Highwayman: Ironside by Michael Arnold Page A

need to prove their credentials, for a masquerade ball was precisely that - a masquerade. Men and women were not themselves on an evening such as this. They were whoever they wished to be, hidden by their disguises and afforded complete anonymity for the night. It was a fashionable pastime on the continent, and would, Lyle suspected, have become quite the thing in England had the Stuart dynasty survived its time of judgement. But now such public displays of opulence, not to mention the private exchanges of carnality that inevitably went on in darkened corridors behind the bright ballrooms, were not condoned by Cromwell and the men, like William Goffe, who ruled in his name. And yet, though theatre had been banned, and many of the great pagan-spawned festivals that had been adopted and adapted by the High Church were doggedly repressed, the new regime understood when it was politic to cool their instinctive censoriousness. Their great supporters - those strongmen who had killed a monarch, purged a Parliament and made Cromwell king in all but name - were occasionally to be allowed down from the giddy moral heights to which they had been thrust. When it served a purpose.
    "Your lad did well," Grumm, upholstered in a green suit and mask so that he looked to Lyle like a huge frog, muttered under his breath as they were ushered along a well-lit corridor.
    "Pays to know a Little Mercury or three," Lyle replied in hushed tones. The highways and lanes of Hampshire were abuzz in daylight hours with boys and girls around the age of eleven or twelve, delivering letters and invitations from one great house to another. They were the life-blood of rural communities, and Samson Lyle had recognised their worth almost as soon as he had embarked on his criminal crusade. He had several in his pay, who provided him with gossip and occasionally intercepted useful correspondence. In this case, he had asked his contacts to keep their eyes sharp for letters bound for Sir John Hippisley's estate. One lad had brought him two such documents. Both declining invitations to this evening's masquerade. One from a wool merchant known as Sir Ardell Early, the other from Winfred Piersall, a moderately successful goldsmith.
    "You think Sir Frederick's here?" Grumm asked.
    "Aye," Lyle replied just as quietly. "Goffe wants something from Hippisley. Money or land. This dance is part of the payment. Mason will be here reminding Sir John of his obligations." He noticed the kingfisher-clad footman glance over his shoulder. "I was just saying," he added in a louder voice, "that this place is exquisite."
    The footman nodded. "Quite so, sir. Sir John purchased the seat five years ago, yet still he improves upon it. We have a large hall, as you will presently see, two parlours, and twenty-one chambers. There is a brew-house on the estate, along with a malt-house, stables, barns, and our own hop garden." His ears quivered, and Lyle assumed he was smiling behind the mask. "Even a bowling green, would you believe?"
    "I look forward to complimenting your master on such a fine home," Lyle said.
    They reached the end of the corridor and the footman pushed a set of double doors that opened into a sizable room that might have been used to entertain dinner guests once they had removed themselves from the grand hall. There were tables lined against one wall, crammed with goblets full of various types of liquid, while a small choir of perhaps a dozen children were arranged opposite. They wore white robes and masks, which, to Lyle's eye, made them look like faceless cherubim. Something he found profoundly disturbing. They sang a high, lilting tune that was sweet enough, but did little to assuage his unease. More mirrored doors were on the far side of the room, flanked by a pair of retainers as luxuriously dressed as the rest of the staff, and Lyle guessed they would lead into the main hall. He gazed left and right. This was to be a grand affair; that much was clear. The panelled walls