Sovay Read online

  ‘What do you want here?’ Sovay’s voice rang out and some of the shouting subsided, replaced by leering and jeering. ‘What right have you to trespass on my land?’

  ‘It’s not your land, but your father’s and he’s subject to arrest,’ Sir Royston shouted back at her. ‘We are here to see justice done.’

  ‘Arrest?’ Sovay feigned shocked surprise. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Sedition and treason. Now get this rabble out of my way.’

  He made to breach the line again and the crowd surged after him, bellowing ‘Sedition’, ‘Treason’ and ‘Justice done’. Gabriel let off a warning shot above their heads and the furore died down.

  ‘My father is not here. You know that. So I ask again, what is your business?’

  ‘We are here to search the house, seize seditious materials.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant?’ Sovay knew very well that he hadn’t, since the warrant was in her pocket. She stared back at him, interested to see what he would do now.

  ‘I expect one within the hour,’ he said.

  ‘But you do not have one now, so you will not pass, or set one foot in this house. I will remind you once again that you are trespassing. On your land, many a man has lost his leg to a mantrap, or his life to a spring gun, or been transported for life for doing just that.’ She looked to the crowd behind him. ‘You men. Before you move against my father, remember the mercy he has shown to those who have appeared before him on the bench. How many men has he saved from transportation? From the rope itself? You come here shouting for justice; my father has always shown justice and fairness in his judgements. Tell me, is that not true?’

  The jeering and shouting turned to muttering between them. Sovay knew she’d hit home with some of them, at least. Most of the rabble from the town had good reason to be grateful to Justice Middleton. He was known to be lenient and fair. There were looks cast in Sir Royston’s direction. Unlike some.

  Not everyone felt that way. The Volunteers were not tavern sweepings, they were law-abiding citizens, in the pay of Sir Royston.

  ‘Enough of this parleying,’ James yelled, looking to them to support him. He spurred his horse forward and they surged after him. ‘Let us clean out this nest of sedition.’

  He was close enough to ride his horse at Gabriel and rush him before he could take aim and fire. Sovay feared for Gabriel, knowing he would not give way. She did not want blood shed on either side, but James seemed set on a course of violent action. Sovay stood her ground, square in front of the door. She had a pistol hidden about her and would not hesitate to use it if he got any nearer. He went to draw his sword but he fumbled the elaborate hand guard of the sabre and had trouble drawing the long, curved blade from its scabbard.

  ‘Have a care you don’t cut yourself!’ Sovay shouted at him. ‘Until you know how to use it, I suggest you keep it in its sheath!’

  Her words were greeted with laughter by those who heard her. James’ charge came to nothing as he twisted in the saddle, flushed with rage, struggling with his sabre and in danger of unseating himself.

  ‘As I said, Sir Royston, come back when you have a warrant. Until then, I demand that you leave my estate.’

  At a nod from Gabriel, the Compton men advanced. Already many at the back of the crowd were melting away. William Stanhope was coming up behind them with men from the far fields, armed with stout sticks, sickles and billhooks. Caught between two determined forces, the rest turned tail. They had come to make trouble, perhaps do a bit of looting. They had not come to fight.

  ‘I’ll be back, missy.’ Sir Royston’s beefy slab of a face darkened still further. ‘Next time you will not be so lucky.’

  When Gabriel came back from seeing Sir Royston’s ‘army’ off the estate, Sovay had already left.

  ‘Gone?’ he asked Lydia. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To London, to find the master.’ She was throwing clothes into a bag. ‘I’m to follow on the next coach.’

  ‘She’s riding?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lydia looked shifty. ‘She took Brady.’

  ‘She’s dressed as a man, isn’t she?’

  Lydia’s bottom lip stuck out in petulant defiance, but she didn’t deny it.

  ‘I know what she’s been doing, Lydia.’ Gabriel shook his head with impatience. ‘And don’t doubt that you’ve been helping her.’

  ‘She said it would be quicker.’ Lydia busied herself with her packing. ‘A quicker way to travel and she was less likely to be bothered . . .’

  ‘And you didn’t try to stop her! You are older and should be a good influence. You should have shown more sense.’

  ‘You know what she’s like, Mr Gabriel. Once she’s made her mind up. She won’t listen to no one, so how’s she going to listen to me? Besides, I admire her for it. Did you see the way she saw off Sir Royston?’ Lydia’s green eyes gleamed with admiration. ‘Like a young queen, she was, defending her territory. With no men here to help her. What is she to do?’

  Lydia looked at him with just a hint of mutiny. Whatever her feelings for Gabriel might be, she would not betray her mistress. Gabriel had done his part to shield Sovay from her own folly, but such reasoning would be lost on Lydia. With a sharp tongue and decided opinions, she was not beholden to anyone. In her eyes, Sovay could do no wrong. As if she had even tried to stop her! They were both as bad as each other.

  Gabriel left her to her packing. She had been hankering to go to London this long time. Now she would get her wish. Her and Sovay, the both of them, needed Mrs Crombie to keep them in order. The old housekeeper was in charge of the London house. They would not play so fast and loose with her about.

  Sovay did not lack for courage, that he would admit. She’d seen off Sir Royston and his pike-waving rabble. She’d played them like fish and never shown a flicker of fear, and now she was off again, dressed as a highwayman. What the devil was possessing her? At least, she would not lack for money, Brady had not been unsaddled and the bags bulged with stolen gold from her earlier escapade. He packed a satchel, his course decided. It was pointless going after her. She had too much of a start and there was no knowing which road she would be taking. He would leave his father to guard Compton and go to Oxford; tell Hugh what was happening here. They could go to London together and make sure that Sovay got into no more trouble. The master had to be warned, Sovay was right about that, but she should have left it to Hugh to decide the best way to do it. Perhaps Sir John already knew about these forces gathering around him. Perhaps that is why he had gone from home: to draw trouble away with him, as a bird seeks to lead a predator away from its nest. If that is what his hope had been, then he had failed.

  CHAPTER 4

  Events in France had triggered a general alarm across the country and more than once Sovay had to pull Brady into hedgerow or farm gate to make way for bands of men on the road, brandishing makeshift pikes. Sometimes they shouted, demanding to know if she was for ‘King and Country’, but generally they ignored her, taking her for a gentleman, and one well armed with pistol and sword.

  She was intent on travelling fast and wanted to avoid inns, but she was hungry and thirsty and Brady was tiring. He needed rest, water, and a bucket of oats if he was to go on until nightfall. She saw a farm, just off the highway, and hailed the farmer’s wife who was out in the yard.

  The woman readily offered the simple hospitality often shown to travellers.

  ‘I can give you bread and cheese,’ she said. ‘And there’s fresh milk in the dairy, if you’d like some, young sir.’

  Sovay dismounted and replied that she’d be glad of anything and was more than willing to pay for what she was given.

  The farmer’s wife would not hear of it. She instructed a boy to look after Brady and pointed Sovay towards the dairy.

  Sovay had been riding hard and the cool of the dairy was welcome. A young woman left her butter-churning and handed her a pail of milk. Sovay drank deep, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. The young woman seemed in no hurry to go b
ack to her work. She was a fine-looking girl, with large blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers, and a slow, lazy smile. Her cheeks held the flush of a damask rose and her simple dress, cut low, showed the flawless, creamy skin of her neck and shoulders.

  ‘You are a pretty young fellow. Where are you off to this fine summer’s day?’ She rolled her sleeves higher over her rounded arms.

  ‘London,’ Sovay replied.

  ‘I’d love to go there,’ she sighed and sidled closer. ‘They say ’tis full of opportunities. A girl could make her way there, I shouldn’t wonder. Care to take me with you?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Sovay smiled and shook her head. ‘I can’t. I have but one horse, and intend to travel fast.’

  ‘Fast, eh?’ The girl laughed, showing neat white teeth. ‘Well, if that’s the case, perhaps I can interest you in something else? I have strawberries and cherries, sweet and ripe.’ She winked, her plump fingers playing with a long, fair ringlet that had escaped from her cap and had fallen across her bosom.

  ‘Where?’ Sovay looked around and could see no evidence of fruit of any kind.

  The girl laughed and shook her head. ‘You are a slow one and no mistake! Well, if milk is all you want, perhaps you’d care to pay me for it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Sovay reached into her pocket.

  ‘Not with money, silly,’ the girl was very near now, ‘I meant with a kiss!’

  Sovay moved back out of her reach. This pretty milkmaid had been flirting with her! All that talk of strawberries and cherries. She had meant something else entirely! Sovay blushed in spite of herself and bowed low to hide her confusion. She clearly had much to learn about what it was like to be a man.

  ‘I’d love to oblige,’ she said, taking the girl’s hand and kissing it. ‘But fear I cannot dally.’

  With that, she stepped smartly away, blew her another kiss from the door and made her escape with as much swagger as she could command.

  No sooner had she rejoined the highway than a carriage approached at speed, the coachman shouting for her to ‘Get out of the road!’ and forcing her to pull up sharp or else be spilled into the hedge.

  She bent over Brady, patting his neck, steadying him down, talking sweetly in his ear as she urged him back onto the highway. All the while, a hard knot of anger tightened inside her. She might have fallen. Brady might have been injured. Such behaviour was not to be countenanced. How dare he drive her off the road?

  By the time she had settled Brady, the coach was almost out of sight, but she knew it. James Gilmore had boasted often enough about the elegant chaise that their family owned, with its dark blue lacquered paintwork, high, slender-spoked wheels painted in black and gold, the very latest in springs and suspension, pulled by two fine sporting horses, perfectly matched and mettlesome.

  She imagined Sir Royston rocking inside the carriage, intent on who knew what meddling business. Her fury redoubled. He had plotted against her family, sent his son to spy on them, brought that rabble to invade her house and terrorise her father’s people, and now he’d nearly run her off the road! She had not intended to play the highwayman again but she spurred Brady on, cutting across an expanse of rolling heathland, determined to teach Sir Royston a lesson.

  She had found a deserted stretch of road at the top of a slight rise, just as the carriage was coming into sight, and waited until it was almost upon her before she rode out.

  ‘Stand and deliver!’ she shouted, pistols held high.

  The coachman hesitated, then thought better of it. He brought the horses to a halt.

  Sir Royston’s head emerged, demanding to know what the devil was going on. When he saw Sovay, his eyes widened.

  ‘What have you stopped for, you damned coward!’ he yelled to his coachman. ‘On. On!’

  The driver raised his whip and looked as though he would obey him. Sovay let off a shot and he put it down. She trained her other pistol on Sir Royston.

  ‘You!’ she shouted. ‘Out of the carriage!’

  Sir Royston emerged, his broad face mottled like spoilt beef.

  ‘Fill it.’ Sovay threw a saddlebag down to him. She cocked her second gun. ‘All you have!’

  ‘Will I? Be damned.’ He smiled and his small eyes gleamed malice. ‘I know that horse, and I know your secret, missy!’

  He made a lunge for Brady’s bridle, which caused the horse to rear and kick him in the chest. Sovay had to fight hard to retain her seat as the coachman took advantage of the sudden turmoil to reach for the weapon he kept in the box at his feet. Sir Royston lay winded and gasping, while the coachman loosed off a shot at Sovay.

  Brady shied and the ball went wide, but the coachman had another gun ready and his second shot was unlikely to miss. Sovay wheeled Brady away and trained her own gun at the driver. The shot missed but he loosed the reins in panic. The highly strung horses, maddened by the loud reports, bolted, overturning the carriage.

  Sovay rode off, spurring Brady across country. That had not gone exactly as she would have planned it. Any satisfaction she might have felt at leaving Sir Royston roaring in the road, his beautiful coach spilled in a ditch, was eclipsed by the knowledge that her secret was out. James must have told his father. She would deny it, of course. Who would believe such a preposterous thing? Nevertheless, doubts set in and, however much she might have relished seeing Sir Royston rolling in the dust, she knew him to be a dangerous enemy who would find a way to use her secret against her.

  She judged it better to keep off the road until nightfall. Her ride across country took her out of the way, distant from any sign of habitation. The day was turning towards evening, with mist thickening from the valleys and the last light from the setting sun a gleam of yellow in the western sky, when she saw smoke rising in a drifting grey haze. The town was tucked in a fold in the hills, strung out along the ribbon of the road. She adjusted her hat, pulling the brim down to shade her face, and realised that she was still wearing the sprig of broom. She removed it quickly, casting it into the hedge, before riding into the town just as the first lights were showing in the windows of houses and cottages. She was tired, so was Brady. It was time to find somewhere to rest.

  She rode Brady through the gate of an inn and jumped down. Men emerged at the echoing sound of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled yard and Sovay threw the bridle to an eager young lad with curly brown hair.

  ‘Look after him well,’ she slipped the boy a couple of coins, ‘and there will be more in the morning.’

  The boy nodded, pocketing the money quickly before any of the others saw it. Sovay turned to go into the inn, pulling her scarf up and her hat down over her eyes. The low-ceilinged parlour was noisy and crowded, the stone-flagged floor slick with spilt beer, the air wreathed with curling pipe smoke and reeking of onions. She called the landlord away from his duties. At first, he said the inn was full. She drew out her purse and pulled out a handful of coins. When he said that she might have to share, she showed him more gold until she got what she desired. It was not as if she wanted for money.

  She had to wait while the present tenants were evicted, but the guineas bought her a room to herself at the front of the building where she could watch the street. The curtain round the bed was thick with dust, the sheets and bolster were none too clean, but there was a fire to cheer the room and take off any chill, and the food was quite edible. She was hungry, having eaten little all day, and soon finished the plate of roast beef, potatoes and cabbage, mopping up the gravy with a hunk of bread. When she had eaten, she ordered more candles and a jug of wine. After these were delivered, she gave orders not to be further disturbed. She drew the only comfortable chair up to the fire, poured wine, and settled down to examine the contents of the wallet that she had stolen from the tipstaff.

  She found a quantity of papers, letters and such. At the bottom of the wallet was a large leather purse containing gold. That would account for the unaccustomed weight. Money was not what Sovay had expected, and there was a great deal of it. More guineas than she
had ever seen before. She reached in, the coins slippery as fish between her fingers, and tugged out a wad of folded paper. The thin white sheets were in denominations that made her feel lightheaded. She pushed them back into the purse and pulled the strings tight. When she had taken to highway robbery, it had been for her own particular purposes. She cared not a fig for the gold she took. It was a nuisance more than anything. What to do with it? Booty like this presented her with an altogether bigger problem.

  Meanwhile, downstairs in the inn parlour, her fame was growing. Cledbury was a small town where nothing ever happened. The locals took considerable interest in the travellers who came their way. They were puzzled by the horseman not wanting to join them and intrigued by the amount of money he was carrying.

  ‘Purse full of gold,’ the landlord reported, chuckling over the amount of money he had extracted for the room.

  ‘He’s that handsome,’ Emily, the inn servant who had served ‘him’, told Betty the barmaid. ‘Slender as a reed, with lovely, long hair, shiny as silk, like one of them cavaliers. He’s ordered extra candles, and all. Why d’you think that could be?’

  Betty couldn’t guess, and neither could Emily. They were distracted from their speculations by news from the stables. Merrick, the lad who had been given care of the horse, had found something of such great import that he could not possibly keep to himself. A sprig of broom.