Burpington-Not-On-Sea

Deep in the shadowed depths of the town’s most disreputable bawdy tavern, a lean, dark clad figure sat alone. His long legs wearing battered and filthy thigh boots were crossed and resting on the table, his face hid by the brim of an equally shabby tricorne hat.  The more clued up drinkers to The Vexed Hamster Inn left him alone, assuming his hidden but watchful eyes scanned for danger, cocked and loaded pistols at the ready beneath his caped riding coat. He was Jed Moonraven, the most notorious and ruthless highwayman to gallop the moonlit roads of the land. A handsome young rogue with a ready merry quip and a long overdue date with the gallows

Most of the tales of his notorious exploits were wildly exaggerated as was the manner for folk anti heroes. Jed never contradicted the stories, he enjoyed watching the price on his head rise as a matter of pride and when the inevitable day came when he would feel the hemp noose tighten around his neck, at least he could guarantee a good turn out for his grand exit.

Though the rowdy crowd of drinkers appeared to be ignoring Jed, many shifty eyes watched him warily. The highwayman was the instant passport to riches, dob him in to the militia and you could clear the mortgage on your fleapit, upgrade your clapped out mule and buy a little holiday hovel on the Costa Lotte. And still have enough change to buy the latest must have fashion accessory…shoes with really, really long pointy toes. All the nobility sported them. Even the Town Crier had worn a natty pair in eau de nil leather until he tripped over them and knocked himself unconscious on his bell.

The inn fell to instant expectant silence as a loud snore reverberated from beneath the lowered tricorne. Was it a ruse?  Was he really awake? Or sleeping off a night of heavy drinking and debauchery? Who had the balls to risk making a move against the leading scourge of the highways? An ‘A’ lister among the land’s villains and malcontents?

‘Idiot.’

Jed sprang awake as someone kicked his feet off the table.

‘If you are so keen to take that short walk to a long drop, you do it alone!’

Rubbing his bleary, now bloodshot, dark blue eyes, drawing a hand across the black stubble on his chin, Jed nodded his gratitude to the bear like man joining him at the table. Oakham Strang, the brawn and the brains behind Jed’s nefarious career. Many men as big and burly as Oakham were really softies at heart, giants with hearts of gold who bred budgies or rescued kittens. Not Oakham Strang. He was a nasty bastard who’d eat a budgie whole for the hell of it. Finished off with a dessert of freshly strangled kittens. The only reason he tolerated the handsome but feckless Moonraven was he needed a good frontman. One that kept the coach loads of titled ladies giggling and blushing while engaging in threatening roguish banter with the furious men while Strang got on with the serious business of robbing them blind.

Raising his hand to call over the nearest serving wench, Jed did his best to force aside the effects of a heavy night’s carousing. His mind a blur on how much ale he’d sunk, how many wenches he’d had. How much money he’d lost on the gaming tables.

Strang waved the woman away with a growl of displeasure and focused on the hung over fool now slumped across the table. ‘You’ve had a skinful already. Another one of your damned all nighters! Don’t you know what day it is?  The Feast of St Epiligia! The Questing Season is officially open. The sun has hardly risen but already the moors and swamps will be overrun with well bred young fools starting their pointless noble journeys. Rich and easy pickings.’

The highwayman groaned. He just wanted to find a warm, safe place to sleep off the hangover from hell. His head was full of devilish imps armed with blunt pickaxes. Others inhabited his bowels, forcing up the contents of his stomach higher and higher … He needed a drink … Now!  Hair of the dog to drown the little buggers in his gut.

‘Sod you, Strang!’ He moaned, ‘I need a drink. And I am having one.’

The big man stood up. ‘I’ll wait for you by the horses. You have exactly one minute. Then I will be gone and so will Milady.’

The thought of losing the best mare he’d ever stolen sobered Jed instantly. He leapt to his feet and pushed through the crowd, cheekily taking a long draught from a meek little man’s liquid breakfast - a freshly drawn tankard of frothy ale.

‘You young blaggard! To Hell with you!’ The man cursed, not knowing who the tall young scoundrel was.

‘Sorry old chap,’ Jed countered, with a low mocking bow, ‘The Devil had to barricade Hell to stop me getting in. Frightened I’ll take over!’

He strode out of the inn, enjoying the outrage he left in his wake and leapt into the saddle of his ugly mare.

‘Ten seconds more and I would have gone,’ grumbled Strang,