Lady of the Highway Read online

  Lady of the Highway

  Deborah Swift

  © Deborah Swift 2016

  Deborah Swift has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Near the Cell, there is a well

  Near the well there is a tree

  And under the tree the treasure be

  Traditional Hertfordshire rhyme about The Wicked Lady

  Table of Contents

  Character List

  1: Spectres in the Dark

  2: Grief and Dreams

  3: The Fanshawe Luck

  4: Two Visitors

  5: A Grand Vision

  6: A Chill in the Heart

  7: The Dangers of Snow

  8: An Uneasy Alliance

  9: The Broken Promise

  10: House Buyers

  11: An Unwanted Proposal

  12: Highwaywoman

  13: Moonlight and Murder

  14: The Quickening

  15: An Investigation

  16: Two Arrivals Together

  17: Abigail’s Lie

  18: Blame and Bitterness

  19: Sisterly Love

  20: A Green Sleeve

  21: Stranger at the Window

  22: Hunt for the Highwayman

  23: The Intruder

  24: Hostage to Fortune

  25: The Shot

  26: Death and Deliverance

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes from the Author

  Ralph Chaplin and the Real Lady Katherine Fanshawe

  (The Wicked Lady)

  Roundheads and Cavaliers

  The Diggers

  Acknowledgements

  Character List

  Lady Katherine Fanshawe (Kate)

  Ralph Chaplin – Kate’s lover, a ghost

  Abigail Chaplin – Kate’s deaf maidservant

  Elizabeth – Abigail’s older sister

  Martha – Abigail’s younger sister

  Thomas Fanshawe – Kate’s husband, a Royalist

  Sir Simon Fanshawe – Kate’s stepfather (Thomas’s uncle)

  Cutch – Ralph’s friend, an ostler

  Mrs Binch – a cook

  Constable Mallinson – a Parliamentarian

  Jacob Mallinson – the constable’s son

  Jack Downall – a Puritan

  Grice – former overseer of Markyate Manor

  And the Diggers:

  Owen and Susan Whistler

  Seth and Margery Barton

  Ben Potter

  1: Spectres in the Dark

  Winter 1651

  Kate

  The lantern on the flag floor gave out only a glimmer of light. I fastened the harness by feel, remembering how I’d seen the servants do it, hoping I’d done it right. Curses. It was taking too long. All the time I kept shooting a glance over my shoulder. The dark recess behind me made me nervous; something might be waiting, cloaked in liquid shadow, just out of sight.

  I shook off the sensation and climbed up onto the trap. With a flick of the whip, Pepper, sensing my urgency, broke into a fast trot. I hoped he could see more than I could, as the hedges jolted past in a blur. Dusk had melted to darkness and the narrow rutted lane was pooled with the shadows of trees. The moon was yet to rise. There was no noise except the clatter of iron hooves and the creak of wheels on stones.

  Past the village green, past houses with battened windows, down a stony bridleway until I came to a cottage on its own. A one-roomed cottage with a byre attached. Through the crack of the shutter I glimpsed the tremor of movement and a glow within, from a fire. I leapt down and hammered on the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ A wary voice.

  ‘Katherine Fanshawe. Open the door.’

  Silence from the other side.

  I pounded with my fists. ‘Mrs Binch! It’s about my maidservant,’ I cried. ‘Abigail Chaplin. She’s ill. She needs help.’

  ‘Cease your banging! D’you want to wake the dead? Who else is with you?’

  ‘Nobody. I’m alone. Don’t you remember Abi?’

  The scrape of the bar being lifted, and then the door swung open.

  Mrs Binch, her hair pulled back into a long plait under her nightcap, kept one hand pressed on the jamb to keep me out. ‘What’s this about Abigail?’ She did not curtsey to me, and her eyes were suspicious.

  ‘She’s been coughing these last five nights. I don’t think she can stand much more.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’

  ‘She coughs like she can’t catch her breath, like it will break her bones. And she’s a fever. I’ve no skill in medicine.’

  ‘Five nights, you say?’ Mrs Binch pulled her knitted shawl tight across her chest and frowned. ‘So you’re expecting me to come out in the middle of the night, are you?’

  ‘No. That’s not what I meant,’ I said. ‘It’s just…’ This was awkward. Mrs Binch used to be my cook, but she had left me without notice, and now I was forced into asking her a favour. ‘I’m not good with sick people,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to do, and she’s so poorly. I know she liked you, and I’m afraid for her.’

  Mrs Binch’s expression softened. She opened the door wider, and hustled me inside.

  She tutted through her teeth. ‘All those deaths. It’s not natural. And now Abigail. They’re saying you’re bad luck in the village. My son thinks the Fanshawes are cursed. He won’t like it if I go anywhere near the manor.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know,’ I said firmly. ‘There’s only Abi and I living there. Won’t you hurry?’

  ‘Hold your horses. I’m not your servant now, and an “if you please” would help. You can’t just barge in here and expect me to drop everything to do your bidding.’

  ‘Mrs Binch,’ I gripped her by the arm, ‘this is no time to argue. If you don’t come soon, she might die.’

  That settled it. Mrs Binch fixed me with an assessing gaze. Satisfied at last, she swung open the oak cupboard on the wall and picked out jars and pots, scrutinizing their contents. ‘Have you any mint?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, stamping my feet, wishing she’d hurry, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about menthol? Or mustard?’

  ‘No.’ Markyate Manor had nothing. The cupboards were bare. ‘Have you everything you need?’ I said, but Mrs Binch would not be pressed. She disappeared into the back room and emerged fastening a warm wool skirt and bodice, before counting the items methodically into her basket. Finally I managed to bustle her out and help her up onto the trap.

  ‘Don’t drive too fast, mind. My old bones won’t stand it,’ she said.

  I gritted my teeth and set off as fast as I dare. Now she was up there, there wasn’t much Mrs Binch could do about it, and I was anxious about Abi, all alone in the big house. I’d left her sleeping, but I didn’t want her to wake up and find the house empty, and me gone.

  Pepper trotted at a lick through the lane, at my urgent flapping of the reins. I didn’t know how long I’d been away, but every minute mattered.

  ‘Slow down!’ came Mrs Binch’s voice from behind me.

  As if he’d heard her, Pepper shied, and let out a neigh. An answering neigh from the darkness ahead.

  I pulled Pepper to a halt, and listened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Mrs Binch asked.

  ‘I don’t know, someone else on the road.’ But I could see no lights from any carriage lantern. I slackened the reins and listened.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called.

  Silence.

  ‘Probably just one of Soper’s horses in the field,’ Mrs Binch said.
But I was uneasy. Pepper’s ears were back. Before us, the lane was a lightless tunnel. I thought of Abi, her chamber fire dwindling to ash whilst I was gone, and clicked to get Pepper going again. But he was spooked now, and skittish. Still, I drove him forward.

  The trees leaned over us; the woods dense stripes of darkness each side. Ahead, a paler light marked where the tunnel of trees ended, so I slapped the reins to Pepper’s neck to make him trot through. A flash of movement to my left and another horse shot out of the trees. Mrs Binch screamed. At the same moment, Pepper stumbled and veered, causing the trap to shudder.

  In one glance my eyes took in a broad-shouldered man with a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face. He was astride a huge horse; seventeen hands, if it was an inch. I took in all this, though something else had hooked my attention – the dull glint of a pistol, a miniature cannon, pointing right now at my chest.

  ‘Your purse,’ the stranger said. His voice, muffled by a kerchief, was low and hoarse as if he did not want to speak at all.

  ‘I have no purse,’ I said, mustering courage.

  ‘Then I’ll take what you do have.’

  ‘Do as he says,’ Mrs Binch’s voice was high pitched with panic. I half turned to see her pushing the basket towards him.

  ‘I have no purse,’ I repeated.

  A gasp from Mrs Binch. Another movement on my right. My head whipped round. The second man was thinner and shorter than the first, but he was on foot. His pistol was cocked ready and his skinny white finger was resting on the trigger.

  ‘Get down,’ he said, his voice a nasal whine through the rag tied over his face. He sounded younger than the other.

  I dropped down, my feet landing in a rutted puddle and the wet splashed cold up my ankles.

  The smaller man strode towards me, but I barely saw him, my eyes were fixed on his gun. Suddenly, he shoved it in his belt, and startled, I looked up to see a pair of dark calculating eyes glinting a hand’s span above me. His hands clamped down on my shoulders.

  ‘I’ve nothing,’ I cried. I squirmed to wrest myself away.

  At my voice, he let go, stepped away, uttered a curse. ‘What shall I do? It’s Katherine Fanshawe.’

  My blood seemed to stop in my veins. How did he know my name? But it was too dark to see his face properly, even if it had not been covered with a kerchief.

  ‘Well, well,’ the bigger man said. ‘Best keep that ugly face hidden, then. And search her,’ he commanded. ‘Maybe she’ll have something worth stealing.’

  I froze, my insides recoiling, as the man before me pulled his hat lower, before he shot out a wiry hand to pinion me by the throat. His other palm slid over my bodice and skirts. Though his touch made me want to flinch, I stood proud. He would find nothing.

  A sudden push and my back slammed hard against the trap. ‘She’s nothing on her. She tells the truth.’ The smaller man’s voice was unsteady.

  ‘What about the old woman?’ the big man said, kicking his horse forward and aiming his pistol at Mrs Binch’s head.

  ‘Please take it,’ Mrs Binch said, pushing the basket towards him. ‘Take it all. Just leave us alone.’

  ‘See what she’s got,’ the highwayman called from his horse.

  His accomplice searched through the basket, ripping bags open, scattering the contents, hurling the jars out onto the road. I could tell by his shaking fingers, that the younger man was nervous.

  The mounted man rode over. ‘Just chaff! Leave it, man. It’s a waste of bloody time.’

  How foolish I’d been to set out unarmed. If I could only get myself back into the driving seat… The thought had no sooner crossed my mind than the big man spoke again.

  ‘Strip her,’ he said. ‘The gown’ll be worth something, at least.’

  The short man hesitated. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Do it,’ the big man snapped. ‘It’ll teach her a lesson.’

  The shorter man swivelled back to me. ‘Turn round,’ he said, with sudden determination, nosing the pistol to my chest. He pushed me so my wooden stomacher was crushed against the iron wheel of the cart. I couldn’t see his face.

  A tug, as if I was being pulled from behind, then I saw the glint of a knife from the corner of my eye. He was going to kill me. I winced, expecting the knife to come to my throat. Rough hands pulled at my bodice. It came away in his hands.

  He’d cut all the laces. The cold air blew through my shift.

  Horrified, I crossed my arms over my chest. As he stepped away, he shoved the knife into his belt next to his pistol, and then passed the bodice to the mounted man, who picked over the green embroidered bodice with practised fingers, feeling the weight of the gold thread and embroidery. The sight made me angry.

  ‘You forgot something,’ I called boldly. ‘The sleeves.’

  ‘Ha! She’s right,’ the bigger man said, from the gloom of the trees. ‘Best take them too.’

  I jutted my chin and pulled the sleeves down with as much dignity as I could muster, casting them onto the ground.

  The highwayman did not pick them up. He took a step towards me, pushed me back against the cart until my back was to him once more. ‘Don’t look at my face,’ he growled.

  A shiver went up my spine. Would he strip me naked?

  ‘No,’ whimpered Mrs Binch, reading my mind.

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ The man on the horse leaned down to the cart and cuffed Mrs Binch a sudden blow with the barrel of his gun. Her hand flew to her face, her eyes flaring open with shock and fear.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ I cried, but my protests died, as the mouth of a gun jabbed against my back, cold through the muslin against my spine.

  ‘And your skirt,’ the short man said. ‘Take it off.’

  I untied the laces with shaking fingers, fumbling in my haste. I let it fall in a pool around my ankles. ‘Step out,’ he said.

  I did as he asked, hearing Mrs Binch moaning in pain from the back of the cart. He scooped up the bundle of cloth and threw it over the withers of the bigger man’s horse.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, pulling me backwards towards him. His voice was even hoarser now in my ear.

  ‘Leave her,’ the big man said. ‘Don’t be stupid, no matter how much you want her, you can’t have her. D’you want everyone to know your name?’

  The highwayman’s hands clutched at my bare back through the muslin as he pressed himself towards me. His leather belt dug into my hips. His hands roamed my back. I felt his fingers find the scars. Suddenly he lifted up my hair, pulled the back of my shift down. I cringed away, ashamed, but his fingers found the welts on my back.

  He turned me to face him, thrust me roughly back against the trap. He seemed to be searching my face, though I couldn’t be sure. He pulled his kerchief further up over his nose. His eyes were sunk deep in shadow under his hat. With an angry gesture one hand tore at the neck of my shift. I heard the fabric rip. I panted for breath as he pressed himself towards me.

  A wind, cold as ice, and sudden, as if a sea storm had arisen in an instant. A frisson like quicksilver shot up my spine. A creak, then a cracking noise. I looked up. The highwayman paused, the knuckles of his hand gripping tight to the fabric of my shift, tilting his head to listen.

  Something was falling. There was no time to call out but he heard it at the same time as I did and stepped backwards just as a huge branch came crashing down. The gust as it hit the ground blew my shift flat against my legs.

  We both stared at the branch, thick as a thigh, where it lay between us. The air vibrated with a strange feeling, as if someone was watching. The highwayman’s eyes darted here and there, piercing the dark. The air felt thick as soup. I turned to look behind me, thought of Ralph.

  A grumble of wheels in the distance, hooves.

  It seemed to wake the highwayman from his trance. Hurriedly, he looked up, seeing no more danger he stepped over the branch, held the gun to my temple. ‘I’ll have you…’ he whispered.

  ‘A carriage,’ the other man shouted, hi
s horse sidestepping at the noise. ‘Four-hander. The men we’re after. And there’ll be rich pickings. Leave her.’

  I looked frantically back along the road. Twin carriage lights bobbed in the distance.

  ‘Leave her I say!’

  Unsure what was happening, I kicked and tried to shout, ‘Help!’ but the highwayman’s hand, greasy with horse sweat and leather, clamped my mouth shut. Next moment I felt my feet lifted with surprising strength, as he took me under the arms and hurled me back onto the cart. My ribs hit the side, and I fell down into it, winded. Nausea threatened to overwhelm me.

  A slap as he hit Pepper on the rump and a shout of ‘Git!’

  The cart lurched into motion and careered off down the lane. Driverless, Pepper broke into a canter and the cart rattled and jerked away. All knew was, I had to get into that driver’s seat before the cart turned over or Pepper got a foot caught in the traces. I tried to stand but we were going too fast for me to balance, so I crawled forwards. It was disorientating, rattling through the dark, but I lunged forward, casting out the handle of the whip to try to hook the flapping reins.

  Finally I had hold of them and pulled Pepper into a ragged walk. He was blowing, his neck frothed with white sweat. Just as I pulled up I heard a shot. My heart leapt in my chest.

  The coach. They were holding up the coach.

  More shots. I felt a glimmer of sympathy for whoever was behind us on the road.

  ‘Don’t stop! For Christ’s sake, get us out of here,’ groaned Mrs Binch.

  Frightened they might come after us again, I drove Pepper on, away from the dark woods and towards the park and Markyate Manor. As I came around the bend in the drive, a blood-red harvest moon rose, huge as a sovereign, over the roof of the manor house. The house was oil-dark, like a hole in the horizon. My throat closed up as if I might cry. The men had taken our food and medicine. And inside the manor lay my only friend in the world, Abi, and what use were we to her now? A girl in a flapping shift, and an injured old woman?

  2: Grief and Dreams

  I helped Mrs Binch down from the trap and gave her my arm to steady her. In the house I found the kitchen fire still aglow, so once I’d guided her to a seat I lit tapers and candles.