The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  What awoke her she could not tell, but she sprang up, gasping for breath, her heart hammering wildly. Save for the faint light from the oil lamp beside her bed, the room was dark, and the house wrapped in a silence so deep it seemed to beat against her ears. She listened intently, one hand pressed to her bosom as she tried to breathe more evenly. That effort was abandoned as the door suddenly burst open. She gave a little squeal of terror as a man staggered into the room, gasping, “Do not be … scared. It’s … only me.”

  She was out of bed in a flash and turning up the lamp, as he swung the door shut and leaned, panting, against it.

  Through lips suddenly icy-cold and stiff with fear, she whispered, “Meredith!”

  He was clutching his right arm, and as he pushed himself away from the door and lurched forward, she saw with a dizzying pang that blood dripped from the ends of his fingers.

  “Dragoons…” he gasped. “After me. Tried to—to get cipher … through.”

  She ran to support him. “Oh, my dear God! Here—sit down. I’ll—”

  He shook his head, blinking at her. “Not too bad, but—you must … you must warn…” And with a small sigh, he crumpled and lay in a dead faint at her feet.

  Even as she dropped to her knees beside him, there came an urgent knock and the door was again flung wide. Helpless, she crouched lower over Carruthers, gazing at the newcomer with great, terrified eyes.

  Jeffery halted on the threshold, staring at the dramatic tableau. His jaw dropped; he became almost as white as his brother, and stood frozen with shock.

  Finding her voice somehow, Phoebe croaked, “Shut the door!”

  He did so, then knelt beside her. “Merry! My God! What on earth…?”

  Folding back the great cuff of Meredith’s sleeve, she countered, “How did you know he was in here?”

  He wrenched his gaze from his brother’s still face, and stammered, “There’s blood all—all along the hall, and down the side st-stairs. I thought—”

  Shaking, she said, “You’d as well know that my brother and I were hiding a fugitive gentleman. Merry tried to help him and got caught.”

  “He—what?” he gasped, his face a study in rage and bewilderment. “But—but he was the very one who—He said—”

  “No time for that. If you care for his safety and are willing to risk—”

  He pulled himself together. “Devil take it! D’you think I’d let them find him? But—hell and damnation, the roads are alive with troopers! They’ve only to see the trail he left…”

  Her trembling hands striving, Phoebe cried, “Then take some towels—anything. Clean it up. Afterwards, if you can, send my brother to me. Oh, heavens! He’s bleeding terribly!”

  “Here—let me get his coat off.”

  “No, no! I’ll cut the shirt-sleeve. Go! Hurry!”

  He jumped to his feet, whipped a towel from the rack, gave her a numb look, and ran.

  Phoebe ran also; to her dressing table. She snatched up her scissors, wrenched off the pillowcase, and knelt again. Meredith lay as one dead. She tried to slice through the cuff of his shirt, but the little scissors would not penetrate the thickness. Biting her lip and trying not to shake so, she inserted the blades into the bloody rent the ball had made, cut through the sodden linen to a point midway between elbow and shoulder, then cut around and slid the sleeve down over his limp hand. She forced herself to look directly at the wound, whimpered, and, for a sick instant, closed her eyes. He must have been holding his arm level when he was hit, for the ball had scored a deep groove from above his wrist to the elbow, where it had angled into his forearm. Whispering prayers for strength, she lifted his arm and found the jagged wound where the ball had exited. It was pulsing blood, but she could only know relief that the bullet would not have to be dug out, a procedure she had dreaded.

  The wound should be bathed and sewn up, then treated with basillicum powder, but he had said the troopers were after him. She made some cuts in the pillowcase, tore some strips, then made a pad and was binding it over the higher wound when she felt his arm jerk, and looked up to find him watching her.

  He was haggard and deathly pale, but muttered, “What a fool to … to go off like that and frighten you. Have … they come?”

  “No. Merry, whatever happened?”

  “Thought I was clear. Came out of the trees and … a whole troop was right behind me. I was—firing back … just to slow them a bit. Someone shot straight. Just—my arm. Luckily.”

  She bit her lip as he winced from her hand. “Oh, I am so sorry. It’s very nasty. You must have a surgeon.”

  His smile was wan. “That would put the hare in with the hounds. Bind it as tight as you can … little shrew. And I’ll get out of your room. Can you warn your brother?”

  “Jeffery has gone for him.”

  At once his frown evidenced. “What? How did Jeff—”

  She nerved herself and pulled the bandage as tight as she could, and his words were cut off abruptly. She stifled a sob when she heard his faint gasp and, blinking through scalding tears, quavered, “Jeff came in just after you fell. It’s no use fretting. I had to tell him. Can you put a finger on this knot for me?”

  He looked dazed and his pallor seemed intensified, but he did as she asked, finding the knot gropingly, but pressing down on it without faltering.

  Phoebe secured the knot, dashed away tears, and began to bind the long gash tightly. Not a sound escaped him, but when she glanced up again, his head was turned away, his eyes closed.

  He jerked to his left elbow when the door swung open and Sinclair ran in, pale and distraught. “What damnable luck! Sir, I am so—”

  “No time,” muttered Carruthers threadily. “Get me up, Sin. I cannot seem to—to manage.”

  Phoebe said, “Wait!” She secured the last knot with Sinclair’s help, then, between them, they got Carruthers to his feet. He swayed, and mumbled something inaudible.

  “Can we get him all that way to his room?” asked Phoebe.

  “No!” gasped Carruthers. “Brandy, Sin.” He peered downward. “Am I a bloody mess?”

  “Very,” Sinclair answered. “What the devil happened?”

  “Later. Run—bring clean clothes and—and decanter from my—credenza. Quick!”

  Jeffery rushed in as Sinclair ran out. The towel he had taken was gruesome. He panted, “I daren’t leave this anywhere. Damn you, Merry! When I think—”

  Phoebe snatched the towel and thrust it under her mattress.

  Carruthers said weakly, “Yes, I am sure you—yearn to pummel me. I’ll let you … when I’m more the—the thing. Help me walk—will you please?”

  Phoebe cried, “Oh, do take care! It’s a horrid wound. Jeff, he says the troopers are after him.”

  His arm about his brother, Jeffery groaned, “Dammit, they are! I could hear them shouting about the grounds. Ma’am, I don’t pretend to understand any of this. Where is your fugitive?”

  “Secret room. Keep,” said Carruthers, his voice a little stronger as Jeffery supported his halting steps. “It’s—Lance.”

  “Wha-at? Oh, Lord alive! One might guess that stupid—”

  Phoebe interpolated desperately, “Whatever shall we do if they come here? He is in no condition to—”

  “I shall manage,” Carruthers interrupted doggedly. “Got my … second wind.” He smiled. It was a ghastly effort.

  Phoebe wiped sweat from his forehead. “Jeff, you’ll have to handle them and get rid of them somehow.”

  “No use,” argued Carruthers. “If Holt’s with ’em, he’ll demand to see me, and I—I don’t think I could negotiate the stairs alone. Better to—to be already down when they come.”

  She turned to Jeffery in desperation. “He looks like death! He can hardly stand. Oh, do let him rest for a minute!”

  Jeffery eased his brother onto the bed, and Carruthers sat there, head down, gripping his arm painfully.

  Very strained-looking, Jeffery said quite steadily, “You’d best wash you
r hands, Miss Phoebe, and put on a wrapper, or something.”

  She looked down at herself and blushed scarlet. In the exigency of the moment she’d not so much as thought that she wore only the revealing nightdress. She ran to the washbowl, poured in some water and rinsed her hands quickly, then wet a small towel and ran to give it to Jeffery. “Bathe his face. He looks ready to collapse.”

  Jeffery obeyed and Carruthers gasped out thanks.

  Sinclair returned, panting heavily, his arms full of clothing and a decanter clutched in one hand.

  “Let me have a swig of that, Sin,” muttered Carruthers. He drank, coughed, and swore under his breath, but when next he spoke, his voice was stronger and there was a little more colour in his face. “Ma’am, if you’ll go into the hall and keep watch, I’ll get changed.”

  She flung her dressing gown around her, slipped quietly into the hall, and tiptoed along to the top of the stairs. ‘Thank God,’ she thought, ‘it’s all quiet. They must not have seen him after all.’ But even if the troopers did not come, Otton was in the house, and Lambert, and Meredith’s military friends could drop in at any time. How on earth were they to—She jumped then, as from the foot of the stairs Justice began to bay a warning. Almost at once, a thunderous tattoo sounded from the main entrance. Outside, she heard a man shout, “Are troopers posted at all the doors?” She felt faint, and ran back to the bedchamber.

  Meredith was already walking out, his left arm across his brother’s shoulders.

  “Hurry! Oh, hurry!” she cried. “They’re here!”

  Carruthers called softly, “Phoebe, run downstairs and light some candles in the library. Be sure the draperies are drawn first.”

  She flew. When she reached the ground floor, the front door shuddered to a barrage and, distantly, she heard more pounding. They were at all the doors, not much doubt of that! Running into the library, she said a quick prayer of gratitude because the draperies were tightly shut. She remembered that the tinder-box was kept beside the fireplace, groped her way there, and bent, fumbling blindly. A blow thudded between her shoulder blades. She almost fainted from shock, waiting for the dread words, “In the King’s name!” Then, small feet raced across her back. “Satan!” she sobbed. “You—perfect beast!”

  With shaking hands, she found the tinder-box and managed to light a candle. As she carried it to six others in a heavy silver candelabrum, she heard angry voices from the Armour Hall, then Sinclair and Jeffery rushed in, Meredith staggering drunkenly between them.

  Phoebe snatched a book from the shelf and, as he sank into an armchair, thrust it into his hand. “Can you hold it?” she hissed, bending over him. His eyes were glazed, but he nodded. She wiped streaks of perspiration from his face and pinched his white cheeks; hard.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed, and she was amazed to see a flicker of his grin as he muttered, “Second … time, you wretch!”

  She had to fight tears again, then stamping footsteps were approaching. Jeffery had gone somewhere, and Sinclair dragged her out of the library and along the corridor. They ran, and reached the foot of the stairs just as a footman, looking haughty despite his lack of a wig and the lurid dressing-gown he had tied over his night-shirt, opened the front door of the new wing.

  Captain Holt, pale, tired, and very obviously angry, pushed his way inside.

  Sinclair said with cool dignity, “What in the deuce is going on now?”

  Holt snarled, “Where is Jeffery Carruthers?”

  “In bed, I should think,” said Sinclair. “Though he’s likely on his way down after all that uproar.”

  “We’ll see that,” said Holt grimly. “Two of you men guard the stairs. Don’t alarm the ladies if you can help it. The rest of you—this way.”

  Sinclair said meaningfully, “Stay close beside me, Phoebe.”

  Holt threw him a withering look and marched toward the line of light that shone from the open door to the library.

  Phoebe took Sinclair’s hand and half-ran along, praying.

  Holt stamped into the lighted room. Peeping around the soldiers, Phoebe could have laughed aloud. Meredith was sprawled in the chair, apparently dozing, his chin propped on his left hand, his right hand loosely clasping the book on his knees, and Satan curled up on top of it. As the dragoons entered, Meredith started, his elbow slipping from the chair arm realistically. He blinked up into Holt’s fierce countenance. “What … the…?” he muttered, and yawned.

  Unafraid, Satan sat up and inspected the new arrivals disapprovingly.

  “We shot a rebel,” snapped Holt. “Damn sure he rode this way. Where’s your brother?”

  “Just behind you, Captain,” said Jeffery, in an irked manner. “And I’d be in my bed had you not raised such a fuss.”

  “Your bay mare has been rid hard,” snapped Holt, addressing Carruthers but fixing Jeffery with a piercing stare.

  Meredith scowled. “Did you take Spring? Where the devil have you been?”

  Jeffery drew himself up. “If you must know, I went to that cockfight in the village.”

  “Damn you, Jeff!” Meredith leaned forward slightly. “I told you—”

  “I’ll remind you, brother, that I am past one and twenty,” snarled Jeffery.

  Marvelling, Phoebe thought, ‘How can they do it? How can Meredith look so cross when he must be in frightful pain?’ She saw his eyes slant to her and realized in the nick of time that he must stand. She sank quickly onto a nearby chair as he snapped, “Your extreme age don’t give you the right to take my mare out, and—But we’ll discuss this in private. What do you want of us, Holt? I promise you there are no wounded rebels in this house.”

  Holt grinned broadly. “Not even you, eh?” He fetched Jeffery a clap on the back that made him stagger, and watched him narrowly.

  “Devil take you! I’m no lover of Charles Stuart,” declared Jeffery angrily.

  Voices were raised in the Armour Hall. Meredith got to his feet, Satan scrambling onto the chair arm. “If you’ve upset my mother, Holt,” he gritted, “I’ll register a protest with Fotheringay, by God, but I will! This is becoming damn ridiculous!”

  Otton came strolling in, his dark hair free of powder and much disarrayed, his eyes heavy with sleep. “What’s to do?” he drawled.

  “As a former army officer,” said Holt, “I ask you, on your honour, sir, if any injured man has sought sanctuary in this house tonight?”

  Otton stared at him. “You may be sure the dog would have woke us all, had that happened.”

  Holt’s lip curled. Looking at Jeffery, he said, “Unless the fugitive was known to him.”

  To her horror, Phoebe saw that Meredith was leaning precariously. He half-sat, half-fell into the chair, not perceiving that Satan had claimed it, and the cat made a frantic lastminute dart for life. A grimace of pain twisted Meredith’s face, but he had turned away so that the lapse went unnoticed by all save Phoebe, who flinched with sympathy. “Jeff,” he said wearily, “to reassure poor Holt, would you please submit to an examination?”

  “Be damned if I will,” flared Jeffery, glaring at Holt.

  “He seems to think you are stoically concealing a mortal wound,” said Sinclair with a sly grin. “Poor chap likely won’t sleep a wink do you not humour him.”

  Jeffery said disgustedly, “Fella’s lushy drunk, was you to ask me.”

  “We shall all humour him,” Otton laughed. “Clothes off, everyone! Inspection time!”

  Phoebe’s heart lurched. She gave a little scream.

  Otton glanced at her. “Whoops! As you were, men!”

  “Very amusing, I’m sure,” snapped Holt, red-faced.

  “No, really, Jacob,” purred Otton. “Enough is enough.”

  A trooper ran to the door. “Captain!” he called breathlessly. “They got the chap cornered over to Birch Hill!”

  Holt brightened. “No surprise there!” He clicked his heels. “Apologies, Carruthers. Duty is duty.”

  “So they tell me,” said Carruthers drily.


  The soldiers marched off with a stamp of boots and a jingling of spurs.

  Sinclair said, “Come along, Phoebe. Bed for you, my girl.”

  She stood at once. “Yes. Oh, how dreadful this is!”

  Otton glanced curiously at Meredith. “You keep late hours, old fellow. And you look like the devil.”

  “I stayed up to have a word with my—brother,” said Meredith, catching his breath for an instant as Satan sprang onto his lap once more. “And I’m afraid I may have caught Lady Eloise’s cold. Jeff—stay here, if you please. Good night, Miss Ramsay,” he added, managing to stand up. “Don’t worry about this nonsense.”

  Phoebe smiled and went out, trembling in every limb, Sinclair gripping her arm tightly. She heard Otton drawl, “From the frying pan to the fire, Jeff. My prayers will be with you! Bonne nuit.”

  As they approached the stairs, Phoebe glanced back. Otton was sauntering lazily towards the Armour Hall. She whispered frantically, “Sin, he suspects! Did you see how he stared at Meredith?”

  He muttered, “I’m only glad Mrs. Carruthers did not waken—or Lambert! The fat would really have been in the fire!” He glanced over his shoulder. “He’s gone. I don’t think he will give Carruthers away, whatever he may suspect. He’s only out for himself. I’m going back to give Jeff a hand, and how ever tired poor Meredith is, we’ve to make some plans. No—not you, my girl! You’ve done enough. Go to bed, and stay there!”

  She clutched at his arm. “You will come? Or Jeff? I’ll be worried to death.”

  “I’ll come, then. Bless you, old lady. You’re a dashed good sport.”

  The ‘dashed good sport’ went to her room, where she burst into tears. Weeping, she gathered together Meredith’s bloodstained clothing. The men had shoved it all under the bed, but if the troopers had again searched the house, they would have been discovered. She wrapped all the telltale articles in the butchered pillowcase and stuffed it under the mattress. She felt drained and very tired, but she dried her tears, poured some of the brandy into her water glass, and sipped it. She made a face, but she could feel the liquid fire igniting her interior regions, and she soon felt much restored.