1814, night in Claegburn Woods
“If the prize is big enough, this will be our last venture.” The Frenchman donned a black mask and a plumed tricorn, tilting the three-cornered hat to a jaunty angle.
Bertie grumbled and climbed up into the birch tree. “If you expect me to be glad about that, don’t. It’ll be dull as old porridge without these little outings.”
Little outings, indeed.
“You know perfectly well we have to stop.” The Frenchman glanced pointedly at their two smaller companions in crime. One stood in the upper branches of a tree directly across from Bertie. The other one danced and twirled in a small clearing deeper in the woods. They were a merry group of highwaymen, but . . . “It’s too great a risk for the twins.”
A sound from the road sent The Frenchman scampering up into the tree beside Bertie. Four of them hid in Claegburn Woods that night. Three perched in the trees. The fourth thief, garbed in flowing gray, raised a flute to her lips and prepared to chill their victims’ souls with images of ghosts and haunting melodies of the afterlife.
“We’ve luck on our side. The night is playing along,” The Frenchman whispered, and climbed higher to have a better look. Mist floated through the woods, enough to hide them, but not so much that someone who knew this patch of forest couldn’t find their way. Someone like the notorious Highwayman.
Perfect.
“Aye.” Bertie gestured toward the road. “And here comes our pigeon, ripe for the plucking.”
“I knew he couldn’t resist the lure of a shortcut.” The Frenchman nudged Bertie with a grin and called out a warning to the others, “Get ready!”
They crouched in the branches of gnarled beech trees, alert and ready to spring. Farther back in the glade their accomplice danced into position. As if joining in the game, the moon sailed behind clouds, darkening the misty woods, transforming it into a frightening haunt alive with undulating silver and black shadows.
They watched the lonely stretch of road that cut through Claegburn Wood as their quarry, a wealthy baron, traveled home from a sumptuous dinner and musical evening at Mulvern manor. The large black landau lumbered to a stop in front of a crooked signpost. Coach lamps flickered through the darkness, casting thin yellow rays on a tilted marker. The driver hesitated and leaned forward studying the signpost. Then, with a scratch of his head, he did as the sign directed and turned the cumbersome black vehicle down the fork in the road.
It bumped and wobbled toward those lying in wait. The Frenchman’s heart banged like a woodsman’s axe. Tangled beeches and towering silver birch soon swallowed up the hapless coach; branches scraped against its sides and roof. The coach was nearly beneath them now. Bertie stifled a chuckle when the footman, hanging onto the rear guard, swore as he tried to dodge twigs and whipping branches. Passage slowed, until the vehicle came to a dead halt at a log fallen across the road.
The coachman stared glumly at the offending roadblock, but when the forlorn strains of a flute whispered through the trees, he clutched his whip, holding it high and upraised as if warding off whatever evil was about to befall him. The screech of an owl, or the yip of a fox, would not have startled a burly man such as this driver. But the faint, hauntingly beautiful flute never failed to make sturdy men quake.
The coachman gulped. His voice was hoarse and shaking. “Who g-goes there?”
The passenger door opened partway, impeded by branches. The footman jumped down, breaking off twigs, and shoving through the branches to assist his master.
“What’s all this then?” The owner of the coach, a balding baron, tried to squeeze his plump belly through the door that would only open half way. “Why are we stopped?”
Neither of his servants answered.
“Is that music I hear?”
The moon crept out from behind swirling dark clouds. The coachman sucked in his breath. “Cor! Bless me! It’s a ghost. There! In the trees.” He pointed with his whip.
“Rubbish! There’s no such thing as ghosts.” The baron puffed himself up and slapped away branches making his way toward the front of the coach. “Where? It’s so dark I can’t see a blamed thing. Well, speak up, man. I don’t have all night. Where’s this ghost of yours?”
The Frenchman dropped with the lightness of an autumn leaf onto the ground, breathed feathery laughter into the pigeon’s ear, and nudged the point of a short sword into the baron’s chubby side. The Frenchman whispered the inevitable words, “Stand and deliver, monsieur.”
“Ruddy hell!” The blowhard baron sputtered a string of foul curses and glanced sideways. No doubt, he hoped his servant would rush to his aid. But his footman’s arms were already securely pinned, and good ole’ Bertie had slipped a black hangman’s hood over the quaking fellow’s wigged head.
“We’re dead men,” the baron moaned.
The Frenchman responded with a husky accent. “Non, monsieur. Do exactly as you’re told and you may yet live.”
Mystical notes from the flute drifted through the darkness, gliding through the forest like a creature with ghostly talons, clawing the men’s hearts with fear.
From a low-lying branch, the third bandit leapt catlike onto the roof of the coach, crept up behind the frozen coachman, and jabbed a pistol muzzle into his back. “Do not move. Zis is a very light trigger.” In a trice, the highwayman covered the coachman’s head with a black silk sack and tied his hands with a violet sash.
“I know who you are.” The baron hissed, “The Frenchman.” Prodded by the sword, he spun around. “Cursed scoundrel.”
The Frenchman acknowledged the introduction with a mocking bow. “Enchanté. Now empty your pockets, Englishman. Tout suite.”
The stodgy baron’s thick eyebrows pinched together in a furious glower as he foraged through his pockets. At last, he produced a small leather bag. He held it aloft by the drawstrings before reluctantly dropping it into The Frenchman’s outstretched hand.
“Tsk, tsk, monsieur. So few coins?” The Frenchman hefted the bag, jingled its contents, and flashed a wide grin. “Clever fellow. Now hand over ze other purse.”
“What other purse?”
“Le bon ruse. You play the pauper.” The Frenchman shrugged. “C’est la vie. Remove your clothes. I will take them and search later.”
The baron’s wife sobbed from the coach. “For pity’s sake, Godfrey, give them what they want.”
“French rabble.” Godfrey balled his fists at his sides. “I’ll see you hang for this.”
With lightning speed, the masked bandit whipped a short sword across the baron’s chest and popped off three vest buttons. “Possiblé. But first I will see your purse.” The sword point moved to the next button.
“Stop! Those are pearl buttons.”
“Ah! So they are.” The Frenchman chuckled and, in one quick motion, sliced the rest of them from their moorings, caught them, and deposited the pearls in the deep pockets of a black greatcoat.
The baron muttered a volley of ear-scorching expletives. With his vest dangling open and The Cursed Frenchman’s sword aimed at his gullet, he dug out a second bag of money.
“Merci.” The Frenchman pocketed the second purse.
The third thief jumped nimbly down from the top of the coach and pointed an antiquated flintlock pistol at their quarry. “I’ll guard this fat one while you get ze jewels.”
Bertie, who was busy tying the footman to the rear wheel, growled at the smaller thief. “Hush!”
The baron’s wife cowered inside the coach, bawling like a small child.
“Pardon moi, madame.” The Frenchman swooped off the black tricorn with its purple ostrich feather and bowed lavishly to the baroness who looked to be half her husband’s age. The old rascal had done well for himself. “I must relieve you of zis stunning necklace.” The needle sharp sword tip lifted the diamond collar from the lady’s neck without making a scratch.
Still quivering, the baroness obediently reached back and unclasped the necklace, dropping it into The Frenchman’s gloved palm. Tears trickled down her cheek.
“Non. You must not cry, madame. Without these distracting diamonds, your beauty will captivate the gentlemen. Your husband, he will have to hire a battalion to protect you from all ze lovesick swains, n’est pas?”
The lady’s tears abated instantly. She brought a hand to her breast where the jewels had hung and she blinked quizzically at the masked Frenchman.
“And now, ze ring, also, se il vous plaît.”
The baroness shook her head and leaned away, clutching her hands together. “No, not that. Please, I beg you. This ring belonged to my mother. It’s all I have left of her. Please don’t take it from me.”
“Your mother?” The Frenchman pulled back.
The lady nodded.
“Très bien. Keep your mama’s ring. I bid you, adieu.” The Frenchman bowed again, donned the tricorn with a flourish, and turned from the coach doorway to see the baron and the smallest thief scuffling.
A shot blasted to shreds the lyrical quality of the night.
A scream.
The horses skittered and snorted, jangling their harnesses. Godfrey’s wife added her shrieks to the cacophony. The baron’s baldhead glistened in the moonlight. He held a smoking pistol in his hand. The small bandit lay on the ground in front of him.
Motionless.
From the shadows, Bertie’s club descended on Godfrey’s head. The blow dropped him to his knees, and he toppled forward face down in the leaves.
The Frenchman ran to their fallen comrade, frantically checked for blood, and murmured a desperate plea – the French accent forgotten. “Dear God, please. Not our Bonnie.” Finding no blood, The Frenchman struggled to hoist the unconscious bandit and drag her into the woods. “Help me.”
Bertie grunted, jammed the club back in its sheath, foraged through the leaves to collect the fallen highwayman’s flintlock and stuffed it into a pocket, then ran to shoulder the other side of the limp body.
Moonlight scarcely penetrated the thick canopy of beech trees. Yet, even in the darkness, the highwaymen ran as if they knew the way by heart. Ahead of them, in the shadows of the glade, stood a dilapidated wooden cart hitched to a tired old pony.
A young woman draped in flowing silver-gray, who might easily be mistaken for a ghost, ran to them. “I heard a shot. What happened?” She reached for her twin. “Bonnie?”
The Frenchman had no time to soothe fears. “We must hurry.”
As lithe as the curling fog around them, the ghost-like young lady climbed on the aged pony’s back. The Frenchman took up the reins and clucked at the old farm horse to trot. Bertie sat on the rear seat, cradling the moaning bandit.
As the cart rolled ponderously down the rutted path, the young flute player leaned forward to stroke the aged pony’s neck and begged the animal to hurry. The mare snorted, lifted her tired feet higher, and soon the cart was bouncing rapidly toward the dower house.