Free Highwayman: Ironside by Michael Arnold Page A

been wet and cold, and then he had been run to ground and beaten bloody by the men who had been his subordinates until that moment. When finally he had extricated himself from the dank confines of his cell and found the terrified Bella, they had walked barefoot through marsh and over hill, crossed the snowy peaks that formed England's spine, and made it to the coast where they had stowed away in the hold of a cargo ship bound for the continent. They had been shadows of their former selves by then, half-starved, weather-ravaged and trawling the very depths of despair. He swallowed thickly and somehow conjured an amused grunt. "What exquisite irony. An arch rebel forced to cower in France with the last of the Cavaliers. Forced to swerve both sides of the divide."
    "Quite so!" Hippisley bellowed happily. "Deserved nothing less."
    "He deserved the noose."
    The master of the grand estate seemed to appreciate that, for his pink plumage juddered as he laughed, deep brown eyes twinkling above the beak. "One day, please God."
    "But why is the rogue back?" Lyle asked, unable to stifle his intrigue at the breadth to which his notoriety had evidently stretched. "Why risk returning? Especially now that Cromwell rules so completely through his major-generals. Is it true that he was done a grievous wrong?"
    "Not a bit of it, sir! Soldiers were sent to his estate to the east of here, charged with confiscating the knave's assets. He was a traitor, after all. His goodwife was home." He dropped his voice to a clandestine murmur. "There was an altercation and, I'm sorry to say, she was killed. Trampled by the horses as she tried to keep them at bay. A terrible accident."
    In that moment Samson Lyle could have wrung Hippisley's neck as though he were the very bird he portrayed. "Accident, sir?" he said, every ounce of strength poured into restraining his ire. "It sounds like murder."
    No sooner had the words left Lyle's mouth than he knew he had overreached himself, for Hippisley's shoulders were suddenly squared like a defensive barricade, his eyes somehow darker. "Does it now?" he retorted coldly, the mirth all gone. "Then I commend you to keep your thoughts to yourself in company such as this. It was ruled an accident."
    Lyle took a small rearward step. "My apologies, Sir John. It was wrong of me to suggest."
    "Wrong of you to think, Sir Ardell. Suffice to say, however," Hippisley continued, apparently content with the retraction, "that Lyle believes you are right. He returned last year. Rides with two others, one a woman of all things! Both are masked, though he is not. They target members of the ruling class. Judges, soldiers, lawmakers, tax collectors, businessmen, merchants. The common sort love him, as the peasantry are wont to do. William Goffe, as you'd imagine, would rather like to see him dance the Tyburn jig."
    "As would I," Lyle intoned gravely.
    "Quite so, my good man, quite so." Hippisley clapped his hands together, the big palms slapping loudly despite their covering of kid skin, and he made for the door to the ballroom. "Now, I must not neglect my guests, though I know not who they are behind their guises, and you must come too."
    Lyle tensed. "Very kind in you, Sir John, but I would not be such an encumbrance on my gracious host."
    "Not a bit of it, sir! You said yourself that you do not often leave your estates. This is the opportunity to meet folk that might be of interest to you. Those of a like mind and mutual interests. This is why I have been permitted to hold such an event, after all."
    Lyle could only nod. How could he refuse? And now he would be escorted about the crowd, directed from one foe to the next, each with their own tale of how the Ironside Highwayman had menaced them, how he should be gibbeted on the highest point of Butser Hill as a warning to others. Each man and woman would look into his eyes, and one, he knew, would eventually recognise him. With creeping trepidation he followed the big man into the main