The Rich Thief

Once in a while, things are not just as they seem. Sometimes, there is a hidden reason behind one’s motives. That is where this story begins.

The market vender handed over the small, but gourmet loaf of bread to the woman garbed in diamonds and jewels from head to toe.

“That will be ten shillings ma’am.”

“Ten shillings? That is robbery!” the rather rotund woman replies. Then, another voice rang out above the others in the busy street.

“Funny you should mention that madam.” There stood the now infamous Highwayman of York, garbed in his black dancing suit, clad in his large black hat with a red feather out the side, and of course, his masquerade mask. He looked down from the roof of the vender’s tent, leaping down between the two while piercing his rapier through the loaf of bread. He looked up at the vender through his mask to see a terribly enraged face.

“You’ve gotta pay for that you bloody thief! They will have your head for this one you motherless bastard!” the vender swung at the highwayman, but the clever thief deftly dodged to the right, standing right next to the vender.

“Not likely good sir, if so, it is my time and I regret nothing. Farewell for the meantime, we will meet again.” The highwayman then sprung up to his horses back and rode off into the distance. The vender shook his head in disgust.

“I’ll never see that swine again. But if I do…” the vender the packed up his shop for the day and went home.

Meanwhile, in the home of a poor, blind, ill woman who helps the orphans of York, the highwayman rode through the door of her one room home. He looked down on her, and she smiled up at him, knowing exactly whom he was and why he was there.

“I have told you before, I don’t like accepting charity,” she said up to him. She was the kind who would give what little charity she had to others, not the kind to accept it.

“Tis not charity m’lady, tis a gift. Lets just say I made it for you, will you take it then?” he replied, smiling down at her.

“Don’t I always? Thanks again, whoever you are. You’re a true saint,” she gently took the bread from his hands, and he turned his horse to leave, but she stopped him.

“Who are you? Why do you help me so?” he turned his head to look upon the pitiful woman. He smiled once again.

“I am the Highwayman of York, and I help you because you deserve to live just as much as anyone else who walks the streets. Perhaps even more,” he tilted his hat, “m’lady.” He turned then, facing the door, and shouted ‘yah!’ and was out of the house in the blink of an eye, even if it was a blind eye. She smiled, and took a small bite out of the bread, enjoying the stranger’s gift.

The next day, the market vender set up shop in his usual spot, hoping that today he would catch the Highwayman of York. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘today is the day. I can feel it!’ He waited patiently, sold a few of his products, and waited patiently some more. He began to think the ‘almighty’ highwayman wouldn’t show his masked face around here anymore. He was right, partly anyway.

An English gentleman walked up to the vender’s tent, with a set of shillings in hand. The man’s name was George Hunt, an upstanding citizen who had served in the king’s army during the times of war. He approached the vender and placed the shillings in front of the vender. The vender had a perplexed look cast across his face.

“I heard about your troubles yesterday, so I am making a donation. This will make up for the ten shillings you lost. G’day sir.” George bowed to the vender.

“Uhhh, thanks? You generosity is well appreciated.” With that, George walked away. However, the same events seemed to happen every other day. The first day the Highwayman of York would steal the bread from the vender, and the next day George Hunt would pay off the highwayman’s debt. The vender became highly suspicious.

The next day, the vender set up an eyewitness to view the crime as it transpired. Sure enough, the highwayman showed himself, stole the bread, and swiftly escaped just as always, but now the vender had a trustworthy eyewitness.

The day transpired, the sun fell and rose once again. The vender got up at the crack of dawn to see the governor, and see him he did, bringing his eyewitness with him. However, he had the witness stay outside of the office. The vender walked across the governor’s office, his heels clicking and echoing against the expensive marble floors, all the way to the governor’s desk.

“G’morning governor! How are you this fine day?” the vender asked.

“Definitely not patient enough to listen to your petty small talk, vender, get to the point.”

“Y… Yes, alright. I need a squad of your finest troops to watch over my shop today.”

“What? Hahaha, don’t make me laugh, vender, why in the bloody hell of Christ would I give you my finest soldiers? Hmm? I would very much like to know.” The governor replied with over-emphasis on many of his words, something he had a habit of doing.

“Because I am tired of the Highwayman of York stealing from my shop, and I am sure you are tired of him stealing from your city, and I have a plan to arrest him, but I need your help governor!”

“This particular ‘highwayman’ has been reported to be, shall I say it, impossible to catch. Why am I to think that some commoner has discovered the way to do it?” The vender then called in his eyewitness, and in he came, his heels clicking against the floor just as the vender’s had.

“I witnessed this entire ordeal, and heard out the vender’s case and point. He has a very valid idea, and should be granted his request, m’lord.” The governor nodded slowly.

“You I can trust. I am listening…” the governor slyly grinned.

That afternoon the vender set up shop as usual, a squad of York’s finest troops awaiting their signal in the surrounding buildings nearby. A few hours passed, and the soldiers were getting impatient, and anxious. After waiting for four hours, George Hunt stepped up to the vender.

“Ten shillings for your troubles yesterday sir.” He placed the shillings in front of the vender, and the vender smiled, not a gracious smile, but a sneaky smile.

“Mr. Hunt, you are under arrest!” the redcoats came piling out of the buildings, surrounding George, holding him at musket point.

“Hmm? On what charges, vender?” George asked calmly.

“On the charge of being the Highwayman of York! You come everyday to pay off the highwayman’s debts, you look just like the man if you wore a mask, and I have an eyewitness that states the same things. You are caught, thief!” George smiled.

“You are correct, vender, I am he, the Highwayman of York. I have been justly caught, and I will not put up a fight against your goons. Take me in, hang me, just remember, there will be more than one death that transpires from this.” The vender laughed.

“Do not try to threaten me, highwayman! You have no right! Take him away!” George smiled as the soldiers took him in the direction of the governor’s office to be judged.

“Governor, sir, I bring to you George Hunt, the Highwayman of York, to be trialed.” The vender stated.

“On what grounds do you accuse Mr. Hunt, a respected man of York?” the governor replied.

“Two eyewitness accounts and he openly admitted his crimes in front of me and your troops.”

“Then let him speak! George, are you really the Highwayman of York?”

“Why yes I am governor. Damned proud of it too.” George replied.

“What? Proud? How could you be proud of what you do, you petty thief!?”

“Not everything is always as it seems, oh governor.” with that, George smiled, having mocked the governor’s knack to emphasize words too much.

“Oh, I don’t care anymore, you are guilty by the laws of York! I sentence you to death!” the governor yelled, it echoing through the large room.

“Very well, I wouldn’t expect anything less from an incompetent governor. In my last words to you, I shall say to you this: you lead a city as well as a musket hits a target three thousand miles away.” with that George made his way out of the room under heavy escort. The governor spoke to himself.

“But a musket cannot hit a target three… Wait, hey, that bastard!”

The day of George’s hanging came around, and the vender booked a front row seat. Many rich folk had come around to witness the hanging of the Highwayman of York, who had become so infamous. The executioner stepped up to George, placing the rope around his neck.

“Do you have any last words to say before you are dead?” the executioner asked him. George nodded, and everyone silenced.

“I have to say that you are poorer than the poor! You are sicker than the sick! You are most definitely blinder than the blind! Your money buys your over sized houses, your exotic pets, slaves, jewelry, rubbish and shit! Your money has the power to save people! Why cant you realize that is not always about you?” their was a long silence. Then, they all laughed at him, the rich thief who gives out his loot to the poor, ill, and the forgotten. He smirked when they laughed at him, confusing much of the crowd, and again, they grew silent.

“Just the reaction I expected from a bunch of ignorant bastards. You truly are all fools. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the Earth. Remember that, if it’s all your poor souls remember.” He then hung his head to signal he was ready to accept his fate. The executioner pulled the lever and hung the Highwayman of York, Mr. George Hunt. After a few minutes, to make sure he was dead, a firing squad of five men fired their muskets into the hanging hero, each hitting him in the chest. Everyone watched in silence, some left to rethink everything they knew, others because they couldn’t stand the blood, others stayed and watched, maybe in remorse, maybe in satisfaction. Some laughed, pointed and shouted taunts at the dead man, and all of the redcoats looked away in disgust from the crowd. The executioner walked away, used to the feeling of ending life. However, in one home in York, tears were being shed, as the poor caregiver woman cried aloud, lying in her bed, knowing that the highwayman had died, and that she would die in the next few days. That was not what had bothered her though, she felt love for that highwayman.

Three days later the woman lay in her bed, awaiting the inevitable, awaiting for death to come to her starving body. She looked up at her leaking ceiling, for it was raining outside.

“The Lord is my Shepard, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in a green pastures: He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness shall follow me all the days of my life, and I dwell in the House of the Lord forever…” she looked down and began to try an sleep. She could not, however, for her door burst open and a horse rode in. She tilted her head in a perplexing manner, not knowing who it could be.

“Who are you, oh rider.” She asked of him.

“Silly girl, I am who you think I am.” He replied.

“And who may that be?”

“I am the Highwayman of York m’lady.”

“Impossible, how could you be here now?”

“I am far craftier than you know, m’lady. Would you like some food this fine day?” she slightly nodded.

“I would like that very much, thank you.” He smiled, handing her a loaf of bread and a glass of wine. As soon as she took it she felt his hand stroke her hair.

“No way will I let you die this way, I await you where I preside, but I do not wish to see you there quite yet.”

“Where might that be?”

“You will see one day.” With that she felt him turn, feeling feathers brush past her face, and he heard him run toward the door and the sound of large wings flying into the sky.

“I love you, my guardian angel.”