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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 03/16/2017
The Mounting Block - Charing, Kent
Born 1948, M, from Kent - garden of England, United KingdomThe mounting block - Charing Village, Kent.
Almost forgotten in the small village of Charing, at the junction of The Hill, and Pett Lane, stands an ancient white stone mounting block with three time worn steps. You may have to search a little if you wish to see this, as during the summer months it becomes overgrown with weeds and the growing leaves of a hedge close by. It is an interesting reminder of the old days of Tudor Charing, when it was first placed here for the convenience of riders in the village, just a few yards up from the old blacksmiths workshop and forge. Few of todays present villagers even know it is there, and even fewer have heard the story attached to it, a story of a young highwayman and his lovers conflict.
Charing is a very old village, the church dates from the eleventh century and the houses in the high street are between two hundred and five hundred years old. It is a classic English village, the sort of place that is sought out as the location for the making of historical films, or costume drama for TV. Anything could be set here, from Shakespeare plays, to thirties murder mysteries.
Ah, murder mysteries, - that brings us back nicely to our passionate beauty and her highwayman lover.
In the seventeenth century the road from Maidstone to the market town of Ashford had been opened as a turnpike toll road. Stage coaches from London to Dover would travel this way, almost non stop, apart from a short rest for the passengers as the horses were changed at various inn's on the way. It would take about eight to ten hours to make the trip, an express journey in those days. Today we can drive the same road and arrive in London in under an hour, which is now why the village has become a dormitory for business people who prefer the quiet of Kent to the high prices, pollution and bustle of London life.
The stagecoaches of the old days would also carry the post, and often a strong box for delivery to a bank or business. In those days Kent was a far less inhabited place than we see today, a rural county of forests and narrow lanes, dotted with lonely farm houses and the hovels of the poor.
Today we think of highwaymen as being glamorous and handsome rascals, clad in expensive clothes and with exceptionally polite manners, as they robbed the coaches, and flirted with the ladies with gallantry and flair.
Hollywood has a lot to apologise for!
The truth seems to have been somewhat different. These robbers of old were often poor farmers, ostlers or the like, who could make easy money to feed their families by stopping the coaches and demanding money and goods in return for not murdering their victims. The robberies often took place many miles from the highwayman's village or home, a good precaution when many people rarely travelled farther than a few miles from home, some never having set foot in a neighbouring village or town in their life.
It was an easy crime which paid well and gave instant fortune, in the days when average wages were just pennies a week, and it was equally easy to escape prosecution, as the thieves easily disappeared into the woods and lanes of Kent.
The roads around Charing were ideal for this nefarious trade, the coaches full of travellers of good standing, most heading for Dover to cross the Channel to France. As well as these travellers, the local Pilgrims Way, a footpath and bridleway, was full of people who either could not or wanted not to pay the turnpike tolls. This ancient path bypassed the village on the ridge of the downs, and although the travellers were not often rich, they were easy pickings for the criminals of the time.
It seems that our highwayman lived in a small village called Stalisfield, a few miles from Charing and on the other side of the Pilgrims Way. He would sometimes stop the stagecoaches close to Bearstead, around ten miles from charing and close to Leeds Castle. After the robberies he would ride fast to Bredgar a hamlet nearby, and safely hide his loot close to an inn, before resting his horse for a while and riding the old path back to Stalisfield.
At the Sun inn at Bredgar, he struck up a friendship with the landlord, and was taken with the beauty and charm of the landlord's daughter, a spinster of about twenty five years old. The friendship blossomed, and the daughter thought that this may be her last chance to become a wife. A wife to a lonely farmer who often stopped on his way back from market to rest his horse. She had no idea of his crimes.
Over a year or two he stopped many times, the innkeepers daughter becoming more interested in him at every meeting. She learned that he hailed from Stalisfield, and owned a small farm outside the village where he grew crops and kept sheep. She was determined he would one day become her husband.
The highwayman, although friendly with the woman, had no intentions in this way. His only concern was to keep the friendship of her and her father, in case he should need their help in any way in the future, he could possibly use the inn as a hideaway if needed, and knew the landlord and his daughter would vouch for him as a local man.
In Charing though, he did have a sweetheart, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen who worked as a maid at the local school at the top of the high street. The old school house still exists today, and across the road is one of the old coaching inns of the village, almost unchanged after three hundred years, complete with the tall gates where the stagecoaches would enter to change horses.
The relationship with the maid developed into love and the marriage of the two became a talking point in the small village. The banns were read in the church and the farmhouse at Stalisfield was readied for the new bride, soon to become mistress of a house instead of maid at a school.
About this time, news arrived at the inn at Stalisfield that a special coach was soon to travel to Dover from London, carrying a representative of the King on his way to an important meeting in Paris, France. It was said in the inn, but with little truth, that the coach would also carry riches, a gift from the King to the French court. Such is the power of pub gossip, that the highwayman decided that this would be his last robbery, it would pay for his wedding and set up his new wife and him, for an easy life in the future. Making further enquiries in a very discreet way, he learned of the expected day of the journey, and the roads that would be travelled by the coach.
Within a day or two his plans were laid. He would rob the coach as it passed close to the Castle at Leeds, where a steep winding hill would slow its progress. From here, as soon as the robbery was over he would ride the four miles to Bredgar as quickly as he could, and would deposit the loot in his usual hiding place, in the woods close to the inn. The coach was due on the same day as the market was held in Bearstead village, and his supposed visit to the market would thus be his perfect alibi.
On the day of the robbery, everything went well. The guard on the coach had supped beer at every stop, beer being in those days a staple drink, far safer than drinking water, which could carry serious illness with it if not properly boiled. Likewise the driver had also had his fill and both men were feeling the effect at this point in the journey. The coach was stopped easily, a tree had been felled by the highwayman across the road, and a quantity of black powder ignited with a flash to excite the horses into playing up, giving the driver work to calm them down and keeping him busy. The guard was easily taken care off by being struck from his high seat with a long branch, wielded with strength by the strong young man, and within moments the coach was entered, the traveller's being held at pistol point as the highwaymans demands were made. Within a minute or two it was all over, a speedy robbery by a masked man who said little and took much, including the jewelery of the two elderly women in the coach as well as the valuables carried by the Kings man.
The only person to be hurt was the guard, knocked senseless as he fell into the road from his seat next to the driver. The Kings messenger was in shock, and the two ladies had fainted away at the sight and demands of the robber. The driver had been too busy controlling the horses to identify the young man, it was a perfect robbery on the new turnpike.
The highwayman sped away with his loot towards Leeds, and when a safe distance away turned into the woodlands and made his way quickly back towards Bredgar. With him he had two loaves of bread, bought at the market and intended as an alibi gift to the landlord of the inn. The young highwayman stopped close to the inn, in the wood where he had always hidden the spoils of his crimes, and hurriedly sorted through the loot. The fine jewels and gold coins were stashed away in a fox hole beneath a tree, where he could collect it later under the cover of darkness. But a few items looked to be so poor, that he simply threw them away into the undergrowth. He had stuffed his capacious pockets with these valuables before making his escape, and was now glad not to have the weight of the gold hanging from his shoulders in his coat, as he made his way to the inn.
The innkeeper welcomed him as usual and was very grateful for the gift of two fresh loaves from the market. His daughter was nowhere to be seen, having walked that morning to see her elderly aunt who lived on the road to Sittingbourne. After a drink or two with his publican friend, he decided it was time to go on his way, he would now merge with other people making their way home from market, to substantiate his alibi more. In paying the landlord, he discovered a worn and poorly made gold wedding ring still in his pocket, one of the items stolen from the old women. On an impulse, he gave it to the landlord, to give to his daughter as a gift, all women love jewellery, and he thought, she would appreciate this small token of friendship. With this he said his goodbye and went on his way.
On the return of the landlords daughter, a day or two later, the ring was presented to her as a gift from the young man. This she quite wrongly interpreted as being a love token, likely his shy invitation to them sharing their life together' she thought. She was over the moon with love for the young man.
Away he rode, back to Stalisfield to change and eat, and then on to Charing to see his love that evening, to plan their wedding breakfast together.
The innkeepers daughter hugged the ring to her breast that night as she fell asleep, and dreamt about her love.
A week or so later the Innkeeper was to make his way to Charing, to lay flowers on his late wife's grave, and would take his daughter with him, both of them riding on horse back the twelve miles to the village churchyard, along the pilgrims way. The daughter was delighted, they would pass Stalisfield on the way, she would see her love and they would plight their trove.
It was on the twenty first of July that they made their journey, the date is important to the story.
In respect to his wife and her memory, the publican had arrayed himself in his finest clothes on the anniversary of her death. He looked a fine sight sitting astride his best horse, the sun glinting off of a pair of horse pistols in embroidered holsters, fitted on one side of the saddle. One could not be too careful when traveling these days, a highwayman was known to be about. His daughter was also finely dressed, but not only for her late mother, she also hoped to see and impress her young man with her beauty and love for him. She rode beside her father, her mind full of future plans.
On arriving at the farm at Stalisfield, no reply could be had from the house, and a ride around the fields made it clear that nobody was at home. They therefore made their way on to Charing, down in the valley. The lady was so disappointed her love that tears ran down her cheeks as she followed her father down the steep lane to the village.
Arriving in Charing, they made their way to the Churchyard of St Peter and St Paul Church. They stayed for a while, clearing the grave and headstone of weeds and lichens, then with reverence and prayers, laying the flowers carefully for the dearly departed wife and mother.
Her father suggested that they lunch at the coaching inn opposite the school, their horses could be safely secured to the iron rings outside the porch. His good friend the owner of the inn would have no objection, he would be treated to drinks in payment.
The daughter agreed, but decided to join her father a little later, it was her chance to visit the draper in the village, and buy French lace. Secretly, she thought, for her wedding dress.
She wandered down the street, gazing into the pretty bay windows of the shops, and wishing for splendid things to come.
At the same time, but further up the high street, the young highwayman farmer was visiting with the blacksmith. His horse had thrown a shoe as they passed by the quarry, a wayward flint rock having been the culprit in the accident. The horse was fine, but needed a new shoe, and so the blacksmith got to work in the forge, forming a fine new horse shoe from white hot iron, and stamping the nail holes with a strong steel punch.
The young man strolled the few yards down to the village school house, to see if his love was about, but she had been sent off to exercise the school hound, she was not expected back soon.
He walked back to the forge, and sat smoking a clay pipe, and chatting with the blacksmith as his horse was newly shod. The work finished he paid his dues, and with a final joke with the blacksmith, led his horse up towards the mounting block. At the same moment, the innkeepers daughter came back into the street from the drapers shop, clutching a small roll of fine white lace in her hand. The shop is still there, but now a private house, you can still see where the door was though, right next to the fine bow window of the old building.
Walking up the high street, she saw her love, leading his horse from the blacksmiths workshop. She watched as he walked, rushing herself to be by his side. At this moment, his love and fiance, the school maid, turned the corner from Pett Lane, opposite the mounting block, leading a large black dog.
Seeing her, the young man quickly tied his horse to the bush, as she ran across the road. She threw herself upon him, giving him kiss after kiss, and he picked her up in his arms and swung her around.
The innkeepers daughter ran up the road, reaching the coaching inn porch where their horses were tied, and shouted to her love 'I am here darling, leave your sister and come to me my love.' She had misinterpreted again!
The school maid, hugged her intended harder and shouted back 'He is not yours, you old hag, this is my man and we are to be soon married, how dare you call him your love, be gone cow'.
She released the dog, who sat down by the young mans horse next to the mounting block.
'I have his ring on my finger', called the daughter, 'so he is mine!'
The young man, did not know what to do, but thought he could help the situation by talking to the daughter. He climbed the three steps to mount his horse, just as his fiance shouted her final curse. 'You are a miserable hag, and my Tylden would not even look at you, let alone give you anything, take your brass ring and fry your face, you might look better for it'.
In anger the daughter reached up to her fathers horse, drew out a silver inlaid pistol, and fired it in the direction of the maid. She missed, but the hound fell dead. Grabbing the other pistol, the twin of the first, she fired again, her eyes filling with tears and her body shaking with the sudden grief of the situation as the flash from the pan and explosion of the charge filled her senses. Again she missed the young maid, but as he mounted the horse, her love, the highwayman, fell dead from her second shot, and slumped to the ground, a lifeless body beneath the blood spattered mounting steps. As the smoke from the shots wafted away, the only sound she heard was the beating of her own heart, she stood transfixed in her anger, the anger of love.
Her father heard the shots outside the inn, and rushed up with many others to see what had happened. They saw grey smoke lingering over the scene, as a young maid screamed for help for her lover, and a woman knelt to hold a corpse in her arms and kiss it passionately as she cried in sorrow and in pain. A horse clattered its hooves on the road as it struggled to free itself from a bush to which it was tied, trampling the body of a large dog as it did so. Two silver inlaid pistols lay on the ground, their barrels hot with the fire of death, and a small roll of rich white wedding lace fluttered in the summer breeze next to them.
Charing would never be the same.
The school maid lived for many years in the village, and had a son who grew to be a fine young man, both she and her son are buried in the churchyard, close together in death but seventy years apart in time. The innkeepers daughter, suffered greatly for her unrequited love, and when released from Maidstone jail, drowned herself in the river Len at Leeds in remorse for her angry deed.
The innkeeper carried on his trade for many years, years of great sadness for him.
And the highwayman?
Oh yes, the highwayman.
The highwayman has never left the village of Charing, although he is buried himself, in Stalisfield churchyard.
Each year on July twenty first, he mounts the steps of the mounting block to mount a spectrual horse, and as he does so, the howl of a large hound is clearly heard, as two ghostly shots ring out, a few seconds between each. It is said that, should you be standing close to the steps, you can hear and feel a man's dying breath as an unseen body falls beside the steps, and feel the patter of warm blood falling gently, like rain upon your skin from the wound in his breast.
The hound also still haunts the spot, and I am told, also the school itself. It is seen as a faint and misty shadow, following behind people as it makes its way to the last place it ever knew, on the day that it died. Two hundred years and more have passed, but the happenings of that fateful day live on, the only evidence left behind being the white stone mounting steps within the hedgerow, which still witness the death of a highwayman and a dog, every year, July, in summer.
Copyright - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2017
All intellectual rights retained.
Reproduction in any media only by specific permission of the author.
The Mounting Block - Charing, Kent(Ken DaSilva-Hill)
The mounting block - Charing Village, Kent.
Almost forgotten in the small village of Charing, at the junction of The Hill, and Pett Lane, stands an ancient white stone mounting block with three time worn steps. You may have to search a little if you wish to see this, as during the summer months it becomes overgrown with weeds and the growing leaves of a hedge close by. It is an interesting reminder of the old days of Tudor Charing, when it was first placed here for the convenience of riders in the village, just a few yards up from the old blacksmiths workshop and forge. Few of todays present villagers even know it is there, and even fewer have heard the story attached to it, a story of a young highwayman and his lovers conflict.
Charing is a very old village, the church dates from the eleventh century and the houses in the high street are between two hundred and five hundred years old. It is a classic English village, the sort of place that is sought out as the location for the making of historical films, or costume drama for TV. Anything could be set here, from Shakespeare plays, to thirties murder mysteries.
Ah, murder mysteries, - that brings us back nicely to our passionate beauty and her highwayman lover.
In the seventeenth century the road from Maidstone to the market town of Ashford had been opened as a turnpike toll road. Stage coaches from London to Dover would travel this way, almost non stop, apart from a short rest for the passengers as the horses were changed at various inn's on the way. It would take about eight to ten hours to make the trip, an express journey in those days. Today we can drive the same road and arrive in London in under an hour, which is now why the village has become a dormitory for business people who prefer the quiet of Kent to the high prices, pollution and bustle of London life.
The stagecoaches of the old days would also carry the post, and often a strong box for delivery to a bank or business. In those days Kent was a far less inhabited place than we see today, a rural county of forests and narrow lanes, dotted with lonely farm houses and the hovels of the poor.
Today we think of highwaymen as being glamorous and handsome rascals, clad in expensive clothes and with exceptionally polite manners, as they robbed the coaches, and flirted with the ladies with gallantry and flair.
Hollywood has a lot to apologise for!
The truth seems to have been somewhat different. These robbers of old were often poor farmers, ostlers or the like, who could make easy money to feed their families by stopping the coaches and demanding money and goods in return for not murdering their victims. The robberies often took place many miles from the highwayman's village or home, a good precaution when many people rarely travelled farther than a few miles from home, some never having set foot in a neighbouring village or town in their life.
It was an easy crime which paid well and gave instant fortune, in the days when average wages were just pennies a week, and it was equally easy to escape prosecution, as the thieves easily disappeared into the woods and lanes of Kent.
The roads around Charing were ideal for this nefarious trade, the coaches full of travellers of good standing, most heading for Dover to cross the Channel to France. As well as these travellers, the local Pilgrims Way, a footpath and bridleway, was full of people who either could not or wanted not to pay the turnpike tolls. This ancient path bypassed the village on the ridge of the downs, and although the travellers were not often rich, they were easy pickings for the criminals of the time.
It seems that our highwayman lived in a small village called Stalisfield, a few miles from Charing and on the other side of the Pilgrims Way. He would sometimes stop the stagecoaches close to Bearstead, around ten miles from charing and close to Leeds Castle. After the robberies he would ride fast to Bredgar a hamlet nearby, and safely hide his loot close to an inn, before resting his horse for a while and riding the old path back to Stalisfield.
At the Sun inn at Bredgar, he struck up a friendship with the landlord, and was taken with the beauty and charm of the landlord's daughter, a spinster of about twenty five years old. The friendship blossomed, and the daughter thought that this may be her last chance to become a wife. A wife to a lonely farmer who often stopped on his way back from market to rest his horse. She had no idea of his crimes.
Over a year or two he stopped many times, the innkeepers daughter becoming more interested in him at every meeting. She learned that he hailed from Stalisfield, and owned a small farm outside the village where he grew crops and kept sheep. She was determined he would one day become her husband.
The highwayman, although friendly with the woman, had no intentions in this way. His only concern was to keep the friendship of her and her father, in case he should need their help in any way in the future, he could possibly use the inn as a hideaway if needed, and knew the landlord and his daughter would vouch for him as a local man.
In Charing though, he did have a sweetheart, a young girl of fifteen or sixteen who worked as a maid at the local school at the top of the high street. The old school house still exists today, and across the road is one of the old coaching inns of the village, almost unchanged after three hundred years, complete with the tall gates where the stagecoaches would enter to change horses.
The relationship with the maid developed into love and the marriage of the two became a talking point in the small village. The banns were read in the church and the farmhouse at Stalisfield was readied for the new bride, soon to become mistress of a house instead of maid at a school.
About this time, news arrived at the inn at Stalisfield that a special coach was soon to travel to Dover from London, carrying a representative of the King on his way to an important meeting in Paris, France. It was said in the inn, but with little truth, that the coach would also carry riches, a gift from the King to the French court. Such is the power of pub gossip, that the highwayman decided that this would be his last robbery, it would pay for his wedding and set up his new wife and him, for an easy life in the future. Making further enquiries in a very discreet way, he learned of the expected day of the journey, and the roads that would be travelled by the coach.
Within a day or two his plans were laid. He would rob the coach as it passed close to the Castle at Leeds, where a steep winding hill would slow its progress. From here, as soon as the robbery was over he would ride the four miles to Bredgar as quickly as he could, and would deposit the loot in his usual hiding place, in the woods close to the inn. The coach was due on the same day as the market was held in Bearstead village, and his supposed visit to the market would thus be his perfect alibi.
On the day of the robbery, everything went well. The guard on the coach had supped beer at every stop, beer being in those days a staple drink, far safer than drinking water, which could carry serious illness with it if not properly boiled. Likewise the driver had also had his fill and both men were feeling the effect at this point in the journey. The coach was stopped easily, a tree had been felled by the highwayman across the road, and a quantity of black powder ignited with a flash to excite the horses into playing up, giving the driver work to calm them down and keeping him busy. The guard was easily taken care off by being struck from his high seat with a long branch, wielded with strength by the strong young man, and within moments the coach was entered, the traveller's being held at pistol point as the highwaymans demands were made. Within a minute or two it was all over, a speedy robbery by a masked man who said little and took much, including the jewelery of the two elderly women in the coach as well as the valuables carried by the Kings man.
The only person to be hurt was the guard, knocked senseless as he fell into the road from his seat next to the driver. The Kings messenger was in shock, and the two ladies had fainted away at the sight and demands of the robber. The driver had been too busy controlling the horses to identify the young man, it was a perfect robbery on the new turnpike.
The highwayman sped away with his loot towards Leeds, and when a safe distance away turned into the woodlands and made his way quickly back towards Bredgar. With him he had two loaves of bread, bought at the market and intended as an alibi gift to the landlord of the inn. The young highwayman stopped close to the inn, in the wood where he had always hidden the spoils of his crimes, and hurriedly sorted through the loot. The fine jewels and gold coins were stashed away in a fox hole beneath a tree, where he could collect it later under the cover of darkness. But a few items looked to be so poor, that he simply threw them away into the undergrowth. He had stuffed his capacious pockets with these valuables before making his escape, and was now glad not to have the weight of the gold hanging from his shoulders in his coat, as he made his way to the inn.
The innkeeper welcomed him as usual and was very grateful for the gift of two fresh loaves from the market. His daughter was nowhere to be seen, having walked that morning to see her elderly aunt who lived on the road to Sittingbourne. After a drink or two with his publican friend, he decided it was time to go on his way, he would now merge with other people making their way home from market, to substantiate his alibi more. In paying the landlord, he discovered a worn and poorly made gold wedding ring still in his pocket, one of the items stolen from the old women. On an impulse, he gave it to the landlord, to give to his daughter as a gift, all women love jewellery, and he thought, she would appreciate this small token of friendship. With this he said his goodbye and went on his way.
On the return of the landlords daughter, a day or two later, the ring was presented to her as a gift from the young man. This she quite wrongly interpreted as being a love token, likely his shy invitation to them sharing their life together' she thought. She was over the moon with love for the young man.
Away he rode, back to Stalisfield to change and eat, and then on to Charing to see his love that evening, to plan their wedding breakfast together.
The innkeepers daughter hugged the ring to her breast that night as she fell asleep, and dreamt about her love.
A week or so later the Innkeeper was to make his way to Charing, to lay flowers on his late wife's grave, and would take his daughter with him, both of them riding on horse back the twelve miles to the village churchyard, along the pilgrims way. The daughter was delighted, they would pass Stalisfield on the way, she would see her love and they would plight their trove.
It was on the twenty first of July that they made their journey, the date is important to the story.
In respect to his wife and her memory, the publican had arrayed himself in his finest clothes on the anniversary of her death. He looked a fine sight sitting astride his best horse, the sun glinting off of a pair of horse pistols in embroidered holsters, fitted on one side of the saddle. One could not be too careful when traveling these days, a highwayman was known to be about. His daughter was also finely dressed, but not only for her late mother, she also hoped to see and impress her young man with her beauty and love for him. She rode beside her father, her mind full of future plans.
On arriving at the farm at Stalisfield, no reply could be had from the house, and a ride around the fields made it clear that nobody was at home. They therefore made their way on to Charing, down in the valley. The lady was so disappointed her love that tears ran down her cheeks as she followed her father down the steep lane to the village.
Arriving in Charing, they made their way to the Churchyard of St Peter and St Paul Church. They stayed for a while, clearing the grave and headstone of weeds and lichens, then with reverence and prayers, laying the flowers carefully for the dearly departed wife and mother.
Her father suggested that they lunch at the coaching inn opposite the school, their horses could be safely secured to the iron rings outside the porch. His good friend the owner of the inn would have no objection, he would be treated to drinks in payment.
The daughter agreed, but decided to join her father a little later, it was her chance to visit the draper in the village, and buy French lace. Secretly, she thought, for her wedding dress.
She wandered down the street, gazing into the pretty bay windows of the shops, and wishing for splendid things to come.
At the same time, but further up the high street, the young highwayman farmer was visiting with the blacksmith. His horse had thrown a shoe as they passed by the quarry, a wayward flint rock having been the culprit in the accident. The horse was fine, but needed a new shoe, and so the blacksmith got to work in the forge, forming a fine new horse shoe from white hot iron, and stamping the nail holes with a strong steel punch.
The young man strolled the few yards down to the village school house, to see if his love was about, but she had been sent off to exercise the school hound, she was not expected back soon.
He walked back to the forge, and sat smoking a clay pipe, and chatting with the blacksmith as his horse was newly shod. The work finished he paid his dues, and with a final joke with the blacksmith, led his horse up towards the mounting block. At the same moment, the innkeepers daughter came back into the street from the drapers shop, clutching a small roll of fine white lace in her hand. The shop is still there, but now a private house, you can still see where the door was though, right next to the fine bow window of the old building.
Walking up the high street, she saw her love, leading his horse from the blacksmiths workshop. She watched as he walked, rushing herself to be by his side. At this moment, his love and fiance, the school maid, turned the corner from Pett Lane, opposite the mounting block, leading a large black dog.
Seeing her, the young man quickly tied his horse to the bush, as she ran across the road. She threw herself upon him, giving him kiss after kiss, and he picked her up in his arms and swung her around.
The innkeepers daughter ran up the road, reaching the coaching inn porch where their horses were tied, and shouted to her love 'I am here darling, leave your sister and come to me my love.' She had misinterpreted again!
The school maid, hugged her intended harder and shouted back 'He is not yours, you old hag, this is my man and we are to be soon married, how dare you call him your love, be gone cow'.
She released the dog, who sat down by the young mans horse next to the mounting block.
'I have his ring on my finger', called the daughter, 'so he is mine!'
The young man, did not know what to do, but thought he could help the situation by talking to the daughter. He climbed the three steps to mount his horse, just as his fiance shouted her final curse. 'You are a miserable hag, and my Tylden would not even look at you, let alone give you anything, take your brass ring and fry your face, you might look better for it'.
In anger the daughter reached up to her fathers horse, drew out a silver inlaid pistol, and fired it in the direction of the maid. She missed, but the hound fell dead. Grabbing the other pistol, the twin of the first, she fired again, her eyes filling with tears and her body shaking with the sudden grief of the situation as the flash from the pan and explosion of the charge filled her senses. Again she missed the young maid, but as he mounted the horse, her love, the highwayman, fell dead from her second shot, and slumped to the ground, a lifeless body beneath the blood spattered mounting steps. As the smoke from the shots wafted away, the only sound she heard was the beating of her own heart, she stood transfixed in her anger, the anger of love.
Her father heard the shots outside the inn, and rushed up with many others to see what had happened. They saw grey smoke lingering over the scene, as a young maid screamed for help for her lover, and a woman knelt to hold a corpse in her arms and kiss it passionately as she cried in sorrow and in pain. A horse clattered its hooves on the road as it struggled to free itself from a bush to which it was tied, trampling the body of a large dog as it did so. Two silver inlaid pistols lay on the ground, their barrels hot with the fire of death, and a small roll of rich white wedding lace fluttered in the summer breeze next to them.
Charing would never be the same.
The school maid lived for many years in the village, and had a son who grew to be a fine young man, both she and her son are buried in the churchyard, close together in death but seventy years apart in time. The innkeepers daughter, suffered greatly for her unrequited love, and when released from Maidstone jail, drowned herself in the river Len at Leeds in remorse for her angry deed.
The innkeeper carried on his trade for many years, years of great sadness for him.
And the highwayman?
Oh yes, the highwayman.
The highwayman has never left the village of Charing, although he is buried himself, in Stalisfield churchyard.
Each year on July twenty first, he mounts the steps of the mounting block to mount a spectrual horse, and as he does so, the howl of a large hound is clearly heard, as two ghostly shots ring out, a few seconds between each. It is said that, should you be standing close to the steps, you can hear and feel a man's dying breath as an unseen body falls beside the steps, and feel the patter of warm blood falling gently, like rain upon your skin from the wound in his breast.
The hound also still haunts the spot, and I am told, also the school itself. It is seen as a faint and misty shadow, following behind people as it makes its way to the last place it ever knew, on the day that it died. Two hundred years and more have passed, but the happenings of that fateful day live on, the only evidence left behind being the white stone mounting steps within the hedgerow, which still witness the death of a highwayman and a dog, every year, July, in summer.
Copyright - Ken DaSilva-Hill 2017
All intellectual rights retained.
Reproduction in any media only by specific permission of the author.
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Henry Vinicio Valerio Madriz
11/15/2022Nice story! I just couldn´t stop reading... Thanks for sharing.
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Lillian Kazmierczak
01/03/2022Another great story with that rich Charing history. That was a great story, sad in it's own right but very rich in history and emotion. Thank you for sharing another great tale from Kent.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
11/14/2022Hi Lilian, thanks for your lovely comment, it has cheered me up a bit! I must get down to finishing some others, I have a few waiting in the pipeline but currently other stuff needs my attention. I have been in Yorkshire for a couple of months, so maybe I might get inspired by life, up’t ere! Regards, Ken
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Lillian Kazmierczak
11/13/2022I really loved this history-based love story! Congratulations on short story star of the week!
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Lillian Kazmierczak
01/04/2022Charing sounds marvelous! I am a genealogy nerd, history interests me and Kent certainly has its share. Breakfast in France, I can't even imagine. It sounds like you are feeling better, I hope your wife is too. I never thought of Google Maps, I am going to hunker down with a cup of joe and my iPad tonite and look it up. When you walk Millie tonite, wave a flashlight so I know it is you! Happy New Yea Ken, I hope you and your wife have the best year ever!
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
11/14/2022Hi Gail, thanks for the comment, and I am glad you enjoyed the story too, Ken
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JD
07/13/2020I must have missed reading this one when you published it here in 2017. But it's an interesting story and a 'haunting' read!
So I'm glad I found it now. Happy Short Story STAR of the Day, Ken, and thank you for all the outstanding short stories you've shared on Storystar! :-)
Help Us Understand What's Happening
JD
11/14/2022Thanks for sharing the new 'rest of the story' Ken! how FUN! enjoyed reading your words to Lillian too. hope life brings u some new inspirations in the near future. take care.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Ken DaSilva-Hill
11/14/2022Hi JD, I am glad you enjoyed the story. There is an interesting story about this story! We were in the village pub about a year ago, on a night on which it was very crowded. A couple that we had never met before, asked if they could share the table. After a little chat we discovered that they had recently moved into the village, and of course we asked where they were living. They told us that they had bought the house at the junction of Pett Lane, and as there is only two, I asked if it was the one closest to the mounting block. Yes it is, the lady told us, the mounting block is on our land. She then asked if we knew it’s history, and told us my story, - as fact! My wife asked if she knew who had written the story, and she seemed to think it was traditional in the village. She was completely amazed when told that I had written it, and was sitting there right before her, listening to her tell it back to me! Such an interesting coincidence, and just a few days later I pushed a printed copy through her letter box as a souvenir. Some stories seem to gain a life of their own!
Best regards, Ken
PS, There are still a few stories in the pipeline, but recent occurrences have rather curtailed my creative juices. Hopefully I will get some to you when I am in a better space.
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