Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

'We go to Nether Cross,' Sandman said, 'we fetch the girl and you take us back to London where I shall write a letter to your employers saying your absence from duties was forced.'

'Much bleeding good that will do,' Mackeson grumbled.

'You're a jervis, Mack,' Berrigan said, 'you'll get a job. The rest of the world could be starving, but there's always work for a jervis.'

'Time to get ready,' Sandman said, glancing up at the lightening sky. A small mist drifted over the heath as the four horses were watered at a stone trough, then led back to the carriage where it took a long time to put on the four sets of bridles, belly bands, back bands, martingales, hames, traces, cruppers, driving pads and fillet straps. After Mackeson and Billy had finished harnessing the horses, Sandman made the younger man strip off his shoes and belt. The stable hand had pleaded to be left without bonds on his ankles and wrists and Sandman had agreed, but without shoes and with his breeches falling round his knees the boy would find it hard to escape. Sandman and Sally sat inside with the embarrassed Billy, Mackeson and Berrigan climbed onto the box and then, with a jangle and clanging and a lurching roll, they bounced over the grass and onto the road. They were travelling again.

They went south and east past hop fields, orchards and great estates. By midday Sandman had unwittingly fallen asleep, then woke with a start when the carriage lurched in a rut. He blinked, then saw that Sally had taken the pistol from him and was gazing at a thoroughly cowed Billy. 'You can sleep on, Captain,' she said.

'I'm sorry, Sally.'

'He didn't dare try nothing,' Sally said derisively, 'not once I told him who my brother is.'

Sandman peered through the window to see they were climbing through a beech wood. 'I thought we might meet him last night.'

'He don't like crossing the river,' Sally said, 'so he only works the north and west roads.' She saw he was properly awake and gave him back his pistol. 'Do you think a man can be on the cross and then go straight?' she asked.

Sandman suspected the question was not about her brother, but about Berrigan. Not that the Sergeant was exactly in the cross life, not as the Wheatsheaf understood it, but as a servant of the Seraphim Club he had certainly known his share of crime. 'Of course he can,' Sandman said confidently.

'Not many do,' Sally averred, but not in argument. Rather she wanted reassurance.

'We all have to make a living, Sally,' Sandman said, 'and if we're honest we none of us want to work too hard. That's the appeal of the cross life, isn't it? Your brother can work one night in three and make a living.'

'That's Jack though, isn't it?' She sounded bleak and, rather than meet Sandman's eye, she gazed through the dusty window at an orchard.

'And maybe your brother will settle down when he meets the right woman,' Sandman suggested. 'A lot of men do that. They start off by being rogues, but then find honest work and as often as not it's after they've met a woman. I can't tell you how many of my soldiers were utter nuisances, complete damn fools, more use to the enemy than to us, and then they'd meet some Spanish girl half their weight and within a week they'd be model soldiers.' She turned to look at him and he smiled at her. 'I don't think you've anything to worry about, Sally.'

She returned his smile. 'Are you a good judge of men, Captain?'

'Yes, Sally, I am.'

She laughed, then looked at Billy. 'Close your bleeding trap before you catch flies,' she said, 'and stop listening to private conversation!'

He blushed and stared at a hedge that crawled past the window. They could not change horses and so Mackeson was pacing the team, which meant they travelled slowly, and the journey was made even slower because the road was in bad condition and they had to pull over whenever a horn announced that a stage or mail coach was behind them. The mail coaches were the most dramatic, their approach heralded by an urgent blast of a horn, then the lightly built and high-sprung vehicles would fly past in a flurry of hooves, rocking like a galloper gun. Sandman envied their speed, and worried about time, then told himself it was only Saturday and, so long as Meg really was hiding at Nether Cross, then they should be back in London by Sunday evening and that left plenty of time to find Lord Sidmouth and secure Corday's reprieve. The Home Secretary had said he did not want to be disturbed by official business on the Lord's Day, but Sandman did not give a damn about his lordship's prayers. Sandman would keep the whole government from its devotions if that meant justice.

In mid-morning Sandman changed places with Berrigan. Sandman now guarded Mackeson and he lifted his coat to let the driver see the pistol, but Mackeson was cowed and docile. He was taking the carriage down ever narrower roads, beneath trees heavy with summer leaves so that both he and Sandman were constantly ducking beneath boughs. They stopped at a ford to let the horses drink and Sandman watched the blue-green dragonflies flitting between the tall rushes, then Mackeson clicked his tongue and the horses hauled on and the coach splashed through the water and climbed between warm fields where men and women cut the harvest with sickles. Near midday they stopped close to a tavern and Sandman bought ale, bread and cheese which they ate and drank as the carriage creaked the last few miles. They passed a church that had a lych gate wreathed with bridal flowers and then clopped through a village where men played cricket on the green. Sandman watched the game as the coach rattled along the green's edge. This was rural cricket, a long way from the sophistication of the London game. These players still used only two stumps and a wide bail, and they bowled strictly under arm, yet the batsman had a good stance and a better eye and Sandman heard the shouts of approbation as the man punished a bad ball by striking it into a duck pond. A small boy splashed in to retrieve the ball, and then Mackeson, with a careless skill, wheeled the horses between two brick walls and clicked them on past a pair of oast houses and down into a narrow lane that ran steep between thick woods of oak. 'Not far now,' Mackeson said.

'You've done well to remember the way,' Sandman said. His compliment was genuine because the route had been tortuous and he had wondered whether Mackeson was misleading them by trying to get lost in the tangle of small lanes, but at the last turn, beside the oast houses, Sandman had seen a fingerpost pointing to Nether Cross.

'I done this journey a half-dozen times with his lordship,' Mackeson said, then hesitated before glancing at Sandman. 'So what happens if you don't find the woman?'

'We will find her,' Sandman said 'You brought her here, didn't you?' he added.

'Long time back, master,' Mackeson said, 'long time back.'

'How long?'

'Seven weeks near enough,' the coachman said, and Sandman realised that Meg must have been brought down to the country just after the murder and a full month before Corday's trial. 'All of seven weeks ago,' Mackeson went on, 'and anything can happen in seven weeks, can't it?' He gave Sandman a sly look. 'And maybe his lordship's here? That'll cool your porridge, won't it?'

Sandman had fretted that Skavadale might indeed be at his estate in Nether Cross, but there had been little point in worrying over much. He was either there or not, and he would have to be dealt with or not, and Sandman was far more worried that Meg might have vanished. Perhaps she was dead? Or perhaps, if she was blackmailing Skavadale, then she was living in country luxury and would not want to abandon her new life. 'What sort of house is it?' he asked the coachman.

'It ain't like their big ones up north,' Mackeson said. 'They got this one through a marriage in the old days, that's what I heard.'