The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  You got till noon tomorrow. Then the lady will be sold for our expenses. She won’t bring as much as what we’d have got from the reb. Still, it’s better than nowt.

  If you tell about this letter you won’t never see her, and we’ll tell all about her naughty little brother. When your ready to make the trade, run the royal banner up your flagpole and we’ll send word where to fetch Lasels. The sooner the better for the lady. She’s a pretty mort.

  The hand Carruthers put over his eyes shook as violently as had Lady Martha’s. “Lord … God…!” he whispered.

  Lambert came in without benefit of a knock, his uniform cleaned and pressed, his face pale, and a bandage taped to the side of his head. “Is he awake?” he demanded of the alarmed Howell.

  Carruthers lowered his hand and leaned back in the chair. Struggling for composure, he said, “I’m awake. How are you, Brooks?”

  “I’m off for my troopers.”

  Carruthers stood, thanked his man and the butler, and dismissed them.

  They bowed and departed, each man slanting a glance of intense resentment at the Captain as they passed.

  As soon as the door closed, Carruthers said urgently, “We cannot have the military in this. Miss Ramsay is being held for ransom.”

  “The … devil you say!” And then, suspicion coming into his eyes, Lambert demanded, “How d’ye know?”

  “A message came. It said in part that if we call in the military, Phoebe will be sold.”

  “I don’t believe you! Where is this message? Let me see it.”

  Carruthers crumpled the letter in his left hand, strolled to the fire, and dropped it into the flames. He said coolly, “I burnt it.”

  Lambert’s gaze flashed from the grave countenance to the curling letter amid the coals. Starting forward, cursing, he was restrained by a strong grip. “No, Brooks.”

  “What else did it say that you don’t want me to see? Was it from Otton? When I get my hands on that—”

  Carruthers’s hand on his arm became a fist that seized Lambert’s cravat and hauled him closer to a face so transformed by rage that he scarcely recognized it. “What,” demanded Carruthers between his teeth, “has Roland Otton to do with this?”

  Lambert tore free so savagely that Carruthers was staggered. “It was all a plot we contrived between us. He said he was trying to help me.”

  His eyes wide and staring, Carruthers whispered a hissing “Otton…!”

  “Yes, my dear fellow?”

  They both spun around at the sound of that drawling, insouciant voice.

  Roland Otton, garbed in a deep-purple velvet evening coat, a great amethyst gleaming in his cravat and another on his right hand, his waistcoat a masterpiece and his knee breeches and lilac stockings devoid of the suggestion of a wrinkle, leaned in the doorway, swinging his quizzing glass on a silver chain. “I hear rumours you have made a mull of things, Lambert.”

  With an inarticulate growl, Lambert made a lunge for him, but Carruthers stepped between them. “Where is she?” he demanded.

  Otton frowned a little. “You ask the wrong abductor, dear boy. I could not but pity Lambert’s predicament, so I suggested he stage a kidnapping and a subsequent heroic rescue. I did not dream he would be so clumsy as to—”

  “Clumsy, is it?” Lambert grabbed for his sabre. “By God, if I thought you had—”

  “Be still!” thundered Carruthers, in a voice that startled both his hearers and would have purely terrified his mother. “Whom did you hire, Lambert?”

  Flushing darkly, Lambert muttered, “One was a clod named Hessell, and—”

  “Ben Hessell?” raged Carruthers. “You allowed Phoebe to fall into the hands of that crudity?” He rounded on Otton. “You damned treacherous hound!”

  Otton drew back. “Now, my dear fellow, be reasonable. I merely wrote the scenario. Lambert was in control of the actors and responsible for the welfare of the lady. How should I know he was unable to bring all to a successful conclusion? Now, before you murder me, pray tell me what has transpired.”

  Controlling his wrath with a great effort, Carruthers said, “The lady has been … really kidnapped. And is held for—ransom.”

  “Far from pretending to strike me,” Lambert put in, “Hessell damn near broke my head.”

  Otton pursed his lips. “May one enquire why you stand here jawing? Get after the swine! They’ve likely not the brains to hide successfully. Call in dear old Mariner. Give him something to do.”

  “They,” gritted Carruthers, “or whoever is masterminding this ugly plot, had the brains to send me a note warning that if the military are called in, Miss Ramsay will be sold. Among other things. Jeff and Sinclair, together with most of the men, are still out seeking her. There is no trace.”

  “Then pay their damned blood money!” raged Lambert. “You can afford it! Whatever they ask!”

  “There is that, of course,” Otton murmured.

  Carruthers snapped, “There is not! They demand the rebel and his verse, which I cannot provide. Odd, is it not, Roly? The very thing you have sworn to come at.”

  “Now, Merry, you surely do not think that I—”

  “You have warned me you are a rogue, but I did not believe you capable of this kind of villainy.” His eyes narrowed; he said murderously, “I tell you now—if that girl is harmed, I’ll have your slimy heart out!”

  Otton murmured, “Alas, how can I—”

  Glancing to the side, Carruthers realized Lambert had gone. He sprinted to the door and along the hall. Leaning over the stair-rail, he shouted, “Stop him!”

  The two lackeys standing in the lower hall looked up at him in bewilderment. “Stop who, sir?” called one.

  “Captain Lambert! Don’t let him leave the stables! Get out there!”

  They ran, Carruthers hurrying after them as best he could, but pausing on the drivepath to grip his arm and gaze helplessly at the horseman who was already cantering across the yard. Brooks Lambert eluded the men who plunged at him, and shouted, “I don’t know what else you were threatened with, Carruthers. And I don’t give a damn! The military are in this, as of now!” And he was off at the gallop.

  Coming up beside Carruthers, Otton murmured, “I really am sorrier than I can say, Merry. If—”

  “Then get after him, blast you!” raged Carruthers distractedly. “If he brings in his men, there’s no saying what that—that loathsome Hessell will do to her! Stop him, for the love of God!”

  Otton looked gravely at the anguished face of his good friend, then ran for the stables.

  * * *

  It was a sickly smell, comprised of stale spirits mingled with dirt and sweat. Revolted, Phoebe opened her eyes. Vaguely came the awareness that she was in a different place, a cold, dim room built of stone slabs and with ancient iron braziers set into the massy walls. But the more immediate awareness rendered all others insignificant. Her crude abductor was leaning over her, his eyes red-rimmed and full of desire, his loose mouth breathing fumes of wine, his grimy hands prowling her body greedily. A wild rage burned through her. How dare he touch her so? Only Meredith had that right! With a cry of fury, she pushed him away and sprang to her feet.

  He was on her like a wild beast, his big hands seizing her roughly. She clawed her nails down his face. He instinctively recoiled and the mask came away in her fingers, revealing the features of Hessell, the villager she had felt sorry for when Meredith had threatened to evict him from his cottage. She pushed him with all her strength and he staggered, his grip on her habit ripping the fabric so that it sagged downward, revealing the white blouse beneath.

  Clutching his cheek and mouthing profanities, he sprang at her. She dodged desperately, crying out, and the emaciated man ran in, unmasked, his pock-marked face reflecting dismay. “Are ye daft, man?” he gasped. “You know what he said!”

  Hessell checked and stood glowering at Phoebe and fingering his scratches. “See what she done ter me poor face, the bloody vixen!”

  “I would
n’t want to be in your shoes when he sees it!” He seemed a cut or two above his fellow-conspirator and turned to say apologetically, “I’m sorry about this, miss, but we’ll hang if we don’t pull it off, so it’s all the way, like it or not. I’ll fetch you some vittles.” He went into the adjoining room, calling over his shoulder for Hessell to watch what he was about.

  “Aye, I’ll watch it all right,” sneered Hessell, his lustful eyes slithering over Phoebe.

  Her knees shaking from the reaction, she went over to the heavy wooden bench and sat down.

  “Ye’re a pretty piece,” said Hessell softly, “and ripe, I’ll lay odds. What you need is a man, my pet. And what I’d like ter do is…” He proceeded to describe what he would like to do.

  Phoebe tried not to hear the ugly words, but she began to feel soiled and sick, and thought in a near prayer, ‘Meredith, my darling—come. Please, come soon!’

  * * *

  Carruthers woke abruptly. He was sprawling in the armchair in the library, a blanket over him, one branch of candles guttering and the fire still burning in the hearth. Momentarily confused, he started up and saw Conditt nodding in the wing-chair opposite. Memory rushed back shatteringly. He tossed the blanket aside.

  Conditt started up and came to look at him anxiously. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Why in heaven’s name did you let me sleep? Is there any word? Has my brother returned?”

  “No to both, I fear, Mr. Meredith. And you had to get some sleep.”

  “What o’clock is it?”

  Conditt went quickly to the mantel clock. “Just a little past three, sir.” And moved by the despair he read in the shadowed eyes, he said, “They’ll find her, sir. Have faith.”

  “Faith! The poor Scotswomen and children I saw ravished and tortured and slain by Cumberland’s orders had faith, I don’t doubt!” Carruthers gave a harsh crack of laughter. “Much good it did ’em! Has Captain Otton come back?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Hah! And—my precious nephew?”

  Conditt glanced to the window. Scowling, Carruthers paced over and looked into the night. A thin mist shrouded the courtyard, but faintly through it he could see a glow of distant lights. “What … the devil?”

  “They’ve been at it since midnight, sir. Captain Lambert and his men. They’ve got torches and they’ve been beating all along the Cut. They must be nigh to the Quarry by now.”

  “Blast his hide!” It was not unlikely, thought Carruthers, that Brooks would decide to search the Keep next. Lance must be brought to another hiding place.

  As he’d anticipated, he had a battle on his hands when he told Conditt he meant to go outside for a breath of air, but at last he escaped, knowing the faithful man longed to accompany him, but having no intention of involving him in this treasonable tangle.

  The air was clammy and cold, the mist wreathing upward and eddying about him as he walked towards the courtyard of the Keep. The few hours of sleep had restored him, physically, at least. His arm was a bit of a nuisance, but the only thing that mattered was Phoebe, and to be incapacitated and unable to join the search for her was nigh unbearable. Suppose Hessell was abusing her, terrifying her? And she, helpless and all alone! The thought made him writhe and he walked faster but found he was unable to escape the vivid horrors imagination painted.

  He crossed the wide immensity of the courtyard head down and went blindly under the great arch of the main gate and across the drawbridge. It was very dark in that shadow and, coming out into the open again, he glanced up and halted.

  A horse was standing with its front hoofs on the crumbling step; a tall chestnut. Even as he watched, Rumpelstiltskin shoved his nose at the partly open door and peered inside.

  Excitement jolted through Carruthers. Otton was here! He certainly had made no attempt to stop Lambert, for Rump could have outrun the bay mare with little effort. Roland was here to search for Lance, unless— He stood motionless, his mouth setting into a thin, hard line. Moving with slow deliberation, he took off the sling and tossed it aside. With his left hand he eased from his pocket the pistol Conditt had insisted he carry. The fingers of his right hand closed around the grip and took the weight. The price paid was instant and sharp, but scarcely felt, for rage was a white heat that shut out all other awareness. He trod softly through the door and into the dank air of the Keep.

  * * *

  “I reckon as she knows who had her taken, sir.”

  “The devil!” Otton’s black eyes flashed wrath as he faced his apologetic henchman. “I told you I was not to be mentioned in front of the lady. By God, Feeney, but she’d best not know, else you’ll have a damned long wait for your pay!”

  “Wasn’t none of my doing, sir,” whined the scrawny rogue. “Hessell gets ugly when he’s put down a drink or two. He was pawing the lady, and—”

  “What?” With a shout of anger, Otton sprinted for the connecting door, forgetting the mask he’d cut out so carefully, his sword flashing into his hand.

  He was in time to hear a loud smack and to see Hessell fall back a step from Phoebe’s flushed fury, his hand pressed to a reddened and scratched cheek.

  “Filth!” thundered Otton, advancing vengefully.

  “Oh, thank God!” gasped Phoebe, hoping against hope that her suspicions were unfounded and that rescue was at hand.

  Hessell, drunkenly uproarious, howled, “Cor, that’s a good ’un! Don’t thank yer Gawd fer him, lady! He’s the one what—”

  A shot rang out deafeningly, followed by another. Otton whirled as Feeney went down clutching his leg, and Meredith Carruthers threw down a smoking pistol and wrenched sword from scabbard. Otton backed away, his sword swinging to the guard position.

  With an inarticulate snarl, Carruthers leapt to the attack. Retreating, parrying, blocking, Otton called, “Merry—now do not—Merry, can we … not talk?”

  His answer was a sizzling quinte thrust that almost had him. He disengaged nimbly, drew in his arm, and attempted a beat on Meredith’s blade. Thwarted, he danced aside, then essayed a lightning thrust in tierce. The swords rang together. Phoebe shrank, both afraid and fascinated. Hessell, grinning, was enjoying the furious battle, as hopeful of Otton falling as of Carruthers being the vanquished.

  Crawling to the doorway, Feeney croaked, “Help him … you perishing fool! You want … to hang?”

  Hessell scowled, but it was truth. He sought about and took up his cudgel.

  Meredith parried a strong thrust with a prime parade; he raised his point to the left and, holding his sword with both hands, with the fort of the carte edge beat with all his strength on Otton’s blade. Otton’s weapon spun from his hand and he gripped his wrist, retreating.

  Phoebe screamed, “Merry!”

  From the corner of his eye Carruthers saw the cudgel whistling down at him. He flung himself to the side. The cudgel missed by a hair, but tore the sword from his grasp. He sprang even as Hessell swung up the cudgel again, and drove his left to Hessell’s flabby midriff. The breath departed from the big man in a rush and he sat down without grace, his tongue protruding and his eyes starting from his head.

  Again, Phoebe screamed, and Carruthers whirled to find the point of the colichemarde at his throat.

  “Meredith,” Otton began reasonably, “I really have no wish to hurt you—”

  His eyes slits of death, Carruthers panted, “Saleté…!”

  Otton frowned, tensing. The sword point quivered forward, but was checked. He said, “You must know I’d not have allowed her to be hurt.”

  “You scum!” growled Carruthers. “You worthless … lying … treacherous dog!” And with each word, he moved forward on the balls of his feet, his shoulders a little hunched, crimson creeping unnoticed down his right hand. He was moving steadily but with such deliberate slowness that Otton, as steadily retreating, was unprepared when he suddenly jerked to the side. The sword whipped around. Carruthers ducked under it, then sprang. With his left hand he grabbed Otton’s sword arm.
His right fist clenched and came up from his knees to explode under Otton’s chin. Hurled backwards, Otton collapsed and rolled to fetch up face down beside the connecting door.

  And it was done. The lust to kill, which had both inflamed and strengthened Carruthers, faded. He became aware at last that his arm was all searing agony from shoulder to fingertips. Gripping it, he staggered, the room rippling before his eyes.

  With a soft cry Phoebe started to him.

  Hessell crawled to his feet and stood swaying and bemused.

  Brooks Lambert ran across the connecting room, jumped Otton’s feebly stirring form, and fired without an instant’s hesitation. Hessell screamed and went down, crashing into Phoebe as he fell, his blood splattering her gown, his hands clutching frenziedly at her.

  Sick and horrified, she shrank away, sobbing hysterically.

  Unable to see much of anything, Carruthers sagged against the wall, reaction turning his limbs to water.

  Lambert dropped his smoking pistol and swept the girl into his arms. “You are safe now, my dearest heart,” he said, his deep voice husky with tenderness. “God forgive me, but you are safe!”

  He carried the dazed Phoebe from the room as several troopers ran in, followed by Conditt and a frantic Howell. The troopers bent their attention on Feeney and Hessell. The servants rushed to their sagging employer and aided him outside.

  Returning exhausted and heavy-hearted from their long and fruitless search, Jeffery, Sinclair, Boles, and their helpers saw bobbing torches in the castle courtyard and went to investigate. They encountered the dramatic little caravan. Despair became elation.

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Jeffery, running to his brother’s drooping figure. “You’ve had a bang-up good scrap by the look of you!”

  Carruthers lifted a haggard but beaming face, his eyes blue and radiant. “She’s safe,” he murmured weakly. “By God, Jeff! She’s safe!”

  In all the excitement, no one noticed that Rumpelstiltskin and his wayward master had quietly slipped away.