Colleen McCullough - The Independence of Miss Mary Bennet

Angus’s staunch faзade fell once he was safely inside his room; surprised because he had felt no pain, he found that his nails had cut into the palms of his hands, he had clenched them so hard. Oh, Mary, Mary! Turned away as a common trollop by an imperceptive bigot like Mrs. Beatty! Filthy from her fall-wherever she had stayed in Nottingham had not offered her a bath, probably not even hot water. Well, no doubt Nottingham’s inns were stuffed with Mrs. Beattys too. He had good reason to think that his Mary would not be intimidated, including by a pack of felons, but worry he must.

A state of mind Mr. Beatty did not improve when he knocked softly on Angus’s door a few minutes later.

“Yes, sir?” Angus asked irritably, clad in his nightshirt.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sinclair, but I judged you the leader of your search party, and did not want to wait until the morning-we have a group of visitors arriving to view Sherwood Forest, and I may not get the time.”

“What is it you want to say?” Angus asked, feeling a qualm.

“My wife told me that Captain Thunder was lurking last Friday noon when the Sheffield coach arrived. To do her a meed of justice, she was frightened, and very anxious to bolt the door. Though why she couldn’t shout for the grooms I have no idea.” He scratched his head, dislodging his wig. “After the coach went north to Pleasley she took a peek outside, and there was your lady walking down the road to the Green Man. Captain Thunder was following her, but at a distance. It seems that under her dirt the lady was very pretty, which, my wife being what she is, led her to make a false judgement. So she never called the grooms. Instead, she bolted the door.”

“I see,” said Angus quietly. “What can you tell me of this Captain Thunder, sir?”

“No good, and that is certain. Folks are afraid of him, and with reason. ’Tis said he is a murderer, though I never heard of him killing anyone he bailed up. Shot one courageous old geezer through the shoulder, but he lived.”

“Then whom does he murder, Mr. Beatty?”

“Rumour has it, women. The Green Man is a bawdy-house as well as an inn, and Captain Thunder has first choice of new light-skirts. If one goes all shrewish, like, ’tis said he kills her.”

“Thank you.” Angus shut his door.

He had no sleep that night.

When he stepped into the parlour to partake of breakfast, he still had not made up his mind how much of Mr. Beatty’s news to impart to Charlie and Owen. Only when he saw their fresh, rested faces did he decide to tell them virtually nothing. If Charlie went off half-cocked their troubles would multiply, but he needed to be sure that pair of Manton pistols were ready for use.

“I do not wish to sound unduly pessimistic,” he said in the Friar Tuck stable yard amid the racket of unharnessing several carriages that had brought the sightseers, “but have you loaded your pistols, Charlie? For that matter, where are they? Can you reach them in a hurry if you have to?”

Grinning, Charlie lifted one saddle bag to reveal an elegant, silver-mounted pistol beneath it, a neat firearm ten inches long. “There’s one in the other holster too. They’re loaded and almost ready to fire. Flick the frizzen up off the powder pan, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger. I assure you they’ll not hang fire or flash in the pan-Manton don’t make second-rate pistols.”

“Good,” said Angus, smiling apologetically. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Charlie.”

“I’m not afraid to throw my heart over.”

“Let us depart this chaos.”

When Angus nudged his roan into a trot, Owen restrained him. “Since the Green Man is but a mile away, might it not be better to walk our horses that far? We should look for signs that Mary passed this way.”

Seeing the sense in that, Angus reined in his steed to a walk and the three of them separated to spread across the road, Angus down the middle, Owen near the right ditch, Charlie near the left. The thickness of the woods to either side dismayed them; no chance of riding in to investigate.

Perhaps a half a mile from the Friar Tuck, Owen gave a loud whoop. “Hola! I see something!”

He swung from the saddle and hopped down into the ditch, hands scrabbling in the weed-choked grass, and came up holding a tapestry handbag. Angus opened it without a scruple upon sad women’s under-things and the Book of Common Prayer . Her name was neatly written upon the front endpaper. Every item of clothing stank of horse excrement; he remembered Mr. Hooper’s saying that the coachman had thrown her bags onto the dung pile. Poor, poor Mary! Armed to fight the injustices of the world without dreaming that she too might fall prey to them.

“Well, that answers one question,” he said, and tossed the bag back into the ditch; the book went into his saddle bag. “There’s no point in carrying what’s in there-we’ll buy her much better at the nearest draper’s.”

“Oh, Lord, the villain must have set upon her!” Charlie said, winking at tears. “I’ll have his guts!”

“You’ll have to share them with me,” said Owen.

They could find no sign of the other handbag, but her plain black reticule was lying on the road just as the Green Man came into view around a bend.

“Empty,” said Angus. “However, we’ll keep it as proof, despite its aroma. See? She embroidered her name upon the lining. Black on black-her eyesight must be magnificent.”

Perhaps because the hour was early and felons traditionally lay abed until noon or later, the Green Man looked the very picture of innocence. It was tucked into a pocket of land where the trees had been removed, had stables of a kind down a driveway to one side, and numerous dilapidated out-buildings that seemed to store everything from firewood to barrels and crates. The building itself was large, had a thatched roof and half-timbered walls; the Green Man had been sitting there for at least two centuries. Hens and ducks picked at the ground outside its entrance doors.

No one peered through its bullioned windows as they rode up; clearly the Green Man did not cater to pre-noon patrons.

“I’ll go in alone,” said Angus, preparing to dismount.

“No, Angus, I’ll go,” said Charlie with authority. “I’ll allow you precedence in civilised places, but this is my country and I know how to go about things.” He flipped the frizzen off one pistol, made sure the powder pan was well primed, tucked the weapon horizontally in his breeches waist and then carefully cocked it. “Angus, take the other pistol and stand watch. The frizzen’s up, but it’s not cocked.”

Angus watched in horror at the youth’s insouciance, carrying a cocked, primed pistol like that, especially after he draped his coat across it. A slip, a trip, and he would be a Mozart castrato . How familiar he must be with pistols! For himself, Angus made sure he held his pistol level, and made no attempt to cock it.

When Charlie entered, he had to bend his head, and blinked in surprise; he had grown inches this past year!

“Hola!” he called. “Anybody at home?”

Came the sound of someone moving, then the distinctive clop-clop of clogs, popular footwear in the north.

At sight of Charlie, the evil-looking fellow who appeared stopped abruptly, frowning at the expensive clothes and very beautiful face. “Yes, my pretty boy? Lost, are you?” He made an effort to smile, showing the rotten teeth of a rum drinker.

“No, I am not lost. I and my two companions are looking for a lady named Miss Mary Bennet, and we have reason to think that one Captain Thunder-a fearsome name!-set upon her between the Friar Tuck and this establishment.”

“There be no ladies here,” said the man.