Highwayman: Ironside (2 page)

Before
Walmsley could respond, the head of a woman emerged from behind the curtain. Lyle simply stared. She was quite plainly clothed, in a dress of soft yellow, her auburn hair restrained about her scalp by a white coif. And yet Lyle found her utterly striking. It was the eyes, he knew. Dark and glittering, like nuggets of jet, the shape of almonds and the depth of oceans. They seemed to burn, boring right through him, reading his mind.

He
swallowed thickly. "Your servant, mistress."

The
woman stepped lightly out of the carriage. She was tall and slender, her lips full, scrunched together in a pout that he supposed was born of anger, though he found the gesture captivating. Sir Frederick, he realised, was speaking, and he shook his head, reluctantly tearing his gaze from this new vision. "By your leave, Freddy. I was too busy admiring your rather sumptuous friend."

The
lawyer's cheeks filled with crimson. "Why, you devil-eyed villain. Insult a man's niece, would you?"

"Insult,
sir? Far from it." He looked back at the woman. "I would but worship."

"How
dare..." Sir Frederick began, but he was interrupted by the very woman he defended.

"It
seems you know your captives, Major Lyle," she said. Her voice was surprisingly calm. "And we know you."

"Seems
that way," Lyle agreed.

"Then
why do your confederates cover their faces? Are they so hideous that they must not be beheld?"

That
was a shrewd comment, thought Lyle, and he could not stifle a smile. "Adds to the mystique, mistress."

Her
implacable expression did not falter. "Perhaps it masks their shame."

Lyle
heard his companions chuckle at that and he could only laugh. "It is for their protection, mistress. For my part, I would have a jewel such as you gaze freely upon me."

"Haggard,
is he not?" Grumm chirped from his place at the nervous horses, a bridle in each hand.

The
woman appraised him. "You do not appear to take your vocation seriously, sir."

He
knew she would be seeing a face more deeply lined than was befitting his twenty-six years, and eyes that, though a sparkling shade of green, had been described by former lovers as too cold to be truly attractive. Like the eyes of a hunting tomcat, one had said. He snatched off his wide-brimmed hat to reveal a mop of sweat-matted hair that was the colour of straw, and offered a short bow. "I have grieved too long to waste another moment on matters maudlin."

Her
thin brows twitched a touch. "You chased our coach, sir. What kind of highwayman chases his quarry?" Her voice was hard, scornful, though he sensed a note of amusement too. "Would not a competent brigand have lain in wait? Blocked the road and so forth?"

Lyle
cast a caustic glare at Grumm. "The element of surprise, mistress." He jerked the pistol, indicating that his prisoners should move to the side of the coach. "Now, if you would be so kind...."

They
did as they were ordered, forming a line before Lyle. The girl dismounted too. "I'm Arabella," she announced in a friendly voice, though, as she ran a hand down the bristling Walmsley's flanks, her other still firmly gripped the pistol.

Lyle
moved close to the woman. She seemed to stiffen under his gaze and he offered an impish grin. "I'll not check you for weapons, mistress, have no fear. I am a highwayman, not a lecher."

She
made a display of sniffing the air. "I'd think you a gong farmer, sir, to tell by your aroma."

Lyle
brayed at that. "You are a fine thing, and no mistake." He winked at her. "Might I have a name to put to the esteem?"

She
seemed to be fighting back a smile, for the corners of her mouth twitched. "Felicity Mumford."

Lyle
took up her hand and kissed it. "Angel."

"Unhand
me, sir," Felicity protested, though she did not pull back.

"Push
me away and I will be gone, by my honour."

Sir
Frederick Mason was, Lyle knew, a political animal. One of the new men, risen by guile and wit in the aftermath of war. A grey-bearded snake. He was a wielder of quill and ink, rather than steel and shot, and, until now, his demeanour had reflected this fully. But the exchange with his niece seemed to invigorate the lawyer to action, for he stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Lyle's face. "Honour? Honour? You know nothing of the word!"

Lyle
let Felicity's palm drop and stepped away. "This nation knows it not, Sir Freddy. No longer."

"Ah,
here's the nub of it!" Mason squawked. “
Ironside
Highwayman. He dares use the name. This is no ironside. A
king's
dog, Felicity! Long gelded, but still he yaps!"

Lyle
glanced across at Grumm. "Eustace, are the horses calmed?" He waited for a quick nod. "Then see to the loot."

"A
pox on your thievery," Mason hissed. "God-rotten Cavalier."

"Innocent
of that charge," Lyle replied, "I'm pleased to say."

"This
man," Walmsley interceded, relishing his moment, "was once a hero of the rebellion. Would you countenance such a thing? A friend to Cromwell himself."

"Surely
you jest, sir," the lawyer muttered, visibly thrown by the revelation. "Friend to the Protector?"

Lyle
felt himself tense at the name. "Now his sworn enemy." He flashed a grin at Walmsley. "And always proud to school crusty old Roundheads in the ways of honour."

The
soldier bridled, his blood up now, but it was his employer who spoke. "Cromwell is the best, godliest man in these islands. What depths do you plumb, sir, if you would make him your foe?"

"If
those depths," Lyle replied levelly, "are to harangue, harry and plunder the men of Cromwell's new order, then they are waters in which it is a pleasure to swim." He let his eyes fall to the bulging flanks of Sir Frederick's heavy coat. "Now shall we peer into those deep pockets, sir?"

Walmsley
stepped between them. "Stay where you are, Sir Frederick."

Lyle
narrowed his eyes. "Steady, old man, lest you wish for some tutelage."

"Old
man? I am Kit Walmsley. Formerly of Sir Hardress Waller's Regiment of Foot."

"Another
of Oliver's toadies."

"Speak
of the Lord Protector in such a manner..." Walmsley said through gritted teeth.

"Protector
nothing, sir!" Lyle shot back scornfully. "That blackguard protects himself and nothing more. He ought to take the crown and abandon the obfuscation."

"Pup!"
Walmsley blustered, his throat seeming to puff up like that of some red-faced bullfrog. "I'll cleave out your malignant tongue!" With that his hand was on his sword hilt, a third of the blade already exposed.

Lyle
rolled his eyes. "Precious Blood! Must we?"

"Shoot
'im, Major," Eustace Grumm called impatiently. "Let's be on our way."

"You
disgust me, Lyle," Walmsley went on, the rest of the sword sliding free. "You're a traitor and a coward and a quartering would be too lenient for you." His face warped into an expression of pure malice. "Perhaps we'll dig up your good wife and make her dead eyes watch."

Samson
Lyle knew he was being goaded. He knew, most likely, that the sly Walmsley was playing for time. And yet the bastard had mentioned Alice.

He
discarded his hat and tossed the pistol to Bella, who caught it with one hand, and released his own blade, its length slithering through the throat of his long scabbard. Taking half a dozen measured paces backwards, he held it out in front, dancing before Walmsley, the last light of the autumn eve dancing at its tip like molten silver. He felt good, powerful. He was tall, just touching six feet, with a body that was lean and spare, with muscles like braided match cord. A figure that betrayed a life of hardship, fight and flight. He cast a final glance at Grumm. "Take Star, Eustace. Turn him about."

Kit
Walmsley stepped out, turning his shoulders to present the smallest possible target, right foot well advanced. “Turn him about? The horse cannot watch?”

“He
cannot,” Lyle said.

“Cannot
witness his master take a beating?” the soldier asked incredulously. “Is the beast your mother, sir?”

“My
companion through many horrors.”

Sir
Frederick called a subdued word of encouragement. Walmsley muttered something low and inaudible, his fleshy face suddenly taut with determination.

Lyle
eyed him warily. A noise grumbled somewhere to his left, and he could not help but catch Grumm's sideways glance. He pretended to ignore the warning it contained, but acknowledged it inwardly all the same. For all Walmsley's advancing age, he retained the easy agility of a man much younger. Moreover, the way he drew his sword told of quick reflexes and a man not lacking in confidence. Indeed, the more Lyle saw of Walmsley, the more he thought the older man looked formidable: a leather-faced, compact, bullock of a man, exuding power and vigour.

Walmsley
rumbled a challenge, waved him on. The highwayman stepped in. He was taller by a couple of inches, but a deal lighter. As the blade tips touched, tinkling musically, he felt the weight of his opponent push back, forcing him to brace himself as though standing before a great wave. He thought how it must have seemed to the onlookers like a fight between mastiff and whippet.

With
a slash, Walmsley swept Lyle's blade aside, lunging straight in with an aggression that might have sent his steel all the way through the younger man's breast had not the whippet been wise to it. The highwayman jumped to his side, forcing himself to laugh contemptuously, though the hisses of his companions spoke of the closeness of the strike.

Walmsley
thundered past like a wasp-stung boar, managed to keep his footing and wrenched his thick torso round to meet a counter from his enemy. None came, and he coughed up a wad of phlegm, deposited it at the roadside, and sneered. "What halts you, whelp? Your arrogance finally fades now that you face a real swordsman?"

The
highwayman's blade was poised out in front, and he flicked his wrist so that the fine tip jerked. "Come."

They
clashed, a flurry of clanging blows echoing from tree to tree like the song of mechanical birds.

"Were
you at Worcester?" Walmsley asked as they parted again. "Or did you hide like the louse you have become?"

"I
was," Lyle said. "And Naseby. And every other damnable place I was sent. My horse was with me, and it took its toll on him too, which is why he must face away for this. He dislikes fighting."

Walmsley
shook his head in bewilderment, while Lyle could have sworn he heard Felicity Mumford laugh.

"I
was at all the blood-soaked brabbles," Lyle went on, "fighting for the Parliament. And what was it all for? King Oliver the First!"

Walmsley's
thick neck bulged as he grimaced, affronted by the insult, and he dipped his chin like an enraged stag, bolting forwards once more. The highwayman was again surprised by the bulky fighter's speed, and this time he had to offer a riposte before he could twist away. The weapons met high, crossed, blade sliding against blade in a teeth-aching hiss until hilts clanged.

Walmsley
shoved forth, hoping to throw his opponent off balance, but Lyle gave ground willingly, letting the heavier man stumble in like a collapsing wall. They parted again, and this time Walmsley paused, heaving great, face-reddening gasps into labouring lungs. His eyes narrowed, the light of understanding glinting across their surface. He evidently sensed the younger man's game. Remain passive, cool and calm, venture no great attack, and offer no openings. Allow the bigger, older man to expend his energy, all the while defending, deflecting, moving clear.

"Blast
you, sir, but you are a slippery knave," he rasped.

Lyle
nodded. "And you a brave old curmudgeon. For that you have my utmost respect, sir, but I cannot allow you to carry this duel."

"Allow?"

Lyle looked across at Felicity Mumford and winked. "Observe."

Now
he attacked, jabbing and cutting at Walmsley with speed. He saw each gap in the soldier's admittedly robust defences and took his chance, darting the razor tip of his sword through like a striking adder, forcing the rapidly tiring opponent to donate every ounce of strength in protecting his skin, all the while turning circles that would numb his legs as surely as if he ran all the way to London. Eventually, when he could see that Walmsley's face had taken on a purple hue at its edges, Lyle disengaged. "See that I battle with my elbow nicely bent?"