Emma Cordova flew back to her little table and whisked her lunch from sight, wondering with considerable indignation whatever this Frenchman had expected that he must be so cautious. To be ambushed by gypsies, perhaps? To be set upon and robbed by a gang of thieves of which she was the ringleader?
In response to a firm knock she called harshly, "Be pleased to enter."
He came in, stooping so as not to bang his head on the lintel. Straightening, he said in perfect English, "Henri Gistel, madame. I am expected, no?"
The smile that curved the full red lips was not reflected in a pair of very dark eyes that were strangely dull and devoid of expression. He removed his hat politely, revealing lank black hair that emphasized the extreme pallor of his long, narrow face. His demeanour was respectful and mannerly, his garments of excellent fabric and superb tailoring. He seated himself in the opposite chair and Mrs. Cordova's resentment was forgotten. She sensed power, and a threat that caused her heart to flutter. Struggling against a strong compulsion to run away, she stammered, "I regret, Monsieur Gistel, but my crystal it—er, is today clouded. In fairness I—I will postpone your appointment."
His smile did not waver, nor did he make any attempt to rise but instead began to strip off his gloves. "Perhaps Madame would be more comfortable did we converse in French?"
It was blandly said, but his eyes mocked her. "Madame is comfortable," she lied defiantly. "You make the other appointment, yes?"
"But—no, ma'am. I have no time to waste. Your crystal seems clear enough. Perhaps you did not look closely."
She forced her reluctant gaze to The Mystical Window Through Time. It was clear and gleaming. By the very force of his presence this strange man had enhanced her psychic abilities.
The chink of coins broke through her astonishment. Monsieur Gistel had placed five guineas on the table, one after another in a straight line. 'Five guineas!' she thought, and said, "Monsieur is also, I have think, a psychic."
He shook his head. "I was a priest at one time. I am now many things, and at present an art collector. But I will admit to a deep interest in mysticism. You are rumoured to possess a genuine gift, Madame. That is what brought me to you."
And five guineas was five guineas! "Do you desire that I look into the past, Monsieur? Or is it your future that—"
An impatient gesture silenced her. He folded his hands on the table. They were well-manicured hands and so white that the black hairs stood out in sharp relief. Leaning forward, his eyes seemed to bore into hers. "I am interested in a certain work of art called The Sigh of Saladin. I wish to know if, in fact, it exists."
She bent over the crystal for fear that she might betray her excitement. She had at least part of the answer to his question. If she could discover some more he might even add to his already enormous largesse.
She gazed deep and deeper, the minutes ticking away while Monsieur Gistel waited in a tense and obviously hungry silence. Never had the crystal seemed so clear. "Ah," she intoned in her best mystical voice. "I see a knight… a knight in armour. From long ago. He comes home bearing a gift for his bride. It is… magnifique!"
"Then it really does exist! Can you see it? Where is it now?"
"I see a small picture wrought in… in gold and gems. Very old and dirty. But beautiful still. It is there… at the manor house."
"Ah!" he said eagerly. "You mean Lanterns, yes? Well, go on, go on! Whereabouts, exactly?"
Another interval of peering silently. She said, "Many have search. For centuries they seek. But no one has found. It… stands up straight. And it is with… music. Alas, it is fading. I can no longer see."
She spoke truly. The bright clarity of the crystal had faded. Monsieur Gistel continued to question her, but she replied erratically, for now there was in the depths of her Mystical Window a swirling mist that came very seldom and was invariably of great significance. She held her breath, hoping she was to be given the location of the treasure. Instead, she caught a glimpse of something that had nothing to do with the legendary Sigh of Saladin. The vision was brief but quite clear, and it made her very frightened indeed.
"Did it work?" Diccon raced up the stairs and into the northernmost bedchamber and the table that had been set before the open window.
Vaughan turned, his eyes alight with triumph. "See for yourself!"
A broad-based candle lay on its side in a tray that had been the breastplate of a suit of armour. The flame was extinguished but a thin spiral of smoke hung on the air.
Diccon gave a whoop and clapped Vaughan on the back. "Did it stay lit until after it landed?"
"Yes. I blew it out. Not much doubt that it will ignite the powder, but we'll have to take care not to use too much. Don't want to burn down your—"
"Why are you playin' with the candle?"
The two men turned quickly.
The Scourge of the Spanish Main watched them from the doorway, the skull-and-crossbones drooping in one hand and a forlorn expression in his blue eyes.
"Well, if it isn't Captain Detestable Dag," said Diccon with a flourishing bow. "Lieutenant Vaughan told me you were going off to scourge a few seas. Did you sink any merchantmen?"
"We din't go. Eric forgot."
The resignation in the small face caused the two men to exchange a quick glance.
Arthur asked, "What're you doing, Sir G'waine?"
"Building a signal."
"Why?"
Vaughan said, "If thieves should come Major Diccon might need help, and since he—"
"Diccon wouldn't need no help with thieves! He'd kill 'em all dead!"
His dark eyes twinkling, Vaughan said, "Don't doubt it a bit."
"The thing is," said Diccon with a smile, "if there was a— er, gang of the bounders, Detestable, even I might need help."
"Even you!" snorted Vaughan.
"Oh," said Arthur dubiously. "Well, how's a candle goin' to help you?"
Diccon lifted the small impromptu shelf they'd fashioned on top of the table. "You see how the front of the shelf folds down unless I hold it up?"
"Yes. Why has it got that long piece of string tied to it?"
"Because," Vaughan fed the string over a rough frame they'd erected across the desk and pulled it tight and the shelf was held securely in place.
Diccon put the candle on top. "The string goes all the way downstairs and we tie it around that big cauldron in the kitchen. So long as it stays tight, the shelf stays up. But if someone bad should break in, we'd only have to lift the cauldron or cut the string and the shelf would fold down, dropping the candle onto the pan. Do you see?"
Arthur knit his brows. "It wouldn't make 'nuff noise to fright a thief, I don't think."
"Quite right," said Diccon. "Only we'll have a thin line of black powder under the shelf, leading to the far end of the table."
"Oh. So when the candle falls down, it sets light to the powder? If it's just a thin line it still won't make much of a bang, Diccon."
"No," agreed Vaughan. "But those will."
Arthur looked at the collection of intriguing packets on the window end of the table, and his eyes became very wide indeed. "Fireworks?"
Diccon nodded. "Fireworks."
"An' the powder will catch 'em alight?"
Vaughan said laughingly, "We certainly hope so. If they all go shooting out of the window, they'll be seen for miles and people will come to help."
"Ooooh! Diccon, can we—"
"I'm afraid not, old fellow. But we'll have a show on Guy Fawkes' Day, how's that?"
Arthur's face fell. "It's in November. An' it's a long way from now."
Diccon knew that Vaughan's plans for the day had included taking Fanny for a drive. His eyes asked a question. Vaughan nodded and said, "You're not forgetting that your doctor prescribed sea air? Why don't you get to it? Mac can help me set that fallen block into the wall downstairs and there'll still be time for my—er, activities."
"Thanks, Joss. Well, Detestable, will you take me along in your galleon?"
His answer was a shout of joy and a crushing hug, and down to the beach they marched, hand in hand.
Diccon was relegated to the rank of Bo'sun and when the Detestable Dag was safely aboard, he bent to his oars and, obeying the command of the Scourge of the Seven Seas, sang heartily,
No matter your rank, you'll walk the plank
If you drift across our bow!
So stay well clear of the buccaneer
Who's taken The Brotherhood's vow!
Joining the chorus in a piercing scream, Captain Detestable waved the skull-and-crossbones flag with one hand while clinging to the side of the rowing boat with the other.
Sing Ho for the Jolly Roger flag!
Sing Ho for the Spanish Main!
Daring and bold is Detestable Dag
You'll not see his like again!
Yo… Ho!
No never his like again!
Pleased with their efforts, they laughed together, and Captain Detestable exclaimed, "Oh, jolly good, Bo'sun!"
The wind was rising, and the rowing boat plunged into a trough. Diccon slanted a glance at the lowering clouds.
Whether or not it is designated a "galleon" a small boat in choppy seas can play havoc with the strongest stomach, but although Arthur gripped the side tightly, his eyes were bright with excitement. What great fun it would be, he said, if they should be shipwrecked. On a desert island.
"Great fun," agreed Diccon solemnly. "But I don't think there is one nearby."
"Then let's go to one far-by!"
Diccon chuckled, but Arthur's face clouded. "He'd be sorry then," he muttered. " 'Specially if we wasn't found for days 'n days!"
In an attempt to alleviate that hurt, Diccon said, "If truth be told I suspect your brother saw weather blowing up and had enough sense to stay on dry land."
"Then he could've taked me with him in the new coach." Arthur scowled. "He told Etta he'd got to meet someone 'portant, but he din't even say g'bye to me when he drove out. He'd forgot."
"Well we'd best not forget we're out here looking for a prize. Keep your eyes open, Skipper!"
They sighted sails on the horizon and gave chase, but the cowardly East Indiaman fled before them. A large piece of floating driftwood became a Portuguese pirate frigate and they gave her a broadside, then boarded her and had just sent several members of her villainous crew on a stroll along the legendary "plank" when the bow of the rowing boat drove through a wave and a cloud of icy spray soaked them both. Arthur shrieked exuberantly. Shaking salt water from his eyes, Diccon gasped, "Whew! I'll be for it when Miss Marietta discovers I took you out in heavy weather!"
"She won't mind. She's a good sport. D'you think she's pretty, Bo'sun?"
A brief pause, then, "Aye, Cap'n. I do. Hold tight now, we must turn about and make a run for our home port!"
Arthur had to use both hands to hang on this time, but he showed no sign of fear and when the boat was on a more even keel once more he shouted, "Mr. Williard wants her for a wife. Would he be my uncle then?"
"No, old fellow. Your brother-in-law."
Indignant, Arthur exclaimed, "I don't want him for a brother 'law!" He considered, looking glum, then asked, "I 'spect you wouldn't like to have Etta for a wife, would you? She's nice. For a girl, you know."
Again, Diccon did not at once reply, then he said rather breathlessly, "Miss Marietta is—very nice. And I would."
"Oh. Well, are you goin' to?"
"I'm—afraid not. Here comes another big one!"
The big one successfully negotiated they headed in to the calmer waters of the little cove and Arthur persisted, "Why not? Etta likes you better'n that old Mr. Williard. 'Sides, if you had her for a wife you wouldn't go 'way, would you?"
Touched by this betraying question, Diccon smiled down into the small wet face, and the boy beamed back, then shouted, "There she is!"
Marietta was walking down the sands of the cove, her cloak flying in the wind.
"Caught red-handed!" said Diccon, his heart giving its customary leap at the sight of her.
Arthur teased, "You'll be for it now, Bo'sun!" He waved, and howled, "Here we are, Etta!"
Shipping the oars Diccon jumped over the side and began to haul the boat up the beach. Marietta ran to help, then had to back away from an incoming wave. "Oh, for a pair of your hip boots," she said, laughingly.
Arthur waved the skull-and-crossbones as Diccon lifted him over the side. "Ladies don't wear hip boots! You'd look funny, Etta. I'm Cap'n Detes'ble Dag and we been pirates and we singed—sung, a pirate song. Very loud. Bo'sun Diccon can't sing, but he's a good row-er. Are you cross? Is he 'for it'?"
"He will be if you take a chill! You're soaked through!"
"Run all the way up to the manor," urged Diccon. "Please, Captain Detestable. For my sake!"
"Oh, all right!" Arthur started off, then turned back. "Is you goin' to ask her now?"
Marietta turned to look at Diccon curiously.
He felt his face burn, and said gruffly, "I'll let you know when I do. Off with you, brat, and tell the Lord of the Larder to get you warm and dry and find something for you to eat!"
Chuckling, the boy trotted off.
Diccon hauled the boat higher up the beach. "I'm sorry he got wet. I'd not expected weather to blow up so fast, though Lord knows I should have. This coast is famous for that very thing."
Marietta seized the starboard side and tugged mightily. "I suppose my brother charmed you into overriding your better judgment."
"Well, he— Oh, have a care!"
She had tripped on her cloak, and he sprang to lift her as she tumbled to the sand.
"What a fumble-fingers I am," she said, sitting up and tidying her skirts, her heart warmed because of the anxiety in his eyes. "No—don't say it was your fault and that you should never have taken Arthur out on the water in such weather. It was more than kind, and you cannot know how grateful I am. The poor child was so disappointed when Eric had to leave."
Diccon knelt there, drinking in her loveliness so close beside him. His voice a caress, he said, "You must know how fond I am of the boy. He's a grand little fellow."
"Yes, he is, but I'm afraid he has taken you over and you must not let him impose on— Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself. "And here I am come to impose once again, and ask if you were able to talk with Eric. He said nothing of his visit to you, save that he covets Orpheus."
"He's not the only one. Yes, we had a chat. Rather brief, unfortunately. I tried to drop a few hints, but he doesn't know me yet, after all, and I've no wish to seem too avuncular. Too soon." She looked at him sharply, and he added a fast, "I think he's rather shy of this awesome old chap."
"Yes." She said ruefully, "He's awfully young, even for two and twenty. It seems to me that I was older at that age."
"But that, of course, was very long ago."
"Wretch!" She laughed. "I suppose we all look back and think how much wiser we were than those who came after us. But—he is just a boy, Diccon. And very dear to me. You will try again? Please?"
He said softly, "How could I deny such a very… poor old lady?"
The silver light was in his eyes. A tremor shook her. His lips, which could be so stern, were curved to a smile of such tenderness that she was suddenly desperate to feel them on her own. Breathlessly, she waited.
Diccon had felt her tremble. Her lovely face seemed to him to glow. He reached out and drew her closer and she did not resist. Her eyes were so soft, her lips slightly parted. Enchanted, he bowed his head and leaned towards them.
A gust of wind sent her cloak flying. Through a golden haze he saw something glitter on her shawl. And the cold knifeblade of reality slashed through and destroyed that magical moment.
Marietta saw his face change, and she pulled back, belatedly embarrassed by such a shocking lapse of propriety. How could she have allowed herself to lounge about on a public beach all but embraced in a man's arms? A comparative stranger, really, who was—who was stari
ng at her bosom! Her hand went up instinctively to pull her cloak closed. His move was faster. Shocked, she shrank away, but his fingers had grasped the pin on her shawl.
In a harsh voice she scarcely recognized he demanded, "Where did you get this?"
"It was a gift. Let go at once, sir!"
Narrowed and grim, his eyes lifted to search her face. Marietta started up and he released the brooch and helped her to stand. He said coldly, "Blake Coville gave it to you."
It was a statement rather than a question. Irritated, she said, "Is there some reason why I should not accept a gift from a friend? I think it is none of your affair, Major. Besides, how can you know who gave it me?"
He walked beside her towards the cliff path and answered, "It belonged to my mother."
With a gasp, she halted and turned to face him. "Your— mother? But—but why on earth… ? Oh! I knew I should not have accepted it!" She tried to unfasten the brooch. "You shall have it back!"
"No. He gave it to you. If you wish to return it, return it to him."
"Well, I will—if I can get the wretch— I mean, if I can get it off. The clasp is caught in my shawl. Oh, why ever would Mr. Coville have been so gauche as to give me a piece of jewellery belonging to another lady?"
"Probably in the hope that I would see it, and be plagued by guilt," he said dryly.
She looked up at him. The wind tossed his thick unruly hair about and where the spray had dampened it small curls had plastered themselves against his brow. His head was held high, his mouth tight, and with the darkening clouds behind him he looked stern and formidable. She was reminded of a painting she'd once seen depicting a Roman centurion preparing to lead his men into mortal combat; there was the same hawk look, the same fierce intensity. For some reason she felt a pang of fear.
Not looking at her, he said, "You're wondering if I told you the truth, or if I am as guilty as the Covilles say."
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns Page 20