A Woman of the Road Read online

  A Woman of the Road

  By Amy Wolf

  Book I of the Honest Thieves Trilogy

  Books by Amy Wolf

  Don’t Let Me Die in a Motel 6: or One Woman’s Struggle Through the Great Recession

  The Misses Brontës’ Establishment

  The Cavernis Trilogy

  Book I: A School for Dragons

  Book II: A War for Dragons

  Book III: A Hero for Dragons

  Upcoming: A Woman of the Road and Sea, Book II of the Honest Thieves Trilogy

  A WOMAN OF THE ROAD

  Copyright: Amy Wolf

  Published: 27 November 2018

  E-book edition

  The right of Amy Wolf to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. All ancillary rights, including but not limited to film, broadcast, radio, video, DVD, CD, satellite, digital, merchandising, theatrical, and mediums to be exploited the future belong solely to the author.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be resold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase a copy from Amazon.com. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2018 by Cherith Vaughan

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at:

  amywolf.org & @AmyWolf_Author on Twitter

  Find out more about this trilogy at https://www.facebook.com/womanoftheroad/

  Special Acknowledgements

  Rachel (R.E.) Carr – beta reader extraordinaire

  Jorden Pritchard – firearms expert

  Dr. Mark R. Levy – medical advisor

  Theresa Mudrock – University of Washington Historical Librarian

  . . .it was a liberal profession. . . which required more accomplishments than either the Bar or the pulpit. . . The finest men of England. . .the very noblest specimens of man. . .were beyond a doubt the mounted robbers who cultivated their profession on the great leading roads. . .

  Thomas de Quincey

  Table of Contents

  Initiation

  The Whale

  Learning the Trade

  Journey to Epping

  Another Merry Companion

  Our Third Merry Companion

  Throwing a Main

  Meg’s Story

  Four “Men” In a Bed

  Aventis Meets His Match

  A Latter-Day Robin Hood

  A Double Crossing

  A Glimpse of Hell

  Companions Only

  1663

  A Good Catholic

  1665

  1666

  Home

  The Rebuilding

  A Promise

  A Bold Call

  Plotters

  Two Proposals

  Amongst Vacancy

  A False Robbery

  The Abbey

  Dover 1670

  Unexpected Friends

  A Theft but Not of Gold

  Her Majesty

  The Duke

  Honored Guests

  Initiation

  I confess I froze as Jeffries pointed his pistol at me.

  “Now,” he said, “heed me, and you will live. Present your weapon with menace but do not fire lest you are fired upon. We have enough grief as is without being hanged for murder.”

  “But captain,” I said, shifting in my saddle, “in what way does it matter? Is not the penalty for our ‘trade’ death?”

  Jeffries, astride his mount, winced beneath the black crepe that covered most of his face. His eyes narrowed, and I thought for a moment he would breech his own code by sending a lead ball through me.

  “Let us not dwell on unhappy thoughts,” he said. “For the moment, let us be merry. Your first adventure must be thrilling—” he winked. “—and most important, yield guineas!”

  Jeffries chuckled beneath his mask as I tried not to stare. In truth, he was dashingly handsome in his all-black breeches, silk stockings to match, and leather boots which reached to his thigh. Over his grey doublet, he wore a long dark cloak, and to add to a sense of menace brandished two pistols, with a sheathed sword at his hip. I also knew (for I had caught a glimpse ere he slipped it in his boot) that he carried a long sharp dagger. Indeed, this was a captain ready to ride to war.

  Oddly enough, so was I! I wore much the same raiment (for my costume belonged to Jeffries), though I bore but one pistol, and my doublet was green. To distinguish us further, I felt the extreme discomfort of wearing another’s clothes. I was more than aware that the cuffs of my sleeves descended past my fingertips; while my hat, festooned with red feathers, fell nearly over my eyes. Since I was not yet half of Jeffries’s age (he must have been forty-and-five), nor nearly as tall and bulky, I must have looked like a comical child.

  “It is time,” said Jeffries, spurring his horse forward while reaching to grab my reins. We rode single file across a road pitted with rocks and the wheel marks of endless coaches.

  As we scampered up a low hill (nearly sending me out of my stirrups), Jeffries delivered a final homily: “Remember—your task is to show swagger even if you feel fear.”

  “But I have no actual skill,” I said, sharp pains striking my thighs as they pressed into hard leather. At that instant, I would have gladly crawled back home and begged for forgiveness.

  “Megs,” Jeffries said, “you were the one who sought me out. It is your wish to join me, and surely you understand this is not like serving beer. You must be bold. You must be daring. But most of all, be merry!”

  He let loose a thunderous laugh that shook his powerful body. I had observed through the years that despite his love of good wine he had never put on an ounce. But I had no time for further thought as a dreaded clatter—iron wheels scattering pebbles—sounded around a bend.

  “Your deflowering!” Jeffries crowed, letting loose my reins and handing the two ends up to me. “Do not disappoint, dear Megs, or tarnish my good name as a ‘parfit, gentil’ thief!”

  With that, he slapped my horse full on the rear, causing it to plummet like a sparrow thrown from its nest.

  Sweating beneath my own mask, I tried to recall Jeffries’s words: Do not shoot unless you are shot at. Always search the coach—for weapons and hidden treasure. Be courteous to ladies, and a gentleman to gentlemen.

  My limbs shaking, I fought more than anything merely to keep my seat.

  “Halt!” I cried, swooping upon a coach bearing a crest on its door. It was manned by a crusty old driver seated beside a guard. The four harnessed horses obeyed (or at least the coachman did) and I boldly rode into their path on the Road to Bath.

  My next words might be familiar, but for me that first time they thrilled:

  “Stand and deliver!” I cried. “Your money or your life!”

  Thank the blessèd Lord, that poor guard was armed with a sword, while I had a flintlock pistol. I watched as his steel blade clanked to the roa
d and lay silent.

  “Whom do you carry?” I asked, gesturing with my pistol that both men were to descend.

  “It is Lady Castlemaine you trouble,” the driver growled.

  I snickered beneath my mask.

  “Old Rowley’s favorite mistress?” I asked.

  I was answered by a dark-eyed lady who stepped gracefully out of her coach. God’s blood, she was hardly older than me!

  “If you mean the king, then yes,” she said, as unruffled at being in the road as she would have been at Whitehall. I marveled at her calm, not to mention her gown; so much gold fabric encased her that she looked less dressed than minted!

  What drew my eye next was of course her ornaments: she wore three strands of pearls along with a gold brooch worth more than most earned in a lifetime. With caution, I leant from my mount.

  “Your keepsakes, madam,” I said, pointing to them with my black glove.

  “Very well,” she sighed, “but know them as gifts from the king.”

  “Lady,” I told her, nodding at the road, “out here, I am king.”

  She rewarded me with a laugh and even a small curtsy.

  “I am glad that gallantry still exists in our high tobys,” she said. “So many are lowborn now.”

  “You may rest assured, Lady Castlemaine, that though I do not dance a minuet like the famed Du Vall, still, I strive to be courteous.”

  I inclined my hat, red feathers and all, to her, then rapidly pulled up the brim which had fallen over my eyes.

  “Well, I must admit I don’t mind the occasional robbery,” she said. “Such a tale it will make in court!”

  I knew that Jeffries would rage if I did not search the coach interior, but my victim was so good-humored that I did not have the heart.

  “Good day to you,” I said, with another tug of my hat. “Pray give my regards to the king.”

  “And who shall I say they are from?” she asked, as the waiting coachman and guard looked on with open mouths.

  “I am called Megs,” I said.

  “What a curious name!”

  “And what a curious creature!” said I. “The king, though married to a staunch Catholic, has more mistresses than you have pearls!” I dangled her strands from my glove.

  “Ha! I love a good wit. I will pass your good wishes to Charles. He will be greatly amused.”

  “As one would expect from our merry monarch,” I said.

  With a final half bow, I spurred my mount a few paces until he thankfully took charge and deposited me by Jeffries.

  “Well done, young Megs!” said the captain, giving me such a clap on the back that I nearly hit the rough heath. “I’ve no doubt my friends in London can get us sixty pounds for the pearls and at least two-hundred for the brooch. It is well that our dear Charles gifts his harem so nicely.”

  “Queen Catherine will not share your joy, but I can affirm that I do.”

  “With this bounty,” said Jeffries, lifting up the gold so that it caught the afternoon sun, “there’s no sleeping rough tonight! After I complete my business, let us make for my favorite inn, to enjoy a good dinner.”

  As my horse trotted beside him, jolting my insides until I felt they would leave my body, I tried my best to be merry. Yet despite my expression, I felt a sense of dread. It was one thing to escape one’s prison—quite another to return.

  The Whale

  As the sun arced west, bringing this fine spring day to a close, we two road north toward London. Jeffries stopped at a Tudor shop on the outskirts while I considered dismounting to save my aching rear. I looked around this neighborhood, known for its disrepute: nothing but shoddy pawn shops, ale houses, and barely cobbled roads. Happily, Jeffries soon emerged, looking for all the world like a satisfied bridegroom. He held up the lumpy object of his affection: a leather pouch so distended it threatened to burst its cord.

  “Is it not lovely?” he cried. “The reason we ply our trade.”

  He loosened the cord and plunged a hand within, emerging with a mound of gold which he placed in my waiting glove. I looked down. Now this was a sight more compelling than even Lady Castlemaine! At once, any misgivings I might have harbored vanished, for they were lost in a sea of guineas.

  Pocketing my share, I let my horse follow Jeffries as he headed southwest for Middlesex. This, I knew, was where his favorite inn lay. Before we arrived, I could almost see the old white stones, along with clumped candles casting their light through the windows. When we finally reached the place, we saw its distinctive sign which pictured a carved leviathan caught in the crest of two words: “The Whale.”

  “Time to unmask,” Jeffries whispered, removing the black crepe from his face. Reluctantly, I did the same.

  I felt my stomach rise as I handed my reins to the hostler, but, for Jeffries’s sake, silently fought this sickness. When I alighted from my saddle, I likewise strove to ignore the stabbing pains in my legs and back. I had never ridden so much in my life: in fact, before today, I had never ridden.

  Be bold, I told myself, as I moved away from the hostler. Show swagger despite your fear.

  It was thus with a firm step that I entered the Whale with Jeffries. We were both playing a part—perhaps as skillfully as those who retreaded the boards—and as for me: I was determined to see the act through.

  That is why I did not flinch when Richard “Dick” Tanner, the Whale’s owner, skipped over to Jeffries with a grin and an open palm. He was rewarded with several guineas: not just for his service, of course, but his willingness to keep silent.

  “It is the cpt’n his’self!” Tanner cried.

  I stared at this all-too-familiar form with its tufts of gray hair protruding from under a cap. I knew without looking that his mouth bore precious few teeth, and his stomach was covered with a white grease-stained apron. I determined to keep a close eye, for I knew that he stole from his guests as surely as I had on the road.

  “Wine, cpt’n?” Tanner grinned.

  “Yes, and for my young friend,” said Jeffries. “We two have ridden hard and are practically starving, so bring your best bread and cheese; a brace of pigeons; and a dozen scotch collops. We shall consider a fruit pie later.”

  Tanner nodded, nearly running back to the kitchen. I let out my breath. It was clear he had not recognized me in my new attire. That was good for him, for had he uttered a cry, I would have skewered him like an eel.

  Jeffries, perhaps sensing my mood, remarked, “Ah! The comfort of a warm fire.”

  Indeed, it crackled merrily behind its façade of bricks. This room could be comforting if you were a paying patron: what with its scuffed wood floor, the planks carefully laid; and the pewter bar, polished to a high gleam just like Jeffries’s sword.

  I nodded to the captain, hesitant to speak. However, I needn’t have troubled myself. Consumed with visions of guineas, Tanner devoted himself to us, scraping back two sturdy chairs at the captain’s usual table—the one in the farthest corner.

  “Sir, ‘ho’s the young ‘un?” Tanner asked.

  “Ah, this is Megs, a new recruit. He has so far proved invaluable.”

  “Glad to ‘ear it, cpt’n. Never seen you with no one else.”

  “There is no one else like Megs,” said Jeffries.

  Thankfully, our food arrived, and Jeffries and I set about stabbing it with the knives we had with us. I sought to purge from my mind the thought of the cook in the kitchen: unclean, dripping with sweat, and not above serving meats that had long ago lived their time. Still, this fare was excellent, as befit a man likes Jeffries.

  As we finished every crumb and wiped our knives clean, Jeffries ordered a gooseberry pie. He was none the worse for having got through two jugs of wine while I took small sips from my glass. In this hostile environ, I knew I must keep a clear head.

  As we put away our pie, some of the other diners began a game of cards at a long center table.

  “Say there, gent, care to join us?” A boisterous drover cried. “Only a ha’ penny a hand
!”

  “No, thank you,” said Jeffries from his corner perch. “My friend and I are tired from a long, but fruitful day.”

  “Suit yerself, sir,” said the drover with a shrug. He turned to the other card players. “Not pertic’u’lar’y friendly, ain’t ‘e?”

  Jeffries gave a rueful smile. This gave way to a near groan as, an hour later, the drover grabbed a lute, and sang (rather terribly, I must confess) “Two Maids Went Milking”:

  Two maidens went milking one day

  Two maidens went milking one day

  And the wind it did blow high

  And the wind it did blow low

  And it toss-ed their pails to and fro, la, la, la

  And it toss-ed their pails to and fro.

  They met with a man they did know

  They met with a man they did know

  And they said, "Have you the will?"

  And they said, "Have you the skill

  For to catch us a small bird or two, la, la, la

  For to catch us a small bird or two".

  "Yes, I have an ex-cellent good skill

  Yes, I have an ex-cellent good skill

  If you'll come along with me

  Un-der yonder flowering tree

  I might catch you a small bird or two, la, la, la

  I might catch you a small bird or two".

  So they went and they sat 'neath a tree

  So they went and they sat 'neath a tree

  And the birds flew round about

  Pret-ty birds flew in and out

  And he caught them by one and by two, la, la, la

  And he caught them by one and by two

  Now my boys, let us drink down the sun

  Now my boys let us drink down the moon

  Take your lady to the wood

  If you really think you should

  You might catch her a small bird or two, la, la, la

  You might catch her a small bird or two

  As the drover finished to wild applause, undoubtedly “milked” by drink, Jeffries tapped me on the shoulder and rose