Chapter 11 #2
Agnes glanced up at Daniel. The fire had gone from his eyes and he lowered his sword. ‘Who did you serve with?’
The man licked his lips. ‘Lord Hopton.’ He held up his left hand, or what was left of it.
‘That’s all the thanks I got. Lost me fingers at Naseby.
No good for workin’ after that. Wife and kids died of starvation one winter and I took to the road.
’ A glimmer of hope gleamed in the man’s eyes. ‘You won’t turn me in, captain?’
Daniel jerked his head at the man’s companion. ‘Your friend’s dead.’
The man shrugged. ‘Don’t have friends in this game. If you hand me over, they’ll ‘ang me. Let me go.’
Daniel glanced at Agnes and gave a curt nod. She raised the pistol away from the man’s head.
‘Get on your way,’ Daniel said.
The man scrambled to his feet. Clutching his greasy hat to his head, he took off into the woods as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.
Daniel wiped the blade of his sword on a grassy tussock and restored it to his scabbard. He secured the placid bay mare and turned to Agnes.
‘You’re hurt.’
She raised shaking fingers to the cut on her neck. ‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘Let me see.’
Lifting her chin, he narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the cut.
‘Let me just clean it a little. I’m afraid there is blood on your collar.’
From a pocket inside his jacket, he produced a square of neatly laundered cambric edged with lace and pressed it against the cut, wiping the trail of blood that led to her throat.
‘Hold that there for a moment. It’s almost stopped bleeding,’ he said.
‘What’s this?’ she enquired, holding out the pad of cambric, now stained with her blood.
‘A kerchief. They’re the height of fashion in Paris.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve been to Paris?’
He smiled. ‘And met the King of France.’ His fingers closed over hers, returning the pad to her neck.
‘It’s too dainty for your taste,’ she said.
A smile twitched his lips. ‘A lady gave it to me,’ he said. ‘A keepsake.’
She pressed the cloth against the wound, her gaze dropping from his. ‘I see.’
His fingers circled the chain of the locket that the villain had pried from her neck. His touch sent a shiver down her spine.
‘A pretty piece,’ he said. ‘Is it special?’
Agnes snatched it from his fingers and fastened it again, stowing it away out of sight beneath her collar.
Daniel stepped back and studied her for a moment. ‘None of my business, apparently?’
‘None!’
‘So in addition to the use of a pistol, did your brother teach you that interesting manoeuvre, Mistress Fletcher?’
‘He taught me a few useful things.’
And then left me.
‘Remind me not to annoy you,’ he remarked drily.
Agnes checked the kerchief. The cut seemed to have stopped bleeding.
‘Enough of this chatter,’ she said, indicating the dead man. ‘What do we do with him?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘He isn’t going anywhere. We’ll alert the next village we come to and they can deal with him, but I will save the sensibilities of the travelling public and move him out of sight. Can you take his feet?’
Agnes recoiled. ‘Touch him?’
Daniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not going to hurt you and I can’t manage him alone. Have you never seen a dead man before?’
‘Only those who have died peacefully in their beds,’ she admitted.
Taking a deep breath, she hefted the man’s feet as Daniel lifted him by the shoulders. As they moved him, the corpse let out a groan.
Agnes screamed and dropped the man’s feet.
‘It’s only air escaping his lungs,’ Daniel said. ‘Pick up his feet again.’
‘You have obviously had more experience with corpses than I,’ Agnes said hotly, lifting the man’s muddy and disgusting feet again.
‘Too much,’ Daniel agreed. ‘This’ll do. Behind this fallen log. I’ll mark the place.’
Agnes removed her gloves and wiped the muddy objects on the damp verge as Daniel laid the dead footpad straight, covering the corpse’s face with the man’s own jacket. He carved a cross into the bark of a nearby fallen tree to mark the spot.
Returning to Agnes, he hefted her back onto her horse and led the animal along the road.
They encountered the black horse munching peacefully on a sweet patch of grass a hundred yards away.
At his touch the horse obediently raised its head, allowing Daniel to swing into the saddle.
Sensing that it was not going to be made to go back the way it had come, the black horse turned with its ears pricked, pulling at the bit.
Daniel glanced around at Agnes. ‘Do you suppose that beast of yours can move faster? This one wants to stretch its legs.’
‘You mean a race?’ Agnes felt the same thrill of the challenge she had felt when George had issued it.
She had been the better rider and George knew it, but it never stopped him from trying to best her.
It would be interesting to see if Daniel Lovell was made of sterner stuff.
She pulled her hat from her head, securing it under her leg and with a whoop kicked the mare into action.
Too surprised to resist, the mare took off at a hard canter.
They passed the black gelding and she heard Daniel’s answering Huzzah! and the thunder of hooves behind her.
She drew rein at the next crossroads with Daniel half a length behind her. He drew level with her, laughing.
‘What did your mother call you?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘A hoyden,’ she replied, fishing out her crushed hat and restoring it to her head.
They glanced at each other, and for a brief moment the look they exchanged said nothing else, except that they were both young and the hard ride had been fun and a chance to forget the cares that they carried with them.
They stopped at an inn for the night and Daniel reported the encounter with the footpads, although he failed to mention the man he had allowed to escape.
In the inn parlour, the story of their adventure provoked much shaking of heads and comments about the state of the roads these days, with so many disaffected soldiers taken to brigandry.
Daniel’s coin bought Agnes a bed for the night in a communal room and a meal. As she pushed the unspeakable mess that passed for some sort of stew around her trencher, she ruminated on the day’s events.
‘Do you suppose the story he told was true?’ she wondered aloud.
Daniel shrugged. ‘It rang true to me.’
Agnes sighed. ‘I’ve led a sheltered life, it seems.’
He tipped his head to one side. ‘Not so very sheltered. Few women of my acquaintance would know how to handle a pistol.’
Agnes felt a flush of pleasure rise to her cheeks at the unexpected praise if that’s what it was.
‘But what of your parents?’ Daniel asked.
‘My father was killed at Naseby and my mother died two years later,’ Agnes said. ‘It was just George and me… until Worcester.’
He paused in skewering a piece of unidentifiable meat. ‘Why Worcester?’
‘George had been restless for a long time,’ she said. ‘He was only seventeen when Father died. Too young for the responsibility of my mother and I and also too young for the war.’
‘And your sister?’
‘She married James before Father’s death. After the King’s murder, George sent me to live with Ann and James and sold off the estate to pay his debts.’
‘And George went to Worcester,’ Daniel said in a hard, flat voice.
‘Yes, and never came back. He escaped to the continent.’
Daniel quirked an eyebrow in an unspoken And?
‘He died there. Drank himself to death I was told, although the truth is that he passed out in a drunken stupor on the side of a road one winter’s night, caught lung fever, and died within the week.
’ She sighed. ‘He was long lost in drink before he went abroad.’ She bit her lip, the grief at her brother’s end long since resolved into a dull ache.
‘No better than that poor wretch today. What about you, Daniel?’
‘My father and my brother are dead. As to the rest of my family, our home was largely destroyed in ’48. My mother, sister, grandfather and I were reduced to living in a few habitable rooms. I am hoping they are still there,’ he added.
‘But why do they believe you to be dead?’ Agnes searched his face.
Daniel shrugged. ‘I was taken prisoner after Worcester and sent to Barbados. They would have good reason to think me dead.’
‘Why?’
His eyes flashed in her direction. ‘Because no one returns from Hell.’
She lowered her gaze. ‘They would have mourned you,’ she said. ‘I envy you, going home to a family who loves you.’
She thought of the only family she had left in the world, Henry and Lizzie, and felt the now-familiar tears prick the back of her eyes.
She pushed back her chair and excused herself to take solace in the cold dark of the communal bedchamber.
Mercifully, there were few travellers at this time of the year and she had the bug-infested bed to herself.
She curled into a ball and, clasping the locket, she allowed the silent tears to fall.