The Highwayman's Footsteps by Nicola Morgan Page A

so. A lady would never … but then a lady would not find herself in such a position. I moved over to the door and hoisted it open. A gust of snow blew in and we both shrank from its chill. I helped her to her feet again and we made slow, painful progress towards the entrance. I could only admire her fortitude. She made no sound, except the slow, strained noise of her breathing. She seemed to become stronger as she moved and although she was still hunched over, with one hand holding her side, by the time we were in the open air she was walking by herself, though slowly. She turned to look at me, still smiling, though with a white face. “Thank you, kind sir,” she mocked. “I can manage on my own now.” And, blushing again, I went back into our refuge and busied myself noisily doing nothing in particular.
    When she returned, ashen-faced and with a dusting of snow on her hair, I helped her settle down again onto the ground and I shut the door, placing my heavy branch across it. A few more logs on the fire made it burn more warmly, though I did not wish to make too much smoke.
    â€œClear a space on the floor,” she ordered. “So I can draw a map.” And she did, using a stick in the dirt. The journey would take perhaps three or four hours, she said. If I did not get lost, or if I did not give up, she added with a contemptuous tilt of her mouth. I wished to tell her then how I had risked death for her that morning, how a horse had died as the price of curing her, the price of her returning strength and sharp tongue. I wished to tell her that, for a coward, I had faced danger more bravely than I had expected.
    But I held my tongue. After all, perhaps she would say I had not been so very brave and perhaps she would be right – all I had done was to run away. The horse – well, how brave was it to shoot a horse which would die anyway? No, I had proved nothing except that I did not give up easily.
    â€œI will not get lost. And I will not give up,” I said simply, looking straight back at her. She looked down to her map and she could not know how afraid I felt inside.
    I wanted to propose to set off in the morning at first light. But I did not say it – I knew that the horse, if it was not sheltered, might not survive the night if the cold grew too intense. A native pony, thick-haired, stocky and long-maned, could survive the worst the moors could muster, but her thoroughbred, as I guessed it must be, might not. And even though it was not my horse, I could not take that risk either.
    When she was sure that I had understood the map, and when I had packed what I needed in my bag – food, water, and my knife – I slid my two pistols into my belt, and tied the shot bag and powder horn to it. I saw her settled as comfortably as was possible, leaning against a wall, everything she needed within easy reach. I placed two more logs on the fire, setting three more beside it, and made ready to leave.
    â€œWhat is your name?” she asked suddenly. In her fever, she had forgotten that I had already told her.
    As I opened my mouth to answer, something prevented me from saying my full name. I had been accustomed to know myself as “William de Lacey, younger son of Sir George de Lacey, High Sheriff and Member for Parliament,” but now I said only, “Will. Will.” I said it twice to convince myself. I liked the name Will; I liked its simplicity. It was better than William, and better by far than William de Lacey. I did not change my name in order to deceive her. I did it for myself, choosing to be free of William de Lacey, to be plain Will, with no burdens, no expectations.
    But I admit, too, that it suited me that she did not know more.
    â€œWhat is yours?” I asked her.
    â€œBess,” she said.
    Will and Bess. Bess and Will. I was glad that she would know me as Will. I knew nothing about her and she would know nothing about me until such time as I was