Highwayman: Ironside (3 page)

"What
of it?" Walmsley blurted, bent double in an effort to coax air into his lungs.

"I
use only my forearm to keep you at bay, while your hot forays drain you like a pistol-shot wine skin."

Walmsley
grimaced. "Damn your impudence!"

"And
my leading foot, you will observe, remains fixedly in front, ensuring my movements are made in a single line. Efficiency is key."

Walmsley
attacked again, humiliation perhaps as invigorating as rage, but Lyle parried four ragged diagonal strikes, thrust his own blade along the lower line, as Besnard had taught him, and sent the soldier skittering rearward lest he lose a kneecap.

"You
see, Kit," Lyle said, keeping his tone light, as though sharing some jolly anecdote with an old acquaintance. "May I call you Kit? One must fight to one's strengths. Paramount of which, for my part, are height, speed and stamina. The latter, particularly, will be nicely preserved whilst you hack and snarl your way to exhaustion." Lyle also reckoned upon his calmly delivered assessment, though entirely accurate, would serve to light a flame beneath the cauldron of Walmsley's rage, compelling him to lose all reason and bow only to furious temper.

The
onslaught came as Lyle had expected. Walmsley drew himself to his full height, grasped the beautifully decorated hilt in both hands, and bolted forwards. A thunderous, snarling barrage of blows followed, each one propelled by white-hot fury and each carried on the crest of a wave given force by Walmsley's full weight. Lyle, for all his training, found himself compelled to retreat, for the jarring blows juddered up his fingers and wrist and arm, bludgeoning his shoulder like a cudgel. One of the old soldier's crushing downward thrusts bounced clear of Lyle's blade, only to sail perilously close to his right ear. It startled him into action, and he swayed out of range of the next backhanded swing and stepped smartly inside Walmsley's reach, thumping his hilt into the bullock-like opponent's face. The nose cracked noisily, Walmsley brayed, and blood jetted freely in a fine spray. Lyle came on, unwilling to afford his enemy time to recuperate, and Walmsley blocked his strike desperately, grunting with each move and staring through his new bloody mask with narrow, baleful eyes. A man, Lyle knew, with murder firmly on his mind.

Walmsley
fell back suddenly in an effort to throw Lyle off balance, but the highwayman had anticipated the move and went with him, pricking the air before Walmsley's face in a series of staccato thrusts that had his eyes screwed tight as though a swarm of hornets buzzed about them. Walmsley, breathing hard now, gave more ground, slashing his blade in horizontal arcs as though swatting at the head of a leaping dog, all form vanished from his bearing. Lyle bore down swiftly upon him, so he twisted away, turning like a scarlet-cheeked acrobat, and lurched forth in a desperate lunge.

Lyle
parried easily, twirled clear himself, and brought the blade down hard in a blow that would have split Walmsley's skull like a hammer against a boiled egg. The soldier blocked but had no riposte to offer, and Lyle let his sword slither along Walmsley's expensive steel, the rasp reverberating up his arm and through his ribcage. The guards met, Walmsley's ornate sword pressing hard against the functional bars of Lyle's weapon. There they stayed for a second or two, steel entwined like silver snakes, before Lyle darted back to break the zinging embrace. He allowed Walmsley to recover his feet. "Have you had enough, sir?"

"Never!"
Walmsley snarled. He charged forth, slashing the sword wildly at the highwayman. Lyle parried the first mad blow, ducked below the second, stepped past Walmsley's thrashing body, and lashed the flat of his own blade against the soldier's rump. Walmsley howled, stumbled, and Lyle kicked him square in the back.

The
fight had taken them near twenty yards away from the coach, and Samson Lyle paused to check that his captives were still where he had left them. Content, he advanced on his stricken foe. "Do you yield, sir?"

The
fight had gone out of Kit Walmsley. He sat on his haunches, peering up at his conqueror, all defiance ebbed away. His round face was still bright with exhaustion, but no longer with rage, and his heavy jowls seemed to sag more than they had before. He tossed his sword away, ignominious defeat complete. "Where did you learn, sir?"

"To
fight?" Lyle shrugged. "With the New Modelled Army."

Walmsley
shook his head, beads of sweat showering his shoulders. "To fence."

Lyle
thought back to the hours he had spent in the school of Charles Besnard, learning the great master's forms. The more he had absorbed, the less the memory of Alice had haunted him, and so he had worked day and night. "France. Rennes, to be exact. I did not enjoy exile, I admit, but it had its benefits."

He
flicked Walmsley's sword into the air with his boot and caught it by the hilt, then turned away, leaving the broken man to trudge back to the coach nursing his shattered nose. "Eustace!"

Grumm,
waiting patiently with Star and the two bays, looked up. "Major?"

"Is
my most esteemed comrade well?"

Grumm
patted the huge grey stallion on its dappled flank. "He's as irritable as ever, Major, aye."

"Good.
Now, if you'd be so kind, please see what weighs so heavy in Lord Bed-Presser's pockets."

"Aye,
Major." Grumm left the animals and moved quickly to where Sir Frederick Mason stood, his face a picture of indignation.

"Major?"
Sir Frederick hissed, as Grumm took two purses from about the lawyer's person, both chinking with metal. "You're no officer, for you are no gentleman."

Grumm
chortled. "I never yet seen a gen'lman made by his commission."

Lyle
smiled. "Nor I."

He
watched as Grumm moved swiftly to the rear of the coach and lifted a stout chest free. It was small, but clearly heavy, for Grumm groaned with the weight of it as he set it down. He turned when he sensed Walmsley at his back. "What is it?"

Walmsley
glanced at the ornate blade still in Lyle's grip. "You'd leave a soldier without a sword, sir?"

"No,
you're quite right, sir," Lyle agreed, slashing once through the air with the exquisite weapon, revelling in its astonishing balance. He drew his own sword and tossed it to Walmsley. "Enjoy," he said as he saw the rage come over the soldier again. "That piece of tin has bested many a great swordsman." He winked. "Including you." He looked abruptly away, not willing to enter into a discussion with the deflated soldier, and was pleased to discover the new blade fit snuggly into his scabbard.

Retrieving
his pistol from Bella, he aimed it at the chest and fired. The crack of the gun echoed about the forest's darkening canopy, rooks and sparrows bursting up into the sky in fright, and the strongbox jumped back, its lid flung violently open in a spray of splinters. He turned to the prisoners even before the smoke had cleared, twisting the pistol's barrel and cocking it once more. "Two shots, remember." If Walmsley had intended to act, he evidently thought better of it, his gaze searching only his boots, and Lyle grinned broadly at Mason. "Now back in the carriage, Sir Freddy, and keep that blubbery jaw clamped or you shall see me upset."

Sir
Frederick Mason hesitated, for he was incandescent with fury, yet he had seen the easy defeat of his experienced bodyguard and evidently preferred his skin to remain intact. With an almighty sigh, the lawyer waddled back to the vehicle and clambered awkwardly inside.

"Empty
the box," Lyle ordered Bella, who immediately went to the damaged chest, a sack appearing in her hand. He looked at the auburn haired woman who so captivated him. "Miss Mumford?"

Her
eyes blazed with indignation. "You'll want my jewels, I suppose, you ruffian."

Lyle
dropped his jaw as though scandalised. "Why, Felicity, we've only just met." She shot him a withering look, blowing a gust of air through her sharp nose, and he took her hand, guiding her to the coach door and helping her up the single step. He offered a quick bow. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She
turned back briefly, dark eyes searching his face. He thought he saw her lips lift in the merest hint of a smile. "I wish I could say the same."

***

Samson Lyle drew Star to a halt outside the barn. It was becoming dim now, and the old structure looked like a black rock amongst the trees, but he found its looming fastness reassuring, for they often used the abandoned place to regroup after a raid.

He
slid nimbly off the side of the saddle, hitting the ground softly enough, though he felt his knee crack above the squelch of his boots. "Jesu, but I'm getting too old for this."

"Whereas,"
Grumm said as he reined in just behind, "I am still in fine fettle."

Lyle
shot him a withering look. "Then next time, Eustace, you may wield powder and steel, while I shall hold the horses." There was a gnarled crab-apple tree nearby, its branches bare, clawing at the air like a crone's talons, and he tied Star to its trunk. He lingered for a short while to stroke the large patch of mottled pink skin that blighted the horse's handsome grey flank. The beast snorted irritably. "There there, boy," Lyle whispered, keeping his tone soft, soothing. "You did me proud as ever."

Grumm
jumped down with an agility that belied his advancing years and brought his big black horse to the tree. "Rest up, Tyrannous."

Lyle
sighed. "Must you call him that?"

"It
means tyrant in the Greek," protested Grumm.

"I
know what it means, Eustace," Lyle said as he checked the weapons held about Star's saddle. He had two pistols - the double-barrelled Dutch piece and a standard flintlock manufactured in London - along with the horseman's hammer he had carried through the civil wars. He tugged on each, ensuring they were firmly in place and always ready for deployment, and glanced up at the old man. "But it sounds ludicrous."

"What
is ludicrous, Major," Grumm replied hotly, his neck sinews bulging, "is a highwayman with a cowardly and ever-vexed bloody horse!" He planted his hands on his hips. "You need a new mount."

"I
need a new accomplice."

"I'm
serious. His temper worsens by the month."

Lyle
touched his fingertips to the grey's long face, tracing the white diamond that seemed to glow between its eyes in the darkness. Star pressed its muzzle into his palm and he glanced down at the damaged flank. "So would yours if you carried such a wound."

Grumm
nodded. "If a cannon had exploded beside me, I'd be dead and gone, and I knows it. He's a strong bugger, no one's sayin' different. But you can't trust him." He tugged the strands of his straggly beard in exasperation. "It ain't right to have to avert the gaze of a destrier whenever there's a scrap."

"I
trust him more than I trust you, old man," Lyle replied, thinking back to the ambush. "What happened back there?"

"As
I already told you, Major, the branch we set was not long enough. It did not cover the road, and they went around."

"Leaving
me to give chase. Christ, Eustace, it ain't good enough."

Grumm
screwed up his face. "I'm a bloody smuggler, Major. I know weights and measures and the true value of goods. I know how to get things off the coast, where to keep 'em hid, and who to sell 'em to. We're all learning this new profession. All three of us together. Give us time."

Lyle
snorted ruefully as they strode towards the large timber building. "Time? If they catch us we'll swing. No second chances, Eustace."

"Pah!"
Grumm waved him away. "Quit your whining. Next time the branch'll be just perfect." He scratched at a globule of food that had dried fast amongst the tangles of his chin. "What did we get?"

Bella's
mare, Newt, named for the jagged nature of her tail, was already tethered to an iron ring near the entrance to the barn, and the girl came striding out to greet them. She had long since discarded her scarf to reveal a face free of the blemishes of time. Her fresh, white skin only punctuated by a smattering of orange freckles across her nose and cheeks, and partially concealed by the shadow cast by a wide hat that she wore at a slant. "Some coin, a nice string of pearls, three gold rings, and that Walmsley's hanger."

Lyle
nodded, drawing the sword he had taken from his bested opponent. "It is a Pappenheim."

Bella
wrinkled her stubby nose, freckles briefly vanishing in the creases. "A pappy-who?"

"Pappenheim-hilt
rapier. The style taken from Count Pappenheim, one of the imperial generals in the European wars." He held up the weapon, turning it slowly as though it were a rare gem. "Double edged and long enough to use from horseback. A gentleman's blade, but a murderer nevertheless." He ran a finger tenderly across the patterned hilt. "The guard is made of two distinct pieces. Not the full cup that one often sees, but a matching pair, like twin oyster shells, one set either side of the blade." Even the grey dusk failed to conceal the weapon's harsh beauty, and he could not help but marvel at the killing tool. Its pommel was ornately designed, heavy to offset the weight of the blade, but forged with some skill into the shape of a mushroom. The grip was tightly bound in good quality wire, and the sweeping knuckle bar twisted on its way from hilt to pommel, a subtle nod to the smith's craft.