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“Sauce box!” Her brother chuckled, apparently recovered from his stubbed toe, and led them to their horses which they quietly mounted and walked slowly down a hidden wooded trail.
The coach came into view, and for a short space, they took a parallel path, until the moment they needed to follow on the dirt road.
They were ready. They were completely in line for what they were about to do, but something jarred in Taffy’s brain. Something wasn’t right.
She stared at the sleek lines of the coach and doubts began to shake her resolve. She tried conjuring up her ability to sense, to ‘see’ the future, but it was as though something blocked her from doing so.
Something was interfering with her ability to look into the future. Something like … the rakehell Hotspur. For when she tried to see the future, it was his face she saw. Absurd.
“Doesn’t look like the Barkins’ coach…” she whispered.
“It is probably new, bought out of the hides of his laborers,” said Nigel angrily as he led his nephew and niece forward.
“I have a bad feeling…” Taffy told them as she shook her head. “I don’t like this… I just don’t think…” Her words stopped
Nigel watched her for a moment and then shrugged as he and Seth moved forward armed and ready.
Taffy reached out and called, “Stop…” But it was too late. They were already caught up in the moment, riding hard, guns drawn and raised.
Nigel released a shot in the air, he and Seth took a stand in front of the coach, and as Taffy approached, Nigel saw she had closed her eyes.
They shouted out in the accents they had perfected, “Out wit ye! Come on, flash covey … out!”
~*~
The passenger within the elegant coach sat back leisurely. He was on his way to the Red Hart in Nottingham where he had been told there was sure to be a card game, and a fancy piece or two that could please. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but he was restless, and this sounded better than a sedate evening by the fire.
Suddenly he felt the carriage lurch to a halt. He caught himself from falling over, and with a soft curse, began to rise until he heard the shots echo breaking in on the quiet of the night.
Imperceptibly, automatically, his hand found his hidden small, neat, and deadly hand pistol he always kept within his carriage. He prepared this even as he reached for his dagger, long and deadly and in a sheath within his cape. He always traveled prepared. He smiled to himself and waited.
Ah, he thought as he heard the blackguard’s command. He shook his head, for the high toby sounded young. Nevertheless, he needed to be dealt with. He sat back against his squabs and disobeyed the command to get out of his carriage.
He sat silently, cunningly waiting for the right opportunity. He heard a lad, a very young lad, with a high voice growl once again and waited still longer. He knew this game well and knew just how to best his opponent. He hung back and was well able to see their approach through the window.
“Lookee, lads … Barkins is afraid to show his phiz…” crowed the young toby as he moved to p
ull open the carriage door from his seat on his horse.
Within the carriage, the passenger thought this crew seemed hot-tempered and careless from the way they approached their target and the sound the high toby made was harsh, but touched with youth.
The occupant of the carriage never allowed the toby to finish opening the door as he shoved it hard and wide, catching the highwayman’s horse head-on, sending the poor animal up into a high rear.
Tarrant was quick as he jumped into place and roughly, harshly, tore the reins away from the toby struggling to keep his seat. As Tarrant struggled with the highwayman, he thought the lad must be younger than he even first realized for the boy had no strength at all.
Tarrant studied the lad’s horse, nothing special. In fact, it looked to be an older cold blooded gelding not meant for distance or speed. Odd that.
He moved into action quickly as he grabbed the toby’s gun, getting the lad’s glove as well. It allowed him a quick touch of fingers that couldn’t possibly belong to a man. They were small and delicate. He dropped the gun to the ground and kicked it away, before he held the toby’s horse near and pointed his gun at his captive’s hooded head.
Tarrant was quick and deadly; he had done this before and with great success. He had been taken unprepared only once, and after that, never again. That was his standard. He allowed himself only one learning mistake.
He held the horse’s reins in hand, putting his hostage and the horse between him and the toby’s cohorts. All this was like one fluid movement, horse reins, and then onto his captive’s arm…
The toby struggled furiously, but he had the boy down and out of the saddle and onto the ground in front of him as he remarked in his ear, “Too young, too small, and too stupid to take on the life of a toby, lad.”
He saw the toby look at his accomplices and frowned. He seemed more worried about them than he did about himself. They had no way of getting to him. He kept the toby’s horse between them, his gun leveled with a viable threat.
And then he made his decision and aimed his gun not at them but at the lad’s head, and just as he suspected, the lad put out a small hand, and worriedly cautioned, “No … no … then covey … go on … oi’ll do oi will…”
