The Reavers

“Ye cannut tooch it, man!” The leading Charlton, a gaunt cadaver known as Wor Jackie, was adamant. “The bloody thing hez wheels, sista! Rob that, an’ yer a flamin’ highwayman!”

“If it’s got a roof, an’ isn’t moovin’, it’s a hoose!” objected a Milburn, producing his dog-eared Reiver’s Year-book.“Haud up the lantern, Sandie! Aye, theer y’are … ‘Any immobile dwellin’ or sim’lar accommodation may be visited, ploondered, th’inhabitants assaulted, the thatch boorned –’”

“An’ wheer’s the thatch on that friggin’ thing?” demanded Oor Kid Charlton, who always supported his big brother.

“Haud on a minnit,” demurred an awkward Robson. “Peel towers hezn’t got thatches, an’ we boorn them.”

“Peel towers hezn’t got wheels, ye daft git! A coach isna an immobile dwellin’, neether!”

“It wad be, tho’ if ’twas in a caravan park or trailer camp.” The Milburn shop steward was consulting his index. “Wheer is’t? ‘Pyped watter … refuse disposal … landlord-bashin’ …’ Aye, here it’s! ‘Trailers, albeit wheeled, shall be deemed crofts, cots, or steadings, so they be stationary …’ Weel, that booger’s stationary, so Ah say we’re in business!”

“Naw, we’s not,” snarled Wor Jackie. “Bastard thing’s moovin’. An Ah doobt if that’s a caravan park.”

“Aw, coom on, man! Hoo d’ye ken, wid a’ the snaw?”

“’Ey, we could run-off th’ hosses! They’re livestock, so we’re entitled – an’ then it wadn’t be moovin’! Warraboot that, Wor Jackie?”

A further moment’s debate followed in which a Milburn was unhorsed and two Charltons received flesh wounds, and then Wor Jackie sheathed his broadsword and gave his casting vote.

“We tek th’ hosses, awreet – but if them fellas that’s pushin’ the coach can keep it moovin’ … hands off! An’ they’re not to be strucken, nor tripped neether, thou base football players! But the minnit they stop shovin’, an’ it stops, it ceases tae be a ve-hickle, an’ we can git stoock in! Awoy, Tynedale! Up the Magpies!”

Like a black avalanche the scrupulous freebooters swept down the snow-clad slope, flourishing swords and supporters’ club scarves, lances couched and rattles a-clatter, and before the bewildered grooms knew what had hit them they had been pinioned and dropped in wayside drifts, and the coach horses had been neatly whipped from the shafts and labelled “Spoyle”. But alas for the reivers’ hopes: the coach kept rolling slowly, because the lackeys behind, all unaware of what was happening 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 on the deck, bleeding and going “Aarrgh!”, and only the squeaking little Milburn was left, hacking away gamely at that impenetrable guard.

“Kiss my steel!” cried the gallant gaily, and the little Milburn, seeing the chance to deliver the best riposte in the whole encounter, cried: “Kiss my arse!” and died happy.

Frantic stuff, and watched with finger-twisting admiration by our beauteous duo in the coach, respectively gasping with apprehension and emitting squeals of “Wow! Gotcha!” Now, as their saviour wiped his blade on a lace kerchief and louted low, plumed hat in hand, they let down the window, Kylie fairly gushing with girlish congratulation and even Lady Godiva warming the knight-errant with her most queenly smile. Indeed, a hint of blush undercoat appeared ’neath the ivory satin finish of her cheek, and her ruby lips parted with a soft splooch, for if this was not Master Errol Flynn in Elizabethan costume, she’d never seen him. Kylie, less mistress of her emotions, gaped starry-eyed and gasped: “Golly, quel hunk!” The newcomer shot them a brilliant smile and spoke.

“Oll raight, gurls? Ai hope these belly reskals didn’t hurrt you. Ai’d hev hasted to yur aid even fester, but the road’s in a helluva state, simply fraightful. You shoor yur okay?”

Being unprepared for the accent of Glasgow W2 from this Apollo, Lady Godiva was momentarily taken aback, but came off the ropes with speedy aplomb.

“We are much beholden to you, sir,” said she, all peerless dignity, and extended a white hand over which he bowed reverent curly head, the bristles of his lip-cosy sending electric tingles up her arm to her smooth shoulder, whence they dispersed delightfully through the rest of her, a sensation which would have caused her to go “Eek!” had she not been schooled to hide girlish emotion.

Little Kylie knew no such reticence. Proffering eager mitt in turn, and feeling her knuckles nibbled (this gallant can obviously tell top quality from mere talent, and responds accordingly) she exclaimed: “Yikes! Much beholden nothing! ’Tis miracle that sends such dashing champion to our aid – oh, sir, your footwork was brill, and how may we repay you?” As if I didn’t know, thought the wanton hussy, lowering coy lashes o’er worshipping orbs.

“Och, don’t menshn’it – no bother, reelly,” was the modest reply. “Pleez, just sit taight while Ai round up those varlets of yurs, whurrever they’ve got to. Going laike the cleppers when Ai saw them lest. Heff a jiffy, end Ai’ll be beck!”

And with another graceful bow and flash of gum-gear, he sprang lightly on his horse, and with the command: “Come on, Garscadden – away!” cleared the roadside hedge from a standing start and was off across the snowy fields shouting: “Ho there, leckeys! Get yurselves follen in! Where urr you, desh it? Yur mistress ken’t stay heer oll naight!”

A faint furrow did its stuff ’twixt Lady Godiva’s delicately pencilled brows. “Methinks,” said she, “this gentleman should be a Scot, by his tongue.”

“Who cares about his tongue?” enthused glowing Kylie. “Regard me rather those super shoulders, chiselled clock, sexy legs, and the Mephisto-gleam in his tawny eyes! And what a mover – nay, ’a went through those nasties like a dose of Dr Lopez his salts!” She sighed. “Bit of a waste of beefcake, if you ask me, but that’s the way the farl fractures. What makes you think he’s Scotch, Goddy?”

“His speech, dum-dum!” quoth impatient Godiva. “Had ye but marked the dialogue in Macbeth*,’ stead of ogling the husky who played the Bleeding Sergeant, you’d ha’ noted that the nobles of Scotland – you know, Angus, Lennox, McHaggis, whoever – spoke exactly as doth our rescuer. A quaint affected dialect, which they do term ‘toffee-nosed’, for that it apes gentility – sex are what they keep coal in, and a crèche is two carts colliding on Byres Road,” she explained, but with a musing, dreamy look that suggested preoccupations other than nutty slack and vehicle pile-ups. Aware of Kylie’s slantendicular smirk, her ladyship feigned a yawn. “Thus talks he – aye, and plies pretty rapier enough. For the rest,” she shrugged indifferent shoulders, “I marked him not.”

“Get her!” scoffed Kylie. “You marked him ten out o’ ten! Going to offer him a lift, are we?”

Disdain tilted the exquisite nose and squiggled the delectable mouth of the Thrashbatter heiress. “And if I so condescend,” she snooted, “to one that hath done me service, why, what’s it to thee, sauce-pot? He may be mere gentry and talk as if he had a mouse up his nose, yet is he the most presentable thing I’ve seen this side of Watford Gap.”

“Does that mean I have to ride on the roof?” sniffed Kylie. “Or don’t you mind the competition?”

“That,” quoth Godiva, patting complacent coiffure, “will be the day. Bear us company an ye list, sweet child – but try playing footsie with him and I’ll break your leg.”

Thus it was that when the stranger had scooped in Samkin and the perspiring lackeys, with brisk halloo and cries of “C’mon, churrls, move it! Run laike stegs, you aidle shower!” and they had put to the horses and tidied the fallen reivers into the ditch, he found himself bidden to a seat in the carriage, his horse being anchored astern. Kylie, with pretty becks and flutters, proffered a brimmer of peach brandy, which he accepted with a courtly “Gosh, thenks, offly kaind of you, cheers!” while Godiva appraised him ’neath interested lids and concluded that, eccentric accent or no, this gorgeous specimen had the message for the Soroptomists, in spades. And vanity demanding that she exercise her charm on such male perfection, she thought, mm-m, right, we’ll give him the Languid Glow for openers …

“We are deeply in your debt, fair sir,” she drawled, “and agog to know the name and quality of our gallant preserver. I am the Lady Godiva Dacre …” she inclined her regal scone to give him the full colour contrast of flame-tinted hair, creamy complexion, and violet pools “… and this my small companion, Mistress Kylie Delishe.”

“Is thet a fect?” The cavalier paused courteously in mid-swig, and eyed her with a warmth that sent a tremor through her shapely knees. “Whay, you must be the grend-dotter of the old chep who popped his clogs et Threshbetter Tower lest Martinmess – offly sed, mai hurtfelt condolences.” And if you want a stalwart shoulder to cry on, dive right in, was the message in his smoky eyes, at which the love-gremlins let out her knees another couple of notches. Pity he couldn’t talk like a human being, but it could be a gas teaching him received pronunciation …

“You knew my Lord Waldo?” she murmured, all decorative attention.

“Och, heer end there,” was the airy reply. “Ai hendled a few property trensfurs for him … But enough of thet – let’s tock about yew!” Without warning he leaned towards her, masterful elbow on ardent knee, his classic profile cleaving the astonished air and coming to a stop inches from her own. “Mai God, but yur gorgeous! Who gives a tosser for business and ex-grendfethers in the presence of beauty that out-marvels th’exotics o’ the Orient, end would put Fair Helen hurself to the beck of the stove!” He raised his glass in passionate salute. “Ai pledge yur metchless loveliness, Godaiva – nay, Godess-aiva, I should say!” And he took a saturnine shlurp while her senses did the splits, one half bridling at his presumption, the other rendered momentarily legless by his worshipping regard.

Of course, blast-furnace wooing was nothing new to one of her endowments, physical and financial. Raised at a court where they couldn’t even say hello without vowing undying devotion, she’d heard it all, and knew how to cope with supercharged acceleration of the love-god’s chariot. But now, ere her glance could refrigerate in reproof, he had flipped his glass to Kylie, crying “Ketch!”, done a lightning kneel, ’prisoned Godiva’s hand, and locked his eyes with hers, azure amaze tangling with amber yearn.

“Ye spoke of being in mai debt!” he baritoned. “Ah, the gentlest touch of thet sweet mouth on maine, divaine creechur, the teensiest sook of those juicy wee lips, end that’ll take care of thet! For a furst instollment, anyway.”

It needed not Kylie’s exclamation of “Strewth, talk about Speedy Gonzales!” to summon proud outrage to Godiva’s breast – and then, she knew not how, as the hypnotic spell of mischievous dark eyes and tang-fresh dentifrice enveloped her, some reckless imp of mad desire booted proud outrage aside, crying “Go on, why not?”, and yielding to that wild impulse she lowered tremulous lids and submitted parted lips (was it those outlandish words “juicy” and “wee”, so barbarously sensual, that had defrosted her?) to his smouldering munch. And in that moment she was lost, dignity and modesty joining proud outrage in the corner pocket; no longer noble lady but some abandoned jungle groupie in the embrace of her caveman lover, thrilled and helpless as he swung her with muscular expertise from tree to tree while the Match of the Day music rang in her ears, and Kylie’s distracted cry of “Break, break, a God’s name, or you’ll suffocate!” was as the distant mewing of sea-birds o’er the beach of some tropic paradise …

Their mouths parted with a long, lingering squelch, and through a cinnamon mist in which dark eyes and lambent moustache still glowed, Lady Godiva came to herself and saw, in dishevelled bewilderment, that her erstwhile lip-ravisher was back in his seat with a jeweller’s glass screwed in his eye, examining – nay, it could not be! – her priceless necklace (yes, it’s the Dacre Diamonds, that fabulous collar nicked by Sir Acre Dacre from the harem of Suleiman the Improbable in the Third Crusade), her emerald earrings, sapphire fillet, pearl brooch, gold rings, and even her platinum zip-fastener, dammit! Dumbstruck Kylie was giving a creditable impersonation of a Black Hole – and now the gorgeous swine was slipping the lot in his pocket and regarding his victim with heavy-breathing admiration.

“Not bed et oll – and Ai don’t mean the spurklers, eether,” he added, wi’ sexy significance. “Bai jove, yur ladyship hesn’t spent oll her taime on embroidery. What a smecker! Fur a moment there Ai was too kerried away to concentrate on mai wurk.” He phewed respectfully. “But, please, don’t be alurrmed. ’Twas just technique, to save oll thet ‘Hends up!’ end ‘Stend end deliver!’ nonsense. Quaite offen,” he added modestly, “the patient pesses out, end doesn’t come round till Ai’m heff-way down the stair – or ‘oot the windae’, as they say in Paisley.”

Rage, wounded pride, and a savage desire to see the colour of this unspeakable cad’s insides boiled up in Godiva like vengeful molasses, and found furious utterance.

“Dastard! Rotter! Oh, miscreant and toad!” Blue hatred lasered from her eyes, and her Titian tresses cracked like shampooed whips. “To dare – to have the immortal crust to lay polluting lips on mine, and snitch my rocks all surreptitious!” Her dainty manicures were poised to chain-saw him, but ere she could strike he was snogging again, with gentle mastery, and at that magic touch her fury drained away in bubbles of rapture, tingling her from fiery head to gilded toe-nail, the sea-birds did an encore … and heavens to murgatroyd, she was kissing him back! As he desisted, swaying and looking slightly baffled, Godiva sank back all giddy and misty, as one punch-drunk or ensorcelled.

“Ah, me!” she whispered. “Oh, brother! What … who … what art thou? Do I dream, or is it the peach brandy?” She stirred feebly, like a landed salmon trying to think straight. “Why … thou robber, to steal away my senses, my code of conduct – my jewellery yet!” she yipped, as the last effects of his embrace wore off. “Give it back, base handbag artist –”

“Take it easy!” he implored. “Let me get a wurrd in, or Ai’ll hev to smooch you again, end we’ll be here oll naight – you want to get home, shurrly? You esk who Ai em?” He rose to commanding height, hand on swaggering hip, and chuckled à la Fairbanks. “Know then, proud Godaiva, thet Ai – wait for it – em Gilderoy!”

If he’d said “Ichabod Schmultz’ it couldn’t have meant less to Godiva, but Kylie, who kept up with the tabloid broadsheets, went a whiter shade of pale and squeaked like a goosed budgie.

“Gilderoy!” she quavered, her eyes terrified gob-stoppers. “Not … not Bonny Gilderoy! Cripes! Goddy, we are undone! ’Tis the Claude Duval of Newton Mearns, the notorious highwayman and terror o’ the roundabouts, known and feared from Tyne to’ Solway as the Tartan Raffles –”*

“Och, away, ye’ve been listening to the bellad-singers –”

“What!” decibelled Godiva, now fully recovered. “Oh, direst shame! I, of my gentility, to be embraced by common criminal –”

“No, heer, heng it oll! Criminal, Ai grent you, but not common –”

“– drugged by his loathsome kisses – aye, for I warrant me his ghastly ’tash is steeped wi’ LSD to space out defenceless ladies –”

“No sich thing!” he protested. “Look, ken Ai help it if mai lip-wurk robs wimmen of their reason? It’s a gift – quaite hendy professionally, but it makes it deshed difficult to esteblish any meaningful relationship, Ai ken tell you!” And his voice was so full of wist that Kylie could not repress a studio-audience “Aw-w-w …”, and even distraught Godiva felt a sympathetic pang. Not for long, though.

“Set it to music, cut-purse! Of all the sneaky snakes –”