thick neck, praying there would be no panic this time.
Shots split the night. The trio flinched, ducked down, though the musketeers would be too far away for the range to be effective. "Calm, boy, calm," Lyle murmured softly into Star's sharp ear. He straightened, looked across at Grumm. "What did you do with them?"
Grumm grinned, his face a rictus of wolfish pride and sharp, crooked teeth, as he pointed away to his left. "There. Took an age to get 'em comfy enough to share my wine."
Eustace Grumm had been chief of a complex ring of smugglers in his native Cornwall. He had used intimidation, poison, steel and guile to outwit his rivals and the Customs men alike. But after a rival had tipped them off as to his whereabouts one balmy night a year after the First Civil War had reached its bloody conclusion, he had barely escaped England with his life. He spent the following years living as a vagrant on the Continent, frightened and destitute. Surviving off scraps discarded by the kitchens of the great town houses of Calais, stealing when he could, and spending much of his time existing in the shadows, evading the thief-takers who lurked in his wake. And then, on the road south to Paris, the lawmen had caught up with him. They found him in a busy coaching inn, beat him and dragged him outside, the noose already slung over the bough of a stooped tree.
But a man named Samson Lyle had been in that same tavern. He had watched quietly from the within the fug of tobacco smoke as questions had become quarrel, and quarrel had become arrest. And as the five thief-takers had laughed their way out to the place of summary execution, that silent, watchful man had appeared in the night air, double-barrelled pistol in one hand, blade in the other, and he had prized Eustace Grumm from their clutches. The old man had latched onto him like a limpet after that. Riding with him through northern France, providing the former cavalry officer and his young ward with companionship and laughter, while his expertise in the ways of the outlaw had often proved invaluable. Indeed, thought Lyle as he squinted into the inky darkness to discern the row of eight prone bodies that had been left at the foot of one of Sir John Hippisley's trees, the irascible old criminal possessed knowledge that extended far beyond contraband. He looked up from the row of saffron-scarfed soldiers as more guns spat their fury from the direction of the house. "Just wine?"
Grumm's face twisted in its ugly tick. "And a sprinkle o' certain mushrooms."
"You are a marvel, Mister Grumm."
"Thank you, Major Lyle," Grumm replied as they kicked hard at the mounts.
"They ain't dead, are they?" Bella asked.
"No, lass," Grumm replied, loudly now above the crash of hooves and crackle of musketry. "But they'll have sore skulls in the mornin', I promise you that!"
PART THREE: THE BRIDGE
Near Liphook , Hampshire , December 1655
The driver's name was Tomkin Dome. He was not yet fifty, but he knew his days were numbered. He could feel it, feel the burn in his chest with every breath, the innate brittleness in his bones. He could taste the acrid mucus he hawked clear of his throat each morning, certain it had become tainted. And his skin. God, but it itched. Gnawed at him during the night like an army of rats, pus-filled boils forming on his forearms and face, livid and moist. The jangling of the cart did not help matters. Every judder and jerk made a patch of corrupt skin sear with pain, or burst, soaking his clothes with stinking moisture. Christ, but he hated his life.
He took a flask of wine from a small bag beside him on the seat and pulled out the stopper with his teeth. When the liquid burned his throat, he closed his eyes, finding happiness only in its richness. He had tasted better, of course. Back before the rebellion, in the good times, when his trade in Lymington and Hayling sea salt had thrived and he could afford the very best that life had to offer. But then the
Shots split the night. The trio flinched, ducked down, though the musketeers would be too far away for the range to be effective. "Calm, boy, calm," Lyle murmured softly into Star's sharp ear. He straightened, looked across at Grumm. "What did you do with them?"
Grumm grinned, his face a rictus of wolfish pride and sharp, crooked teeth, as he pointed away to his left. "There. Took an age to get 'em comfy enough to share my wine."
Eustace Grumm had been chief of a complex ring of smugglers in his native Cornwall. He had used intimidation, poison, steel and guile to outwit his rivals and the Customs men alike. But after a rival had tipped them off as to his whereabouts one balmy night a year after the First Civil War had reached its bloody conclusion, he had barely escaped England with his life. He spent the following years living as a vagrant on the Continent, frightened and destitute. Surviving off scraps discarded by the kitchens of the great town houses of Calais, stealing when he could, and spending much of his time existing in the shadows, evading the thief-takers who lurked in his wake. And then, on the road south to Paris, the lawmen had caught up with him. They found him in a busy coaching inn, beat him and dragged him outside, the noose already slung over the bough of a stooped tree.
But a man named Samson Lyle had been in that same tavern. He had watched quietly from the within the fug of tobacco smoke as questions had become quarrel, and quarrel had become arrest. And as the five thief-takers had laughed their way out to the place of summary execution, that silent, watchful man had appeared in the night air, double-barrelled pistol in one hand, blade in the other, and he had prized Eustace Grumm from their clutches. The old man had latched onto him like a limpet after that. Riding with him through northern France, providing the former cavalry officer and his young ward with companionship and laughter, while his expertise in the ways of the outlaw had often proved invaluable. Indeed, thought Lyle as he squinted into the inky darkness to discern the row of eight prone bodies that had been left at the foot of one of Sir John Hippisley's trees, the irascible old criminal possessed knowledge that extended far beyond contraband. He looked up from the row of saffron-scarfed soldiers as more guns spat their fury from the direction of the house. "Just wine?"
Grumm's face twisted in its ugly tick. "And a sprinkle o' certain mushrooms."
"You are a marvel, Mister Grumm."
"Thank you, Major Lyle," Grumm replied as they kicked hard at the mounts.
"They ain't dead, are they?" Bella asked.
"No, lass," Grumm replied, loudly now above the crash of hooves and crackle of musketry. "But they'll have sore skulls in the mornin', I promise you that!"
PART THREE: THE BRIDGE
Near Liphook , Hampshire , December 1655
The driver's name was Tomkin Dome. He was not yet fifty, but he knew his days were numbered. He could feel it, feel the burn in his chest with every breath, the innate brittleness in his bones. He could taste the acrid mucus he hawked clear of his throat each morning, certain it had become tainted. And his skin. God, but it itched. Gnawed at him during the night like an army of rats, pus-filled boils forming on his forearms and face, livid and moist. The jangling of the cart did not help matters. Every judder and jerk made a patch of corrupt skin sear with pain, or burst, soaking his clothes with stinking moisture. Christ, but he hated his life.
He took a flask of wine from a small bag beside him on the seat and pulled out the stopper with his teeth. When the liquid burned his throat, he closed his eyes, finding happiness only in its richness. He had tasted better, of course. Back before the rebellion, in the good times, when his trade in Lymington and Hayling sea salt had thrived and he could afford the very best that life had to offer. But then the
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