Though Hell Should Bar the Way

'The Highwayman,' but retold by Bess

💕✨🌙Part 1 of a ballad in 2 parts🌙✨💕

If you didn’t read “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes your 8th Grade teacher robbed you!

Listen to Loreena McKennitt’s haunting musical version here.

This poem retells the tale from Bess’s point of view - with a twist…

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The wind is a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

But the road is barren and empty, over the purple moor—

And the horse’s hooves are silenced

Silenced—silenced—

His horse’s hooves are silenced, and never shall bring him more.

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He dressed like a London dandy, with his breeches tight on his thighs,

His claret coat, his French lace, and that twinkle in his eyes.

He stole my heart like a jewel; before I knew it I fell,

And he knew about my secret

My secret—my secret—

He knew about my secret, and I trusted him never to tell.

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A highway inn serves all travellers, their money spends just as well,

Be they farmers, thieves or bandits, and we never ask more than they tell.

Magistrates or murderers may sup, as long as they pay,

For the good souls as well as the lost ones

The lost ones—the lost ones—

The good souls as well as the lost ones, travel the King’s highway.

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And a lass who grows up in a tavern learns before she can talk

Who’s safe, and who’s a rum one, whether to run or walk,

Whether to reach for the dagger that’s strapped to the top of her thigh,

And I knew as soon as I saw him—

Saw him—saw him—

Knew fate as soon as I saw him, from the flash of fire in his eye.

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He didn’t try to charm me with lies and flattery,

Nor, worse yet, did he grab me, and drag me onto his knee,

Instead, with a look, he held me, and softly wove his spell—

“Tell me your dreams and your sorrows—

Your sorrows—your sorrows—

All of your dreams and your sorrows,” he asked me, and I fell.

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All through the heat of summer, when the nights breathed heavy and slow,

All through the chill of winter, when the roads were thick with snow,

In words and sighs and kisses, and the promises lovers share,

We wove our hearts together—

together—together—

Our souls were woven together, like the love-knot in my hair.

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He met me, always, in secret, after the shutters were barred

And we’d ride in the dark of midnight, while the indigo sky was starred,

He’d hold me tight in his saddle, like some secret stolen prize,

And we’d love in corners and shadows,

Shadows—shadows—

Our love was born in shadows, and the starshine of his eyes.

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For my father guarded me closely, as any father might,

As every father ought to, after what happened one night—

One terrible night when a stranger came to the tavern’s door,

And changed my life forever,

Forever—and ever—

Changed what I am forever, with a bite from his poisoned maw.

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And this is my darkest secret, my deepest, hidden shame,

The reason I hide in the darkness, from sunlight that burns like a flame,

Some call my kind “nosferatu”, some “vampire”, and some “ghoul”

But all, if they knew it, would kill me,

Kill me—kill me—

All would readily kill me, as a monster devoid of a soul.

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And but for the love of my father, who cherishes me just as before,

And the toil of our faithful ostler, who slakes my craving for gore,

With the fresh-killed blood of small creatures he captures out on the moor,

I would have become such a monster

A monster—a monster—

The world would have made me a monster, by casting me from its door.

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So fear kept my lips clamped tightly, squeezed my throat like a hand,

I didn’t dare to tell him, to hope he’d understand,

For far more than the mob’s hot anger, raised by the tale he could start,

I feared his look of horror—

Of horror—of horror—

Knew his look of horror would strike like a stake through my heart.

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I don’t know how he suspected, my highwayman, my dear,

Mayhap all the roads he’s ridden whispered their wisdom and fear,

All of the hidden knowledge the world is afraid to name,

But my lover guessed my secret,

My secret—my secret—

The highwayman guessed my secret… and he loved me just the same.

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Whatever bright angel made him, however I came so blessed,

He guessed my darkest sorrow, and loved me nonetheless,

He swore to me under the moonlight, whatever the world might say:

“Nothing shall ever part us,

Part us—part us—

I’ll scorn whatever may part us, though hell should bar the way.”

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But we could not tell my father, for he’d never understand

How I could trust my very life to a man with a gun in his hand,

To a man who lives by the robber’s code, and steals from the rich and the great,

So we planned to leave by moonlight

Moonlight—moonlight—

To steal away in the moonlight, through the stable’s wicket gate.

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To take to the road needs money, coin to pave the way,

For food, and mead, and shelter from the harsh, hot light of day,

To silence dangerous rumours, to blind suspicious sight,

So my love rode to rob a stagecoach

A stagecoach—a stagecoach—

To steal from a gentleman’s stagecoach, that travelled the roads that night.

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“One kiss, love” said my sweetheart, “I’m after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.”

He promised me, “if they press me, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

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The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

But the road was a ribbon of red ink, lost in the moorland’s grey—

And it seemed to scribble a warning,

A warning—a warning—

A dark and deadly warning, as his hoofbeats faded away.

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He did not come in the dawning. He knew he would find me hid;

In a room as dark as a coffin when the carpenter seals its lid,

But out of the tawny sunset, when the moon was on the rise,

A red-coat troop came marching—

Marching—marching—

King George’s men came marching, and took us by surprise.

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The soldiers found me sleeping, they bound me to my bed,

And they took my father prisoner, with a pistol to his head,

For Tim, the turncoat ostler, had told them who would come,

Riding that night to my window,

My window—my window—

All unaware to my window, to be slain by King George’s scum.

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Did they pay him in gold, our ostler, to sell them the highwayman’s life?

Was his treachery bought in promises, or fear at the tip of a knife?

And why did he keep my secret, only to betray

My lover to the soldiers

The soldiers—the soldiers—

The lowest, basest killers that ride the King’s highway?

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I was dead to their groping, their kisses and their jests

Dead to the threat of the musket they strapped beneath my chest,

For each took his aim at a window, his firearm at his side:

There was death at every window;

And hell at one dark window;

For I could see, through the casement, the road my love would ride.

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They waited, in the darkness, like vipers in a lair

And their bloodlust filled the tavern like the stench of them filled the air—

Stale and dirty and brutal, the army’s basest scum—

They lay in wait for my true love—

My true love—my true love—

Waited to slay my true love, the moment they heard him come.

Copyright notice

© Moll Moonlight. All rights reserved.

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To be continued…

Like highwaymen romances? Try this!

Prefer supernatural romances? Have a nibble:

Copyright notice

© Moll Moonlight. All rights reserved.

This poem is dedicated to every 8th Grade student who ever asked me, “hey Miss, is Bess a vampire?”