W.I.P.

MATTHEW GRIEVES

Image taken from “The Black Highwayman. (Being the second series of Black Bess.) [By Edward Viles.]”, London, 1868

Working Title is The Highwayman, but I need to think of something better than that.

Matthew (Matty) Grieves is not a nice man. In fact, he is a vicious, murdering devil of a man. With the Spaniard's Inn as his base and alibi (for no one there would deny his presence if questioned) he roams Hampstead Heath by day or night, robbing innocent men and women. When he says 'Your money or your life' he means it. Quite often both in his case. He is cunning, he is sly and he is not to be trusted an inch.

He rules by fear; even his ruthless gang dare not cross him.

Like many highwaymen, Grieves fought on the side of the Royalists in the Civil War and when the conflict was lost so was everything that he had. To survive, he became a Gentleman of the Road. But Matthew Grieves is no gentleman. Nor did the restoration of Charles II see any change in his circumstances.

Yet his occupation has made him quite a rich man; he has no need to put himself in danger any more as his gang will take take all the risks. He has friends in high places, contacts in London who will exchange stolen goods for money. Nevertheless, he enjoys the thrill and the danger. The power and menace that invades his soul every time he draws his pistol ….

But when one of his contacts is captured, tortured and hanged, his name is mentioned and Grieves must face his nemesis, a man as cruel as he but working on the right side of the law ….but only just.

This is a work in progress a little shy of 20,000 words. When (if) it will be completed, I have no idea.

I would like to say that I hope you like Master Grieves – but the truth is, I hope you don't.

Here is Chapter One in its (unedited) entirety:

BARNET FAIR

APRIL 1658

A watery sun dipped behind the glowering brow of the great hill of Barnet. Shadows deepened and darkened in the half light; ghosts gliding along the ground.

The morning had been dull and misty and though the threatened rain held off and the sun deigned to put in an appearance in the mid afternoon, the evening dew was now forming on the flattened grass. Hundreds of pairs of boots stamping down had left just a few green islands standing out in the dark brown mire. A gust of wind shivered through the trees, disturbed their skeletal branches

Matthew Grieves leaned against a tree, fished his tinder box from his coat pocket. He liked this coat; it was a good coat, light yet warm, deeply pocketed on the outside with some additional ones only recently skilfully sewn inside the expensive lining. A coat that cost a lot of money to buy. But he had not bought the coat; he had liberated it from a haughty gentleman only two nights previously on Hampstead Heath. He sucked on the long stem of his pipe and felt the harsh tobacco hit the back of his throat. Twenty three years old and as tall as any man, Grieves was a man to be feared. Dangerous. A man who would laugh at your jest and, still laughing, shoot you.

“Be warm enough soon for you, Matty,” observed his companion.

“Aye, true enough, Will.” William Smallbone hawked and spat onto the ground before him, silver phlegm writhing in the mud.

“A little while longer, I think.”

Matthew nodded and glanced behind him. A horse trader was haggling with a customer and, from his exasperated look, was not making headway with the sale. Hardly surprising, then, when Matthew saw the man walk away; there were plenty of other such merchants at Barnet Fair.

A small band of musicians were entertaining the crowds with songs, mostly of a bawdy nature now that the hour was late. Flaming brands of wood flashed between jugglers, the ale tents were trading well. Both Grieves and Smallbone were sober. For the moment.

As darkness deepened, more and more torches were lit; some were carried by officials whilst others teetered precariously in iron baskets attached to stout poles and stuck into the soft ground. Cattle, pigs and sheep were settling in their pens; only the horses remained alert and lively. Money was lost and won on boxing matches where ordinary fair goers were pitted against experienced pugilists. The atmosphere was one of gaiety and freedom, a relief from the years of civil war and a day free of the stifling rule of Cromwell.

If some minor laws were broken, official eyes were turned in a different direction.

Somewhere, a little way away, there was a commotion. Will Smallbone, who had been squatting on his haunches, looked up at Matthew and nodded briefly. “Time to move,” he said.

Matthew pushed his back away from the tree, turned and sauntered toward the horse trader he had been watching. Drawing on his pipe, he gestured towards the man and engaged him in conversation.

“Good day to you , sir,” he said amiably. “How has business been for you?”

The man curled his lip into a snarl. “No fockin' good at all. Many want to see, none want to open their purses.”

Matthew dipped into one of his many inside pockets and produced a small bag and rattled it. “I might be persuaded to open mine,” he invited. “Had to shoot my old mare only yesterday. Stumbled and broke her foreleg. Damned shame.”

Immediately the man's demeanour changed. The snarl turned to a condescending smile. The purse looked heavy. “I have many a fine horse, sir,” he said. “Perhaps one has already caught your eye?”

“Two, actually,” Matthew mused. “The black stallion there and the grey behind it. Would you be so kind to saddle them so I may try them both?”

“Of course, sir. Straight away.” He turned and yelled, “Jack! Jack! Need you here, boy! Quick now.”

Matthew turned away, casually leaning against the railing as a young lad of perhaps thirteen years emerged from the tent and made his way to the enclosure where the horses were held. The horse trader's son, Matthew presumed. He didn't look at the boy but took a long draw on his his pipe. He heard the boy being given his instructions and then leaned down to tap out the last remains of tobacco. “Your son?” he asked amiably.

“Aye. A good lad. Teaching him the trade.”

“Always a good thing to know there is one to continue the family business.” A condescending smile. A coin from his purse was casually tossed to the trader. “Tell Jack to fetch me some ale.”

When the boy had gone, Matthew strode towards the enclosure.”Let's see what these nags of yours are made of, shall we?” He smiled and clapped the man on the back.

There was a small paddock set aside for potential buyers to mount and get the feel of the horses they intended to buy. Matthew approached the black stallion he'd had his eye on and rubbed its nuzzle gently. He patted its mane and walked around the beast, always keeping his hand on the horse's body. Then he bent down and checked each foot and leg in turn. He smiled at the trader, mouthed may I? and slipped one booted foot into the stirrup.

It was at that precise time that smoke billowed out from behind the tent. Immediately Matthew cried out 'Fire' and pointed. The astonished trader turned and clamped his hands to his head.

“See to that, I'll get the horses out!” Matthew Grieves was a man used to giving orders and one who was used to seeing them obeyed without question.

In confusion, the horse seller turned. And then the truth dawned on him. “You filthy thief,” he roared. “Get off my horse!”

Matthew shook his head. “Sorry, friend,” he said levelly and produced a pistol from inside his coat. Barely taking aim, he shot the man just as Will Smallbone appeared from the back of the tent. He hurdled the writhing body of the dying man and yelled at Matthew, “Did you have to do that?”

“He saw my face,” Matthew replied without emotion. “The boy did not. He may live.”

William shrugged and quickly leapt aboard the grey and together they rode quickly towards the surrounding woods, melting into the deep shadows before the hue and cry could be raised.