1740, St Albans, The Great North Road.
‘Stand!’ cried a voice. ‘Stand and deliver!’
The horseman pulled on the reins and the mare halted. The rider turned his head and found that a flintlock barrel was being brandished far too close to his face. The masked highwayman was wearing a felt hat which had seen better years and a red handkerchief across his mouth. Tendrils of golden hair curled out from under it.
‘Very well,’ said the rider, ‘I’m standing. What would you like me to deliver?’
‘Purse, rings, gold,’ said the highwayman.
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ drawled the rider. ‘I really don’t have time to be robbed by an amateur today.’ Swiftly, he grabbed the barrel, forced the gun from the highwayman’s hand, and struck him across the temple with the stock. The hat fell off and the rider was faced with a very pretty young man, clutching his head and about to burst into tears.
‘God’s nightgown, cully, what made you take to crime?’ demanded the rider. ‘You’ve precious little talent for it! Come along, there’s an inn near here, I’ll buy you a pint and you can tell me about it. Up we go, Dowsabelle, my love,’ he said to his horse. ‘There’s a bran mash waiting for you at the Silent Woman.’
‘Ain’t you going to turn me in?’ asked the young man.
‘Tare ‘n ’ounds’ boy, don’t you know me?’ asked the rider, exasperated. The boy looked at him. Hawk-featured, black hair in a queue, streaked with silver, long hands with a flawed emerald on the forefinger, horse called Dowsabelle. Oh. He blushed and hung his aching head.
‘You’re Matthew Benjamin, the Famous and Notorious Highwayman?’ he asked in a small voice. Matthew swept off his feathered hat and bowed.
‘The very same. Delighted to make your acquaintance, my dear.’
‘Oh, I am such a fool,’ whispered the young man.
‘Come, take heart, we all make mistakes. What’s your name?’
‘Jeremiah,’ whispered the boy. ‘They call me Jem.’
‘Then come along, Jemmy, ’tis a tolerably sharp day and Dowsabelle wants her bran mash.’
Jemmy came quietly.
The Silent Woman was a busy coaching inn on the Great North Road. The sign was a woman holding her head under her arm. “If she be silent, why should men dispute?” the caption asked. It was locally considered to be a fair question.
Matthew Benjamin was evidently known here. He led Dowsabelle and Jem’s farm horse into the stable, rubbed her down, made sure that she had her bran mash, and reached a small parlour by way of the kitchen. There Matthew sat down, doffed his hat, and put his feet up on a hassock. There were pots of beer on the small table and several new clay pipes. Jem shifted from one ill-shod foot to another. He was not used to the company of gentlemen. Especially masterful, handsome gentlemen who had taken possession of his life so suddenly. Matthew waved at him.
‘Sit down, cully, don’t loom. Have some beer and pass me a pipe and the tobacco. There. All right?’
Jem gulped, blew foam off his nose, and nodded.
‘Now what has caused a good yokel like you to take to crime?’ asked the highwayman. He had an educated voice, sharp and quick, and it was impossible not to answer his questions. Jem gulped more beer.
‘My brother, Isaiah,’ he said. ‘In the holding cells, taken for poaching. Gaol delivery’s two days away. I can bribe him out, but I need palm-oil.’
‘So you thought you’d take to the High Toby?’ asked Benjamin, puffing a cloud of white smoke.
Jeremiah blushed again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Tol-lol, Jem, it’s just fortunate that you decided on pointing that barker at me. You might have had to shoot someone if they’d panicked. And you don’t want to do that,’ said the highwayman softly. ‘So, how else can we raise the gelt for your brother? I haven’t a tosser to my kick.’
‘We?’ asked Jemmy.
Matthew Benjamin blew more smoke and smiled at Jemmy. He was very good looking, this stout yokel. This curly hair was just the shine of guinea gold, and his eyes were as blue as hyacinths. Matthew was greatly taken with him.
‘Ay, both of us, I’ve conceived a fancy for you, Jemmy. Most brothers would not go to such lengths. Especially now, when you could get forty pound reward for me. And it hasn’t even occurred to you to turn me in.’
‘O’ course not!’ protested Jem indignantly. Matthew patted his shoulder.
‘My point exactly. So, where are they holding your Isaiah?’
‘Lock up on Squire’s land,’ said Jem. ‘With all the others.’
‘Right. How many guards?’
‘Two, but one goes off to buy ale at about seven, and for his supper; and then the other in turn, so there’s only one on duty for those two hours. And the one I had a mind to bribe is Jacob Harkness, a fat greasy pig, mistreats the prisoners. But he has a ready palm.’
‘Sounds like he has a pate begging for a blow,’ observed Matthew. ‘A little crack might let in some ethics.’
‘You think we can break Isaiah out?’ asked Jem breathlessly. ‘But what of the others?’
‘They will run away too, and create a great number of false trails,’ replied Benjamin. ‘Where are you sending your brother if we can release him?’
‘Into Scotland,’ replied the young man. ‘Got relatives. He can put on a Scotch voice, too. There’s a coach. I’ve got the gelt for the ticket.’
‘Well, then, let’s us have Molly the landlady put up a nice little basket for him, and go load Isaiah on the Edinburgh coach for freedom,’ said Matthew Benjamin. Jem snatched at his immaculate sleeve.
‘If you can do this,’ he said, leaning up so that he could see into Matthew’s eyes. They were green and very bright. ‘I will do anything, anything at all, for you.’
‘Agreeably unconditional, by God,’ said Benjamin, and caught the young man’s chin, pulling him up into a deep kiss. Jem flushed and pressed closer. It was clear that he wanted this encounter. So did Matthew.
Therefore, he must rescue this delightful countryman’s brother, and then take Jem back to the inn to ravish him senseless.
That sounded like a procedure. So he carried it out.
The dishonest guard went down without a sound. Matthew harvested his keys and opened the door. The miasma which flooded out would have turned the stomach of a crocodile. Matthew took up the guard’s gun, though by the look of the rusty barrel, it would be unlikely to fire anywhere but possibly backwards.
‘Go in, Jem, find your brother, urge these poor people out, tell them to carry anyone who cannot walk. And shift your arse, we don’t want no hullabulloo.’
Jem put his handkerchief back over his nose and people began to issue forth, coughing, weeping, moving always away towards the forest. Jem came out dragging his brother by the hand.
Matthew dropped the useless gun and retreated with his prize. He wiped Isaiah’s face, dusted off his hat, put the basket in his hand, and, clad in Jem’s coat, escorted him onto the Edinburgh stage. The last he saw of Isaiah was an astonished face, already delving into the basket for bread and cheese and stuffing food into his mouth.
‘Back to the inn,’ said Matthew. ‘Someone is going to notice that the birds have flown about–’ a trumpet call and a halloo! broke the silence, ‘…now.’
He took Jem’s hand and led him swiftly through various stairs and tunnels until they emerged into a small suite of rooms. By the feel of them, Jem thought, they were underground. Air came in through vents in the roof. A barrel of water stood by a tin bath, which held a dipper and French soap scented with lavender. A grate drained the floor. A hearth was provided with a large kettle, and a small fire was already burning on it. A sumptuous bed was spread with quilts, and the highwayman’s wardrobe was folded into chests, on which reposed his boots. A table held food and wine.
‘A wash,’ suggested Benjamin. He stripped unaffectedly, soaped, rinsed and dried his body, and donned his silk dressing gown. Jem, blushing, did the same. Matthew had been slim, muscular and graceful. Jem felt like a heifer compared to a deer.
‘Or shall I help you?’ asked Benjamin, smiling wickedly. Jem took his hands away from his body and stretched out his arms.
‘I’m all yours, master,’ he said, and Benjamin, washed him very gently, every touch electric, until Jem was writhing for release and begging for more friction. He slid his hands in under the dressing gown, catching nipples in his calloused hands, and finally, at last, Matthew laid him down and proceeded to ravish him senseless, as he intended.
‘Matt?’ mumbled Jeremiah.
‘Mmm?’ replied the highwayman, who was drowsing in luxurious splendour.
‘Don’t send me away. I’m yours now.’
‘I won’t,’ murmured Matthew. ‘I can’t, not now. Even though you’re likely to get me killed, or I’m likely to get you killed. We’ll both be riding the horse foaled by the acorn, Jemmy, if you stay with me.’
‘Aye, maybe,’ said Jemmy, nuzzling his neck. He was a beautiful, solid armload of pure animal heat, scented with French soap. ‘But until then, there’s us.’
‘There is,’ sighed Matthew Benjamin, and kissed him again.