by Deana James
Beddoes's voice growled through the darkness. "Damnation! What in bloody hell did they do that for?"
"Douse your light, man!" Piers's hoarse command barely reached the smuggler's ears. "Wait for the signal to come again. We can't be sure that the man behind the lantern is who we hope it is."
"Has to be," Beddoes argued. "Nobody else'd be fool enough to be out on a night like this swingin' his light around. Show them again, boys. Bring them in."
"No! Wait!" Piers's command rang through the frozen darkness. Unfortunately, it ended in a rasping cough that doubled him over the saddle.
"No!" The burly smuggler lost his temper. "No, your damned lordship! We stand out here and freeze our bloody bums off and you tell us to wait when we saw the signal? Throw off that blanket, Twitch, and let's get this business over with."
The light flashed out from under the blanket. Its directed beam stabbed through the pelting rain.
"No! You fool!" Piers reined the stallion across the light. "Beddoes! You idiot! You could destroy all—”
A shot rang out! The stallion screamed like a woman and plunged sideways bucking wildly in pain and terror. Its huge body and flailing legs scattered the men gathered around the lantern. Up it reared, its iron shod hooves smashing into the back and shoulders of the unfortunate Twitch, driving both man and light into the muddy oblivion..
"Easy, boy. Whoa up there!" Piers sawed on the reins, fighting with hands and voice to regain control of the animal, but the horse was too far gone in pain and fear to respond. With a savage twist it swung its head around to bite at the tormenting bullet.
In horror Piers jerked his leg from the stirrup to avoid the teeth. With one leg thrown over the mount's rump and his weight canted to one side, his seat was destroyed. The next plunge of the stallion threw him onto his back in the mud.
The breath whooshed from his lungs. Light exploded into darkness behind his eyes. Less than a minute and then the icy rain pelting his face woke him to a cacophony of curses and cries punctuated by ginfire. Freed from the man in the saddle, the stallion plunged away, twisting its great body in pain and terror. Straight at the line of approaching men it tore. Their disciplined ranks were broken as the maddened beast skidded to a halt and reared high above their heads.
"Catch that damn thing!"
-Watch out!"
"Shoot it!"
A volley of gunfire followed what could only have been a command. Romany Knight screamed again, but the thunder of hooves faded into the rain leaving behind curses and cries of pain.
Piers was fortunate that he lay paralyzed in the mud. Muskets and pistols spat mayhem and death in the air above his prone body. Flashes from the exploding firearms as well as from lanterns created a kaleidoscope of light against the inky blackness.
Drawing in a breath as deep as his shocked, infected lungs would allow, he rolled halfway over. A boot stumbled over him and knocked him flat on his face. A man fell across him, climbed to his feet, and ran on. Piers cursed. He could not direct his panicky men, not that he would have said anything except "Run for your lives."
"Close ranks. Fire." A deep voice called.
Another volley. And more screams.
"Throw down your weapons and surrender. You're surrounded!"
Close by his ear, a shrill scream of a man in mortal agony roused Piers to full consciousness. He tried again to push himself up on his elbow. This time a booted foot struck him viciously in the side. Rolling over, he pushed himself up on hands and knees. A mighty blow to his shoulder slammed him back into the mud.
"Stay down, ye blackguard!" a guttural voice snarled.
Piers twisted about, blinking upward through the icy rain. A uniformed man reversed his musket to bring it smashing down butt first into the upturned face.
With a shout, Piers threw up his good arm to ward off the blow. It never fell. Instead a shot rang out. The man's body arched. The musket sprang from his nerveless hands. Momentum projected him forward, his booted feet crashing painfully into Piers's hip and ribs. Overbalanced, the man crashed to the ground.
"Up ye go, milord."
"Watkins. Thank God."
"We're in deadly danger, milord." The valet crouched low, placing a firm hand under the viscount's injured shoulder.
At the man's touch Piers clamped his teeth into his lower lip to suppress the cry of agony. Close in his ear beneath the sounds of the fighting came the popping and grinding of broken bones. Using every ounce of determination he possessed, he staggered to his feet leaning heavily against his smaller companion.
"This way, milord." Watkins tugged at the wounded arm eliciting a moan from the depths of the younger man's throat.
At a stumbling run Watkins half dragged, half carried Piers across the field. The ground beneath their feet was a sucking morass. Rain pelted them, but the sound of the fighting grew fainter as the pursuit moved in another direction.
In the elemental darkness, the pair blundered into a hedgerow. With an agonized shriek, Piers sank to his knees beside it. The left side of his body felt paralyzed. But worse was the pain in his chest. His congested lungs labored to draw breath down his raw throat. He coughed and the agony bent him over, his forehead resting in the mud.
The valet bent over him, grasping his shoulders trying to pull him upriglit. "We can't stay here, milord," he whispered urgently. "So help me God, I don't know where we are. Can't tell one bloody direction from another, but we've got to get out of the field. They'll be sending out parties to pick up stragglers before long. Then when first light comes, they'll be beating the bushes."
"Go on," Piers gasped from his knees. He crouched on the ground, waves of pain washing over him with each agonized breath he drew. "Hide me here. I can crawl in under the hedgerow and wait. Get away. Save yourself. Tomorrow hire a carriage and come back to get me."
"Leave you here in the rain with you half sick and hurt! You'll be dead by morning. Frozen to death." Watkins's voice sharp and pleading. "Not likely, Lord Polwycke."
"I can't go on. Leave me."
"You have to. You can't stay here. You'll freeze to death."
The rain seemed to slacken for a moment. A cry came out of the dark and then a musket boomed.
"Watkins." Piers began to cough as he drew his breath into his already raw throat and aching lungs. "Watkins. You must. I cannot go ... far... Too slow ... You ... get away now. Leave me."
"But, milord." The man bent low, placing his arm under Piers's shoulder.
"No!" Piers howled in pain. Falling over onto his hip, he braced his neck and shoulder against the prickly bush. "You see ... I'm finished." He slumped down on his side. Another fit of coughing forced his knees up to his chest. "Go on, man! Hurry."
Suddenly, lightning jagged down to strike the field in a ball of blinding light and steam. Directly overhead thunder clapped with a boom to waken the dead. The rain poured down with renewed fury. Watkins shrank lower, racked by indecision. Above the noise of the storm, a musket cracked off to the right.
"They'll be here in a second. Run, man!"
Another musket exploded. Watkins jerked his hat down over his face and ran.
Piers rolled his body half over beneath the hedgerow. The rough-trimmed ends of branches tore at his face, his clothing, his hair. His hat hooked on one, and his scrabbling movements pulled it from his head.
Beneath the hedgerow the ground was awash with freezing water. Thinking that he would be lucky not to drown, Piers turned his face into his good arm. Lightning split the sky and thunder boomed again, but not directly overhead. The rain no longer pelted. Rather it sluiced down among the leaves and branches onto his prone body and unprotected head. The clothing beneath his coat was soaked. Like a leaden mass it encased him in ice. Then amazingly, the painful cold ceased. Instead he felt fiery hot. He seemed to be floating in the water in which he lay. No longer could he feel the rain, nor the sharp thorns stabbing into his flesh.
In a moment of lucidity he heard footsteps approaching; boots
slogged through the mud toward his hiding place. He must have been moaning. Viciously, he clamped his teeth down on his lower lip. The pain awakened him to a sort of distorted reality. The dragoons were all around him searching for stragglers. He must suppress all sound.
When a fit of coughing struck him, he closed his mouth over the muddied sleeve of his coat. The boots stopped beside the hedgerow. For several seconds the only sounds in the ears of the sick man were the pattering of the decreasing rain and the peculiar ringing noise inside his own head. He held his breath, his body rigid against his shuddering.
Then a harsh, unintelligible order came from farther out in the field and the boots moved on.
Piers began to shiver again, his body shaking with the intense chill. More dead than alive, he lay helplessly waiting for the valet to return. So miserable was he that he was tempted to surrender to the dragoons. If they arrested him, they must surely imprison him in a dry cell.
The pain in his chest and throat mingled with the pain in his shoulder to distort his surroundings. Gradually a red haze began to glow before his eyes. Again his body burned. He felt as if he were floating, spinning, swirling up and up toward terrible blackness closing down. His last conscious thought was a fear that he might pass out and drown if his face dropped into the water beneath his arm.
************************************
A few faint streaks of dawn broke through the lowering clouds. The young lieutenant saluted smartly before his commander. "There's five dead, Captain MacPherson. And two wounded so badly they'll likely die."
"How many did we lose?"
"Only one. Shot in the back."
"Poor fellow. Take him up on a litter."
"Yes, sir."
"Pull the bodies together. I want to inspect them as soon as there's enough light."
"Yes, sir."
MacPherson turned as a dragoon led the big black stallion limping and whickering in pain across the field. "The leader was riding this horse, sir."
"Was?"
"Shot out of the saddle, we're guessing, sir. The horse has been shot twice. Seems likely he got the brunt of a volley."
MacPherson felt a start of excitement. He ran his gloved hand down the stallion's barrel. Even in the dark, he recognized the big black as one he had spied Polwycke mounted on. Blood still trickled sluggishly from a bullet hole where a man's leg would have been. If the viscount were among the dead, or the wounded- he did not care which-Vivian Larne was a widow and a free woman. He patted the horse with unusual attention. "Had a hard time of it, have you, old fellow? We’ll see to you. It's not your fault who owned you. We’ll take him back to quarters and let the farrier see to him."
"Yes, sir."
The lieutenant slogged up. "We've pulled the dead altogether."
MacPherson hurried across the field. He stooped to scrutinize each face, washed clean by the rain. Piers Larne was not among them. A dragoon pushed the two wounded men forward.
"Where's your leader?"
One man shrugged. "Last time I seen 'im, 'e was flat on 'is back in the mud. 'Orse threw 'im. Guess 'e broke ‘is neck."
"He's not among the dead."
They looked at each other. "Can't 'elp y' then, gov'nor."
MacPherson looked around him angrily. "Send out the men again, Lieutenant. Scour the fields. We've got a few small fry here. But the big fish got away. Send men to the neighboring inns. Find out if a nobleman is staying in any of them. If he's hurt, he can't hide very long."
************************************
Piers screamed in pain!
"Try to keep quiet, milord. Sound carries in the fog." Watkins's tired voice penetrated the agony as the valet tried to drag him out of the mud.
Piers's body roused to flaming agony and blistering heat alternating with chills. A heavy fog hung over everything. Both sky and earth were a uniform smothering gray.
Finally, on his feet with his valet's shoulder beneath his. Piers staggered dizzily along beside the hedgerow and finally through a gate. As he came out from behind the thick protection, a vagrant breeze touched his face and froze his sodden clothing to his body. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.
Beside the road a coach waited, a hired hack with the curtains drawn. Brushing Watkins's help aside, he swayed determinedly while the valet opened the door. The step seemed a long way up when he tried to lift his leg. Dead game, he grabbed the sides of the door and pulled with all his strength. Only the toe of his boot caught while his fingers slipped pitifully from their grip. Ignominiously, he tumbled headlong into the coach, the lower half of his body still hanging out.
"Sorry, sir." Watkins unceremoniously placed his shoulder against his master's rump and boosted him inside. A cry of pain stifled by a curse sounded from the dank, musty interior. The door slammed behind him. Watkins mounted to the box and whipped up the horses. The coach jolted away.
Piers pulled his body onto the leather seat and tried to brace himself against the sway and jerk as the horses made slow headway through the ruts and mire. The effort to keep himself upright bathed his body in perspiration which immediately chilled him.
He groaned as violent ague shook him. He had been so miserable so long that he prayed for unconsciousness, but even that was denied him. Lifting his benumbed hand to his mouth, he pulled off his sodden leather glove with his teeth. The hand was stained blue where the dye in the leather had faded. The skin was wrinkled and puffy from the overnight soaking. Incredulously, he stared at it in revulsion as if it were not a part of his body. Shutting his eyes tightly, he spat the glove from his mouth and blew on his cupped fingers. His breath was the only thing hot and dry about him.
A particularly hard jolt threw him to the left side of the coach against his injured shoulder. Too weak to control himself, he set up a howl.
"Sorry, milord!" Watkins shouted from the seat above him. "The road is all but impassable. Shall I slow down?"
"No." Piers wondered that his teeth did not chip, so hard were they chattering. "No. Carry on."
In the coach's interior he nodded grimly to himself and clenched his teeth. Still his nerves quivered, and his muscles jumped. Neither rest nor sleep was possible to his overstrained body, broken and chilled as it was.
The odyssey of agony seemed everlasting. Finally, another lurch flung him against the side of the coach with such force that he banged his head. Flesh and blood could stand no more. His body slumped unconscious. At the next jolt it slid off the seat into a heap on the muddy floor.
************************************
When Piers next knew himself, two hostlers stinking of manure were clumsily extracting him from the depths of the coach. One clutched his booted legs around the ankles and dragged his body unceremoniously across the floor. The second reached in and grabbed hold of the wrist of his left arm.
Loosing a mighty curse, Piers kicked brutally with all his strength at the hands that held him. In surprise he realized that his struggle, instead of sending the man reeling away as he had intended, only resulted in the slightest inconvenience to the man who held his ankles.
The curse, so vituperative in his mind, had come from his lips as a dull, low croak of pain. Chained by his own body, he could only submit helplessly to the agony they inflicted on him.
Like a bag of wet laundry, they bore him between them, one carrying his legs, the other his shoulders. The tails of his coat trailed ignominiously across the muddied straw of the yard of a delapidated inn.
Watkins's voice could be heard alongside cautioning them. "In the name of God, handle his body gently. He took a bad fall from his horse."
"Sorry, sir, but he ain't no lightweight, y’know."
The sense of the words faded as Piers experienced wave after wave of pain, accompanied now by roiling nausea.
Uncaring, the stable hands swayed his body back and forth as they mounted the stairs. Finally, they heaved him onto a surface somewhat soft but redolent of mold and mildew.
"Send hot w
ater and towels and brandy."
"Comin' right up, sir." Even as the door slammed behind them, he felt Watkins's familiar hands working at his throat.
With practiced skill the valet drew the clothing from the injured body. Sometimes when a particular portion was removed, such as his coat and shirt, Piers roused himself to grit his teeth and swear. Otherwise, he lay as one dead. After what seemed like an eternity of suffering, the valet had him undressed and slipped beneath the covers. The bed itself was damp and cold. Piers began to shudder immediately.
"Watkins." His voice trembled and shook with rigors so strong that his body convulsed. "Get me something to warm me and this bed, or I will die." His words slipped out in hot whispers blowing over his parched lips. When a fit of coughing struck, he doubled over on his side to try and ease himself.
"Immediately, sir." Watkins brought hot bricks wrapped in rough cloth and slipped them in beside his legs and feet. Gradually the ague abated to a steady shivering.
"Milord." Watkins' voice sounded from a long way off. "Milord Piers, can you drink this posset? I’ve had the innkeeper prepare it, and I’ve added a little laudanum to dull your pain."
"Mustn't drink that." Piers's voice was a dry whisper. "Must leave in the morning. Rendezvous. Some men might have escaped. Return to Larne." He licked his lips. Their surfaces were dry and scabbed from being bitten in his agony. Strange. He did not recall biting his lips. His head spun dizzily as he shook it.