The Reavers. George Fraser MacDonald

up ahead, were packed down in three-two-three and putting in a splendid shove, with Coachman Samkin hovering at their heels yelling: “Keep it tight, back row!” The two loose lackeys who’d been under the wheels were receiving attention from the trainer, but soon they too piled into the ruck, and the coach crunched merrily o’er the snow, to the disgust of the reivers, who could only mooch along behind, foiled but still hopeful.

      “This lot’ll be weel knackered afore they’re halfway to Alston,” opined Wor Jackie, wi’ vulpine grin. “An’ then – away the lads!”

      Meanwhile, within the coach, its evident progress had restored Lady Godiva to her normal petulance, and she was reduced to complaining about the Peruvian sweetmeats (no soft centres), when Kylie, peeping out of the back window, let out a girlish whoop.

      “Gosh, Goddy! Clock this lot! Great hairy chaps in black leather and spurs! Wow! Eat your heart out, Schwarzenegger – it’s goose-pimple time! Oh, good mistress, shall we not bid a couple of them in, for refreshments and the like?”

      Lady Godiva cast a languid eye astern, and wrinkled aristocratic nostril. “’Tis but the local rough trade, or itinerant bikers, and far ’neath the notice o’ gentlewomen such as we. Stop smirking, wench, you’re not a groupie!”

      “I could be,” sighed wanton Kylie. “Regard me those bulging biceps on the gorilla wi’ the tin vest – and talk about designer stubble! Flutter, my maiden heart!”

      “Maiden, my foot!” snapped Godiva. “Why, thou randy minx, hast no shame – Godamercy!” she exclaimed. “We’re stopping!”

      It had been bound to happen, of course. One of the back-row lackeys, pausing for breath, had glanced behind, and noticed that he was being shadowed by what looked like a dyspeptic Jack Palance, who stropped glittering blade on horse’s flank and inquired wi’ gloating leer: “Gittin’ tired, son?” Three seconds later a dozen lackeys were in screaming flight across the snow, Coachman Samkin had fainted, the carriage was at a standstill, the Charltons and Milburns were pillaging the rear luggage-rack with cries of “We’re in, Meredith!”, and Lady Godiva and Kylie were exchanging wondering glances (not unmingled with excitement in Kylie’s case) and asking each other what this might portend.

      Well, we know, don’t we? Here’s beauty unprotected, and a gang of licentious bandits, not one of them in need of vitamins, working up a head of steam on the spare bottles of peach brandy in the boot – and now they tear open suit-cases and goggle in lustful amaze at piles of frilly undergarments and fishnet hose which even their untutored imaginations have no difficulty in filling. In an instant they have put two and two together, and are climbing over each other to get to the coach door, flinging it wide and feasting lewdly bugging eyes on their gorgeous prey, one of whom sinks back all silkenly a-flutter while the other sits bolt upright, ba-boom! in voluptuous indignation. For one stricken instant the principals regard each other, Wor Jackie licking gaunt chops as he lamps Godiva’s vibrating fury, while Oor Kid leers drooling on buxom Kylie. Then, as often happens in unexpected social encounters, everyone speaks at once:

      “Aaarrnghhh!” growls Wor Jackie, pawing with his feet. “Broomphh!”

      “Are ye doin’ anythin’ the neet, hinny?” inquires Oor Kid.

      “Alack, we are undone!” twitters Kylie hopefully.

      “Doesn’t anyone north of the Humber knock!” demands Lady Godiva, bosom flashing and eyes heaving. “Mannerless rabble, shalt lose thine ears, and other bits as well, for this rash intrusion! This is a private compartment! Back, I say, and on your bikes! Dost know who I am?”

      “The answer to a randy reiver’s prayer!” squeaked a small Milburn at the back, leaping and ogling. At which the whole sweaty mob, beards a-bristle and visors misting up with unholy desire, surged forward with gloating yells of “Gang bang!” “Bags I the redhead!” “Ah’ll bet the little ’un doesn’t half bounce!” and “Keep th’ hosses, who needs them?”, only to be flung back by Wor Jackie’s iron arm.

      “Haud oop!” he thundered. “Are ye men or beasts? Two defenceless gentlewomen, ladies o’ birth an’ beauty, an’ ye’d be at ’em like rootin’ stags gone crackers! For shame! Is there nae decency or order among ye?” His dreadful eye rolled from the lovely twain to his panting followers struggling with their buttons, and back again, what time he doffed steel cap, bared snaggle teeth in a hideous grin, and ran a small comb through his beard. “Them as fancies Blondie, line oop behind Oor Kid! All them for Carrot-top, follow me!” He seized Godiva’s horrified wrist in a paw like a hairy shovel. “Your place or mine, duchess? Coach or snowdrift – choose! Har-har!”

      His grating laugh ended in a strangled croak as a dainty satin slipper, scientifically driven, smote him in his tenderest spot; not for nothing had Lady Godiva captained the Benenden karate team. And back with him reeled Oor Kid, neatly head-butted by resourceful Kylie, who had repented her wanton flirtatiousness in the face of brutal assault. As the reivers collapsed in a tangle, their two leaders clutching themselves and making statements, the coach door slammed, Lady Godiva’s crisp command of “Drive on, Samkin!” rang clear – little did she realise that Samkin was three fields away, crouched in a ditch with his eyes shut, whimpering: “Take the credit cards, mister, but please don’t hit me!”, and that the coach was without means of propulsion. Our gallant girls have won themselves but a brief respite, the reivers are staggering afoot again, full of rage and frustrated libido, and if we are to avoid the kind of explicit X-Certificate stuff which no romantic adventure can afford (not as early as Chapter Two, anyway), drastic intervention is called for, preferably in the shape of virtuous muscle – which, thank heaven, is e’en now thundering down the highway, snow flying beneath its charger’s hooves, moonlight glinting on drawn broadsword and gleaming teeth, the latter bared in a reckless fighting smile between a pencil-slim moustache and a rakish little chin-beard. Like a thunderbolt he speeds to the rescue, awakening the echoes with his laughing slogan: “Teckle low, Eccies!”, a cry which consternates the startled reivers and brings hope and joy to beleaguered beauty. For only heroes and idiots make that kind of noise when faced with odds of ten to one, and this character’s got hero written all over him.

      No, it isn’t Archie Noble, who at this moment is miles away trying to jimmy a larder window. Archie was in rags, remember, whereas this new chap isn’t dressed, he’s positively Attired, in the latest romantic gear of boots, cloak, Mechlin at wrists and throat, gems o’ price in his baldric, and a plumed hat that would make Sir Francis Walsingham gnash and turn green. He spurs among the astonished heavies, scattering them with plunging hooves and darting blade. In the time it takes to leap nimbly from the saddle and cry “Sa-ha, muckrakes! Hev et thee!” he had his back to the carriage door, rapped on the panels, cried: “Knock-knock – who’s thair? – Hatcher – Hatcher who – Hatcher survice, ladies!”, pinked Wor Jackie in the shoulder and Oor Kid in the leg, and was fronting the dismayed remnants of Tynedale Athletic, perfectly poised, point snaking in and out, clean-cut features reflecting the moonlight, ruby earring fairly dancing with glee of combat, and joyous laughter bubbling on his lips and bursting on his moustache.

      A rotten prospect for the remaining reivers, who could read the signs as well as we can – six feet plus, immaculately clad, foppish finery belying steely wrist and sinewy speed, handsome, dashing, merry to the point of hysteria, and obviously slated to get the girl in the last reel: the kind of super-gallant for whom they, being expendable extras, were so much rapier-fodder. But they did their best, flinging themselves on him with despairing cries of “Pantywaist!” and “Snob!”, and falling back, gashed and cursing, before a dazzling point which was everywhere at once, or if you prefer it, simultaneously ubiquitous.

      You’ve seen Tyrone Power do it often enough – engaging three blades at a time from opponents who stand obligingly frozen in the lunge position while he cries a cheery reassurance over his shoulder to Maureen O’Hara, carves his call-sign on their linen, stoops to let an attacker fall over him, and finally leaps forward with stamp and sweep to drive them off in panic-stricken rout. And not even breaking sweat.

      Our boy was like that, only better: within a minute there was a pile of reivers