Prologue
Spring, 1817
The May morning was bright and pleasantly warm. Tiny daisies starred the lush turf of the Sussex hillside, and chestnut trees, pink and white and red, were glorious in their new gowns. At the top of the hill the leaves of the cluster of birches were stirred by a gentle breeze, and on the level ground below, sunlight awoke a glitter of diamonds on the ripples of a stream and glinted no less brightly along three steel blades that rang and darted in deadly combat. An uneven combat this, for two men, broad of shoulder, long of arm, and having the grim look of merchants in death, battled a single adversary: a tall, lean young gentleman whose every movement proclaimed the athlete, and whose appearance branded him unmistakably as a member of that exclusive set known as Corinthians. He was clad with quiet elegance in buckskins and fine linen. His boots were mirror-bright, and his bottle-green riding coat a masterpiece of tailoring. He wore no hat, and dark hair, wet now with sweat, curled against a high, intelligent brow. In spite of his hazardous situation there was no fear in the long, pewter-grey eyes. Rather, they danced with exhilaration, and he mocked and taunted his opponents as he parried and thrust, his footwork as skilled as the slender but strong hand that so deftly manipulated his small-sword. Of the men facing him, one was very tall and wiry, with a narrow face, small cruel eyes, and a vindictive mouth. The other, heavy-featured and having an untidy mop of black hair, now attacked with the outside thrust under the wrist known as seconde. It was a well-executed manoeuvre, but the Corinthian countered as swiftly, and in a brilliant prime parade his sword beat down with devastating power, ringing loudly against his opponent's blade and smashing the weapon from his grip.
The black-haired man leapt out of distance, clutching his numbed wrist. "Almost I had you, Redmond!" he cried, chagrined. "Damn your eyes, I almost had you!"
Mitchell Redmond spun, lightning-fast, to deflect the wiry man's lunge, but it was very close, the steel whispering through his jacket. These two knew their trade, and he said, circling his own sword warily,''So you know my name. And someone has paid highly for your services, I think. Who wants me dead, my bullies?"
Frustrated because his blade had not struck home, the wiry individual snarled, "How many enemies have you got, eh?" He thrust even as he spoke, Redmond parried, and the swords rang together and locked. The two men strained, eye to eye, foible to foible, and the assailant went on, "How many coves have you gone and… cuckolded, fine gent that you is? How much blood you… spilled, in all them duels of yours?"
Redmond was aware that off to the side the other ruffian was reclaiming his weapon. With an expert twist, he broke free. "And you think to even the score for them?" He laughed mockingly. "I'd not be spending your blood money before it's won, were I you."
"Wouldn't you, now?" The black-haired man rejoined the attack, coming in from the side, since Redmond was managing to keep a tree trunk at his back. The battle escalated in intensity, the swords flashing and ringing, the hired assassins grim and murderously resolved, Redmond alert and very fast, and still exhilarated by this fight. They were good. Both of them were good. But he was better. His main concern was not to allow either of them to get behind him. And so he parried and riposted, his blade a whirling glitter, his movements swift, graceful, and untiring as he defended himself and managed occasionally to snatch the offensive. Overconfident, the black-haired man thrust in tierce. The blade that should have spitted Redmond's heart was beaten aside. In a silver blur Redmond's sword came at him. The man dodged, too late, then reeled back to lean weakly against a tree, one hand pressed to his side, the fingers at once stained with crimson.
The disengage, however, left Redmond vulnerable for a split second. He had to resort to a desperate leap to avoid the wiry man's immediate attack. Inevitably, he lost the protection of the tree, but it did not matter because with one rogue disabled the fight would be fair now, and it shouldn't take more than another minute or two to end it.
He parried a thrust in carte, but as he essayed the riposte, he sensed that someone was close behind him. His reaction was so fast that his lithe sway almost averted the dagger at his back. He was hampered, however, by the need to counter the sword that menaced him, and the dagger struck home glancingly. Redmond gasped, and staggered, and the third attacker, who had left the horses to join his hard-pressed comrades, uttered a howl of triumph. His wiry friend lowered his blade, grinning broadly. Redmond recovered himself and whirled about, his drooping sword whipping upward. The joyous howl of the back-stabber became a scream. He grabbed at his slashed face and fled.
Belatedly, the wiry man leapt again to the attack. He found that, far from dying, Redmond seemed cast of quicksilver. The aristocratic features were pale now, the laughter quite gone from the narrowed grey eyes. Redmond mounted a savage attack and, released of the need to remain in the one location, was agile as a cat so that where the assassin's blade was, he was not. Driven back and back by this grim ferocity, the wiry man knew fear at last. "Will!" He cast a frantic glance to his sagging friend. "Don't just mess about there! Help me, for Christ's sake! Redmond's a madman!"
Redmond's laugh was harsh and without humour. His right foot stamped forward, his knee bent gracefully, and his blade thrust in carte to the full length of the powerful arm behind it. The wiry man shrieked, swayed, and went down, a spreading bloodstain brightening his shirt front.
"Will" swore, pushed himself from the tree trunk, and staggered away.
With reddened sword leveled, Redmond advanced, his smile striking terror into the heart of the wounded man who lay, propped on one elbow, helplessly watching.
"Now," Redmond murmured, "you've a free choice, carrion. You can die, or you can tell me the name of the man who sent you."
Chapter 1
Charity Strand's slight shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. Remarking this, her attendant groom shifted in the saddle and eyed her profile with a trace of anxiety. Mr. Best had served the Strands for most of his life, working his way up from bootblack to head groom, and his affection was as deep as his loyalty. He decided that Miss Charity's face, framed by the simple straw bonnet, was still much too thin. Her sister Rachel had persuaded her to have her hair cut short, so that the thick sandy braids no longer wound about the beautifully shaped head. Best wasn't sure that he approved of such newfangled notions, but it was true enough that the fluffy curls lent a softer look to Miss Charity's delicate features. Even so, the fine eyes, somewhere between green and grey, appeared too large for her face, and the clear skin seemed almost stretched over the high cheekbones. Charity Strand had come a long way since her horse had fallen with her five years ago. For three of those years she had been trapped in a wheelchair, and although she had at last escaped that painful existence, she was far from being sturdy.
To Best's way of thinking, she would have done well to accept her brother's offer and make her permanent home at Silverings. Certainly, she knew that Mr. Justin and his lovely wife, Lisette, would have been nothing but pleased, for they both loved her dearly. The same could be said of Miss Rachel (though she wasn't a Miss any more, but was now Mrs. Tristram Leith). And not one could ask for a kinder young gent than Colonel Leith, even if he had been as good as cashiered after Waterloo! No, the problem was that little Miss Charity didn't seem to know where she belonged, poor lass. Forever drifting about from the old family home at Strand Hall, to Silverings, her brother's beautiful estate; or to Berkshire, where her sister and the Colonel spent most of the year. One would think as she be a old spinster lady, instead of barely two and twenty, and getting stronger and comelier every day now, bless her heart!
&n
bsp; The object of these musings continued to look rather wistfully to the south, her eyes following the distant gleam of the river that wound for better than twenty miles to where Silverings spread graciously upon its banks. Justin and Lisette were away, of course, and the great house closed. It was because they were in Town, and she had preferred to remain in the country, that Rachel and Tristram had come down to be with her. And it was because Justin understood her fondness for their old family home that Strand Hall had been reopened for the month he would be away. They all had grown up at the Hall, Justin, Rachel, and Charity, but she was the only one who really loved the old house, and she yearned to make it her permanent abode. There was little chance she would ever marry, for she was neither pretty nor accomplished, and she had already planted a hint in her brother's mind that she planned to engage a chaperone and occupy Strand Hall year-round. She stifled another sigh. Her hint had not been well received. Justin, his blue eyes glinting, had said impatiently, "Oh, by all means, m'dear. I think it a splendid scheme. When you reach forty."
Best saw that second sigh, and he scowled. What was she thinking on, staring like that? Silverings lay that way. Was she remembering last year, when Mr. Justin had come so close to slipping his wind down there? Or were her thoughts drifting even farther away—to France and Brittany, and the terrors she had lived through at the hands of Claude Sanguinet? A rare lot of violence this slip of a girl had known in her brief lifetime. It wasn't good for her to brood on that Frenchy's wickedness! Wherefore, faithful soul that he was, Best coughed politely and observed that it was a "nice view from here. Will I be getting ye settled like, miss?
Charity tilted her head a little and agreed that the view was lovely. ''But I think it will be better from the top, you know.''
Best had thought the same, but as he'd intended, his remark had broken her reverie, and she urged her mount up the hill once more. Satisfied, the groom slapped the reins against his horse's neck. Nosey started off with uncharacteristic reluctance. Come to think on it, the old fool had been acting a mite odd since they'd started up here. Dang it all! He should've noticed! Best called to Miss Strand and dismounted hurriedly. It took but a moment to determine that the chestnut gelding had picked up a stone in his hoof, and another moment to dislodge it, but Nosey, irreverently named after the Duke of Wellington, still favoured the leg.
"Oh, dear," said Charity, "he does not go on very well, Best. Do you suppose he has taken a stone bruise?"
Furious with himself, the groom nodded. "I fear he has, marm. The more fool I, for not noticing. Cut his hock as well—see here."
"Poor fellow. You must take him home at once."
Best replaced the little knife he always carried, and eyed the girl uneasily. "I do be that sorry, Miss Charity. And this the first nice day we've had in a week and more. But I reckon as how we better get back, else I'll have Colonel Leith a-jumpin' down me throat." He grinned at this mild aspersion on the character of a man for whom he had the deepest admiration, and took back the reins Charity held for him. "I'll walk him, miss."
"Yes, do. And when you come back—"
Dismayed, he exclaimed, "Marm? Ye never mean to stay out here all alone?"
"No, pray do not look so aghast," she said, with a little trill of laughter. ''We are less than two miles from home and this is Sussex, Best, not London."
"Aye, marm. And there be those across the water"—forgetting his earlier anxieties, he jerked his head in the direction of France—"as would hit out at the Colonel howsoever they might. And you being his lady's sister, they might just vent their spite on you!"
The fear that never failed to grip Charity when she thought of those terrible days in Brittany wrapped chilling fingers around her heart. She took a steadying breath. "It is almost two years now," she pointed out quietly. "I will not walk in terror of Monsieur S-Sanguinet forever.'' And knowing she had stumbled over speaking that dread name, she met Best's troubled eyes levelly and stretched forth an imperative hand. "My sketchbook, if you please."
The groom stared miserably at that frail little hand. "Mr. Justin would have my ears was I to leave you here alone, miss, as well you know."
"My brother," she argued with a faint smile, "would be the last one to have me creep about, trembling at every shadow for the rest of my days." And knowing that this good man's balking was prompted by love for her, she teased, "I know you mean well, but poor Nosey looks most uncomfortable. And, my faithful friend, can you really suppose anything evil could transpire in our gentle Sussex—especially on so beautiful a morning?" Seeing him frown uncertainly, she hastened to urge, "Come—it may start to rain again tomorrow, and I have promised Miss Rachel a painting of the Hall that she may take with her when they go back to Cloudhills."
Reluctantly, Best detached a flat and rather battered leather case from his saddle and handed it up to her. "You'll not wander off, miss?"
She promised to go no farther than the brow of the hill. "So be off with you. You can walk poor Nosey home at your ease, and by the time you come back I shall have a splendid painting for you to admire."
Her eyes twinkled merrily at him. And after all, what she'd said was quite true. The Frenchy had frightened Miss Charity and her sister half out of their wits, done his best to murder Colonel Leith, and pretty near crippled poor Mr. Devenish, but that had been in France—which everyone and his brother knew was a place fit only for snails and serpents! Best looked around at peaceful fields, drowsing woods, and the musical hurrying of the stream. England. Not even that ogre, Bonaparte, had managed to invade this dear old isle; what chance had a fumble-foot like Claude Sanguinet?
And so it was that, uttering a final stern admonishment that Miss Charity not talk to no strangers, Best took up Nosey's reins and started down the hill. "I'll be back in an hour," he called over his shoulder. "Or less, like as not."
Charity waved and rode on. If she knew Best, he would be back just as quickly as he could, and fond as she was of the groom, the opportunity to sketch without benefit of his critical and vocal appraisal of her efforts was enticing. She slipped from the saddle when she came to the brow of the hill, and tied the reins to a low-hanging branch in a copse of birch trees so that the mare might graze comfortably. The light was as good as she had hoped, and it was the work of a moment to spread the blanket on the damp turf and settle down with her sketchbook and colouring case.
With deft, rapid strokes, she sketched in the outlines of Strand Hall, the soar of its neoclassical columns, the deep welcoming terrace where Brutus was probably outstretched and snoozing at this very minute. She smiled, pleased with these first efforts. A long way off small bells were jingling erratically, a puzzling sound that was relegated to the back of her mind as she roughed in the pleasure gardens.
It was easier to draw the Hall than to get Silverings onto paper. During the three months she had just spent there with Justin and Lisette, she had tried several times, without success, to capture the house bathed in the dancing light from the river that had given the estate its name. Her thoughts dwelt fondly on her brother. Dear Justin, so happily settled at last, so adoring his beautiful bride. Sometimes, when he did not guess he was being watched, she had caught him looking at Lisette with an awed wonderment in his eyes, as though even now he could not quite believe the depth of happiness that had been granted him.
"Perhaps," thought Charity, "I do have a chance to find love. Perhaps the day will dawn when a gentleman looks so at me…" And at once she felt guilty even to wish for such a blessing when she had been given so very much. Two short years ago, her one prayer had been that the pain would stop. Now she was not only free from suffering, but she could walk and ride and lead a normal life (even though her dancing left much to be desired!). To ask the good Lord for more was pure greed.
The little bells rang louder and, intruding thus into her awareness, caused her brow to pucker. Bells? On a Thursday morning? And they had been chiming with that odd lack of rhythm since just a little while after she'd sat down. Curious,
she set aside pad and pencils and stood.
Her scan of the surrounding countryside revealed no logical source of the sound, but it could be coming from the northern side of the hill. She walked up through the stand of trees and, coming out into the sunshine, halted, appalled by the scene before her.
A man, his shirt most gruesomely stained and his attitude one of mortal fear, lay on the ground at the foot of the hill, one arm thrown up in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the blade that menaced him. The individual who held that glittering sword, far from showing any pity, stepped even closer, until the point of the blade cut into his victim's throat.
Paralyzed with shock, Charity heard a soft, gloating laugh. A cultured voice observed with cold inflexibility, "Very well, then. This world is overburdened with your kind!"
The sword was drawn back, the hand holding it now aiming in such a way as to make his murderous intent very clear. The wounded man gave a shriek and began to babble frantically, but his words were drowned by the scream that burst from Charity's throat. Running pell-mell, she called, "Do not! Oh, you must not murder the poor soul!"
"Damn and blast!" The swordsman spun to face her.
Still running, Charity beheld a slim gentleman whose expression fairly hurled wrath. He was much younger than she had at first supposed. Even in that taut moment, a portion of her brain registered the fact that he was excessively handsome, his hair thick and dark, his nose high-bridged and Roman, his features of an aquiline cast, and his chin firm. The mouth, however, she judged cruel, with thin lips compressed into a tight, angry line, while the eyes—Oh, heavens! Had she ever before seen eyes of such an icy grey?
His voice a snarl of rage, he demanded, ''What in the devil are you doing here, madam?"
The question was as arrogant as it was stupid. Ignoring it, she stood before him and panted, "You must not! It would be cold-blooded murder!''
A twisted smile curved his mouth unpleasantly. He sneered, "Much you know of it. My gift to England, rather.''
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown Page 1