Highwayman: Ironside (10 page)

Lyle
did not know whether to linger or make good his escape. If Walmsley had somehow recognised him, then trouble would be quick on his heels. But he could not afford to flee. He needed to know when the authorities planned to move James Wren, and the chief lawyer to the Major-General of Berkshire, Sussex and Hampshire was the only man who had that information. He had come too far to let the night's efforts go to waste.

A
bell tinkled gently from somewhere further down the passageway, and the glum footman trudged away, leaving Lyle alone. He edged closer to the door. The murmur of voices carried to him, muffled and too quiet to discern, but no shouts came forth, no hue and cry was being raised. He held his breath, stepped back. The door handle clicked, light streamed out to illuminate the dull corridor, and there stood Felicity Mumford. She stared hard at him, gave the tiniest shake of her head, and called a friendly farewell over her shoulder. Lyle needed no further encouragement and made to leave. He strode quickly over the polished tiles, footsteps echoing in the confined space. He could sense Felicity walking behind, deliberately slower, and knew she was making out that she was not associated with him. Then he heard a man’s voice, deep and authoritative. He recognised it immediately. It was Walmsley.

Lyle
cursed viciously and picked up the pace, searching for somewhere in which he might hide. There was some kind of altercation behind, raised voices, a man and a woman, and he knew Walmsley had accosted Felicity. His instinct was to double back, knock the bodyguard onto his rump for speaking to her thus, but knew he could not. He did not even glance round at them, instead reaching the end of the corridor, pushing through a small doorway, and finding himself in a room full of liveried servants. They called to one another angrily, anxiety the common vein through each voice. The room contained a large table at its centre, men and women round the outside, each in position by various work-surfaces. One woman in heavily stained apron stood like a sentinel before an imposing hearth, overseeing a pair of young lads tending the fire. Above the flames, spitting and hissing as teardrops of fat plummeted into the white-hot embers, a pig turned on a spit, its skin darkening from the heat. Lyle realised he was in the kitchens, the very heart of the house, and he recalled that the little antechamber where he had encountered Maddocks and Hippisley was on the far side. He ran now, dispensing with any show of decorum, baffled members of the house staff left slack-jawed in his path.

He
passed through to the chamber beyond, pleased to discover it empty and silent. He considered going for the little studded door that would take him into fresh air, but he knew he had to find Grumm. With a pounding heart and twisting guts, Lyle entered the main hall.

The
ball went on unhindered, ignorant to his private fear. Lyle plunged into the throng, forced to use more force than he had wanted as he cleared a path, much to the consternation of the revellers. Hands grasped at him, wanting to know why he shoved so rudely, and then he heard the word he dreaded. His name. His real name.

The
hall fell silent as one. The musicians up in the gallery ceased as though some mystical conflagration had devoured their instruments in the blink of an eye. He kept going, kept pushing his way through the bodies.

"Lyle!"
Kit Walmsley's stentorian voice ripped through the pungent air again. "Samson Lyle! You will halt, damn your eyes!"

And
then he knew it was over, for more and more masked faces were looking at him. Those strangely blank expressions examining him as though utterly dispassionate, yet behind the disguises he knew they would be far from disinterested. A few brave souls placed themselves in his path, slowing his flight, then others grasped his shoulders and arms, clawing, dragging. He felt as if he waded through molasses. A huge paw landed hard on his shoulder, wrenched him round, its match grasping at his face until the mask slid free. Silence again. Samson Lyle had been captured, the wolf run to ground. Kit Walmsley's wide, ruddy face grinned back at him as the former Roundhead tossed Lyle's mask away in disgust as though it were a lump of rancid meat. His nose was still swollen, the nostrils scarlet tinged, and his eyes were slung with heavy blue bags.

Lyle's
brain raced. The colours and scents and sounds of the evening swirling like storm-harried leaves. Christ, he thought, but it was all over. They had failed. A year of evading - taunting - the authorities had come only to this. A pathetic flash in the pan, his audacious shot at greatness fizzling to nothing, the powder dampened by arrogance.

"I
see your snout has yet to recover," Lyle said defiantly.

Walmsley's
hand fell to his sword, thick fingers snaking round the grip. The stunned revellers gasped, letting their quarry go so that they might move clear.

Samson
Lyle punched the stout old soldier in the face. It was not as hard as it might have been, for he had only time and space for a straight, sharp blow, but Walmsley's recent wounds were fresh and vulnerable, and his nose caved in like a sodden honeycomb. He wailed, the anguished bellow reverberating around the high ceiling as he staggered backwards. He did not fall, but blood spouted freely down his chin and between the fingers that pressed over the damage in a futile attempt to stem the flow and numb the pain. Lyle saw his chance, rushed into Walmsley, shoving him back further with one hand and gripping his sword hilt with the other. The blade rasped free as its owner fell away, and Lyle spun on his heels. The crowd screamed, sheered away from the glittering steel like a flock of sheep in the face of a rabid dog, and a path soon opened up.

"That's
two blades you've given me now, Kit!" Lyle called over his shoulder. "You really are a tremendous benefactor!"

Walmsley
brayed into his cupped hands. Lyle laughed. The crowd screamed. More shouts erupted as Lyle moved, though this time he recognised them as the soldiers who had been set to guard the room. There would be at least four, he knew, perhaps half a dozen, and each would have a musket. But they would not dare discharge the lethal weapons amongst the packed gathering, and he gauged there might be a few moments to carve a path through to the entrance hall that he remembered from when first he and Grumm had entered.

"Lyle!"
another challenge snarled above the panicked din.

Lyle
turned to see a familiar face. "Ah, the Mad Ox. Have you enjoyed your evening?" He backed away, the gaudily clad revellers parting like the Red Sea to let him through. "What was it you said? Sir John's guests are little more than preening popinjays and wanton harlots, was it not?"

Colonel
Maddocks advanced passed the reeling Walmsley, his face dark with barely restrained fury. He had been duped and he knew it. He did not draw his pistol, for the crowd was too deep and fluid to guarantee their safety if a shot were discharged, but his brutish broadsword was in his hand in the blink of an eye. "You're trapped, Lyle," he said, voice a seething rasp. "Fodder for my hounds."

"We
shall see, Ox," Lyle replied as calmly as he possibly could. He had reached the doorway now, and backed into the entrance hall where the choir had earlier sung so sweetly. They were still there, bunched like penned lambs, but now their mouths were shut, eyes wide, faces pale.

The
entrance hall was different than Lyle remembered, if only by way of atmosphere. When he and Grumm - Ardell Early and Winfred Piersall - had crossed its polished tiles, the place had been a picture of serenity. The choir chirping like baby birds, the candlelight flickering, the mirrors and tapestries bringing brightness and warmth to the grand stone structure. But now the room was one of bleak horror. The mirrors reflected only stunned faces and sharpened blades. Men, women and children pressed back in a terrified crush against the walls, desperate to be away from those who would brandish cold steel on so merry an occasion.

Lyle
ignored the cries and gasps. He was an animal cornered, senses suddenly keen. His enemy stalked into the chamber too. Behind him the revellers were pressing into the doorway from the ballroom, desperate to witness the confrontation unfold, as long as they stayed safely out of range. Maddocks was sneering, swishing his heavy blade out in front, beckoning Lyle onto its tip. He had plenty of courage, Lyle knew well, but no doubt revenge gave the colonel an extra impetus this night. After all, their last meeting had ended in abject humiliation for Maddocks, despite the fact that Lyle had hardly behaved with any chivalry.

Maddocks
lunged. He did not have the finesse of Walmsley, but nor did he require it. His tutelage had been gained on the field of battle, and he knew how to fight without the airs and graces of the fencing masters. His arm was extremely strong, the blade a single-edged cavalry sword that was intended for cleaving rather than duelling, and though Lyle parried easily enough, he was forced to give ground simply to avoid being overwhelmed by the sheer power of his old comrade. Lyle jabbed with the blade he had taken from Walmsley, striking out at Maddocks' sword arm, but the colonel was alive to the threat and patted it away.

"I
will fight you!" Samson Lyle bellowed, but he did not mean Maddocks. "All of you! Every soul here!" The crowd murmured uneasily.

"You
will not fight after this day!" Maddocks spat back. "You have nowhere to go, Lyle! Nowhere to hide!" He glanced about at the assembled faces. "This is Major Samson Lyle. Look upon him. See the fear in his eyes. This is the Ironside Highwayman. Maker of the republic, breaker of oaths. Deserter! Traitor! Outlaw! He has no home but the road. No cause but the memory of a dead wife!"

This
time Lyle attacked, thrusting the long rapier at Maddocks' face. The colonel swept away the threat with contemptuous ease, whipping the point of his own sword at Lyle's lower ribs. Lyle parried, flicked his thinner, lighter weapon up in a darting riposte. He felt the point scrape at something, jumped back to assess, and saw that a thin crimson line had been drawn vertically down the centre of Maddocks' wide chin. Maddocks looked stunned. He lifted a hand to the graze, winced as he stared down at bloody fingertips, and a low, guttural growl seeped from his throat.

The
colonel lurched forward, fat droplets of blood flinging from his chin to spatter the floor. He slashed the air between them in a series of lightning arcs that threatened to smash through Lyle's defences and eviscerate his chest. Lyle barely had time to react, recoiling and parrying, the shuffle of skirts and feet ever-present as the ring of onlookers surged out of the way. He blocked a low strike, then one from on high, twisted out of range of the next, and felt his back collide with the cold wall. Women screamed on either side as Maddocks advanced, bringing across his blade in a savage horizontal swipe designed to cleave Lyle in half. The highwayman managed to get his own steel in its path, but Walmsley's rapier was no match for the solid weight of the broadsword, and Lyle felt his stomach turn as the thinner blade snapped in two. It was enough to send Maddocks' blow skittering off to the left, beyond Lyle's elbow, and a spray of hot wax showered the side of his face as a fat candle was cut in two. He dropped the useless hilt, hooked an arm around Maddocks' elbow so that the colonel's sword was locked against the wall.

They
were inches apart now. "You'll be strung up on the Downs, Lyle," Maddocks rasped as he struggled to wrench his sword arm free, his fetid breath invading Lyle's nostrils. "It is over."

Lyle kicked the soldier hard in the crotch, twirling away as Maddocks cried out. He stared about the open space, searching for a weapon, anything he could use. Out the corner of his eye he caught sight of a man dressed all in green. From behind the green mask, eyes of pale blue glistened. Lyle thanked God, because it was time to leave. "Bella!" he shouted.

Maddocks
had straightened. His face was deep red, breathing laboured, his eyes like bright orbs. He still clutched his heavy blade, and he levelled it, the point in line with Lyle's throat.

And
someone stepped out from the choir.

Maddocks
and Lyle both turned to look at the masked child who had walked into the blood-streaked ring.

"Enough
play, Samson," the girl's voice announced. It was a surreal and incongruous sight. A girl clothed all in white, her appearance and tone angelic, yet when she drew her hands from behind her back, they bore objects synonymous with death. She raised both pistols, ugly and black in her grasp. One was pointed at Maddocks, the other swept perpetually back and forth, threatening every soul in the room. "'Bout time we went home, I reckon."

Lyle
went to her, feeling Maddocks' gaze like a dagger in his spine. He took one of the pistols, checked that it was cocked, and stretched out his arm. "It has been a wonderful evening," he announced, "and I have thoroughly enjoyed myself. But now it is sadly time to take our leave." A murmur of impotent discontent rustled through the room, like a stinging breeze heralding a storm. He noticed the crowd at the doorway, faces still clamouring for a view of the incident, bodies pushing through to the small chamber from the great hall beyond. Foremost in that pack was the stocky form of Kit Walmsley, his nose a ragged mess. Lyle winked at him, causing the older man to step into the temporary circle as he took the bait like a crazed animal, but a shake of Lyle's pistol halted him just as quickly.