way, and so he stayed still and quiet in the stable to listen to the lovers' tryst.

  “Don't get caught,” Bess warned her love softly as he gathered his reins again, “even if you have to ride for days to shake them off. I'll wait.”

  “Watch for me by moonlight,” he reminded her fondly, “I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

  Then he tugged at his reins, raised a hand in farewell, and galloped away to the west.

  ~*~

  Bess woke in a thrill of anticipation, but her highwayman did not come. She listened for hoofbeats as the inn began to serve lunches, but none of the horses that arrived carried her love on their backs. She waited all day, as she went about her business, but still Tristan was nowhere to be seen; and out of the bright bronze sunset, before the moon could rise, a troop of redcoat soldiers marched to commandeer the inn.

  The inn emptied swiftly, the locals abandoning their ales and rushing home to run errands they'd forgotten until the very moment they spotted King George's finest men at the bar. The soldiers didn't even speak to the landlord, they just snapped
their fingers and waited for ale to appear. Seeing so many soldiers waiting to be served, the landlord called up the stairs to Bess.

  “Bess! I need you down here serving!” Distracted by his good fortune, he didn't notice the soldiers bolting the door behind the last customer, but he certainly noticed when they pushed him out of the way and barged up the stairs.

  Bess met them halfway down, and was promptly bundled back up into her own bedroom. The soldiers forced a rag – the fact that it was relatively clean was little comfort – into her mouth, to stop her from crying out, and tied her to the foot of the bed. The bindings forced her to stand up straight, like a soldier on parade, the ropes tied tight enough to sting. All the while, she could hear their laughter and their taunts.

  “Quite a picture you'll make for your man, there. Pity he'll never see you again.”

  “Won't see anyone again,” another man sniggered. “Where's our new lad? Where's Tim?”

  “That's right – where's our bold new recruit?”

  “He's just locking up the old man behind the bar,” another man confirmed.

  Bess' heart sank. Tim was young and impressionable, and for the last few months he had spoken of nothing but his admiration for the King's men in their smart red coats as they marched around the country tackling wrongdoers. Bess – and, for that matter, her father – had slightly lower opinions of the soldiers, and this visit wasn't doing anything to improve matters, but they had thought Tim would move past his current ambition to join their ranks, given time. Now, she stared in disbelief at the man who'd spoken. Had Tim taken the King's shilling, young as he was?

  “Oh, of course, our hostess here doesn't know. Tim's the one who brought us here – he heard you and your scoundrel last night.”

  “And here he is! The hero of the hour!”

  Tim stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed. “Why is Bess all tied up? She's not the one who's been robbing people.”

  “Well, we can't have her warning the brute, can we? Come here, we've got a present for you.” Bess could only watch in stunned horror as they helped him into a red coat of his very own, and Tim fairly glowed with pride – until he looked round to see what Bess thought of it.

  “I'm sorry, Bess,” he told her, “I had to tell them. He's a bad man, and I was scared for you.”

  “Scared for you, Bess. Because even a young lad of this tender age can see getting mixed up with bad folks is no good. Why don't you give her a kiss, Tim, since you love her so much?”

  “Er... I don't think I should,” Tim shook his head, and the redcoat shrugged.

  “Your loss. Now, then, Bessie. Your stalwart defender here has told us you're to watch for your man, and so you shall. And so will we. Tim?”

  The boy had slunk off into a shadowy corner, his habitual domain, but now he shuffled forward. “Sir?”

  “There you are. Now, if Bess here is to keep watch with the rest of us, she's going to need a musket to match. Do you know how to load a musket, lad?”

  “Er... yes.”

  “Jolly good. Well, you load this one for me, and we'll strap it up beside Bess so we can shoot her if she tries to warn him. All right?”

  Tim's face went white as ash.

  “Shoot... shoot Bess?”

  “Only if she tries to warn him. Load it up, Tim lad, if you want to keep that dashing red coat.”

  Tim hesitated for a moment, glancing between Bess and his new friends. Then he held out his hands.

  “I can do it. I want to be one of you.”

  Bess closed her eyes as he loaded the gun, and then the redcoats tied it beside her, the barrel pressing into her ribs.

  “Keep good watch, now.” The leader brayed a laugh and kissed her roughly through the gag; Bess tried to squirm away but found herself unable to move. Then the men turned back to the window, settling themselves down for a long vigil.

  “Can I have a gun?” Tim asked.

  “You're barely big enough to lift one. You sit in that window and keep watch, lad, and you'll get your turn one day.”

  All eyes were on the road – including the frightened black eyes of the landlord's daughter. She could see, from her place at the foot of the bed, the road winding away towards the hill, and she knew with a sickening feeling of icy dread that her highwayman would be killed on that road tonight, killed because of her. She couldn't let it happen. Bess writhed against the bonds, as quietly and discreetly as she possibly could, but there was nothing to be done. She was trapped – but the rope holding her left hand had just a tiny bit of give in it, and suddenly she realised that there was still a chance for Tristan. If she could move her hand, just a little more... The ropes bit into her wrists, and she could feel a damp liquid that might be sweat or blood, but she kept working quietly at the weakest knot. Hours crawled by as she struggled, until she felt she must have been tied in her bedroom for years or even decades – and then, as the distant church bells struck midnight, she felt the tip of one straining finger touch the musket’s trigger. That much, at least, was hers.

  Her finger brushed the cold metal, and Bess froze. She couldn't risk anyone noticing that she had managed some small measure of control; she didn't dare to try to reach any further. Besides, if she slipped and the gun went off, it wouldn't help Tristan. The trigger was hers; that had to be enough for now. The road was empty, completely still under the light of the moon, and her heart pounded with fear for her love.

  Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot. Had they heard it? The redcoats showed no sign, no sudden scramble to alertness. Tim glanced over at her, but it seemed even he couldn't hear the hoofbeats ringing clear across the silent moor; he would have alerted his new friends if he had. Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot. Surely they could hear it? The whole troop couldn't be deaf. But perhaps it wasn't her highwayman; perhaps it was simply a traveller seeking lodgings, or a farmer on his way to the fields. Then he rode over the brow of the hill, and Bess' stomach turned over; she could not mistake the silhouette of her highwayman in his finery, sword at his side and pistols at his hips. The redcoats stirred silently into action, their guns pointed out of the windows at the road. Their captain moved Tim briskly away from the window, taking his place.

  “You might want to wait outside, boy. This room's about to get quite loud.” Tim retreated as far as the door, and there, Bess supposed, he stayed, but she hardly had any attention to spare for him. The redcoats were priming their muskets, taking aim, and all the while her highwayman came closer, unaware of the danger.

  Tlot-tlot – those hoofbeats were the only sound in the whole world, pounding mercilessly onwards over the frost coating the road. Tlot-tlot – they echoed from every corner of the night, and Bess knew she had to act soon. She had never felt so cold, yet her face seemed aflame as her blood pounded close to her skin. She felt her eyes widen, desperate for one last glimpse of Tristan before any shot could ring out. Then she took a deep breath, and pulled her trigger.

  ~*~

  Tristan heard a gunshot and knew that it had come from the inn where Bess lived. He had to make sure that she was all right; if trouble had come to her home, whether in the form of a raging drunk or a rival bandit, the culprit would regret messing with his love. The full wrath of a highwayman was something to behold, and though Tristan had never yet actually had to kill anybody – most people, when given the choice of surrendering their money or their lives, erred on the side of caution – he wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who hurt his Bess. He felt in his bones that he could do it, and sleep well afterwards. But as he approached the inn, a figure ran out in a distinctive red coat – the King's men. They shouldn't pose a threat to Bess, as long as they didn't know of his connection to the inn. He didn't question why the figure was taking his coat off and spreading it over the stable-wicket nearest the road, buttons glinting in the moonlight as if they’d been made just to catch the eye. He only cared that Bess should not be tainted by her association with him, and that if the redcoats were going to apprehend him they would jolly well have to catch him first. He
tugged at his reins, his horse turned around, and they galloped away westward.

  He reached the village where he made his home, exhausted and dishevelled, all his finery hurriedly stowed in a saddle bag. He had changed his clothes in a thicket on the way, which was always a nerve-wracking experience, and now he looked every inch the respectable woman he was by day. Tristan might have set out after a prize the previous night, but it was Anne who'd been missing all day, and now she let herself into her father's house with a muttered apology.

  “No need for that, Annie. I'm just glad you're back – thought I'd lost you. Go and talk to your mother, she's worried about you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Up in bed, worrying. I told her I'd sit down here, just in case you came, since my leg's giving me what for, anyway.”

  “I'll go and see her.”

  “Good girl. And how's your dear heart?”

  “Bess is well, last time I saw her. I couldn't go to her tonight – redcoats at the inn.”

  “Were there, now? I hope she hasn't given you away.”

  “Bess would never do that, father. I'll go and see Ma.”

  Her mother was so delighted to see her that she wouldn't let her go; Anne slept curled up close to her mother, just as she had as a little child, while her father worked as a night soil man. His injury had not seemed severe when he'd first come by it, three years ago, but it had become infected and begun to ooze and in the end there had been no help for it; the whole leg had had to come off to save his life.

  “Save my life?” He had wailed, at the time, “And what of my family? I can't provide for them with one leg.” That was when Anne had crept out to the road in desperation and, in her deepest and most demanding voice, ordered a weedy-looking youth in fine clothing to turn over everything he had. She'd been hidden in a tree, and the boy had clearly panicked; he'd thrown down everything, including his clothes, and galloped away in terror. With his money, she'd been able to procure the tools of her trade; his weapons had been unremarkable, and had been exchanged for the glittering sword and pistols she now carried. His purse had provided for a a mask and a horse of her own, a solid beast that fairly flew along the familiar roads around her home, and she had tailored his clothing herself to make herself the ultimate dashing robber. By the time she was finished, even her own father wouldn't have recognised her, except that she'd come clean as she handed over what was left of her spoils.