turned to tell Peg she could not do it, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing right in front of her was a very large, very angry man wearing a low-crowned, wide-brimmed slouch hat, a voluminous drab cloak that looked like a discarded coachman’s greatcoat, light breeches and stockings, and black boots. He held a cudgel in one hand but grabbed her right arm tightly with his other. Then, tucking the cudgel under that same arm, he took a wooden bell out of a pocket in his cloak and began to wave it overhead. With the rattling sound to punctuate his words, he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “A thief, a thief! Gentlemen, look to your purses! She’s took a fat ’un from some’un.”
Too terrified even to struggle, Maggie saw the stocky man stop, pat his clothing, and turn around, his expression shocked and furious. “I say,” he shouted, “that’s mine she’s taken!”
“Then you’ll be knowing how much is inside it, sir.”
“I certainly do know, my good man. There is all of five pounds inside it.”
Her captor put away his rattle and, keeping a sharp eye on Maggie, opened the purse. Clicking his tongue, he said, “There be all of that, sir, which be a good bit more than the forty shillings required to hang the wicked wench.”
“But I did not take his purse,” Maggie said, trying to retain her dignity and knowing she failed miserably. “Who are you to dare to detain me, fellow?”
“I be a constable’s watchman, that’s who I be, wench, expected to keep the king’s peace in London town. And who do ye think ye be, to be talking so high and mighty to yer betters?”
“I …” Seeing the number of people who hovered curiously nearby to see what would become of her, Maggie felt the shredded remnants of her courage disintegrate. The last thing she wanted to do was to announce her name so publicly. Looking desperately from Peg Short’s victim to the watchman, she said finally, “I did not take that gentleman’s purse. If you will only let me—”
“Aye, wench, o’ course ye didn’t take it. The thing just flew out of the gentleman’s pocket and into your hand.”
“No, of course it did no such thing, but I did not take it. There was a woman with me, Peg Short, who picked it up off the footpath and handed it to me.” But even as she said the words, she knew that was not what had happened, that Peg had stolen the purse and had thrust it at her in order to make her own escape.
The watchman winked at her. “Not much of a liar, are ye, wench. Best ye polish that tale up a mite afore ye tell it to his worship.” Taking her arm again, he said, “Come along now.”
“But where are you taking me?” Maggie cried.
“Why, to Bridewell magistrate’s court, o’ course,” he told her. “Lucky ye be ’tis a Friday, or ye’d sit in a cell for a few days first. His worship holds his court but once a week. Ye might scrub yer face a bit,” he added, looking her over with a critical eye. “Happen he’ll be swayed more by a pretty face than by yer silly story and decline to hang ye after all.”
It was the second time he had mentioned hanging, and Maggie shuddered. “They won’t really hang me!”
“Oh, aye. If ye were male, his worship would no doubt order ye strung up in irons outside the city afterwards, as a warning to them what enters to mind our laws ’n all.”
She remembered seeing such grotesque sights along the Hampstead Road. The punishment was a peculiarly English one, and she had been appalled, but Fiona had said practically that such sights must deter highwaymen, which was no doubt their purpose.
Suddenly, at thought of Fiona, tears sprang to her eyes, and a moment later, she was sobbing hysterically. Fiona and Mungo were really dead, and as if that were not dreadful enough, she was all alone, and the damnable English meant to hang her.
The watchman, unimpressed by her tears, merely tightened his hand on her arm and dragged her along the street behind him
Too terrified even to struggle, Maggie saw the stocky man stop, pat his clothing, and turn around, his expression shocked and furious. “I say,” he shouted, “that’s mine she’s taken!”
“Then you’ll be knowing how much is inside it, sir.”
“I certainly do know, my good man. There is all of five pounds inside it.”
Her captor put away his rattle and, keeping a sharp eye on Maggie, opened the purse. Clicking his tongue, he said, “There be all of that, sir, which be a good bit more than the forty shillings required to hang the wicked wench.”
“But I did not take his purse,” Maggie said, trying to retain her dignity and knowing she failed miserably. “Who are you to dare to detain me, fellow?”
“I be a constable’s watchman, that’s who I be, wench, expected to keep the king’s peace in London town. And who do ye think ye be, to be talking so high and mighty to yer betters?”
“I …” Seeing the number of people who hovered curiously nearby to see what would become of her, Maggie felt the shredded remnants of her courage disintegrate. The last thing she wanted to do was to announce her name so publicly. Looking desperately from Peg Short’s victim to the watchman, she said finally, “I did not take that gentleman’s purse. If you will only let me—”
“Aye, wench, o’ course ye didn’t take it. The thing just flew out of the gentleman’s pocket and into your hand.”
“No, of course it did no such thing, but I did not take it. There was a woman with me, Peg Short, who picked it up off the footpath and handed it to me.” But even as she said the words, she knew that was not what had happened, that Peg had stolen the purse and had thrust it at her in order to make her own escape.
The watchman winked at her. “Not much of a liar, are ye, wench. Best ye polish that tale up a mite afore ye tell it to his worship.” Taking her arm again, he said, “Come along now.”
“But where are you taking me?” Maggie cried.
“Why, to Bridewell magistrate’s court, o’ course,” he told her. “Lucky ye be ’tis a Friday, or ye’d sit in a cell for a few days first. His worship holds his court but once a week. Ye might scrub yer face a bit,” he added, looking her over with a critical eye. “Happen he’ll be swayed more by a pretty face than by yer silly story and decline to hang ye after all.”
It was the second time he had mentioned hanging, and Maggie shuddered. “They won’t really hang me!”
“Oh, aye. If ye were male, his worship would no doubt order ye strung up in irons outside the city afterwards, as a warning to them what enters to mind our laws ’n all.”
She remembered seeing such grotesque sights along the Hampstead Road. The punishment was a peculiarly English one, and she had been appalled, but Fiona had said practically that such sights must deter highwaymen, which was no doubt their purpose.
Suddenly, at thought of Fiona, tears sprang to her eyes, and a moment later, she was sobbing hysterically. Fiona and Mungo were really dead, and as if that were not dreadful enough, she was all alone, and the damnable English meant to hang her.
The watchman, unimpressed by her tears, merely tightened his hand on her arm and dragged her along the street behind him
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