Winchester road. When was this event to take place?"
"On the morrow," replied the girl. She gathered up a handful of the long, mousy hair that fell to her shoulders, running it through her fingers, her face wistful. "Wish I could be a great lady at a dance."
Lyle grinned. "You are already a great lady. But perhaps your wish is not so far-fetched. I believe we have our solution, praise God."
"Our solution?" Grumm spluttered as Bella beamed. "You cannot possibly..."
"Worry not, old fellow," Lyle cut in. "You need not embroil yourself in this."
Grumm lifted his pot. "Suits me well, and no mistake." When he had swallowed, he fixed the highwayman with a drilling stare. "You're a damnable fool, Samson Lyle, I do not mind telling you."
Lyle raised a single eyebrow. "Evidently."
"Anyone who is anyone will be there, for Christ's sake. God-rotten magistrates. Bureaucrats. Soldiers. Any number of Major-General Goffe's lackeys." He shook his head in bewilderment. "Zounds, the Mad Ox too, I shouldn't wonder." He leaned in suddenly. "He knows what you bloody look like, you fool!"
"But not what you look like," Lyle replied. "Or Bella. Besides, it is a masquerade. Every man and woman will wear a disguise." He rubbed thick fingers over the emerging bristles of his chin, the scraping sounds seeming unnaturally loud in the empty taproom. "I have to go, Eustace. I have to go. If Sir Frederick Mason is in attendance then we may discover when they plan to move Wren. It is a chance to strike at our enemies."
"Well do not count on my assistance, you bee-headed bloody frantic," Grumm retorted hotly. He folded his arms, setting his jaw and staring at the blackened beams above. "I shan't have any part in it, as God is my witness."
PART TWO: THE DANCE
Hinton Ampner , Hampshire , November 1655
Hinton Ampner was a tiny village straddling the road between Petersfield and Winchester. The land was thick with forests that stretched in all directions into the chalky South Downs, only occasionally broken up by patches of open farmland that sustained the smattering of timber-framed hovels clustered like toadstools about the hamlet's core. And that core was the Manor House, the huge edifice of red brick and grey stone that had been built in Tudor times as a hunting lodge and grown into the most imposing structure for miles.
It was evening as Samson Lyle and Eustace Grumm stepped over the threshold. The surrounding trees darkened an already grey dusk, but the great house glowed bright, basking in the tremulous light of a thousand candles. No stinking tallow, Lyle noted, for Sir John Hippisley had done well out of the revolution, seen his star rise with the other hard men of the new order, and the old Roundhead's home was sweet with the scent of beeswax, a touch of wood smoke and a great deal of perfume.
A footman in a fine suit of shimmering red and blue strutted confidently out to greet Lyle like some over-sized kingfisher. At his flank was a soldier clutching a halberd. Lyle felt his pulse quicken. The footman held a mask attached to a thin rod, which he lowered to appraise the new arrivals. "Sirs?"
This was the first test of Lyle's nerve, and he held his breath behind his own ostentatious mask of gold and black. It was fastened by a string about the back of his head so that there was no danger of it slipping, and he bowed, the mask's goose feather fringe wafting at his scalp and tickling his ears. "Sir Ardell Early," he said, his voice sounding so peculiar in the muffled confines of the disguise. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure who had accompanied him to the door. "And Winfred Piersall."
The footman considered the names, and for a terrible moment Lyle thought they had been discovered, but the man offered a wide smile and a deep bow and swept his arm back grandly. "Your servant, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your evening."
The men allowed themselves to be shown into the house's inner sanctum. There would be no further
"On the morrow," replied the girl. She gathered up a handful of the long, mousy hair that fell to her shoulders, running it through her fingers, her face wistful. "Wish I could be a great lady at a dance."
Lyle grinned. "You are already a great lady. But perhaps your wish is not so far-fetched. I believe we have our solution, praise God."
"Our solution?" Grumm spluttered as Bella beamed. "You cannot possibly..."
"Worry not, old fellow," Lyle cut in. "You need not embroil yourself in this."
Grumm lifted his pot. "Suits me well, and no mistake." When he had swallowed, he fixed the highwayman with a drilling stare. "You're a damnable fool, Samson Lyle, I do not mind telling you."
Lyle raised a single eyebrow. "Evidently."
"Anyone who is anyone will be there, for Christ's sake. God-rotten magistrates. Bureaucrats. Soldiers. Any number of Major-General Goffe's lackeys." He shook his head in bewilderment. "Zounds, the Mad Ox too, I shouldn't wonder." He leaned in suddenly. "He knows what you bloody look like, you fool!"
"But not what you look like," Lyle replied. "Or Bella. Besides, it is a masquerade. Every man and woman will wear a disguise." He rubbed thick fingers over the emerging bristles of his chin, the scraping sounds seeming unnaturally loud in the empty taproom. "I have to go, Eustace. I have to go. If Sir Frederick Mason is in attendance then we may discover when they plan to move Wren. It is a chance to strike at our enemies."
"Well do not count on my assistance, you bee-headed bloody frantic," Grumm retorted hotly. He folded his arms, setting his jaw and staring at the blackened beams above. "I shan't have any part in it, as God is my witness."
PART TWO: THE DANCE
Hinton Ampner , Hampshire , November 1655
Hinton Ampner was a tiny village straddling the road between Petersfield and Winchester. The land was thick with forests that stretched in all directions into the chalky South Downs, only occasionally broken up by patches of open farmland that sustained the smattering of timber-framed hovels clustered like toadstools about the hamlet's core. And that core was the Manor House, the huge edifice of red brick and grey stone that had been built in Tudor times as a hunting lodge and grown into the most imposing structure for miles.
It was evening as Samson Lyle and Eustace Grumm stepped over the threshold. The surrounding trees darkened an already grey dusk, but the great house glowed bright, basking in the tremulous light of a thousand candles. No stinking tallow, Lyle noted, for Sir John Hippisley had done well out of the revolution, seen his star rise with the other hard men of the new order, and the old Roundhead's home was sweet with the scent of beeswax, a touch of wood smoke and a great deal of perfume.
A footman in a fine suit of shimmering red and blue strutted confidently out to greet Lyle like some over-sized kingfisher. At his flank was a soldier clutching a halberd. Lyle felt his pulse quicken. The footman held a mask attached to a thin rod, which he lowered to appraise the new arrivals. "Sirs?"
This was the first test of Lyle's nerve, and he held his breath behind his own ostentatious mask of gold and black. It was fastened by a string about the back of his head so that there was no danger of it slipping, and he bowed, the mask's goose feather fringe wafting at his scalp and tickling his ears. "Sir Ardell Early," he said, his voice sounding so peculiar in the muffled confines of the disguise. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure who had accompanied him to the door. "And Winfred Piersall."
The footman considered the names, and for a terrible moment Lyle thought they had been discovered, but the man offered a wide smile and a deep bow and swept his arm back grandly. "Your servant, gentlemen. I hope you enjoy your evening."
The men allowed themselves to be shown into the house's inner sanctum. There would be no further
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