Ravensdale

By Lucinda Elliot

The author is proud to announce that this novel has become her second to win a B.R.A.G medallion for outstanding self-published fiction.
For those who love a satire on the cliches of historical romance, which at the same time draws them into the adventure.
When the group of highwaymen, headed by the disgraced Earl Ravensdale hold up the hoydenish Isabella Murray’s coach, she knocks one of them down and lectures them all on following Robin Hood’s example. In fact, she has been long resisting the urge to escape from her parents' plans for her advantageous marriage and become one herself.
The rascally Reynaud Ravensdale – otherwise known as the dashing highwayman Mr Fox – is fascinated by her spirit.
He escaped abroad three years back when he fell under suspicion of shooting a friend dead after a quarrel. Rumour has it that his far more respectable cousin was involved. Now, having come back during his father’s last illness, the young Earl has largely lost hope of clearing his name of murder, living as an outlaw as he is, and having sworn to protect someone else who was involved in the quarrel.
Isabella’s ambitious parents are eager to marry her off to Ravensdale’s cousin, the next in line to his title. The totally unromantic Isabella is even ready to elope with her outlaw admirer to escape this fate – on condition that he teaches her how to be a highwaywoman herself.
This hilarious spoof uses vivid characters and lively comedy to bring new life to a theme traditionally favoured by historical novelists – that of the wild young Earl, who, falsely accused of murder by the machinations of a conniving cousin and prejudged by his reputation, takes up life as an outlaw.
‘Ravensdale’ is a fast paced, funny and light hearted read from the writer of ‘That Scoundrel Émile Dubois’, and follows the adventures of Émile Dubois' equally roguish cousin just prior to the outbreak of the French Revolutionary Wars. It can be read as an independent novel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freya
• Release date: Apr 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370239689

Lucinda Elliot

Lucinda Elliot loves writing on Gothic themes and creating lively characters. She can't resist putting a lot of humour into her writing and loves making strong female characters to go with the gung-ho males. She was brought up in big old houses that would make excellent Gothic settings, lived and worked in London for years and now lives in Mid Wales with her family.

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RAVENSDALE

By

Lucinda Elliot

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www.incaproject.co.uk

Ravensdale

Copyright © 2014 by Lucinda Elliot. All rights reserved.

Fourth Smashwords Edition: 2016

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

I dedicate this book to my mother Doris Martin

and to my late father, Philip Martin

With love and thanks

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the many people who have helped me

with support, information and suggestions, including

Jo Danilo, Robert Gregson and Robert Wingfield of INCA for their suggestions and invaluable help, Rebecca Lochlann, Jenn Roseton, Nat Wieckzorec, Curator at the National Army Museum and many others

1. The Disgraced Heir

April 1792

Introducing the Disgraced Heir to an Earldom Turned Outlaw

And the (Must Have) Spirited Heroine

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Even before the shooting started, Isabella Murray recognised Reynaud Ravensdale the outcast.

As he rode up the hill towards the burial in the churchyard, either out of respect or bravado, he whipped off his hat. Isabella saw at once that he might have been the twin of his cousin, who now stood by the late Earl’s grave. Though the outlaw son was muffled in a greatcoat, she noted his athletic movements. Even at the distance, she was startled at the similarity of their Grecian features

Isabella felt sorry for the disgraced son. It must be miserable to watch a father’s funeral from a distance. That remained true, even if the late Earl had been a drunken aging roué in the habit of laying into his neighbours with a horsewhip.

As he approached, Ravensdale’s unusually long and heavy-lidded eyes glanced without interest at what he must take to be a plump boy. This afternoon, Isabella was out on one of her jaunts, straddling a horse in her brother’s cast-off riding clothes, her hair hidden under the hat.

As Ravensdale stared impassively at the funeral, heads in the crowd standing outside the graveyard turned to stare at him. Isabella could sense the rumour spreading: ‘It’s the disgraced heir who shot that Captain!’

Another rider appeared, galloping up the hill towards them, yelling and frantically waving his hat.

Ravensdale swore as he whipped out his pistol. Get out of it! he shouted to Isabella, turning his horse. A group of redcoats came into view behind the second rider.

Shots rang out. Screams and shouts came from the crowd, and people threw themselves to the ground.

Isabella was too busy fighting her rearing horse to take Ravensdale’s advice and make for the copse of trees hard by. Meanwhile he was off down the hill, firing at the soldiers and roaring some order to his accomplice.

There was more shooting and yelling and swearing. As Isabella brought her mount under control, she was sorry to miss the expressions. She liked learning the sort of language not commonly used before nice young ladies.

The outlaws jumped the hedge at the bottom of the field, and the pursuit died away into the distance.

Well, he’s got a fine horse for an escape, Isabella told her own mount as she made off for home. An Arab cross, I’d say. I suppose that was one of the band of highwaymen he’s said to lead as the gallant Mr Fox.

She rode at a gallop back to the great house her father had bought on becoming a baronet, taking as many hedges as she could on the way.

She told the horse, I suppose poor Mama will have some new scheme afoot for marrying me off, as befits our new status. She’d have had poor father at the old toper’s* funeral too, only that throw from your stable mate kept him inside.

She sighed. What a bore it is! I wish she’d have done and let me be an old maid. I’ll have to get a cat; pity I’m so bad at knitting, eh? Now here’s a high hedge with a tricky ditch: have at it, girl!

As they landed safely, Isabella patted her mount’s neck, Well done. You know, in some ways I’d rather have the hazards and discomforts of an outlaw’s life, than the boredom of my own as a respectable young lady.

The Disgraced Earl Turned Outlaw’s

(Must Have) Devoted Follower

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You think they’re still after us? Longface glanced back as he and Ravensdale made their way down the bank of a stream in the middle of a birch wood.

How should I know, you looby? If we’ve shaken ‘em off so damned easy, I’ll be amazed.

They rode on some way without speaking. As the horses scrambled up a bank, Ravensdale suddenly grinned, shaking off his gloom. There’s a piece of fancy shooting; they’ve winged your hat. He reached out and snatched it off his follower’s head, his smile fading as quickly as it came. It’s not conspicuous or anything. Damned idiot, you’d have shambled into an inn like that.

How’d it stay on my knob? Longface stared at it.

Reynaud Ravensdale laughed heartlessly: I thought I saw it dance up and down. Lucky escape for you, eh?

Longface burst out, I call it foolishly quixotic, risking your neck like that to attend the funeral and then uncovering yourself. Paying your respects to your father was all fine and proper, but not sensible. It weren’t as though you hadn’t seen him before he died.

Ravensdale scowled and said nothing. Perhaps he was being resolutely silent.

Longface went on, It’s no good giving me one of your haughty looks, neither. How many times have I told you, it’s all well and good to be a viscount – well, now you’re an earl – but it don’t do you no manner of good now, so you must set aside them aristocratic ways. I’ve told you a thousand times.

Try a million, Longface.

No, but you’ll need telling one million times more, Mr Fox*, though being discreet, I never speak of what’s known to me in front of others. Someone must’ve tipped off the redcoats.

That’s clear, seeing they don’t have the wit to find us out for themselves. Then you obligingly led ‘em to me.

At this, Longface couldn’t contain himself. Me? Nobody followed me – and me risking my neck to warn you of the ambush you wandered into unawares!

Reynaud Ravensdale or Mr Fox stared at him, eyebrows raised. You idiot. I told you not to tag along. On the matter of your idiocy, by the by, how much d’you have in your purse*?

Longface searched though his pockets, his jaw lengthening.

Reynaud Ravensdale suddenly hissed, Quiet! What’s that? They paused, staring back, and went on listening for another minute.

I only hear woodpeckers going at it.

They started their horses forward again. Longface searched his clothing a last time before admitting, The confounded thing’s gone.

Ravensdale made a coarse joke. Jack and I had better sense than to lose our money that way. None of those wenches in that den was to be trusted from any point of view. Twice over I caught that ladybird perched on my knee with her hands in my pockets, and she laughed in my face.

Longface looked even more mournful. I’ll have to wait and see, then. Lucky we’re headed towards town and medical advice.

As his chief snorted his contempt, Longface went on, Pshaw! It’s nothing that a spot of mercury* won’t cure. What’s the point of guarding our health? We’ll be dangling at Tyburn before we’re thirty.

I always forget you’re short of thirty.

Longface winced. It’s these teeth missing that age me.

Ravensdale didn’t bother replying. They rode on in silence for some minutes, and then he began almost gently, What you say makes me think, Longface. For your sake, we should go our separate ways. I’m a careless rogue, and a danger to be about. You had best save your skin and leave villainy while you can. You have those papers. Start again and lead a decent life.

Longface shook his head. No, not until at least after the next great takings. I’ve not enough put by to live comfortable and marry a self-respecting woman.

Reynaud Ravensdale made another coarse joke about an unexpected wedding present Longface might give a bride if he didn’t take more care. As Longface flinched again, he added more suavely, Longface, I’m urging you to look out for yourself.

No, I ain’t leaving you. I’m older and wiser than you and them others, and I can make due allowance for your youthful impetuosity. He liked the sound of that, and repeated it.

His companion was unmoved. Listen, you simpleton, as your chief I’m telling you to go away now.

Longface shook his head, smiling gently. Not until the time is right.

Ravensdale scowled. His horse, picking up his mood, turned round and snapped at him. He hit it, cursing.

Longface murmured up at the beech trees, I don’t take it amiss; he ain’t bad hearted; just a wild young buck what’s unhappy how things is turned out. He examined the bullet holes in his hat. Suddenly he asked his robber chief, Do you have a sister?

Ravensdale glared: What’s that to you, looby?

I dunno. I miss mine, sometimes. Longface thought of Meggie’s disappointment that he hadn’t stayed working in haberdashery, and her warnings against a life of crime. Then he spent longer thinking about the hot cakes that she always made.

Suddenly, Reynaud Ravensdale spoke, as if he couldn’t stop himself, though despising himself even as he said the words, I’ve a girl cousin who was as a sister to me.

As the trees began to thin, he turned on Longface: Take that damned thing off before we get back to civilization. He gave a bitter laugh: Civilization? That is one place where we shan’t call in.

September 1781

Back in Time: The Conniving Cousin’s Story

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Edmund Ravensdale – aged twelve, still unable to credit that his father is dead, that he’s the head of his family now – stands gazing on the incredibly grand front entrance of Ravensdale Court.

Seven-year-old Marie clutches his hand tightly. Yet, though she’s lost her parents so much younger than he has, she looks about with shy curiosity rather than dread. She can’t imagine a world in which she isn’t loved. She’s no idea of the sort of household they’re entering.

It’s early autumn. The glow of the setting sun lights up the countless higher windows of the front of Ravensdale Court. None of the family has troubled to come out to meet the new additions. Only a group of servants is at the door to greet them: the butler, the housekeeper, Mistress Stone – whose face lives up to her name – footmen, maids, and the Viscount’s former nurse, now to be Marie’s.

This is their new home. Edmund wonders how it’s possible to think of such a place, with those giant colonnades along the front, as ‘home’. The old nurse waddles up to take Marie’s hand from him. At this, some of her misplaced confidence crumbles, and she looks unsure. Edmund promises that he’ll visit her in the nursery later.

A footman with astounding calves carries Edmund’s luggage up to a huge room. For all his size, the man must remember being a boy himself, as he tells Edmund by way of comfort that the bell will ring soon for tea. Edmund hopes that the footman hasn’t seen the shaming tears that blur his eyes. He walks over to the window, pretending to admire the view.

Landscaped gardens with formal walks, vistas and follies stretch away to a lake in the massive park. In the distance, the chalk hills of Buckinghamshire rise out of the autumn mist. Then, through the blur, Edmund sees a maze not far from his window. It’s a fine one, promising fun for himself and Marie.

Recently, he read the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, so that, when he hears a crashing and roaring, for a second he almost connects it with the labyrinth and an enraged beast.

The footman laughs. It is not a happy laugh; none of the laughter at Ravensdale Court tends to be happy. Them young rascals is for it again.

The man goes through the doorway and gazes down the wide staircase into the great hall. Edmund peeps round him. Two boys of about his own age hurl themselves across the hall and through a doorway to the side as if a man-eating bull was truly after them. Certainly, the enraged human figure close on their heels, face twisted with rage, waving a riding crop and roaring out oaths, is nearly as bad.

He bawls to someone unseen, Hold ‘em, damn you! and flings himself through the door after the boys. Sounds of furious thrashing float up the stairs along with more swearing. The man below can only be His Lordship the Earl of Ravensdale. Edmund notes there are no cries for mercy or of pain.

The footman meets Edmund’s eyes, nodding approvingly. Game couple of youngsters. Take care you don’t annoy His Lordship, or you’ll be in for a dose of the same. He leaves. The dusk comes on. Edmund goes down to tea.

This is served in a lesser but still outsized dining room. About the table are some minor family members and the higher grades of dependant who always come with a great household. One is a man who looks as if a giant spider has sucked out all his juices, though he can’t be out of his thirties. A woman reminds him of a greedy parrot as she dips cake into her dish of tea.

They take little notice of him. Though he’s formally introduced, Edmund’s too dismayed by the brutality he has just seen to take much in about them.

His own parents were kind. They almost never had him whipped, let alone made him see a hanging or a swaying gibbeted* corpse as a warning.

Later, he goes to try to jolly along Marie. She’s settling in fairly happily. The old nurse is pleased to have a little girl after a succession of boys. Edmund has this comfort, anyway.

The Earl’s son and nephew are missing for the rest of the day. Edmund hears later that they were locked in an isolated room, but escaped through the window and out over the roofs to get up to further mischief in the village of Ravensdale. Perhaps they did this as a matter of principle, as they must be bruised all over from such a thrashing.

Meanwhile Lord Ravensdale sleeps off his drunken fury. He awakes no angrier than he has normally been for the last eleven years with a fate that stole his young wife from him within a year of marriage, leaving him with his new-born son Reynaud.

Since her death, he’s damned heaven and earth, forgotten her trust in their future reunion, and worked tirelessly to destroy himself. His furies are the terror of the neighbourhood. He lays his riding crop across the shoulders of any commoner who annoys him, and that is easy. If provoked by a gentleman, he challenges him to a duel, and then shoots into the air with a blasphemy. Then he stands, arms folded, awaiting his fate. Nobody’s dared to shoot him so far. Someone may yet.

The next morning, as Edmund readies himself for breakfast, his cousin the Viscount and his Dubois relative swagger in, hiding their stiffness.

So, you’re come to join us, Cousin. You can shoot and ride, of course? Reynaud Ravensdale is so like Edmund that he could almost be a twin, yet nature has given him the finishing touches left out in Edmund.

The young heir’s features are as finely cut as if done by a master sculptor, yet even at eleven, there’s no effeminacy in that face. His hazel eyes are still more long cut and heavy-lidded than Edmund’s own, the lashes heavy. His thick, waving hair is a gleaming pure chestnut rather than bright brown like Edmund’s, contrasting with the sweeping dark brows. These are now raised in haughty enquiry. Thrashings or not, the Viscount knows his status.

In contrast, lanky, fair-haired, slant-eyed, freckle-nosed Émile Dubois is all good humour as he smiles on Edmund. "Le Diable, but he’s the spit of you, Reynaud. This could prove useful."

Reynaud laughs: Damn me, he is, too.

Edmund is dismayed by their casual swearing; still, what with the example he heard from Lord Ravensdale yesterday, he can’t be surprised. Lord Ravensdale goes on, You’ve a sister, too?

Marie is in the nursery.

Émile says, "We’ve just time to pay Mademoiselle a visit before going down to le petit déjuner." Reynaud Ravensdale’s brows shoot up, but Edmund is to learn that Émile dotes on his own small sister; perhaps he misses her. Edmund will find out, too, that Émile, though the younger by over a year, has a strong influence on Reynaud. Now the arrogant Viscount agrees at once, Come, then. He hides his grimace as he turns about.

Marie, honoured at this visit from such great boys, greets them with a solemn curtsey. Her delight in them pleases them in turn, and she’s soon adored by both, for which Edmund is thankful. Her belief in a world where everyone loves her remains intact.

Soon, Marie is the one softening influence on the benighted household, with even the terrible Earl of Ravensdale indulgent towards her.

2. The Earl Highwayman

May 1792

The Earl Highwayman

Must Meet the Spirited Heroine During a Hold Up

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As Sir Wilfred’s carriage rattled along the pot-holed lane past the densest part of the beech woods on the way back from Wycombe*, a mounted figure with a dark scarf tied over the lower part of his face cantered out, roaring, Stand and Deliver!

Mistress Titmarsh screamed. Isabella was furious: Damn it! Lord, if only I’d brought Dicky’s blasted pistols! Stop, Henry, it’s the only bloody thing. Damn it again!

If Lady Murray had allowed her to gallop to town on her horse, instead of lumbering along in the carriage with Mistress Titmarsh as chaperone, she would have tried to outride the robber. She glanced about, looking for something heavy that she could use as a club. If there was only one man, she might take him by surprise yet.

Mistress Titmarsh fell back against her seat as two other horsemen with scarves over their faces came out of the woods. Henry reined in the horses. A lithe young man with a hat pulled down over his hair, pistol drawn, darted up to seize them.

The first man thrust his gun in at the window. He too, wore his hat pulled down over his hair, but Isabella could see enough of his reddened, unshaven face to dislike it. She wondered if this was the group headed by Mr Fox, said to be active in the area. If so, he wasn’t to be seen himself.

Neither was the famous gallantry towards women: Out, bitches, or I’ll have your dirty hides. The burly man wrenched open the door. Isabella jumped out, turning back to murmur reassurance to Mistress Titmarsh. He bawled louder, waving his gun: I said out, filthy cows! Mistress Titmarsh shrieked.

The man by the horses shouted, Cut that! Treat ‘em gently!

You’ll only make her slower, bullying her, Isabella reached back in the carriage to help Mistress Titmarsh.

The man glowered: Shut your mouth, you ugly hellcat!

Henry was holding the horses and looking indecisive. The lithe man ran up. Oi, Filthy, I said hold your noise or I’ll make you! – Beg pardon, Ma’am, he ain’t got manners. – We’ve stopped the wrong carriage, anyhow. Only women here and the driver.

Let ‘em go, a man further back spoke through the scarf muffling the lower part of the mournful length of his face.

A furious yell and the sound of running footsteps came from further back in the trees.

The unshaven man stared at Isabella’s neck. Suddenly he snatched at her necklace, snapping it. Mistress Titmarsh, screaming, fell against the carriage. The lithe robber and Henry shouted, starting forwards. As the man’s hand brushed against Isabella’s bosom, fury boiled up in her. She punched him before she knew it and he went sprawling among the tree roots by the side of the road.

The others broke into delighted laughter: Serves him right!

The man jumped up swearing, hat off, his black hair disordered, kerchief askew to show a bristly face purple with rage, eyes bulging: I’ll kill you!

Isabella launched herself at him, ducking his blow and hitting out again. In the same moment, his fellow robbers fell on him, pinning his arms. As he struggled and swore at ‘Flashy’ and ‘Longface’, there was a louder angry shout and more snapping of twigs. Another figure dashed up.

Isabella’s cynical head said: Enter the hero, belated but ready to right matters.

The new arrival wrenched the burly man from the others by his collar, hitting him several times so quickly Isabella couldn’t see the moves he used. He threw him forwards and the man fell to the ground, dropping the necklace. The new arrival raged, Filthy coward! Get out before I kill you!

‘Filthy’ put up no fight. For some moments he lay, unable to get up. Then, he finally hauled himself up on his hands and knees. The enraged Chief Bandit kicked him, so that he went face downwards in the mud again. He staggered up, his bristly face and shirtfront smeared with mud and the blood dripping from his nose, and shambled towards his horse, followed by jeers from his companions.

The new arrival whipped out his pistol, firing so that the bullet whistled just by him. Faster, before I change my mind!

The man sprawled onto his horse and urged it on. It trotted up the road, while ‘Flashy’ helped the sobbing Mistress Titmarsh over to a tree stump.

Mr Fox, I suppose? Isabella spoke coldly as the man stooped to retrieve the necklace on the ground and handed it to her.

Like the others, a hat pulled low, and a dark kerchief over the lower part of his face, mostly hid his features. Like them too, he was dressed in the clothes of a well-off commoner. For all that, Isabella knew him by those long and heavy-lidded hazel eyes and the little she could see of the bridge of his Grecian nose. Now that he had no greatcoat, Isabella saw that he was slim, muscular and broad in the shoulder. Those eyes, darkened by shadow, glittered piercingly beneath the brim of his hat.

She went on, I’m happy you escaped that mean-spirited ambush at the funeral, Sir, yet the ugly way that we’ve been used makes a mockery of your band’s reputation for gallantry.

When he spoke next, he had changed his voice. Now he used what Isabella thought was a poor attempt at a West Country accent. You think you saw me at a funeral, Ma’am? Anyway, I can’t apologize enough for that disgusting attack. I hope he didn’t hurt you? He turned furiously on the others. What did you loobies mean by letting him lay hands on her? You know my rules.

You saw we grabbed the sod, Flashy pointed out, but the lady laid him out first with as fine a jab as ever I’ve seen.

You should’ve knocked him down before. He’s damaged your necklace, Ma’am; I must recompense you. It’s not our way to prey on ladies.

The stinging at her neck where the robber had snapped the chain of her necklace sharpened Isabella’s anger. Her knuckles were throbbing too now, and she saw they were bleeding. That seems to have escaped your fellow’s notice. How can your rules guard against that, when the blood is heated by excitement and drink?

Mr Fox didn’t seem put out, continuing suavely, You’ve cut yourself, Ma’am; allow me. He took her hand and dabbed at it with a handkerchief, while ordering the others, Some wine for the ladies.

He took her arm and led her under the shelter of the trees. Isabella supposed he wanted to lessen the risk of discovery. Mistress Titmarsh still sat on her tree stump, moaning and swaying, while Flashy bent over her.

Longface produced a bottle of what looked like spirits, filling a grubby stopper that doubled as a glass. Their chief spoke sharply, I said the wine, you fool! I had some earlier.

It got knocked over while you were away doing that lying under a tree and debating with yourself stuff you go in for*, Flashy said. As his chief drew back offended, he went on, I’m sorry, ladies, for our – what’s the word, Chief, I heard you use it lately? he snapped his fingers. Deficient hospitality, that’s it.

It were a shame, but a nip of spirits will set ‘em to rights. Longface still offered Isabella the smeared stopper of brandy, showing his missing front teeth in a placating smile.

His chief snorted, Get away with that filthy thing. He still had Isabella’s arm, and she tried to free it. He looked startled as he let go, as if he imagined that she would allow him to carry on holding it indefinitely. Perhaps the ladies usually did. Her anger competed with her urge to laugh at Long face’s offended look.

Could I talk to you? she turned to Mr Fox. He seemed to think that she meant him alone, and made to walk away with her. She added, To you all?

We’re all attention, Ma’am. Shall we sit?

As you wish.

Hear the lady out, Mr Fox stood back.

Don’t, Isabella! Let’s be away at once, Mistress Titmarsh moaned from her tree stump, Whatever will Sir Wilfred say? Henry came and stood next to her, murmuring soothingly.

They all looked at Isabella, who began quickly, I may be a woman, but I know how the law, far from being a refuge for the powerless from the greedy and unjust, is more often their scourge. After all, it’s made by wealthy landowners who often abuse their privileges.

Longface’s jaw had dropped so far he looked as if he was trying to catch flies. Over his scarf, Flashy’s eyes widened, so that Isabella noticed their astonished blue. Isabella couldn’t see the effect of her words on Mr Fox, as he was standing to her side, but he murmured, Fairly spoken, Ma’am; my sentiments exactly.

It’s no wonder you despise the law, while knowing too well the savage punishments for using outright rather than underhand robbery.

The man with the long face shifted dismally from one foot to the other. Flashy stood staring in amazement, looking so vigorous that the idea of his body swinging lifeless from a gallows or gibbet seemed absurd.

Picturing this spurred Isabella on, Everywhere, landowners enclose land, driving the people from the commons* which have been theirs for centuries, sheltering behind the form of the law and these brutal punishments. It’s like a farmer putting up a scarecrow; the bolder birds ignore it, while the timid ones will keep away.

The bandits stirred restlessly. Isabella hurried on, The gallows and the gibbet are the scarecrows that keep the majority, the hungry birds, from taking back what’s been stolen from them. They admire your bold defiance: it’s in your interests to join with them. You could revive the traditions of Robin Hood, sharing part of your booty with them. That could lead to great things.

Isabella turned at a gasp.