They were down the far side of the bridge, then running through sodden fern and bracken and, at last, into the Home Wood. If only he had his hack! Still, they'd a good chance now. Perhaps—
A bell began to ring urgently, awakening new shouts, distant but ahead of them. Harry stopped, and Nanette halted at once. He glanced down at her, this precious small shape in the darkness, waiting, trusting in him. He patted her hand encouragingly and led her to the west, and she stumbled along, making no complaint when she fell to her knees, nor thanking him when he helped her up. The rain was icy, and even beneath the trees the wind was exhausting in its endless buffeting. Harry's shirt clung wetly against him and his teeth began to chatter with the cold. Excited voices were coming from all sides now, the bell having summoned men in from the gatehouse and the road. With utter desperation, he knew that whatever else, he must get Nanette clear; but as they stumbled around a fallen branch, a man sprang out before them. A broad-shouldered individual clad in a long driving coat of multiple capes. He was hatless, his wet hair shining a dull gold in the shielded beam of the lantern he held, seeing which, Harry's thundering heart eased and he gasped out an incredulous, "Jerry? How in God's name did you find us?"
"Andy said you had c-come here," advised Lord Jeremy Bolster. "And I heard an insolent fellow at your lodgegate whining about keeping a weather eye out for you." The beam of his lantern played briefly on Nanette's face and was lowered. "Guessed you was already past the gudgeon, so I p-p-paddled in after you. Thought I heard a shot a minute ago, bur probably mistook it, eh?"
"No," said Harry. "Nanette, this is my good friend Jeremy Bolster."
She turned a mild smile upon his lordship, and Harry added swiftly, "She's too upset to talk."
"Jolly sensible," said Bolster unhesitatingly. "Ain't the time nor place. My chaise is hidden on the north side of the hill." He directed another brief beam at his friend and as they started off said severely, "Really, old pippin, you look as if you'd been teasing a B-Bengal tiger!"
Harry touched his scratched face. "Worse than that, I'm afraid. I just shot Parnell Sanguinet."
"Very public-spirited," said Bolster, with only the barest of pauses.
"In the back," Harry added.
This time his lordship's aplomb deserted him, and despite the voice of the storm, his gasp was audible. "Now that was d-dashed clumsy, Harry! Not the thing at all. No wonder his people are a trifle annoyed!"
The searchers were coming closer. They sounded very annoyed, indeed.
"Blow out your damned lantern," said Harry gruffly.
"R-r-run!" Bolster urged, having hurriedly obeyed.
"There is not the need to run," Nanette remarked in a matter-of-fact way. "You were perfectly justified, Harry. He would have killed you."
He bit his lip, then said very gently, "Yes, m'dear. But I don't think we'd best try to explain that now."
"What we'd best do," said Bolster, "is r-run like the devil!"
They ran, each man holding one of the girl's cold hands. She would be all right once she was warm and safe, thought Harry. And how very typical of Bolster to come and help. Dear, loyal old Jerry.
"Whoops!" breathed the object of his thoughts, and they darted for a sodden clump of fern, having all but run into the arms of several enthused searchers. They knelt there, scarcely daring to breathe while the men stamped and shouted past, then scrambled up and fled again. But soon, whichever way they turned, voices were before them, so that they had constantly to double back or hide, tense with apprehension, until they were at last surrounded and hopelessly cut off from the side of the hill where waited Bolster's chaise. In desperation they took refuge behind dense shrubs in a small hollow against the hillside that years since had been one of their 'caves'. Harry's good arm tightened about Nanette as a loud altercation broke out within yards of them. Still wrangling, the men moved off at last, but a new enemy was approaching; dawn was starting to brighten the east, and by that faint gleam, the eyes of the two friends met over Nanette's downbent head.
"Good chase, by God!" observed the dauntless Bolster.
"Damn near over," Harry whispered. "They almost have us. I'll lead 'em off."
"Don't be a f-fool! They won't find us here, and—"
Harry glanced down and inserted a regretful, " 'Fraid they might…"
"What?" Bolster grabbed for his wrist. "Good Lord!" His eyes flew to his friend's face, pale in the dimness. "Why the devil d-didn't you say something?"
"I thought it had stopped bleeding. At all events, it has now." He took his arm gently from about Nanette. "Get her away at once, Jerry. No hanging about waiting for me. Lord only knows which direction I'll finally—"
"Bacon brain!" hissed Bolster furiously. "You'll not get a mile! Sanguinet's stirred up a pr-proper hornet's nest. Says you kidnapped her and have sworn to kill her unless you're paid ten thousand in g-g-gold. You can imagine the public reaction to that tale! You're the v-villain of the century!"
Harry's lips set into a grim line, but he argued, "Miss Carlson will deny it. Take her to the Runners, and she'll clear my name."
"You'll be cold meat before we get her there!" Bolster thought unhappily that the chit looked incapable of recalling her own name, and said, "I shall go! That vicious herd out there will not dare put a period to me! Besides, even did you get clear it will take weeks to counteract Sanguinet's mischief and tear down his dashed posters. No! Wait, Harry—for heaven's sake! There's a thousand guineas on your head! Dead or alive! "
"Is there, by God! All the more reason Miss Carlson must not travel with me! A fine set-to that would be! And she is utterly exhausted, poor soul."
Thunder rumbled distantly and the rain seemed to be easing, but the hunt sounded ever fiercer and was sweeping back toward them. Harry pressed a kiss upon Nanette's cold brow, knowing he would probably never see her again, and she smiled up at him placidly.
"Dammit, Harry!" the distraught Bolster clamped a hand onto his shoulder. "Think, man—think.' Sanguinet was shot in the back! When that's abroad, on top of all the rest, you will be fair game. There'll be no willingness to l-listen to the true facts, whatever they may be!"
"I't-told you what they were, d-devil take you," Harry shivered.
Bolster groaned. "If you don't mean to deny it, you're as good as dead! If you ain't lynched by some public-spirited rabble, you'll be— Oh, hell! What's the use! Here," he stripped off his coat. "B-best put this on. You's-sound worse than I do, and you're like a blancmanger. She shot him, I collect?"
Harry flashed a startled glance to Nanette, but because of his own long battle with the effects of shock, Bolster knew the girl was far from this time and place, her mind cushioned from an event too horrible for endurance. A renewed crashing through the nearby undergrowth put a stop to any more talk. Then a voice Harry recognized as that of Shotten howled triumphantly for "Tom" to come and rest his ogles on "this here!" Harry gripped Bolster's hand. "Jerry, he was her father.' She must not be seen near me, with them believing I killed him. Can you not see the newspapers, the crowds, the trial? For God's sake, man—help her! Promise!"
"Of course—but, oh damme, you're in no condition to—"
"Gudgeon—I've come through worse than a scratch on my arm! Now stay quiet until I'm well away." Bolster pressed a fat purse into his hand and snarled, "Birdwit! Head for the Priory, or Beechmead. We'll do whatever we—"
A flurry of approaching shouts chilled them both. Cautiously, Harry slipped through the shrubbery and moved off a little way. Through the trees came Shotten, holding a lantern low to the ground and leading a group of men inexorably towards the 'cave'. Harry reached up and pulled on a branch. It broke with a loud crack and he began to run, making no least effort to be silent. A howled chorus of "There he goes!" was followed by more excited shouts, the thud of many feet, and then a shot and the wham of the ball driving into a tree he passed. There would be more shots he knew, wherefore he dodged about constantly during his flight. Nanette would be safe now, thank Go
d, for they were all pounding along behind him like so many silly sheep. But he knew that they were not sheep: They were angry men, lusting to kill… Rested men, who'd likely enjoyed a good supper before being called upon. Whereas he'd had a long and wearing day, and was not just at the top of his form.
"Redmond," he thought wryly, "if you survived that mess at Rodrigo only to be hung because of a stupid damn bull, I shall take a very dim view of it!"
He ran faster, the vengeful crowd clamouring after him.
Chapter XVII
ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS REWARD! WANTED-DEAD OR ALIVE FOR KIDNAPPING AND ASSAULT
WHEREAS, SIR HARRY ALLISON REDMOND, Bart., late of Hill Street in the City of London, did upon the night of the Twelfth of May last, brutally steal and kidnap a certain unmarried lady of Quality, holding her CAPTIVE against her will; and having torn her from the bosom of her loving father and family, did cruelly Abuse, Terrorize, and Assault said young lady, thus causing her to suffer great Mental and Physical Anguish; the above REWARD, namely ONE THOUSAND GUINEAS, will be paid to such person or persons who shall APPREHEND or cause to be Apprehended said Sir Harry Allison Redmond. To the furtherance of which is hereunto added a close description of the same DANGEROUS KIDNAPPER: Viz. He stands five feet and eleven inches, and is of powerful build. His hair is near black; his eyes narrow and of an unusual green; his complexion sallow and his demeanour hostile. He is believed to have a wound in his left forearm. When last seen he was clad in a torn brown corduroy jacket, grey pantaloons, and worn brown shoes. APPROACH WITH CAUTION! This Criminal is known to be Armed and DANGEROUS!
Harry ripped the poster from the signpost, limped to the doubtful sanctuary offered by the crumbling arch of a ruined bridge and, settling himself against the stones beneath it, contemplated the poster with revulsion. Each time he saw one of the things he damned Sanguinet bitterly. How even such as he could have deliberately subjected Nanette to public humiliation was beyond believing, and anyone who had read the first notice of her kidnapping could not but realize she was the lady referred to. The likeness of himself that was sketched below the words was, he had to admit, skilfully rendered. His expression had been changed somewhat—at least, he hoped it had been changed and that he did not habitually go about wearing such a cynical leer. A short final paragraph contained information for collecting the reward and advised that the kidnapper had last been seen in Sussex and might be expected to head for the coast. Harry's lips curled mirthlessly. Unhappily, his every attempt to do so had been thwarted.
The morning was damp and chill, and he wished he still had Jeremy's fine coat. He'd had to shed it hurriedly the previous dawn when a farm wife had come upon him in her chicken coop and had been so courageous as to seize one of the capes and hang on, screeching bloody murder. He'd attempted to point out that he had left more than sufficient cash to pay for the three eggs he'd gathered, but his protests had gone for nought. The woman had recognized him, and her yowls were for the innocent lady he'd brutalized—not for the products of her flock. Fortunately, her valour had not gone beyond hanging onto his coat and, having slipped out of that garment, he'd escaped just barely ahead of the charge of shot her husband had sent after him.
He crumpled the poster, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes; and his sigh was not because his arm throbbed so, or because he was cold and hungry, but for his love. Three days since he'd seen her—only three days, yet his heart felt bruised and his spirits were low. How could he endure a lifetime without the sparkle of those mischievous eyes, the ripple of that lilting laugh, the challenge of her seeking mind, the warmth of her generous heart . . ? Well, he must, somehow, for it was quite hopeless, even were he not a hunted fugitive, even if Sanguinet was not dead. Many people lived out a lifetime denied the joy and companionship of love—yet they survived. If he could reach the coast and take ship… if he could escape without dragging his friends into his predicament, would he prove less resilient, less able to meet the challenge Fate had flung at him? Pride answered a fierce "No!" but love whispered, "Nanette… my little shrew…" and he sighed again.
He had learned a good deal these past three days; notably, that there was nothing more ghastly than to be despised by one's own countrymen, and that not all his combined privations in Spain could compare to the horrors of this brief time of being ruthlessly hunted.
He had escaped Moire by leading his pursuers in circles until he was reasonably sure that most of Sanguinet's men were hot on his heels, at which point he'd headed for the marshy ground at the foot of the hill and left them floundering in the mire. He'd doubled back to the road then and stolen a ride first on a passing cart of turnips and later in the day in a hay wain. He'd snuggled deep into that fragrant cargo and slept from pure exhaustion, only to be rudely awakened by the tine of a pitchfork slicing through the hay an inch from his nose. He had sprung up to find the wain halted in a farmyard bathed by a brilliant sunrise. Three muscular farmhands had gaped at him, then confirmed his impression of unfriendliness by sending a second pitchfork streaking for his chest. Not staying to rebuke them for such unmannerly conduct, he'd taken to his heels, the farmhands following suit with lusty enthusiasm. He had eluded them at last, but the incident had served to convince him that Jerry had spoken truly—Sir Harry Redmond was sought throughout the Southland.
After that he'd not dared travel during the daylight hours. The posters were everywhere and his description too accurate. For the first time in his life he was grateful that his beard grew rapidly and within a day or two would be sufficiently luxuriant to change his appearance. On Saturday he'd hidden through the daylight hours and spent the night trudging towards the sea, yet barely avoided a cluster of hunters watching the road from a hilltop, having apparently decided their valuable quarry would resort to nighttime travel. Sunday morning he had to run for his life from four hefty youths who recognized him despite his beard, and at dusk he was reduced to digging up carrots and potatoes to ease the pangs of hunger. That night he appropriated a threadbare woollen jacket from a barn, leaving two shillings to pay for it. He'd lost Bolster's purse when he abandoned the coat, and after paying for the jacket was reduced to a grand fortune of two shillings, a sixpence, and a groat. By Monday he was so changed in appearance he again attempted daylight travel, but was soon deterred by the several eager bands he dodged who were very obviously seeking him. To continue in the face of such odds would be foolhardy, and he'd hidden in a churchyard until dusk, then struck westward for Cancrizans Priory in Dorsetshire, stopping here when his enemy, dawn, began to light her celestial lamps.
His thoughts lingered on his beloved little shrew. Hopefully, she was by now recovered from the effects of shock… in which case he thought with a tender smile, poor Bolster would have his work cut out to prevent the valiant girl from rushing headlong into some impulsive attempt to shield him by confessing her part in Sanguinet's death. Mitchell also haunted his reflections: That his brother would recover he was certain, but he dreaded the effect that vicious whipping might have on so highly strung and sensitive a young man.
Thus, Harry Redmond, Baronet. A few short weeks ago one of London's most admired Corinthians, now a ragged, hunted fugitive accused of hideous crimes, with little of hope and none of joy. Yet whose musings were perhaps less crushing than they might have been, if only because they turned so often not upon himself but on those he loved.
He fell asleep and awoke in early afternoon to warm sunshine. While washing, he saw so heavily bearded a stranger reflected in the stream that he was encouraged to step out bravely along a flower-bedecked lane. He came upon a pedlar who, having failed to sell him a hammer, a set of croquet mallets, or a device for extracting the juice of lemons, was overjoyed to trade his lunch for Harry's groat. The bread was a little stale, he confided (once the groat was safely in his purse), and the cheese might be a trifle mouldy, since it was his yesterday's lunch what he hadn't et since he'd been give a pie in exchange for a pair of scissors. Nonetheless, no meal at Waiter's had ever pleased Har
ry more, and having consumed bread, cheese, and a dry currant bun, he felt renewed in both mind and body and went upon his way whistling cheerily.
He was soon on the borders of the New Forest and, entering that leafy retreat gratefully, stopped at the first stream he came to and attempted to bathe his hurt. The bandages were soiled and tattered and the gash much swollen, frighteningly angry looking, and so painful it was difficult to tend. He was concentrating on his task when he sensed the presence of others. He crouched, prepared for desperate combat, but looking up found himself surrounded by solemn-eyed gypsy children. They seemed unafraid, and when they addressed him in the Romany tongue, he guessed they believed him to be of their own people, which was not surprising in view of his tanned skin and abundant dark hair. He had always had a way with children, and his easy grin and gentle manner did not fail him now. Soon they were gathered around, helping as best they might. A small, motherly girl, shaking her head as she retied the bandage, told him sadly that it was "a very nasty place" and added that he would surely die within the week unless he came and let 'Gammer' heal it for him. Harry was possessed of a growing fear that the wound was mortifying, but was more afraid he would be recognized. He thanked her but refused, his explanations that he must get on his way being interrupted by a thougtful boy, slightly older than the rest, who intervened to demand that they return home. Their resentment eased into laughter when Harry made a great show of kissing the hands of the girls and bowing with elaborate flourishes to the boys. His small nurse was, in fact, so captivated by this procedure that she returned to offer him her other hand, as well; and upon his properly saluting those little fingers, he was advised that if he would wait "a year or nine" she would marry him. He escaped this contretemps by confessing the prospect delightful but claiming the existence of a 'wife,' and since his lady love giggled and skipped blithely away, could not suppose she would grieve excessively. He watched her go, smiling at her sweet innocence, but when he turned, found the older boy frowning at him.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette Page 29