Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  Quite suddenly, Charity was in a bedchamber, a chambermaid caring for her. A tray was brought to her, but she was not hungry and could only eat a few mouthfuls despite the maid's urging. She tried to talk to the girl, but was unable to form the words, and when she tried to write, her eyes refused to focus and the pen wavered erratically over the page.

  She was back in the coach again, and the wheels went on and on until they spun her into sleep. This time, for what seemed an eternity…

  She awoke to find the carriage rocking so violently that it seemed they must overturn. Her head ached, and her mouth was dry as dust, but she could see clearly, and her mind seemed less clouded. She was bathed in a scarlet glow, which was peculiar because it could not be sunset again—unless she had slept all night and throughout the following day. They must have made a bed for her on one of the seats, for she lay full-length. The blanket thrown over her was warm, but it smelled musty, and the wool was rough, scratching against her chin. There was a familiar scent in her nostrils; a frightening scent. She threw back the blanket, sat up, and yelped as she struck her head on the roof. Only it was not the roof. And she was no longer in the carriage.

  Fear spurring her, she stood and ran to the window. A round window. And her bed was a bunk, with another over it, from which a tiny arm stretched out while a pink mouth voiced a scratchy greeting.

  Charity stood on tiptoe and looked out the porthole. A grey tumbling sea stretched away to the dim horizon. Even as she watched, the vessel rolled into a deep trough and the waves loomed up until they blotted out the crimson sky.

  Despair overcame her. She sank down the wooden side until she knelt huddled on the floor. The carriage must have turned about while she slept. She was on her way to Brittany after all. And once she was in that terrible chateau she was doomed. If Tristram or Justin or Dev should come, it would be to their deaths, for Claude would be ready and waiting.

  There was no hope now. No hope at all. She bowed her head into her hands and wept.

  Chapter 9

  "I'm getting old, Redmond," said Diccon gloomily, watching diLoretto, who stood in the rainy yard, haggling with the ostler of the Jolly Tar tavern. "Why did I not think of Ireland? God knows it's logical enough. It should have been one of the first places I'd guess, yet it never so much as occurred to me."

  Mitchell rested his shoulders against the wall of the inn and finished the ale in his tankard. They had been in the saddle since dawn, most of that time spent in a misting drizzle. They'd traversed Oxfordshire, progressing damply through the beauties of the Cotswolds, and now faced a chill and rainy afternoon with many miles still before them. Diccon had hoped to be in the Black Country by now, but for reasons best known to himself, he had twice detoured, first far to the east, and then doubling back southwards again, before continuing to this quiet inn near Stratford-on-Avon.

  "You still don't know it's Ireland," Mitchell pointed out. "All Tonio discovered was that Sanguinet's people have been spotted on the docks at Birkenhead. Which could mean anything." He glanced at the intelligence officer curiously. "How was he able to find out that much, by the by?"

  He half expected a polite evasion. Diccon surprised him. "One of my most promising men is a young gypsy. Lucian St. Clair sent him to me, and he's proved to be invaluable. His people know more of what transpires on moonlit nights on unfrequented byways and secluded coves than our fellows at Bow Street will ever know. And as you've already seen, they provide me with an efficient network of eyes, ears, and sometimes help. I'd seen Daniel, my gypsy, on my interrupted search in Essex. Dan was on the trail of one of Claude's lieutenants. A man whose very presence in England indicates that Claude is almost ready. Daniel was sure he would have news for me very soon, so before you and I left Sussex, I sent Tonio to seek him out and report to me at Abingdon. You, ah, may have noticed he was missing."

  "Damned rogue! I had to pack my own saddlebags. But how did he know where to find this Daniel?"

  "There's an ancient church in Little Snoring at the edge of the Ashdown Forest. It has a leper's window that was, I believe, put to much use during the Jacobite Rebellion. It has been used by the Folk for many years, and a note left in that window reaches Daniel in jig time."

  ''I see. You've lots of tricks up your sleeve. And Tonio?''

  "Has been indebted to me for some time. I arranged for your meeting with him, knowing you harboured a grudge against the Sanguinets and that sooner or later you'd come to grips with them. Had you stirred up anything interesting, Tonio would have reported it to me at once."

  After a pause, Mitchell asked, "And you believe Claude will make his move this year?"

  "This year? Good God, Redmond! Mine has not been a life free from hazard. I've several old wounds that make riding unpleasant in rainy weather, and I haul a lead ball in my back that can be deuced annoying in the face of sustained travel. Do you think I'd essay this mad dash had we a half-year to spare?"

  "Considering I number one-third of your army," said Mitchell with dry sarcasm, "I've not been kept well informed, to put it mildly!"

  Diccon glanced at him, a sudden twinkle in his eyes. "Very well, General. I think our Claude means to strike within the month."

  "My God!" Mitchell pushed his shoulders from the wall and regarded his companion in horror.

  Diccon nodded. "You carry identification papers, I presume? Letters, calling cards, that sort of thing?"

  "Yes. Of course. Why?"

  "Get rid of 'em. Anything that might identify you."

  Staring at him, Mitchell said slowly, "You think they're after us?"

  "Sanguinet has eyes everywhere. I changed my appearance, but…" Diccon paused and went on with obvious reluctance, "If anything should chance to go awry, I carry a small notebook in a special inner pocket under my left arm. It contains much of what I already know, and a good deal that I suspect. If I should be downed, that book must reach Smollet, or failing him—Wellington." He looked up, met two steady grey eyes, and said, "It is quite vital, or I would not ask you."

  "I'm very sure of that," said Mitchell, rather ruefully.

  Almost, Diccon smiled. "I may rely on you, then?"

  "I'll do my damnedest," said Mitchell Redmond.

  The rain continued. In late afternoon they caught a blurred glimpse of the seven-hundred-year-old might of Kenilworth Castle, then swung west, keeping to the wooded country and avoiding the plateau where perched old Birmingham, once so famous for its fine swordsmiths and cutlers and now wreathed in smoke and grime and frenetic with the hurry and bustle that machines had brought. Heading north again through the Black Country, Mitchell was so tight-lipped and silent that diLoretto enquired anxiously if his back was troubling him again. But it was the desecration of these once lovely heaths and moors that troubled him, and he answered rather savagely that there were worse things in life than a clean knife cut.

  Soon, drifting mists combined with gathering darkness to make further travel impossible. They stopped at a cosy wayside inn and bespoke two rooms. An excellent supper, topped off by a board of Cheshire's famous cheeses sent Mitchell up to bed so drowsy that he fell asleep on top of the eiderdown. DiLoretto pulled off his boots and threw a blanket over him, and he did not stir until Diccon shook him awake in a gloomy dawn, and they were off again.

  Wolverhampton was smoky and depressing, and although Mitchell was impressed by Abraham Darby's magnificent iron bridge across the River Severn that had dazzled England almost four decades ago, he was very glad when they left the Black Country and came again to clean streams and pure green fields.

  In late afternoon the sun came out to illumine Shropshire's emerald hills and they rode past farms nestling gently in their rich valleys; past chuckling rivers and quiet pools, making good progress until the mists came up again, impeding both the view and their speed. They had to pick their way through the shrouded beauties of Cheshire, past heaths and desolate moorlands where hills loomed unexpectedly, and they would come without warning upon ancient towns and hamlets
enriched by their wealth of black and white half-timbered houses.

  They left the mist behind and at sunset were approaching the fine old walled city of Chester, nestled in the bend of the River Dee. Here they encountered happy crowds and chaos, for it was time for the annual race meeting down on the Roodee, a level tract of land along the river, where all Cheshire, Staffordshire, and Shropshire seemed bound to come together to attend the races. The roads were clogged by a merry, jostling throng, who had bespoken the last bed and bench at every inn, tavern, and posting house for miles around. Even diLoretto could find no heart to sing after a long search confirmed there was not a room to be had. They were able to get some food and to find fresh mounts, and then reluctantly pressed on.

  It was past ten o'clock when the horses slowed. Mitchell, bowed forward half asleep over the pommel, straightened, yawned, and glanced at Diccon. The tall man was turning back to peer along the lane they travelled, and there was that in his attitude that instantly brought Mitchell to full awareness. "What's to do?" he asked.

  "Half a dozen horses following. I hoped we'd lost 'em, but they're coming up fast."

  Mitchell gave the cuffs of his gauntlets a tug. "Forewarned," he said.

  Diccon knew with an uneasy assessment of the odds that they were all very tired, and it would be an uneven fight, for diLoretto, however willing, was no swordsman. The smell of the sea tinged the air, and the new moon, a faint sliver of palest gold in the sky, lit the heavens just sufficiently to reveal a strange distant forest lifting bare thin arms against the night. Masts. He said grimly, "They mean to stop us before we take ship. Hasten!"

  They drove home their spurs and were away in a burst of speed. And, at once, from behind came an answering thunder of hooves in hot pursuit.

  The winding lane they followed was shut in on both sides by hedgerows and was lonely and deserted at this hour, but two or three miles ahead was the Mersey, and shipping knew no light or dark. There would be loadings and offloadings, and too many men about for Sanguinet's bullies to dare attack. It soon became evident, however, that they would be overtaken long before they reached the estuary. The hacks they'd found had been far from prime, but the best available; their pursuers had evidently fared better. They were gaining steadily so that soon the creak and jingle of harness could be heard in addition to those relentlessly beating hooves. A shot rang out, then another, the balls whistling unpleasantly close. To add to their woes, the moon seemed to be brightening and there was water everywhere now, the light reflecting from river, mere, and marshland. The lane straightened ahead. Soon they would be in open country with not even the occasional hedgerows to hinder the aim of their pursuers. "We'll be picked off like clay pigeons," Mitchell thought grimly.

  The river saved them, offering deep banks and a bridge that spanned the hurrying waters. It was a narrow, humpbacked structure with low sandstone walls; a place where three determined men might stand a chance against many. Mitchell pointed urgently, and Diccon nodded. "Right. It's there or a spot of their choosing, God forbid!"

  They galloped hard until they reached the bridge, then drew up sharply. The hacks reared and plunged. Mitchell dismounted in a smooth leap. Diccon staggered but, recovering his balance, slapped his hat under the noses of their scared horses so that the animals panicked and ran back the way they had come.

  The onrush of the men following was halted, confusion reigning as the riderless hacks careened in amongst them. Mitchell raced up the bridge a short way, drew his pistol and dropped to one knee in the deeper shadow of the wall. Taking the opposite side, Diccon muttered, "Damn! There are more than I'd thought! Make your shot count, friend. With luck we'll get a couple of the bastards! Then it will be fists—or knives"

  Mitchell said belatedly, "Tonio? Where in the devil—"

  There was no time for more. In a thundering charge, the assassins came at them. Mitchell took careful aim. His ears rang to the roar of Diccon's pistol, followed by a faint cry. A brilliant glare dazzled him as another shot rang out. He held his own fire until five dark figures were almost upon them. Even as he pulled the trigger someone else fired. Mitchell heard an odd little grunt from Diccon. Then they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat and it was too close for any more shots, even if any of their assailants still had loaded pistols.

  The big man confronting Mitchell sent steel flashing at his throat. He gripped the barrel of his pistol and flailed out with it, sending the dagger spinning, but the attacker swung up his other fist and Mitchell was staggered by a blow he was only partially able to deflect. He struck out again with his impromptu club, felt it crunch home, and the big man disappeared. The bridge became an eddying maelstrom of desperate conflict; of thudding blows, harddrawn breaths, hoarse curses, and the shift and sway of dim-seen forms battling in the elemental need to kill or be killed. Driving home a solid right to the jaw of one bully, Mitchell was barely in time to duck from a cudgel that would have brained him had it landed. He slammed his pistol butt under someone's ribs, and a cry was torn from an unseen throat. Again, steel darted at him. He saw the gleam of it and leapt madly to the side. A dark shape rushed him, a heavy blow dazed him, but he managed to retain sufficient of his wits to kick out as someone blundered past. His boot struck hard, and a diminishing wail was followed by a splash and much noisy thrashing about. Dizzied and gasping for breath, he clutched the wall. A bubbling scream rang out behind him, and someone else went down. Peering about, wondering why no more attacks came, he realized in dazed disbelief that, so quickly, it was all over.

  "Diccon…?" he panted, gingerly investigating a throbbing contusion on the side of his head.

  "H-here," wheezed Diccon.

  "Signor… Mish-hell…"

  Responding at once to that woeful cry, Mitchell ran down the bridge, vaulting over the sprawled forms of downed men, until he saw the little Italian crumpled in the shadow of the wall.

  "Tonio! Are you badly hurt?"

  "I fall from… my stupid horse," wailed the valet. "Mama mia! My dear little… head!"

  "Rest for a minute." Some instinct warning him, Mitchell turned back.

  Diccon was sagging to his knees. Even as Mitchell raced to him, he sank onto his face.

  "Oh, gad!'' Kneeling beside that lax form, Mitchell turned him gently. He could see the wetness of blood on the jacket and groped for his handkerchief. "Let me—" Diccon's hand was staying him. From the direction of the Mersey he could hear horses, coming fast.

  Diccon whispered, "Notebook. You… promised. Smollet. Go! Before—" The next word faded into a long sigh, and the tall man who had devoted so many thankless years to his country lay very still.

  Stunned, Mitchell stared down at him, then started to search for a heartbeat, just in case. But the sharp ring of an ironshod hoof against cobblestones was very close, and he dared wait no longer. Groping frantically, he found at last the concealed pocket and retrieved a small, battered, leather-bound book. He thrust it into his boot and sprang to his feet.

  Someone was behind him. The sharp edge of a dagger bit into his throat just below his right ear. "Don't move," a man growled, "or—" Mitchell sprang away, only to check as something rammed hard into his back. A low, jeering voice urged, "Go on, me bucko. Hop abaht again, why don'tcha? Up wi' yer mauleys."

  Fuming, Mitchell raised both hands slightly, and stood motionless.

  There were three of them; the two who had caught him and who were now very interested in Diccon's limp form, and another rider coming up at a less rapid pace.

  "By gorm! It's that there damned cove from Bow Street!" exclaimed the larger of them, bending low. "So Slope got him!"

  "Devil he did!" said Mitchell, his mind racing. "I got him."

  "Liar!" The gun was jabbed savagely into his back again. "You wasn't with Slope! You're a flash cull if ever I heard one."

  "And sent from London," said Mitchell. "Slope was with me, fellow! Not I with him. Had I not told him where Diccon would go, the slowtop would have made mice feet of the whole."
<
br />   The big man, kneeling beside Diccon, looked up."Search him," he said. "If he don't like it, brain him first."

  Mitchell submitted, thankful that he'd obeyed Diccon's edict and discarded anything that might have identified him.

  "Nothing," said the man who'd rifled his pockets. "Whatever he is, he's a downy cove."

  The big man clambered to his feet and came over to stand facing Mitchell. "Where's his book?" he demanded aggressively. "If the Frenchy sent you, you know what I mean."

  "I know. And I'm to give it to Claude. Not to you." He flung himself aside as the ruffian came at him. The man behind him fired in the same instant that Mitchell struck the pistol upward.

  "Perce, you stupid damned dog's arse!" howled the big man. ''You near blowed my head orf!''

  Perce began to stammer frantic excuses.

  The last rider was walking his horse up the bridge. Mitchell, praying his desperate ruse would succeed, said coldly, "Monseigneur needs all the good men he can find." He turned to the unhappy Perce and, cutting through his babbling, commanded, "You there, go down and see if Slope is alive. And be quick about it unless you've a fancy for the nubbing cheat!"

  His brief acquaintanceship with a pickpocket paid dividends. That a "flash cull" knew cant seemed to reassure these men. Grumbling, but grateful for a chance to escape his companion's justifiable wrath, Perce stuck the pistol in his belt and went off to inspect the casualties.

  The third man reined up. He was a thickset individual with a deep growl of a voice. "That you, Billy?"

  The big man acknowledged it was, and when the mounted man asked, "Is it done?" he gestured towards Diccon. "The runner's done fer, Beach."

  "Is he! His royalty'll be pleased for once! You get his book?"