Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton (20 page)

Barbara was startled. The Cotterells were tenants of Sir Ralph's, prosperous and worthy folk. She knew them well. Many a time she had ridden by their farm-house and had accepted a syllabub from beaming, curtseying Mrs Cotterell, had chatted graciously with her about her rheumatism or the weather or her latest grandchild. She had even honoured their house with her presence on the occasion of their eldest daughter's wedding to one of Sir Ralph's coachmen. To break into that peaceful home under cover of dark, in company with this desperate man, was a different matter to robbing strangers on the open road.

Yet she was flattered that Jackson should want her help on this venture. And how curious it would be to allow her two lives, her tame, open, day life and her wild, secret, night life to impinge thus on each other! Her thirst for new sensations, assuaged but by no means quenched, urged her to accept.

And so on that June evening, young Lady Skelton, as she paced between the roses in her formal garden, cast impatient glances towards the sunset sky. It had been raining during the day but now it had cleared, and a great bank of cloud, creamy yet flushed a little angrily with rose, was floating across the blue expanse. Here, even in the enclosed garden, there was a restless little wind, but above, in the evening sky where the clouds sailed by slowly and triumphantly, there was a serenity that seemed full of purpose. To the north there were long slithers of cloud softly grey as a pigeon's wing; southward the trees were backed by a violet darkness.

It seemed to her – her restless mind busy with thoughts of tonight's project – a long time before the sky and garden were drained of colour. The summer's day was so long adying. In the dusk the roses had faded to poignant ghosts of their glowing selves; only their perfume grew more insistent with the approach of night.

It was not quite dark when Barbara set out – a bird still sang, the trees were like sombre lace against the colourless sky – but luckily Sir Ralph's rule of early hours for his household held good for summer as well as winter. Those who wished to stroll out or hold tryst after sunset must do so by stealth. Barbara knew how to avoid porter and watchman, and make her way unobserved to the dark yew
glades. Here she could relax her caution, give Fleury his head and gallop away to her lover and her other life.

Jerry Jackson was waiting for her in the parlour of the ‘Leaping Stag'. The hostess brought in a tankard of mulled port as Barbara arrived. ‘To give you heart for your night's business,' she said, ogling Jackson and ignoring Barbara as was her wont.

When she had left the room Barbara said, ‘I do not trust that woman.' ‘Molly? Why she is a good friend to me.' ‘All the more reason why she should not be my good friend. She knows that I am a woman. Though I have never unmasked in her presence she may guess by your attention to me that I am neither the worst favoured nor the most unkind of my sex. She has been your mistress. (Pray do not trouble to deny it. She must have been quite personable before her chin and bosom got out of bounds.) There is nothing here to make her dote on me!'

Captain Jackson laughed uncomfortably. ‘Believe me, it's a long time now since I gave Molly a green gown. She was a saucy enough baggage in those days, but she has given up tight-lacing and jealousy long since, like a sensible woman.' He drew Barbara into his arms. ‘I'll tell you this, sweetheart. Since I've had the enjoyment of your person there is not a town miss that can satisfy me. If I take them out when I am in London, why truly, it is more from duty than pleasure!'

Barbara laughed at him. ‘What you do with your Bridewell beauties in London does not concern me, but if you are ever false to me here, then our knot is broken for ever.' ‘Never fear that happening,' he assured her. ‘You are likely to be made a hempen widow long before I tire of you.'

She smiled to herself. How typical of him, she thought, never to imagine that she might be the first to tire!

As they rode towards Cotterell's farm he said, ‘You are not feeling timorous, my pretty lamb?' Then, as she shook her head scornfully, ‘I should have known better than to ask you. The old fellow should give us no trouble. There is a great lubberly coward of a man-servant – he should be easy to dispose of – and one son at home. He may show more fight, but they will be asleep and easily surprised.'

A rough cart-track led through the trees to the hollow where the farm-house lay snugly with its outhouses round it, like a cat nursing its kittens. It was on the bank of a mill-stream and, as the two riders crossed a narrow bridge, their ears were stunned with the noise and rushing water. When they had passed over the bridge and speech became possible again, Jackson whispered to Barbara, ‘We will leave the horses here under this tree. My information is that there is a window at the back that is carelessly fastened and will let us into the kitchen. We will avoid the front door which is always strongly bolted. It is round there on our left.'

Barbara nodded. (Mrs Cotterell curtseying in the porch. ‘You're welcome, my lady. Will your ladyship take a sip of my elderberry wine?')

They dismounted. Jackson whispered, ‘Pistols ready?' They walked stealthily towards the house. There was a growl at their feet, and a large black dog sprang out barking from a kennel against the wall of the house.

‘A pox on it! I was not told of the dog,' muttered Jackson, and drawing his pistol made to strike at it with the butt.

Barbara ran forward, ‘Prince! Hush, good dog. Good Prince. You know me. Quiet, good Prince!'

The dog, reassured by the sound of its name and the soft, vaguely familiar woman's voice, jumped up on her, paws on her stomach, licked up at her face, allowed himself to be fondled, subsided into his kennel with a rumble of halfhearted growls.

Jackson said, ‘What! so you know this house?'

Barbara nodded, enjoying his astonishment. ‘Tolerably well. Follow me and I will show you the way to the Cotterells' bedroom.'

The window, its rickety latch easily raised with a knife's point, let them into a little outhouse or scullery and from there into a big stone-flagged kitchen. The fire was still alight; by its glow they could see the copper saucepans above the fireplace, rows of hams hanging from the rafters, a big wooden churn in a corner and, lying on a heap of rushes before the fire, the sleeping man-servant.

With a cat-like swiftness Jackson leapt upon the recumbent figure, clapped a hand across his mouth, one on his throat and, before he could do more than give a half-strangled grunt, had, with Barbara's assistance, securely gagged and bound him.

Barbara beckoned to Jerry Jackson to follow her. They stood side by side at the foot of the wide shallow staircase. The last time that Barbara had been here the staircase had been thronged with jovial wedding guests. Barbara had stood a little apart in her gown of amber satin with the flowered petticoat and her plumed hat, her gratified host and hostess flanking her on either side. Her beauty and her
rich attire had drawn many respectful and admiring glances. Her gracious smiles had masked the boredom that she had felt at having to watch the revelry of these ‘base bumpkins'. Very prettily she had accepted a bride's favour from comely, blushing Deb Cotterell, had dropped her sprig of rosemary in the sack possett as she drank the young couple's health. The staircase and the hall had been adorned with wreaths of summer flowers; the sun had poured through the casement windows, there had been much merriment and chatter and laughter…

Now all was dark and silent, except for the squeaks and tripping of mice behind the wainscoting. And she, the gracious lady of the manor, was standing here in man's attire, hand on pistol butt, eyes straining upwards into the darkness of the house, a robber in robber's company.

What, she asked herself in a moment of utter bewilderment, had brought her to this rash and crazy act? A ruby heart lying like a drop of blood on a card table? Her own heart, frustrated, unfulfilled, beating like a wild bird in a cage?

From the woods outside came the menacing hoot of an owl. Barbara shivered. She whispered to Jackson, ‘Come with me. I will show you their room.'

They crept up the staircase, every creak sounding loud as a pistol-shot in their guilty ears, and along the passage. Barbara remembered perfectly where the bridal couple had been put to bed amid jests and laughter, and Mrs Cotterell saying, ‘We have given them our own bed-chamber, your ladyship. As I said to my good man, “Let them have the best chamber and the best bed. A girl's wedding night comes but once in a lifetime”.'

Barbara paused before the door, raised the latch with a gentle hand. The room within was dimly illuminated by a rushlight. From behind the curtains of the big oak bed a mild snoring proclaimed that the Cotterells were enjoying their well-earned sleep. Barbara drew the curtains apart. Husband and wife lay there, placid and rosy as two grownup children. Jackson drew his pistol, whispered ‘Keep an eye on the door,' and rapped sharply on the farmer's shoulder.

Cotterell gave a snort, stirred, sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘That you, lad? Buttercup calved yet, eh?' Then as he saw the masked figure at his side, ‘Mercy on me! What are you? What do you want?'

Rough and to the point came ‘Gentleman Jerry's' reply, ‘What do we want? What the devil do you think we want, you old bastard, you. To ask after your health or to know the time of night? No, we want your money.'

Mrs Cotterell had woken up and was clinging to her husband, her plump, good-humoured face all crumpled up with terror. He put his arm round her. ‘Steady now Martha, lass. Leave this to me.' He said stoutly to Jackson, ‘You've come to the wrong house, sir. We are not gentry to keep money and jewels in our house. We are simple country folk. All our wealth, such as it is, is out in our byres and fields.'

Jackson sneered, ‘Indeed! And what about the bay mare and the drove of cattle you sold at Stony Stratford fair, and the two hundred guineas you brought back in their stead? None of your tricks, you lying old son of a whore. Show me where the money is or I'll blow your brains out.'

Cotterell raised himself defiantly in bed. ‘Then, you'll hang at Tyburn sooner than you expected, you scoundrel.
You seem to be well-informed about my affairs, but I believe you are a stranger to the neighbourhood all the same if you think that Tom Cotterell is a man likely to be scared by your knavish threats.'

Barbara smiled maliciously to herself. She knew Jackson's reluctance to shed blood and was interested to see how he would react to the sturdy farmer's defiance.

Mrs Cotterell, her eyes attracted to Barbara by some movement on her part, gasped, ‘Sir, you seem quite a young lad. For God's sake think of your own parents and persuade your friend here to have pity on us.'

Jackson laughed contemptuously. ‘Your crocodile snivellings won't have any effect on my friend. He may be young but he is a flash cull and a lad of the most undaunted courage. Come now, we haven't time to wait on you all night. My information is that you have a pretty young daughter. You wouldn't like me to pay a visit to her bedside, I suppose, while my friend keeps guard over you?'

Mrs Cotterell, in a panic, broke out, ‘For God's sake, Tom, let them have the money – anything so long as they leave the house. No! they mustn't harm our Joan.'

‘I came here for your guineas not your Joan, you old fool, but if I can't have your money I'll have your daughter, I tell you plain.'

Cotterell said fiercely, ‘Take the money then, you villain, and may it help to speed you to the gallows and damnation. It is up above there.' He pointed to the tester of the bed.

‘Thanks for your good wishes,' said Jackson, his good humour restored now that he had achieved his object and, climbing on to the bed, he threw the moneybags
down to Barbara, who kept the husband and wife covered with her pistol.

Carrying their booty they backed to the door, ran down the stairs, through the kitchen, out of the window and to the tree where their horses were tethered.

They had been quick but not quick enough. As if their departure had released the despoiled house from a spell, lights flickered in the windows, there was the sound of voices.

Jackson, cursing violently, packed the money into their saddle-bags, scrambled on to his horse and held Fleury's bridle while Barbara mounted. ‘Look sharp, Barbara. We may be pursued.'

They galloped between the trees, across the rushing millstream, the wooden bridge thundering under their horses' hooves, and down the cart track on to the road. But, glancing back over their shoulders, they saw in the half darkness of the summer night a horseman galloping after them.

‘The son for a certainty. Damn his soul, he hasn't wasted time,' said Jackson.

Yes, it would be young Ned Cotterell, Barbara thought, a fine horseman, and an active, spirited lad. He would not let thieves get away with his father's gold if he could help it. The Cotterells kept good horses. Ned Cotterell's mount would be fresh, unhampered by saddlebags full of stolen gold.

He was in close pursuit, shouting something at them, calling them to halt. He was gaining on them. To Barbara, bent forward over Fleury's neck, urging him forward, it was not Ned Cotterell alone who was pursuing her but her
hated real life, ignominious exposure, scandal, utter ruin. He must not come up with her and recognise her, or even Fleury. At all costs she must stop him. Deaf to Jackson's shouts she wheeled her horse round, waited till Ned Cotterell was close, raised her pistol, took careful aim and fired. His horse reared, he fell forward on to its neck, then slumped from his saddle on to the ground.

Barbara sat still for a moment in her saddle, staring at the smoking weapon in her hand. Then she dismounted and kneeling beside the dead youth peered into his face.

Yes, it was Ned Cotterell, eighteen years old, his parents' darling and youngest son. Ned Cotterell, with the flaxen hair and sunburnt face and bright blue eyes, who had been foremost in all the parish sports and merrymakings, who had whistled loudly as he worked with the haymakers in his father's fields, who had had a friendly word for man, woman, child and dog, who had looked at young Lady Skelton with bashful admiration as he doffed his cap to her at the church porch.