The Tyrant

by Patricia Veryan

  Struggling up, Lascelles said, “I’ll go after him at once!”

  “Noble of you,” Carruthers muttered cynically. “God forbid you should ride to my rescue in your present state!”

  “Of course he cannot go!” Jeffery stood also. “Have a horse saddled, Merry. I’ll take a short cut and—”

  “No!” Lucille threw her arms around him. “You’re hurt! And besides, it’s too dangerous! Meredith will go!”

  Phoebe was sick with fear for her brother, but she gave a gasp at this, and despite her own terror, Lady Martha pursed her lips disgustedly.

  No less appalled, Jeffery said, “The deuce, Mama! You are forgetting that Merry has a wound and —”

  “No, but—but he is so strong,” she babbled frantically. “And always he knows just what to do and—and rescues us from our little predicaments. He won’t let us down, will you, Merry, dearest?”

  His eyes empty, he answered, “I trust not, Mama. I’ll go, of course.”

  “Like hell!” Jeffery freed himself from his mother’s clinging arms and said wrathfully, “Will you for once give me credit for having a little backbone? No, Mama! Be still, if you please!” Flushed, he snarled at his brother, “Always, it is you! You know what is best; you will provide; you will advise us! Well, now it’s my turn! I’ve a slightly sprained ankle. You’ve a wound Linden has warned me is badly inflamed. Do you fancy I mean to sit here like—like a cowering weasel while—”

  Lady Martha intervened sharply, “Do you stand here, arguing, neither of you will be in time to save my grandson!”

  “Very true,” agreed Meredith, starting to the door. “But we’re a poor lot. Sinclair has a good ten-minute lead over two cripples.”

  “I am not crippled,” declared Phoebe. “And I can ride as fast as either of you!”

  “Through countryside a’swarm with ragtag soldiery and bounty hunters? I think not, madam! Jeff—we’ll ride together.” Ignoring his mother’s heart-broken cry, Meredith turned to Rosalie. “Run to the stables, love, and find Henry Baker. Tell him to saddle Rogue and Mouser at once.” She flew, and he said to Lady Martha, “My man knows of this. Will you please go and ask him for dark cloaks and a brace of loaded pistols for my brother and me?” She went out at once, Phoebe accompanying her.

  Jeffery limped over to his mother and took her into the hall, talking to her gently.

  Lascelles, the picture of dejection, sat with his fair head downbent. Carruthers turned from watching Lucille walk away, and went to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “My poor idiot, do not look so distraught. It was not your intent to involve us. A poor thing friendship would be were we loyal only when times are good.” He smiled into the strained grey eyes that lifted to meet his own. “Now stop being a block, and give me your damned cipher.”

  Lascelles froze, staring at him.

  “You just ran out of choices,” Meredith pointed out. “We cannot bring Albritton here now, short of inviting Fotheringay along. Your only hope of delivering your message is to entrust it to me.”

  Briefly, Lascelles struggled with conscience, then he sighed. “Yes. You’ve the right of it. But—dammitall, Merry, if anything happens to you—God! How shall I live with myself?”

  “I sympathize,” said Carruthers drily. “Come on, man!”

  Lascelles stood and unbuckled his swordbelt. The dark leather was overlaid here and there with strips of tooled pigskin, and from beneath one of the strips he pried a carefully folded scrap of parchment. Carruthers already knew the hiding place, but did not betray that knowledge. He had not read the cipher the first time he carried it, but now, when Lascelles handed it to him, he scanned it, and read,

  III

  Odd, how gently they come home,

  Wooing peace once more.

  Riding off they were not so.

  Is it ever thus with war?

  Frequently, it seems mankind

  Terrifies or trembles.

  “Is that all?” he muttered. “A frippery thing like that, to cause so much of death and grief?”

  Lascelles gripped his shoulder. “If they catch you with it, Merry, you will likely know both!”

  * * *

  Mounted on Spring, and facing Meredith’s livid fury with unshaken calm, Phoebe said, “You do but waste time, sir.”

  “And you are ridiculous,” he fumed, jerking Rogue’s head up as the big black made a grab for a recklessly sauntering Satan. “You can only delay us, ma’am. You will be unable to keep up through the country, and at the speed we must ride, and—”

  “My brother’s life is at stake,” she countered. “And I do not propose to leave it in the hands of what you yourself named two cripples. If I am not allowed to ride beside you, Meredith, I shall follow.”

  Her face, under the little black hat with the large blue feather, was determined. Carruthers dared delay no longer. He started off, flinging at her over his shoulder, “Very well, but if you fall behind, you will be abandoned, I warn you!”

  She did not doubt him and, for all her brave defiance, her heart was beating very fast as she guided Spring across the yard and out through the gates. Anxiety for Sinclair was uppermost in her mind, but nagging in the background was another fear; it had its roots in the fact that Meredith had refused to see her this morning, and that although he had come downstairs tonight, he had obviously avoided her. How eagerly he had gone to take Rosalie’s hands; how ardently smiled down at her. Phoebe trembled to the dread that he had been comparing his two ladies, and that his regard for the lovely country lass was proving the stronger. In the next instant she was recalling his kisses; the tender moments that even in memory could cause her cheeks to flame. Those had not been the actions of a man regretting his bargain, had they?

  Thus the anxieties of Miss Phoebe Ramsay, galloping through the windy darkness, a gentleman on each side of her, in a desperate race to avert tragedy.

  For as long as they were on his lands, Meredith set a breakneck pace, but some half-hour after leaving the Hall, he slowed, turned off the lane they had followed for some moments, and led them up a long, gradual slope. It was all Phoebe could do to see their way, for the moon was frequently hidden by fast-scudding clouds and she felt at times that she was riding headlong through a black tunnel, only her faith in Meredith enabling her to continue at such a rate. The horses were all blowing now, and she was breathless. She wondered how Jeffery was managing and, knowing how relentlessly a sprain aches, she peered at him. His face was shadowed, but he was riding well.

  They were coming into wooded country, and Meredith called, “Careful here. Stay close behind me, ma’am.”

  She thought of his earlier threat to abandon her to her own devices, and smiled to herself, but guided Spring closer to the big black, and Jeffery pulled in beside her.

  “My Lord!” he exclaimed, looking about. “You never mean to take Phantom Pass?”

  “Only way,” grunted Meredith. “He has too good a start on us.”

  Jeffery muttered something Phoebe did not hear but that was definitely apprehensive. Then they were cantering. They came out of the trees onto a broad plateau. The moon slid from behind the cloud-rack to allow a glimpse of a strange, deserted landscape. For as far as the eye could see, there was no sign of cultivated land or human habitation, and on the jumbled irregular slopes and hollows, great boulders stood up like silent, menacing sentinels of this macabre place. The turf beneath them was coarse and springy, concealing low spots and rabbit holes, and twice Spring stumbled. Meredith led them at a steady, mile-eating speed, the black horse guided with an unerring hand around grassy areas that Phoebe at first thought level land and only at the last instant saw were depressions filled with taller grasses.

  She heard a frightened snort from Mouser and glanced around to see the grey plunging, Jeffery barely retaining his seat. “Are you all right?” she called anxiously.

  “Look out, dammit!” cried Meredith, angered. He grabbed her reins, wrenching Spring back, then jerked his head at the de
pression alongside, into which the mare had almost wandered. “Quicksand, Miss Phoebe! Now do you see why I didn’t want you with us?”

  She stared at the treacherous ground in revulsion, and said a small “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” he muttered and turned to his brother. “How goes it, aged youth?”

  Jeffery replied airily, “Very well, thank you, gaffer.”

  “Let’s get on then. And this time, ma’am, keep your eyes on me. Jeff will manage, but if he don’t I shall not stop, for he can find his way out by daylight. You understand?”

  It was for Sinclair, and despite the hurtingly brusque tone, she could only be grateful. “Yes,” she said meekly. “I understand.”

  They went on. And on. Up and down and around. In and out of strange, narrow little gorges, hemmed about with rocks. A wild gallop over a stretch of open grassland, only to be waved to a plunging halt by Meredith, who must, she realized, be holding the reins in his right hand despite the sling.

  Jeffery was panting distressfully. “What … is it?”

  “Troopers! See there, below us. Damn! I didn’t expect them here. We’ll have to go over the top!”

  “Merry! You are not serious?”

  “Oh, am I not? Here we go—God save us all!”

  He turned sharply to the left, riding at a trot and picking his way with care. Looking ahead, Phoebe gave a gasp of fright. The land soared to a majestic escarpment. Surely, he did not mean to attempt that climb? It was not possible! The slope was too sheer, too barren!

  Jeffery gasped out, “Merry—have you ever … gone over the top?”

  “Twice. It’s not easy. Especially with a game ankle. You’d do well to turn back now, Jeff, unless you feel up to a climb and a scramble down.”

  Jeff said nothing, but stayed doggedly with them.

  Very soon the horses were scrambling for a footing. Phoebe clung to the pommel, watching Meredith anxiously and worrying about Jeff. The latter worries were justified first. She heard a muffled shout and a frightened whinnying, and looked back to see Mouser scrambling up and Jeffery sprawling.

  Meredith halted. “Jeff,” he panted, “you gave it a jolly good try. You must go back, old fellow.”

  His brother strove gamely, gripped his leg, and sank back. “Just have to—rest … for a bit. Go on, Merry. I’ll catch up.”

  “Nonsense! You’d break your neck going down, even if you did reach the top. Go back!” And without so much as a word to Phoebe, he urged Rogue forward again.

  For the rest of her life, Phoebe was to be troubled by occasional nightmares of what followed. The wind, which had been steadily rising, was a gusting gale by the time they scrambled onto the summit. Her relief and amazement at having survived the climb were short-lived. The furtive moon illumined a sheer, boulder-strewn slope, the surface deeply fissured and broken so that she despaired of being able to negotiate it, much less get the horses safely down. They had dismounted soon after Jeffery’s tumble, and Meredith, who had been leaning wearily against Rogue, now came over to her.

  “We’ll rest for a minute,” he said breathlessly. “How are you?”

  “Frightened,” she admitted. “How can the horses get down this awful cliff?”

  “Hopefully on their own. Surer than the devil, I cannot carry ’em.”

  She smiled. “Merry, is your arm a great nuisance?”

  “It is a great nuisance to be half-crippled tonight, I don’t mind telling you.” He was scanning the slope behind them. “I cannot see Jeff—can you?”

  She turned to look, and was staggered by a howling blast. Meredith grabbed her as an unearthly screaming filled her ears. The wind was so strong she could scarcely draw a breath, and she buried her face in his cravat. The screaming persisted. The horses fidgeted and whinnied nervously. “What is—that hideous noise?” she shouted.

  “Nobody knows. Wind through the rocks, perhaps. The locals think it’s the souls of the dead. That’s why none will come this way. Among other things.” He grinned at her. “We’d best get on. Don’t try to lead Spring.” He went to the mare’s head and stroked her, murmuring softly, then said, “She’ll follow me. It’s the big fellow I’m concerned about.” He gripped Phoebe’s hand tightly, “Nothing ventured…”

  They started down, but had gone only a short distance when Phoebe slid a yard. Her heart in her mouth, she screamed. Meredith jerked her backwards and she sat down hard and without elegance. He knelt beside her and she was in his embrace, sobbing into his cravat. “Oh—I cannot! I didn’t think—Merry—I am terrified of high places!”

  He said with breathless indignation, “This is the very deuce of a time to tell me that, Miss Ramsay!”

  She peeped up at him contritely. “I know what you are thinking. I ‘had to come.’ I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m not,” he shouted above the howl of the wind. “My brother has left us, poor lad. If I should be the next casualty, your brother’s life will be in your hands, ma’am. Besides”—he smiled—“my pets are limited to Justice and Satan. Lacking a tame dragon to fly you down, you’ve either to go on down, or back up and then down the other side. Sorry, m’dear, but that’s the best I have to offer.”

  Despite his teasing manner he was very pale, and his left hand gripped his hurt wrist from time to time. He needed her, and Sinclair needed her—would she ever forgive herself if she let them down? Her little chin came up. She said, “Let us try again, then,” and forced herself to stand up.

  He clasped her hand once more. Her knees were trembling, but she concentrated on the fact that this man who tried to guide her and balance himself with one arm in a sling was striving so for her dear brother’s sake. Meredith led her in a sideways, snaking descent, so that their progress was slower, but a little less hair-raising. “Do not look any farther than your boots,” he shouted, and she obeyed, conquering one step at a time, her breath ragged, her heart pounding with fear.

  She gave a shriek as Spring came down very close, snorting her fright, but managing to keep upright to an extent, although she was practically sitting and sliding. Unable to stop, she shot past and vanished into the darkness.

  Waiting, holding his breath, Meredith heard no threshing about, or the terrible equine screams he so dreaded. “One down safely,” he muttered.

  They were about halfway down when Rogue at last attempted the slope. They heard a thunderous scrambling, a great rattling of loose shale. Meredith pulled Phoebe into his arm and stood with his back to the rain of stones. The black fairly whizzed by. There came a wild neighing and the unmistakable sound of a fall. Phoebe felt Carruthers’s hand tighten bruisingly on hers, but he said nothing and they struggled on. It became an endless nightmare of fear and effort. She was preparing to beg him to rest just for a minute, when she felt a difference, and with a gasp of astonished triumph realized that they were on level ground. “We’re—down!” she cried.

  He said a curt “Bravo!” and left her, hurrying to Spring, who stood grazing. He was running his hand down the mare’s legs when Phoebe discerned another shape against the darkness. “Merry!” she cried joyously. “There’s Rogue! He’s standing!”

  “Praise the Lord!” he breathed. “Stay with Spring. I’ll get him.”

  Rogue was trembling and there were some superficial cuts on his side and shoulder where he had fallen, but by some miracle no bones were broken and both animals appeared to have escaped serious injury.

  Carruthers took a minute or two to quiet the big stallion, then he tossed Phoebe into her saddle. His own mount was an awkward effort that dismayed her. They were off at once, however, keeping clear of roads and lanes, cutting across country, past cottages that gradually became more frequent, the blustering wind helping to drown the sounds of their going.

  The moon escaped its cloud net at last and revealed tossing trees, a large branch down across a lane ahead, and a horseman riding fast along that lane and taking the obstruction without check.

  “It’s Sin!” called Phoebe. “Merry! It’s Sin!”


  He said, “And the village only a mile or so off!” and was away and onto the lane at a pounding gallop.

  The wind sent his cloak billowing out and whipped Phoebe’s hair into a flying mane. She leaned forward in the saddle, urging Spring to greater efforts, marvelling at Carruthers’s endurance and horsemanship, her eyes fixed on him and the striving stallion, her ears filled with the blustering wind, the pound of hoofs, the creak of saddle leather. Sinclair glanced back, then rode faster.

  ‘Sin,’ thought Phoebe desperately, ‘can’t you feel it is only Merry and me? Stop!’

  The distant spire of a church was visible now, a deeper black against the sky. There would be troopers there, waiting. Her nerves tight with dread, she saw Rogue seem to stretch out, as though before he had been merely trotting. Meredith was crouched low, as one with the powerful animal, and they pulled ahead until she was left some distance behind. She saw Sinclair glance back again, and saw also, with a gasp of horror, the moonlight gleam on a pistol in his hand.

  Faintly borne on the wind came a shout. Sinclair turned more fully, then he was slowing, wheeling his mount. Phoebe gave a sob of thankfulness and came thundering up as the two men met.

  “Carruthers!” cried her brother. “What the—Phoebe!”

  “Troopers—ahead!” panted Carruthers. “Off the road … quick!”

  * * *

  His back propped against a tree, his long legs stretched out before him, Carruthers watched Phoebe as she came towards him, holding up her habit and treading with care. The wind had died away, early sunlight was brightening the little clearing, and the cloudless skies gave promise of a warm day. Phoebe’s habit was mud-stained and there was a tear here and there; her boots were scraped and her dashing hat gone. He was glad of that, because the red-gold of her untidy hair was caught by the sun and shone like a flame around her grubby face as she sank to her knees beside him.

  “Are you feeling better?” she asked, searching his wan features anxiously.

  “Better, but thwarted and most unheroical, alas,” he replied.