Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) (37 page)

‘The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding--riding--riding--

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.’

~Alfred Noyes

(1680)

The Highwayman stopped his mount outside the Talbot Inn at Newark. It was one of several inns he thought of as home. Some men knew him as John Nevison, a useful name for business or when he wished to be discrete. Those who braved the Great North Road called him Gentleman Jack, a well-mannered rogue who stole their goods with courtesy and charm. The pamphleteers preferred the sobriquet Swift Nick, given him by King Charles, likening him to the devil, claiming his mount was black as pitch, a demon horse with flaming hooves that barely skimmed the ground. The only name he never used was the one left him by his aristocratic sire. He allowed no man to call him Harris, and his friends and associates called him Jack.

“Easy, Bess,” he murmured, calming his restive mare with a gentle hand to her withers. She snorted and pawed the ground. She had carried him far this day and had more than earned her oats and ale. He slid easily to the ground and surveyed his surroundings, ignoring the impatient butting of her head against his back. “I’m hungry too, lass. It’s well fed and cozy we’ll be soon enough.” His voice, pitched low and soothing, was laced with a tinge of amusement.

It was a fine late summer’s night, lit by a warm glow from the inn and a silvery quarter moon. The smell of cooked sausage drifted on the breeze and a burst of music and laughter spilled through an open ground floor window, but he clung to the shadows. He’d not survived this long without learning a little caution.

His eyes flicked carefully over the inn yard. A stage from London and one from York, barrels of ale and wine, and several crates, empty but for a few stray feathers. Tethered horses belonging to locals whickered back and forth, including Ned’s roan and Billy’s bay gelding. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled and Bess nudged him again. He stepped from beneath the arched coach entrance and into the light.

A redheaded freckle-faced boy posted near the door rushed forward, as thin and awkward as only a lad halfway between boy and man could be. Awestruck and stammering he reached for the bridle. “I’ll…I’ll see to her, Jack…Oat’s and ale and a fine bed of straw. I’ll rub her down good. I…” The lad caught Jack’s pointed look and reddened, dropping his hand. The mare dipped her head and whickered, letting the boy caress her broad forehead and finely tapered muzzle before Jack gently pushed his hand away.

“I’ll see to her myself, Allen. As I always do. Here.” He tossed him half a crown. “Tell Ned and Billy to make room at the table and order me ale and a meal. And for God’s sake fill your belly. A gatepost has more flesh.”

He watched the boy hurry away, and then he led Bess to the comfortable stall reserved as hers. Allen reminded him of himself at that age.
Without the bruises and anger
.
Once he grew into himself he’d be a broad-shouldered well-made man, provided Ben Winslow the innkeeper kept him fed. He’d done right to bring him here. What better home for an abandoned bastard with a bottomless pit where his stomach should be?
It suited me well enough.

Like the boy, he’d known hunger and the taste of fear. He also knew that children had an immense capacity to hate…and he knew what power there could be in the indifferent kindness of a stranger.

The mare rested her head against his shoulder as if sensing his darkening thoughts. A desert princess she was, clean-limbed, swan-necked, and coal-black without a speck of white. She was a combination of spirit, intelligence, and surefooted grace and speed, with all the beauty and endurance characteristic of her breed. If not for her, he would have met his maker years ago, by pistol, sword or noose. If not for her, he would have grown to be a bitter hate-filled man.

No one could have blamed him. At the age of seven, his father sold him for a shilling for the day. At ten, he’d been left for dead after a brutal beating. He used to lay awake at night dreaming of revenge. It was the only thing that kept him warm. But a stranger came and stole that dream, leaving in its stead, freedom, a purse, and for the first time in his life...a choice.

Johnny Harris, his sire, as base and ignoble a brute as any in England, had been born an aristocrat. John Nevison, having disowned and abandoned any connection to his father, was free to invent himself. He’d chosen his own name, and after honing his skills and fattening his purse on the battlefields of Flanders, he’d chosen to join the aristocracy of the road. A proper knight of the highway needed a suitable mount, so he’d guarded his money until he found Bess. She was worth more than the purse he’d been given, even as a surly, half-broken filly, but the ham-fisted colonel who owned her had outlived his luck at cards and had his back, quite literally, to the wall.

When he bought her, he’d been near as sullen and wild as she was. Over ten years past that had been. A fine pair they’d made. But no spirited creature was ever tamed by bitterness and anger. They had grown together, he and Bess, and in the thrill of the chase, the joy of moonlit races across heathered moors, the gravity defying leaps where man and horse soared through the air as one, they had learned to trust.

He would never forgive, but nor would he allow hatred to claim his life, refusing John Harris any claim to his mind or his heart, just as he’d refused his name. He was free now. He lived his life with no ties and no regrets, savoring the moment, ready for the next adventure. Now he and Bess were both legends of the road, and no man could claim a more valiant companion, or a faster one.

He grinned as the mare tossed her head and gave a squeal of excitement. Allen was approaching with a half pitcher of ale. She arched her neck sideways, tilting her head and burying her muzzle in the container, greedily stealing several gulps before the boy managed to mix the rest into her mash.

“Greedy guts! She’s yet to learn to drink like a lady. Does Winslow feed you enough, boy?”

“Aye. I eat whatever I please whenever I please, Jack. Mrs. Winslow says I was born a scarecrow.”

“And no one mistreats you?”

The boy grinned. “No one would dare…but…”

“But?”

“I’m not wanting to be a hostler or a stable boy, Jack, and that’s all he seems to think I’m fit for. He tells me to learn my sums so I can help with orders and such but I’ve no mind to be an innkeeper either. I want to learn to use a sword and ride the moors and—”

Jack held up a hand to stop him. “Have you ever seen an elderly highwayman, Allen?”

Allen blinked.... “I...well...there’s...”

“There’s not a one.”

“There’s Captain Dudley!”

“Richard Dudley?” Jack gave a short laugh. “He’s but a few years older than I am! Though I grant you that’s almost a doddering ancient in our profession. Most of us never see our thirties. You of all people should know that. We end up swinging on the end of a rope, trying to look dashing while we slowly choke to death. Entertainment for the masses. A good story to tell over a brimming pint. We oblige them by daring deeds and an early but gallant death, and they oblige us with a few coins and jewels along the way. Even a soldier lives longer. If you thirst for adventure
that’s
a better trade, and in any case, I neither want nor need an apprentice. I prefer to work alone.”

“But to be a soldier I would still need to use a sword,” the boy pointed out reasonably. “And if soldiering is so much better, why haven’t you taken it up?”

A dark look passed over Jack’s face. “Because I can’t abide another man giving me orders, lad, or anyone thinking he can put his hands on me or run my life. If some stuffed country lout in a sergeant’s uniform tried it, I’d probably kill him. Soldiers who don’t take well to discipline and orders…they die young too.”

“But you’re a gentleman. You would be an officer.”

Jack spat on the ground and gave Bess a slap on the rump. Her head was deep in the feed bucket and she ignored him. “I may be a gentleman of the highway, but I’m a God-cursed bastard just like you. I’ve been a captain of mercenary, they aren’t picky about a man’s background, but them and soldiers are a bloodthirsty, uncivilized, murdering lot. A gentle lad like me is better suited for the road.”

The boy was hanging on his every word. “They say you never murder, and you’re kind to the ladies. They say sometimes you dance with them.”

Jack snorted in derision. “No, that’s that fool Claude Duval, though I don’t mind taking credit for it. The longer you stay after the thing’s accomplished the more danger you create for everyone involved. A husband is angered or embarrassed into playing the hero, a coachman gets anxious and reaches for his weapon, someone makes a foolish move and next thing you know… somebody’s lying dead on the ground. I’ve stolen a kiss or two, if a lady’s of the mind for it. But they seldom are if their husband is about. I’m slapped more often than I’m kissed.” He fingered his jaw with a rueful grin.

He caught the boy’s rapt look and his voice became curt and serious. “It’s part of the act, Allen. A good highwayman has style and flair and gives some entertainment for what he takes. A bad one gets people killed.”

“
Have
you ever killed anyone, Jack?”

“Oh, aye. I earned my arms at Dunkirk, didn’t I? And if you’ve yet to notice, I keep company with a very bad lot. I’m well able to defend myself and good at staying alive, but ’tis true I’ve never murdered a man, and I don’t care much for killing.”

“I don’t want to be a soldier and I don’t want to be an innkeeper. I want to have pamphlets and ballads written about me. I want to be a highwayman just like you.”

“Then learn to act the gentleman first. There’s plenty of those come through the inn. Watch them. Learn their manners and proper speech. Learn to do more than scratch out your name. I’ll talk to Winslow about finding you a tutor or sending you to the village school.”

Allen eyed him with a suspicion. “And if I do that, you’ll take me with you on the North Road?”

“No,” Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That’s not why I brought you here. I brought you here in hopes you’d make something of your life. You have choices and chances I never had. Besides, I’m a firm believer a man should make his own way to hell. But do as I say, and I
will
teach you a bit about using a sword. Come. I can smell dinner from here.”

With Allen in tow, Jack ducked his head and stepped into the crowded inn.

The busy swirl of conversation that hummed inside the Talbot came to a momentary halt as people turned to examine the latest arrival. Some of the patrons smiled and nodded at the newcomer, others looked him over dismissively and went back to what they were doing, and two proper young misses traveling through from London to York, whispered excitedly as they looked him up and down.

Lean, rugged looking, and decidedly handsome, there was something vaguely disreputable and dangerous about him. Though he was dressed with casual elegance in fine leather boots and a blue-black coat that matched his hair, his jaw was unshaven, his lace cravat open, and his eyes had a wolfish gleam. He looked like a jaded London spark set upon mischief and adventure, and his late arrival, alone, with a serious looking rapier and a brace of pistols, suggested he knew what to do if he should find it. He looked precisely the sort of man impressionable young women found so fascinating and their parents strenuously insisted they avoid.

He looked gentleman enough though, and those who didn’t know him—intrepid travelers, foolhardy tourists and gentlefolk heading out or returning home on business or pleasure, took him as one of their own.

~

Careful as always, Jack perused the room in turn. Several men were playing cards at a corner table. He could have sworn they were the same men playing the same game he’d joined briefly on a visit three weeks ago. Then again, with their large stone hearths, plaster walls, and ceilings framed by sturdy oak beams, the coaching inns that looped the road from London to York like a ragged necklace all tended to look the same.

Gifting the flustered ladies with his most charming grin, he ambled over to One-eyed Billy, whose patch gave him a rakish air despite his disfigurement, and Seven-string Ned, a diminutive personable rogue named after the colorful ribbons he wore at wrist and neck. He settled into his seat, elbowing his neighbors to make more room, and a moment later the motherly looking Mrs. Winslow was pinching his cheek as she placed a sizzling plate of sausages and potatoes in front of him.

“It’s been too long since your last visit, Jack, my lad. I was growing worried you’d—”

She gave a high-pitched squeal as he pulled her into his lap and bussed her cheek. “Bless you, Maggie. I’ve missed your cooking that much. You set the finest table of any coach house north of London. If you’ll find me a nice cold stout to wash it down, you’ll own my wayward heart. I swear I’ll be waiting under your window at midnight to spirit you away.”

“Bah! To a life of drudgery cooking your meals and mending your clothes, no doubt. I’ve already got
Mr.
Winslow for that!” She pushed herself to her feet in mock outrage, her round face flushed with pleasure, and as if by magic, a tankard appeared next to his plate.

“A fellow has to admit you’ve a fine way with old women,” Billy Wyse said, leaning against his shoulder as the beaming innkeeper’s wife walked away. “If only you could do the same with the young ones.”

Jack raised his tankard to the two lovely misses, winking as they gasped and giggled. Not a moment later there was a flurry of bewildered protests as a stern matronly woman, clucking in outrage, glared at him as she ushered them hurriedly from the room.

He chuckled and turned back to his companions. “The trick, Billy…is to remember that old women were young women once, and still are at heart. What makes one smile, likely makes the other do so as well.”