Sword and Song (31 page)

“You’re not going alone,” Hugh said.

“I am. You’re staying with the others.”

“Damn it – ”

“It does make sense,” Heron said. “In my present state of health, I doubt I’d be a match for a young fit assailant. And Mrs Jerdoun cannot match a man for
strength.”

“I don’t like it,” Hugh said obstinately.

“Neither do I,” I agreed. “But what else is there to do?”

We filled our pockets with the more portable foodstuffs and followed the track back to the road. Heron walked slowly, and I thought that determination alone would probably carry him through.
Esther was a different matter – she was limping after only a few yards.

The lowering sun didn’t reach between the tall hedges on either side of the road; we seemed to be walking along a tunnel of rapidly gathering gloom. I walked in front, the loaded pistol
uncomfortable in my hand, anxiously scanning every possible place someone might hide. Hugh brought up the rear, pistol cocked and ready to fire. Between us trudged Heron and Esther. We made slow
progress – by the time we reached the Black Pig, the sun touched only the very tops of the trees.

I looked at the ruins with growing trepidation. Was this a good idea? Once we were inside the buildings, there would plainly be no escape. I gestured to the others to wait, climbed the fence
into the coppiced wood and followed the flattened trail I’d made earlier until I came to the second fence. The empty yard stretched ahead of me: the tavern on my right with the tumbledown
cottage attached to it, the ruined barn on the left. The yard seemed to debouch on the far side on to a track running at right angles to the road; when I reached the track, I saw that it joined the
road to the right – to the left it ran along the edge of fields towards a distant glimpse of the river.

The ruins were deserted.

The tumbledown cottage looked the best bet for shelter; most of the roof in one corner seemed to be intact. I pushed open the door. Windows in the far side were blocked with planks of wood.
Broken remnants of ploughs and harness glinted under the sunshine coming through the slateless rafters; in the corner where the roof remained intact, one heap was covered with a horse’s
blanket. Underneath the blanket was an odd assortment of goods – two bottles of wine, a hunting gun, a bag of money, a battered goblet that looked as if it might even have come from a church.
A wrapped parcel turned out to hold bread and cheese. Someone had been using this as a hideout.

I fetched the others; we crowded into the cottage. A mouse ran across one corner even as we looked around. Esther sighed.

“I’ll get started,” I said. “The sooner I’m on my way the sooner I’ll be back – ”

We all heard the noise at the same time, paused, listening.

“Animals?” Heron whispered.

Hugh trod silently to the door, eased it open. Voices. From the road. “Friend or foe?” he whispered.

I signalled to Esther and Heron to stay where they were and sidled out into the yard. Hugh slipped out after me. The voices were a distant mumble. The soft sigh of a horse, the rattle of
harness.

At the corner of yard and track, I peered round the cottage towards the road. Hugh flattened himself against the wall behind me. I glimpsed the rear end of a horse, the spread of a greatcoat
over its back, a man’s head turning...

I drew back.

“Well?” Hugh demanded.

“It’s the coachman,” I whispered. “And there’s someone else with him.”

“Who?”

“Can’t see.”

“What are they saying?”

“Shh.”

It was no good; it was all a mumble – they were keeping their voices low. But I suddenly heard the coachman say, “Well, don’t blame me.” The horse shifted. I ducked
back.

“They’re moving.”

A clatter of hooves dying away. Had they gone? I risked another look round the wall and ducked back, grabbing Hugh. “Quick – move! The coachman’s coming this way.”

We dived back for the cottage; Esther and Heron were at the door and I bundled them back in.

“Hide! Quickly!”

Heron pushed a pistol into my hand. “It’s loaded. Take care.” This time I took the weapon; positioned myself to one side of the door. Hugh took the other side, Heron stood
behind me. Esther retreated to the far corner of the cottage, pulling the rug as closely around her as she could. It barely covered half of the wide hooped skirts.

I eased the door open, watched the thin slice of cobbled courtyard visible through the gap. A dirty-coloured grey horse came into view, ridden by the coachman, who was wearing a heavy coat of
the type such men usually use to protect themselves in bad weather. As he swung himself down from the horse, I caught a glimpse of a pistol in his belt.

He reached to unfasten something from the saddle. Then he was striding for the cottage. I pulled back, gestured to the others to be quiet. Through the narrowest of slits, I watched him approach.
He’d dropped the humble air, was purposeful. Looking at his sneering face, I wondered how we’d ever thought him anything but a thug.

He pushed at the door. He saw me at once. I brought up my pistol. “Stand still!”

He lunged at me. Sunlight glittered on a knife. I smelt his breath, all beer and onions, saw him snarl –

Then he threw up his hands with a strange gasp. The knife clattered to the floor.

Heron pulled back his bloodstained sword.

Heron was remarkably cool considering he had just killed a man. As we all stood in shock, he bent stiffly to pull at the coachman’s coat. “Help me take this off
him. It will cover Mrs Jerdoun’s dress.”

I laid my pistol safely on the floor and Hugh and I manhandled the coachman. Thankfully, there was not much blood, but he was heavy and unwieldy and we struggled to turn him over. The coat was
bloodstained but Esther hung it about her shoulders without hesitation. It covered her back but her wide hooped skirts still showed palely at the front.

“You could remove the hoops,” Heron suggested.

Esther shook her head. “Then there would simply be yards of loose material hanging to the ground.”

Hugh nudged me aside. “What now?”

“We must get out of here. The other conspirators may come back and when they find this fellow dead – sir, what are you doing?”

Heron was crouching beside the body and unfastening a bag from the coachman’s belt. I heard the chink of coins. He slipped the coins into his own pockets. “If he is found with his
belongings rifled, it will look as if he was killed by a robber.”

“What about the horse?” Esther asked. “A robber would take that as well.”

“I need that,” I said. “I can use it to get to Blackett’s.”

“No, you can’t! If you’re caught with it, it will be assumed you killed the coachman.”

“We’ll have to hide it!” Hugh said. “Put it in the barn.”

I shook my head. “There’s no door. I’ll turn it loose in the fields.”

“Take its saddle off,” Heron recommended. “A saddled horse running in a field will attract attention, an unsaddled animal will not.”

“Meanwhile,” I said, “get the body under cover of the blanket with the other stuff – it won’t deceive anyone for long but seconds might be vital.”

I left them dragging the body across the floor and went outside. The horse was restless but docile and let me unfasten buckles and pull the saddle from its back. I hid the saddle in the barn and
led the horse off towards the coppice. I intended to cut through the coppice into the field beyond but I’d forgotten the fence; rickety it might have been but my attempts to break it down
failed miserably. Worried over the length of time it was all taking, I led the horse down a narrow gap between the barn and fence, hoping to find a gate or broken rail.

Behind the barn were the ruins of a wall, surrounding what looked to be an overgrown orchard of apple trees, laden with fruit. I found a gap where a leaning tree had broken down the fence, gave
the horse a slap on its flank. It cantered off into the field.

I heard a shout from the cottage.

I went back at a tearing run, plunging through nettles between barn and fence. Two figures were struggling in the dusk-shrouded yard. Heron was one of them – the other, a
smaller, slighter figure, was wrapped up in greatcoat, hat and mask. They were punching at each other. Or trying to, rather. Heron connected with one blow but the fellow twisted away and took it on
a shoulder; the villain himself was merely swinging wildly.

I stumbled over Heron’s sword, lying at some distance – it must have been knocked out of his hand. I dipped for it, and ran at the pair, roaring. Heron stepped back nippily; the
other fellow took one look at me bearing down on him and fled towards the coppice. I ran after him. He was supple, vaulted the fence and crashed through the trees.

I was clambering over the fence when I heard Hugh yelling. He was running across the yard from the track. Esther was in the doorway of the cottage, pistol in hand.

“More!” Hugh gasped. “A man on the road! We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Can we not defend the cottage?” Esther demanded.

“There are holes in the roof,” I said. “They could climb the walls and fire down at us. We’ll have to run.”

Hugh glanced involuntarily at Esther, in her hooped skirts and high heels. She said, “I
cannot
run.”

“You’ll have to.” I handed Heron back his sword. “Hugh and I will distract them. Head down the track towards the river. See if you can find help.”

Heron was still breathing heavily from his fight. He was damnably weak, I thought, and wondered how much exertion he was capable of. He nodded silently.

I jogged to the corner of cottage and track, Hugh hard on my heels. Peering round the corner, I realised how fast the dusk was gathering – the trees around the road were gloomy and
impenetrable. There was a horseman on the road, wrapped in greatcoat and hat; he was staring back down the road towards the coppice. Then he kicked at his horse’s flanks, urged the animal on
along the road, out of our sight.

I turned and gestured wildly at Heron and Esther to run. We watched in near despair as they stumbled away down the track. “They’ll never get away!” Hugh said.

I turned my attention back to the road. Esther and Heron needed us to delay the villains as long as possible. I could hear voices – further along the road by the coppice.
“They’ve met up,” I whispered.

I gestured to Hugh to stay where he was and sprinted up the track to the road. A flourishing rowan tree grew on the corner; I crouched and peered through its branches.

Our assailants were at the far end of the ruined tavern, roughly at the point where I’d been shot at. The horseman was leaning down to the other fellow. They were both wrapped up; even
though the horseman had pulled down his mask to talk, the shadow of his hat still hid his face. I glanced back over my shoulder, saw a flash of amber far down the track. Then it was gone and there
was no more hint of Esther and Heron.

By the time I looked back to the road, the horseman was turning his mount, the other fellow was climbing the fence back into the coppice.

They were going to attack us from both sides.

Hugh was peering round the corner of the cottage. I gesticulated wildly, trying to warn him he would be attacked from behind. He seemed to take my meaning, and pulled back round the corner of
the cottage.

There was only one thing to do. I shifted into the open, stood, lined up my pistol on the advancing horseman. The pistol felt horribly awkward in my hand. The villain saw me – he pulled
back on his horse’s reins, came almost to a halt. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting, daring me to shoot him.

I took careful aim. I had one shot and I had to make it count. I fired.

Ridiculously, I hit the fellow. I saw him jerk back and topple from the horse’s back on to the road. It was only a slight wound, plainly; his hand flew to his arm and he struggled up at
once. But it had two desirable side effects – the horse reared and bolted, and the second conspirator reappeared at the fence, screaming alarm.

I ran back down the track towards the yard.

Hugh was nowhere to be seen. Where the devil was he! I pulled open the cottage door. Empty. I started across to the barn. Empty. I retreated, uncertain what to do. I couldn’t leave Hugh
but –

The two attackers were standing at the junction of track and road. The taller one had bent his left arm against his body; I saw blood dripping from his fingers to the ground, drop by drop. The
shorter one had a swagger, an arrogant tilt of the head. Under those masks, I thought, they were grinning.

They both had pistols. Mine was empty and they knew it.

The taller one lifted his weapon and took aim.

No sound, no movement. Just the pistol pointing at me, the round muzzle and the shot lurking deep within it. One of the thugs shifted – I heard the rustle of clothing as
if it had been a thunderclap.

A horse shrieked. The men swung round. The thunder of hooves on beaten earth. Then the runaway horse crashed into them. The slighter figure went down, rolled, scrambled to get out of the way of
flailing hooves; the taller figure grabbed for the flapping reins, caught them, dropped them again as the horse pulled away.

Someone was yelling at me. Hugh – racing across the yard. “Run. Run!”

I fled, sprinting ahead of him down the track towards the river. Hugh caught me up, panting hard. “Hit the brute hard. Panicked it.”

We ran, gasping for breath. Behind us, the horse was still neighing but seemed to be calming down. The track ran straight for a hundred yards, then took a sharp turn to the right, cut across the
corner of a field and wound into an oak wood, a narrow strip that ran between river and fields. I stumbled over protruding roots, slid in muddy patches. At one point, Hugh grabbed me to prevent me
pitching down a steep slope. Suddenly there was a gorge alongside the track, restricting the river and making it flow fast, white with froth over hidden rocks.