Rebels and traitors

Chapter Thirty-Eight — On the Road: 1645

Some time in the aftermath of the battle of Naseby, a male traveller had ridden along the empty highway between Beaconsfield and Windsor. He looked well-to-do. His hat was velvet with half an ostrich plume, his cloak was scarlet, his britches had a rash of gold lacing, his boots were polished and lace cuffs dangled elegantly from his coat sleeves. His manner was jaunty and careless, despite the seriousness of the times. If he was a Royalist fugitive, he hid it well.

A mile or two before Slough, the rider came upon a young woman disconsolately leaning on a stile beside the road. In the cheerful way of any seventeenth-century gentleman who spied an unescorted female, he at once reined in his horse and bent down to offer her the courtesy of a lewd offer. As if she had been expecting this privilege, she straightened up and turned towards him. She was monumentally pregnant.

With the shameless good grace of the men of his time, he immediately apologised and — after a disappointed curse — changed the offer to one of general assistance. Clearly exhausted, the vulnerable damsel begged for a ride to the next town. He agreed. She climbed on the handy stile and mounted behind him side-saddle, surprisingly limber in her movements for one so near her time — though she groaned all too convincingly as she took her place.

They rode on. He whistled 'Greensleeves' to himself with the good humour any man would feel while doing a good deed for a pregnant woman. She clung to him, one slim arm around his waist rather charmingly. Since he had to presume she was a respectable wife, he refrained from conversation. She sat silent until he became used to her presence.

At a particularly deserted spot, with woods on either hand, the rider felt a sudden jarring movement behind him. As he half turned indignantly, he saw something drop behind the horse — a large cushion.

Next minute his head was pulled hard back by his flowing hair, then he was shoved off his mount sideways. His short sword flew from its scabbard and executed a spiral into a ditch. As he landed heavily on to the road, the woman jumped down after him. Practised hands slipped a noose of rope around his body, which tightened with a series of painful tugs, while his ruthless assailant pressed the hard, cold butt of a weapon meaningfully against his right ear. When he wriggled, she shoved his face in the mud with her foot, while she continued trussing him like a capon. Once he was helpless, she came rifling through his pockets, then she moved off to search his travel bags.

She obviously hoped for more than she found.

When she realised he had only threepence farthing, there was a thoughtful pause. The pauper victim risked rolling over to view her discomfiture. Any thought of escape was deterred by the carbine she brandished. 'Don't be a fool. I can use this. I served as a soldier in man's clothes.'

Even if the captive suspected she had no bullets, he was not keen to test it. Besides, he felt as much curiosity about her as she displayed towards him. 'Your bags are light, mister; are they to be filled with plunder, taken from travellers on the road?'

She was extremely thin, about seventeen. Now she had shed the false belly, her gown hung on her raggedly. Her hood had slipped back so her tangled hair showed, wound in a rough topknot.

She was fearless. The man on the ground waited to see what she would do. She flipped one of his lace cuffs with the butt of her gun, tugging away the fabric to reveal it was a sham; he had no shirt attached to it. 'Here's a turn-up. I came to rob you, but you would just as soon have robbed me!'

Her itchy red eyes went to his horse. She strolled across and managed to examine its long ear. 'I wonder — shall I find an army brand? Oh yes! I see you enlarged the letters, to disguise his origin — Newport Pagnell! Too close to be riding about on him; you should gallop him away at least thirty miles, and fence him to some trustworthy dealer… A false tail might keep you safe. Or you could give him a white blaze he was not foaled with.' She came back to her captive.

He produced a rueful grin. 'I am useless to you, madam. No point dragging me to a deep thicket for a strip-search,' he commiserated. 'Even if you were strong enough.'

'Leave you in a remote spot, tied to a post or tree?' She stared quickly up and down the road. 'Do you work alone?'

'Do you?' he shot back, pretending he had a crowd of lusty associates who would turn up any moment. She retorted that she had friends who would be along shortly. 'Of course!' he scoffed. 'Else how would you get away from here?'

She laughed easily. 'On your horse, I think. Though I shall be forced to ride him across country, in case some trooper under the Black Bible flag recognises him.' She walked over to the beast again, talking quietly. At first the horse shied away, head down, snatching at tussocks of long grass but watching her warily with one wild eye. She kept talking. Soon she had caught its reins and led it back.

While she was engaged in that, the supine man (who had been working on her rope surreptitiously) abruptly bucked and freed himself. As he squirmed and sat up, she swung the carbine in an easy movement and fired.

The gun was loaded. Just in time, he ducked, so all he lost was a small piece of ear. The blood was copious. The girl laughed heartlessly. She was tough. She was hard as a blacksmith's anvil. 'Stay where I put you next time.'

'Damned witch and whore!' He was mopping unsuccessfully with one of his fake lace cuffs. She left him to it, while she reloaded the carbine.

'Call me neither. True, I am a working woman, but I don't swive. I merely part those who have from what they have, that I may have it in their place.'

'How did you get your gun?'

'The usual way. Helped myself. A fine snaphance cavalry pistol with silver engraving, in its neat holder, powder in a flask and bullets in a darling little bag.'

'You could have sold it.'

'But I would rather use it!'

'Save your lead — I give you my parole.'

"Word of a gentleman?' scoffed the stylish gun-toter.

'Word of an honest rogue.'

'That's fair! Call me Eliza,' she offered. And what shall I call you?'

'Jem Starling.' He said it with some pride, waiting for her to recognise the name of a fairly well-known highway robber. Whether Eliza knew or not, she pretended his proudly born name was unfamiliar.

'And what are you, Jem Starling? Simply a licentious, devious cut-purse — or do you call yourself a knight of the road?' She pointed to his left hand, where a branded T, for 'Theft', at the base of his thumb showed how in the past he had been taken by the law officers. He had escaped hanging by pleading benefit of clergy; a man could be reprieved on his first offence if he showed he could read. 'Not very successful, are we, Jem?'

'An error when I was young and foolish,' admitted Starling, full of free and easy charm. He was still young, though more foolish than he thought. In his late twenties or early thirties, he looked fit, as a highway robber had to be. He reckoned himself handsome with it. He had voluminous brown-gold hair, through which he ran his fingers now his bloody ear was staunched. She let him sit up, rubbing his wrists ruefully where her rope had bitten in.

'We all make mistakes!' replied Eliza, surprisingly serious. 'What brought you to this life in the open air?'

'The same as many. I was apprenticed to a weaver in Shoreditch, but he was a bullying felon and I couldn't stick it. So being bold and courageous, I took to the road. I have followed this genteel calling now for four years, and am held in high repute. Better bid travellers to stand than to be a pickpocket, a sneak-thief creeping in windows, or a cut-purse crawling around the fairs. I know all the inns where travellers may be assessed and their luggage weighed to detect valuables. I have studied the minds of those who make journeys; I can tell you which tall, hefty men will weep like babies if they are accosted and plead to have their rings and money stolen so long as they are not hurt in the process, or which mean wiry little men of affairs will put up a fight like mastiffs, then loudly call for constables and give chase all night, even though all I had off them was tuppence and a handkerchief. I know the cross-country lanes and byways by which to flee to a safe house. I have tickled up plenty of innkeepers who will deny ever seeing me — while letting me sup their best ale in a warm parlour overhead. In case of an unfortunate arrest, I know a good perjurer too, who will be my surety and have me out of jail in a trice, with a very small outlay necessary'

The young woman pushed her carbine into her belt. She looked thoughtful again. 'We have both wasted an afternoon. To tell the truth, I am weary of the road alone, and it would be easier in company. I am as brave as you, and can help you gull fools — or hold them at my carbine's end while you soothe them and lift all their treasures. What do you say, Jem?'

The highwayman rocked to his feet in one long easy movement. He bowed like a courtier. 'I say, that is a handsome offer, and I accept it.'

'I will be no man's doxy!' Eliza warned. 'I will not bear a whining babe and leave it on the parish.' Nothing gave away the fact she spoke from bitter experience. 'We must be equal partners, and no cully-rumping.'

'Word of honour, milady!' Jem Starling assured her, with a flash of the eye and a twirl of the hand, gestures he had perfected for reassuring winsome lady travellers before he stole their necklaces, and fingered in their plackets too, if they looked ripe for it. He was thinking himself well capable of changing this one's mind. Eliza saw the thought form, but merely left him with it gently.

She had not wanted to trust anyone, but she foresaw hard times coming. If there was to be peace, now the big battle at Naseby had been fought, the road would be crowded with ragged, cast-off, starving soldiers, struggling homeward from their various armies, all desperate to cover their arrears by amateur theft. Professionals would need to band together to compete.