The Prince of Prigs

By Anthony Anglorus

The union of England and Scotland under one crown is not even a half century old, and the Parliamentarians already threaten the very fabric of the nation. These are the adventures of highwayman Capt. James Hind who, in Robin Hood fashion, steals from the Roundheads to help fund the royalist cause. When Cromwell comes to power, James, the Prince of Prigs, must be careful whom among his treacherous “friends” he trusts.

Praise for Prince of Prigs:
Any who view historical fiction as dry or plodding should pick up The Prince of Prigs: it wraps courtroom drama, social issues, flamboyant personalities and British politics under one cover and represents a rollicking good read even for audiences who normally eschew the genre. As for those who know how compelling it can be - The Prince of Prigs is ample evidence of the powers of historical fiction. - D. Donovan, Midwest Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Anglorus
• Release date: Jul 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310976841

Anthony Anglorus

After over forty years working as an accountant, I took up the pen in 2010. I had spotted an interesting character in the history of one of the towns I had worked in, and upon researching him, found him to be fascinating. So I started writing, and became addicted. The words flowed so fast I was barely able to keep up. 'The Other Robin Hood' is the outcome, although the finished product is very different to the first draft!What next? Well, I do have the outline for a sequel, but also I am reviewing a tome I wrote almost 20 years ago to see if it warrants 'cleaning up'. I have additionally identified another fascinating Highwayman from history about whom I am constructing a timeline with a view to a fairly lengthy dramatisation of HIS life.

Book preview

The Prince of Prigs

By Anthony Anglorus

Copyright © 2015 Anthony Cordwell

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

Anthony Cordwell, writing as Anthony Anglorus, has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 (United Kingdom) to be identified as the author of this work.

Book cover design and layout by, Ellie Bockert Augsburger of Creative Digital Studios.

www.CreativeDigitalStudios.com

Cover design features:

Revolutionary War Flintlock Pistol: © JRB / Dollar Photo Club

Produced in the United States of America

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Prince of Prig

Acknowledgements

In completing this work, I was ably assisted by numerous people, who contributed to varying degrees with comments, encouragement and sheer technical knowhow. My wife Tanya who read excerpts and offered criticism, Ben Kane who encouraged me to get back to writing when I hit a problem developing the story, and Gary Smailes of Bubblecow, who so ably edited and critiqued the whole, finished book as well as offering copious post-writing advice and assistance. To you, Gary, a special thank you.

Preface

The modern image of a highwayman is of a benevolent masked rogue in a tricorn hat, stopping a coach with two pistols and the call to ‘Stand and Deliver’. Hollywood and literature have remodelled Dick Turpin into this role, yet in reality, Turpin himself was nothing more than a brutal, sadistic thug.

The original role model for this gallant image was Captain James Hind, one hundred years before Turpin, in the period between 1633 and 1649. Indeed, so lionised was he during his lifetime that numerous pamphlets and poems appeared. After his arrest, a play entitled ‘The Prince of Prigs’ was written based on his exploits, probably by noted playwright James Shirley.

Hind was generous to the poor; especially those who affected to support the Royalist Cause. He never hurt anyone during a robbery and always displayed much wit, charm, and humour. During the Civil War, he fought bravely for his king, and following defeat, he focused his attacks almost exclusively upon the leaders and representatives of the Parliamentarians.

This is the man around whom this tale is written. However, his exploits were inevitably affected by the major events surrounding him, namely the English Civil War and the regicide of King Charles I.

I wrote this book within the framework of the true history and events of the time, to the extent that I can say the majority of it is true. But I shall wait until you’ve finished it before revealing which parts are fiction!

Chapter 1

Oh, for God’s sake, not again!

The wagon lurched as the horses strained to pull it from the mud, but sank back almost to the axles as they relaxed. The rain had increased to a torrent, blowing in waves from the northwest, and the fields on either side were barely visible. Ahead, a stand of trees adorned the brow of the hill promising shelter, but first they must release the wagon from the mud. The soldiers put their weapons down and straggled forwards, muttering amongst themselves. Retrieving the planks from the cart, they heaved to push them under the wheels.

Fifty yards away at the edge of the trees, a man watched from the undergrowth. His long, graceful moustache drooped in the rain and his hair was caught up in the brambles above him. He wriggled back through the bushes before scrambling to his feet and retrieving his bedraggled hat from a nearby branch. He looked up at his companion. He was some twelve inches taller than him with a thick, bushy beard.

Thomas, we’ll never have a better chance!

That captain worries me; he’s still on his horse and armed, growled Thomas.

A tall, elderly woman with striking blue eyes and straw-coloured hair appeared from the wood. Clad in men’s breeches and a hooded cloak, she strode across towards the two men. Is something wrong?

The short man twirled his moustache, and then nodded towards the wagon. They’re stuck again. All the weapons, save the captain’s, are in the mud five yards behind the wagon.

Then let us take advantage! Be ready to move, announced the woman before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the undergrowth.

The man shrugged, took his horse’s reins from his taller companion and leapt aboard. Thomas waved towards a group of men huddled under an ancient spreading oak tree in the middle of the copse and followed suit. The men all moved their mounts out from the shelter to stand beside Thomas, who had moved close to the road.

They waited.

After two minutes, the woman emerged onto the road from the trees further up, seated on her horse stark naked save for her cloak and gun.

Dear God Almighty, what is the woman doing! grunted Thomas. Ahead, the soldiers saw her and stopped their work. Two men ran to scramble through the hedge, while three more ran back to their guns.

You men! Get back to work! directed the officer, still blissfully unaware of the woman on the hill above him. Water dribbled down the side of his face from his hat, which by now was completely soaked through.

The naked woman calmly directed her horse into the centre of the road and forwards until she was directly behind the mounted captain. If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like to relieve you of some of your burden.

The captain whipped around in his saddle, and then was almost unhorsed as he took in the elderly naked woman pointing a gun at his chest from a range of six feet. Most of his remaining men were grinning, but the three who had reached their guns had brought them to shoulder and were aiming at the intruder.

I think not, madam, you have but one shot and there are seventeen of us. Slowly, he began to remove his own pistol.

This is indeed the case, sir. Indeed, three of your men have their muskets pointing vaguely in the right direction. But my friends have more shots, and our guns have not been lying in the mud!

The branches rustled with hidden movement. The officer’s smile first twitched and then vanished. He released his pistol as the diminutive highwayman, then Thomas and the rest of the gang moved their horses forward from behind the trees, guns pointed at the soldiers.

In the interest of your personal survival, may I suggest sir, that you throw your pistol onto the road and dismount at this point? instructed the highwayman.

The officer looked from the highwayman to the naked woman, and then carefully climbed down from his horse, keeping his hands in clear sight.

And the pistol?

The officer carefully removed the pistol with his fingertips and dropped it onto the road.

Excellent. Oh, you might point out to your men that wet and muddy matchlocks rarely, if ever, work, but just in case of an accident, and in the interests of their own well-being, they should put their weapons back into the mud.

The captain glanced back at the three men and nodded. One by one, they dropped their muskets and raised their hands in surrender.

Now, if you and your men would care to line up alongside the hedge, it will enable us to conclude our day’s business and be on our way.

The soldiers slid down into the muddy ditch. One man tripped over and landed headlong in the water, another slipped near the top and tumbled onto his comrades, almost knocking them over. The officer stood his ground until the highwayman waved his gun, and then he too scrambled down into the ditch.

We’re doing very well, but perhaps if you sir, he indicated the officer, would remove your sword belt very slowly and carefully, we could all relax a little more.

The officer undid his belt, grasped the scabbard and tossed it up the bank. The highwayman turned to instruct the remainder of his gang.

Moll, please put your clothes back on. You’re supposed to distract the soldiers, not us!

A wave of laughter erupted from both sides, and Moll, still grinning, started to dress. The highwayman turned back to face the soldiers in the ditch while Thomas took the bags from the robbers’ horses, and removed the rags that had filled their bags. Rapidly, the men set to work filling them with coins from the pay wagon.

Done. What do you want to do with these wretches? asked Moll, who had donned a long dress, incongruously ornamented with a weapons belt.

Oh, we won’t harm them, unless they force us to. But we do need to delay them a little. He pondered a moment and then turned to address the prisoners. Take off all of your clothes.

I shall do no such thing, sir! This goes beyond the bounds of proper warfare! responded the captain.

This is not warfare, captain, this is highway robbery. Take off your clothes unless you have a desire to be the sole fatality of this little exercise.

Grumbling, the captain doffed his coat before removing his shirt. Shivering, he glanced back at the highwayman who negligently waved his gun. Grudgingly, he removed his boots and hose, then his breeches and stood glaring defiantly at the highwayman.

See? Did that hurt? Now, John, take all their clothes and carry them half a mile up the road. Drop them in the hedge and return.

By the time John returned, the bags were slung over the horse’s rumps. The small man leaped back into the saddle, followed by the remainder of the robbers. He wheeled his horse around to address the young officer shivering naked in the ditch.

Farewell, sir. You should feel grateful that it is today we stopped you, for today we are naught but civilians plying our trade. Tomorrow, I ride to join my regiment in the King’s Army, and had I been in uniform, your fates would have been somewhat different, as would the fate of your cargo.

Do you at least have the courtesy, sir, to tell us by whom we have been robbed?

The highwayman paused, then resumed.

"We will tether your horse to a tree down yonder. You will notice that we did not take all of the money, nor did we rob you personally. So you can retrieve your clothes, and then take your wagon back to town, where I am sure you will find a suitable inn!

As for our identity, it is not my place to identify my colleagues. But I, sir, am Captain James Hind.

26th August 1648

Colchester

General Fairfax rubbed his hand down his face. His complexion was dark with a thin moustache, the grey in his flowing mane of hair belied his thirty-six years. He turned to face the Earl of Norwich seated before him.

No. You have my terms and they are not negotiable. Fourteen thousand pounds is minor in comparison with the cost if I allow my troops to enter the town unfettered. Soldiers have looted conquered towns since time immemorial. My men have been sleeping in tents whilst holding this siege for eleven weeks now. If I am to restrain my men from looting, I must offer something in return; else, I shall be facing a revolt.

But sir...

You have my answer. Now, do you accept the terms?

Norwich stared at Fairfax and then sighed. "It seems I have no option. Very well. Peers will be subject to the whim of your Parliamentary leaders. Officers of the rank of captain and above will be subject to your decision as to their fate. Lower ranks will be released unharmed, and the town will pay fourteen thousand pounds for distribution to your men.

I believe you to be a man of honour, and therefore I trust you personally to ensure that the terms are honoured. May I suggest that we allow the citizens of the town a single day to flee, and that you enter the city on the following day?

Fairfax smiled. Of course. On your personal undertaking that your troops will fire no ordinance, it seems only sensible. Do I have such an undertaking?

You do, sir.

Then we have an accord. He turned to address the junior officer standing to attention by the entrance. Captain! Escort these gentlemen back to the gates of the city, and ensure that they enter without hindrance.

Yes sir! the officer saluted, and then waved the delegation out of the tent flap.

Once they had left, Lord Fairfax stood, stretched, and then walked to the flap.

I am going to take some rest. Let none disturb me save for urgent matters, he instructed the sentries, both of whom saluted, stood to attention and chanted in unison, Yes sir!

27th August 1648

James backed into the shadow of the doorway and watched as the whores stepped out of the brothel and made their way along the rutted roadway. All was silent save for the distant murmur of the starving citizens shuffling towards the gate. Occasionally, there came a cry, perhaps as a loaf or a piece of jerky fell from a basket or pocket, perhaps as they were pushed aside by another desperate soul, but otherwise the town sounded sombre and subdued.

He waited until they turned the corner and then checked to make sure that the street was deserted before rushing into the brothel, closing the door behind him. He made his way through the anteroom and into the first bedroom. A rumpled, grubby bed dominated the room, but beside it, he saw a small cupboard with a water jug on top. He moved across the room, stepping carefully over the discarded women’s clothing and opened the ill-fitting cupboard door.

A basket lay within, containing a small hand-mirror and some powder. Pulling a razor from his pocket, he reached for the mirror and then paused. He took a deep breath to still his shaking hand. Gently, he shaved off his elegant moustache. He checked his reflection in the mirror and frowned. A long, aquiline nose swept down to delicately pursed lips. Below that, his chin swept back, giving him a rounded, slightly effeminate-looking face with sharply arched eyebrows and large eyes. Sweat beaded his brow. He ran his hand over his face, shaved a couple of areas of roughness, and then rinsed his face in cold water from the jug.

He extracted the soft cloth within the pot and dabbed the powder on his face until all traces of his beard were invisible. Stripping off his shirt and doublet, he turned his attention to the discarded clothing. He wandered into the next room. Some scarves draped over the back of a chair seemed suitable. He moved back into the first bedroom and pulled several dresses from the wardrobe, dropping all but one onto the bed.

Pulling the remaining dress over his head, he moved into the corridor to the cracked mirror fixed beside the door, smoothing the dress as he walked. He glanced in the mirror, then a second time. His nipples peered at him from above the neckline, which curved seductively around his male breasts.

Ah, he muttered, I thought it was too easy.

Dragging the dress over his head, he took the time to examine the chest area before pulling the next dress on. This too was a little too revealing but the third dress sported a higher neckline, although he found the style distinctly disinteresting. Pouting playfully at himself in the mirror, he wandered back into the bedroom.

The breast area hung empty and low, so he screwed up the two thickest scarves and stuffed them into the dress. The dress now hung properly. In the back of the cupboard, he noticed two small pots, which he pulled out. The contents of both were red, and he realised that his disguise was far from complete.

Picking up the mirror, he dabbed a little of the red powder onto each cheek. Gently, he rubbed them until they blended into the white powder. The last pot had a small brush inside. He hesitated briefly, and then carefully painted his lips, rolling them together to even the paint. Now he really did look like a whore!

He tried walking out into the corridor and back. His usual gait was far too manly, so he tried it again, this time taking shorter steps. Better. As he was only five feet three inches tall, his feet did not appear beneath the skirt, and he realised with pleasure that as long as he exercised caution, he could keep his beautiful leather riding boots and fine breeches. He paused for a moment.

He felt his backside No problem there. His breasts. With a dress this thick, he was fine. He brushed his hands over his groin and grinned. He looked around. Several scarves still sat on the bed. He selected two, one long enough to pass around his waist and another thinner one. He tied the end of one to the middle of the other, and then, reaching under his dress he tied the one around his waist before pulling the other between his legs. Grimacing, he tucked his pillicock down between his thighs, and then pulled the second scarf tight before tying it to the front of the other. He tried walking and found long steps were uncomfortable. Shorter was much less unpleasant.

Taking a grubby shawl from the floor, he carefully positioned it over his head and placed the ends dangling over his upholstered breasts. He lacked the elegant curls of most of the women he knew, but then, so did most of the poor. At least his hair was sufficiently long. He stiffened at the sound of the street door opening.

Anyone here? came a slightly intoxicated voice from the entrance.

James cleared his throat and spoke in a high-pitched voice. We’re closed, dearie.

Aww… Not even a quickie? The Roundheads will be here tomorrow, and I’ll be a prisoner!

Standing and allowing the dress to return to its usual position, James tried to grope himself, and met nothing. Grimacing, he stood and used the small hand mirror to examine himself carefully. He forced himself to smile and stepped out into the anteroom. Lit only by the light streaming through the open door, couches and small tables huddled in the shadows on every side. The Madam’s desk stood guard beside the curtained doorway in which James was standing. The trooper was holding the doorframe, weaving slightly as he took in James from head to foot. His uniform was stained with sweat and beer stains, and he was missing his helmet.

Hey, you’re new! You sure you don’t want to earn a few coins? He took an unsteady step into the anteroom, weaving a little as he released the doorframe.

No, dear, we’re all heading out of town for a few days. The others have already left, but I forgot my scarf. I’m new here; a girl has to eat, same as you. I’ll be back in a couple of days, though.

The man frowned, and then lurched towards a seat beside the madam’s desk. Sitting down, he reached over and on the third attempt he placed his tankard, with excessive care, on the edge of the desk. Slowly it toppled off the desk, bouncing on the floor and spreading the contents widely.

Ohhh! exclaimed the trooper.

James took a deep breath, and then flounced across to the desk, retrieving the bottle of mead he had noticed earlier. Handing it to the man, he jumped in alarm as the man grabbed his arm and pulled him towards himself, only releasing his grip when James was seated on his lap.

That’s better, slurred the trooper before pausing to take a swig of the mead. Whew, he exclaimed after a moment, That’s strong stuff!

Sweating slightly, James gently stroked the man’s hair from his face, and then recoiled as he caught a whiff of his breath.

We’ve been drinking for quite a while, dearie, haven’t we?

Wouldn’t you? Tomorrow, I’ll be a prison...pris...prisoner.

But I thought troopers were going to be released?

Hah! That’s what they say now, but once they’re in here, he waved his arm in an arc, they can do what they want!

James suppressed a nervous desire to laugh. Why would a general be interested in you?

Cos I, I, he reached up to stroke James’s face, I’m a...hey! You’re not a woman!

James pulled himself from the man’s grasp and stood up.

Correct.

The trooper struggled to lift himself from the chair, spilling mead as he floundered. Erect, he stared down at James.

I should report you to my captain!

You should, trooper, but you won’t.

James drove a fist hard into the man’s chin as he spoke, then stepped back as he crumpled to the floor. Taking a moment to recover himself, he mopped the sweat from his brow. Feeling the side of his face, he found the spot of roughness and pausing only to close the door, he rushed through to the back room to shave it smooth.

His Adam’s apple bobbled as he stared at himself in the hand mirror,