attractiveness to women. His upper lip was marked by the thin line of a moustache, which made him look like the King in a pack of playing cards, and he wore his long, dark chestnut hair loose to his shoulders. It was as though he’d missed his time by a hundred years. He had chosen his clothes with care, with exactly the right kind of show and flamboyance. His plumed hat lay on her bed; he wore a silver and black cut velvet jacket and quantities of lace at his cuffs and throat. He looked every inch the dashing highwayman: tall and straight limbed in buff-coloured breeches and thigh high jackboots turned down to the knee.
His horse was as fine as his owner. A beautiful dark bay with a refined, chiselled head, a slightly dished face and the high tail carriage that spoke of Arab blood. Sovay expressed her admiration as she led Brady out of his stall.
‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘he’s a good horse. I took a fancy to him one day on the Newmarket road. Some young gentleman had a long walk home. You have a remarkably handsome grey. Fine head on him.’
Brady shied away from his stroking glove. Sovay put a hand on his dappled neck to calm him.
‘He’s a splendid horse all right, but too distinctive, too identifiable. You’ve got a lot to learn, and no mistake.’ Greenwood helped her up into the saddle, and then mounted himself. ‘We must stable him as soon as we get to London, or he will give you away.’
A curtain twitched up in the top gable window at the front of the inn. The room was cheap and small, but it was perfect for its occupant’s purposes. It was high, near to the sky, and it gave a good view of the arch that led out of the yard, as well as the road before it.
Digby Clayton was an early riser. Only the owls are up before Digby, was one of his sayings. He watched the two of them ride off together down the London road and then sat down to write on a slip of paper. When he had finished, he folded the paper over, and over again. Then he opened one of the narrow cages he carried in his saddlebags and took out a bird. He crooned to it, caressing the iridescent feathers on the back of its neck, and then stroking it gently under the throat as he attached the note to a band on the bird’s leg. He opened the window and, with a few final soft words of encouragement, he let the bird go.
The pigeon sat on a chimney pot for a few moments, head cocked, and then it took off, circled once above the red roofs of the town, and flew off south for London.
CHAPTER 7
A s Sovay and the highwayman went on their way to London, Gabriel met Fitzwilliam in the yard of the Mitre Inn.
‘Why don’t you travel inside with me?’ the young don said as he surveyed his fellow passengers. They looked a dull lot. ‘You can tether your horse behind. The weather is promising to turn inclement and I could do with some good conversation.’
The sky threatened rain and, as he spoke, the first heavy drops began to fall. Gabriel did not relish the thought of a soaking, so he readily agreed. The coach took the new London road up Headington Hill and on to the capital. Despite Fitzwilliam expressing a need for good conversation, he was soon asleep. Gabriel watched the unfamiliar countryside go by and wondered how his horse was faring. Travelling in the carriage was uncomfortable and he would have made much greater speed on horseback. He wondered if he had made the right decision, but was as soon as fast asleep as his companion.
Gabriel was woken by the guard blowing his horn as they approached the White Hart, the last inn before London. The coach came to a halt in the yard and he stepped down, glad to be out, although even with both feet on solid ground, he still felt the rocking motion of the carriage. The passengers were directed to a dining room, while the guard checked his weapons and the driver saw to the change of horses.
The dining room was towards the back of the inn. The fee for dinner was half a crown, the price included in the ticket.
His horse was as fine as his owner. A beautiful dark bay with a refined, chiselled head, a slightly dished face and the high tail carriage that spoke of Arab blood. Sovay expressed her admiration as she led Brady out of his stall.
‘Yes,’ he laughed, ‘he’s a good horse. I took a fancy to him one day on the Newmarket road. Some young gentleman had a long walk home. You have a remarkably handsome grey. Fine head on him.’
Brady shied away from his stroking glove. Sovay put a hand on his dappled neck to calm him.
‘He’s a splendid horse all right, but too distinctive, too identifiable. You’ve got a lot to learn, and no mistake.’ Greenwood helped her up into the saddle, and then mounted himself. ‘We must stable him as soon as we get to London, or he will give you away.’
A curtain twitched up in the top gable window at the front of the inn. The room was cheap and small, but it was perfect for its occupant’s purposes. It was high, near to the sky, and it gave a good view of the arch that led out of the yard, as well as the road before it.
Digby Clayton was an early riser. Only the owls are up before Digby, was one of his sayings. He watched the two of them ride off together down the London road and then sat down to write on a slip of paper. When he had finished, he folded the paper over, and over again. Then he opened one of the narrow cages he carried in his saddlebags and took out a bird. He crooned to it, caressing the iridescent feathers on the back of its neck, and then stroking it gently under the throat as he attached the note to a band on the bird’s leg. He opened the window and, with a few final soft words of encouragement, he let the bird go.
The pigeon sat on a chimney pot for a few moments, head cocked, and then it took off, circled once above the red roofs of the town, and flew off south for London.
CHAPTER 7
A s Sovay and the highwayman went on their way to London, Gabriel met Fitzwilliam in the yard of the Mitre Inn.
‘Why don’t you travel inside with me?’ the young don said as he surveyed his fellow passengers. They looked a dull lot. ‘You can tether your horse behind. The weather is promising to turn inclement and I could do with some good conversation.’
The sky threatened rain and, as he spoke, the first heavy drops began to fall. Gabriel did not relish the thought of a soaking, so he readily agreed. The coach took the new London road up Headington Hill and on to the capital. Despite Fitzwilliam expressing a need for good conversation, he was soon asleep. Gabriel watched the unfamiliar countryside go by and wondered how his horse was faring. Travelling in the carriage was uncomfortable and he would have made much greater speed on horseback. He wondered if he had made the right decision, but was as soon as fast asleep as his companion.
Gabriel was woken by the guard blowing his horn as they approached the White Hart, the last inn before London. The coach came to a halt in the yard and he stepped down, glad to be out, although even with both feet on solid ground, he still felt the rocking motion of the carriage. The passengers were directed to a dining room, while the guard checked his weapons and the driver saw to the change of horses.
The dining room was towards the back of the inn. The fee for dinner was half a crown, the price included in the ticket.
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