Anthony Wilding

by Rafael Sabatini

  Before her, on the edge of the shrubbery, a grey figure stood erect and graceful, and the face, with its thin lips faintly smiling, its dark eyes gleaming, was the face of Anthony Wilding. And as she stared he moved forward, and she heard the fall of his foot upon the turf, the clink of his spurs, the swish of his scabbard against the shrubs, and reason told her that this was no ghost.

  She held out her arms to him. “Anthony! Anthony!” She staggered forward, and he was no more than in time to catch her as she swayed.

  He held her fast against him and kissed her brow. “Sweet,” he said, “forgive me that I frightened you. I came by the orchard gate, and my coming was so timely that I could not hold in my answer to your cry.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, she drew a long sighing breath, and nestled closer to him. “Anthony!” she murmured again, and reached up a hand to stroke his face, to feel that it was truly living flesh.

  And Sir Rowland, realising too by now that here was no ghost, recovered his lost courage. He put a hand to his sword, then withdrew it, leaving the weapon sheathed. Here was a hangman’s job, not a swordsman’s, he opined – and wisely, for he had had earlier experience of Mr Wilding’s play of steel.

  He advanced a step. “O, fool!” he snarled. “The hangman waits for you.”

  “And a creditor for you, Sir Rowland,” came the voice of Mr Trenchard, who now pushed forward through those same shrubs that had masked his friend’s approach. “A Mr Swiney. ’Twas I sent him from town. He’s lodged at the ‘Bull,’ and bellows like one when he speaks of what you owe him. There are three messengers with him, and they tell of a debtor’s gaol for you, sweetheart.”

  A spasm of fury crossed the face of Blake. “They may have me, and welcome, when I’ve told my tale,” said he. “Let me but tell of Anthony Wilding’s lurking here, and not only Anthony Wilding, but all the rest of you are doomed for harbouring him. You know the law, I think,” he mocked them, for Lady Horton, Diana, and Richard, who had come up, stood now a pace or so away in deepest wonder. “You shall know it better before the night is out, and better still before next Sunday’s come.”

  “Tush!” said Trenchard, and quoted, “‘There’s none but Anthony may conquer Anthony.’ ”

  “’Tis clear,” said Wilding, “you take me for a rebel. An odd mistake! For it chances, Sir Rowland, that you behold in me an accredited servant of the Secretary of State.”

  Blake stared, then fell a prey to ironic laughter. He would have spoken, but Mr Wilding plucked a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Trenchard.

  “Show it him,” said he, and Blake’s face grew white again as he read the lines above Sunderland’s signature and observed the seals of office. He looked from the paper to the hated smiling face of Mr Wilding.

  “You were a spy?” he said, his tone making a question of the odious statement. “A dirty spy?”

  “Your incredulity is flattering at least,” said Wilding pleasantly as he repocketed the parchment, “and it leads you in the right direction. I neither was nor am a spy.”

  “That paper proves it!” cried Blake contemptuously. Having been a spy himself, he was a good judge of the vileness of the office.

  “See to my wife, Nick,” said Wilding sharply, and made as if to transfer her to the care of his friend.

  “Nay,” said Trenchard, “’tis your own duty that. Let me discharge the other for you.” And he stepped up to Blake and tapped him briskly on the shoulder. “Sir Rowland,” said he, “you’re a knave.” Sir Rowland stared at him. “You’re a foul thing – a muckworm – Sir Rowland,” added Trenchard amiably, “and you’ve been discourteous to a lady, for which may Heaven forgive you – I can’t.”

  “Stand aside,” Blake bade him, hoarse with passion, blind to all risks. “My affair is with Mr Wilding.”

  “Aye,” said Trenchard, “but mine is with you. If you survive it, you can settle what other affairs you please – including, belike, your business with Mr Swiney.”

  “Not so, Nick,” said Wilding suddenly, and turned to Richard. “Here, Richard! Take her,” he bade his brother-in-law.

  “Anthony, you damned shirk-duty, see to your wife. Leave me to my own diversions. Sir Rowland,” he reminded the baronet, “I have called you a knave and a foul thing, and faith! if you want it proving you need but step down the orchard with me.”

  He saw hesitation lingering in Sir Rowland’s face, and he uncurled the lash of the whip he carried. “I’d grieve to do a violent thing before the ladies,” he murmured deprecatingly. “I’d never respect myself again if I had to drive a gentleman of your quality to the ground of honour with a horsewhip. But, as God’s my life, if you don’t go willingly this instant, ’tis what will happen.”

  Richard’s newborn righteousness prompted him to interfere, to seek to avert this threatened bloodshed; his humanity urged him to let matters be, and his humanity prevailed. Diana watched this foreshadowing of tragedy with tight lips, pale cheeks. Justice was to be done at last, it seemed, and as her frightened eye fell upon Sir Rowland she knew not whether to exult or weep. Her mother – understanding nothing – plied her meanwhile with whispered questions.

  As for Sir Rowland, he looked into the old rake’s eyes agleam with wicked mirth, and rage welled up to choke him. He must kill this man.

  “Come,” said he. “I’ll see to your fine friend Wilding afterwards.”

  “Excellent,” said Trenchard, and led the way through the shrubbery to the orchard.

  Ruth, reviving, looked up. Her glance met Mr Wilding’s; it quickened into understanding, and she stirred. “Is it true? Is it really true?” she cried. “I am being tortured by this dream again!”

  “Nay, sweet, it is true; it is true. I am here. Say, shall I stay?”

  She clung to him for answer. “And you are in no danger?”

  “In none, sweet. I am Mr Wilding of Zoyland Chase, free to come and go as best shall seem to me.”

  He begged the others to leave them a little while, and he led her to the stone seat by the river. He set her at his side there and told her the story of his escape from the firing-party, and of the inspiration that had come to him on the morrow to make use of the letter in his boot which Sunderland had given him for Monmouth in the hour of panic. Monmouth’s cavalier treatment of him when he had arrived in Bridgwater had precluded his delivering that letter at the council. There was never another opportunity, nor did he again think of the package in the stressful hours that followed. It was not until the following morning that he suddenly remembered it lay undelivered, and bethought him that it might prove a weapon to win him delivery from the dangers that encompassed him.

  “It was a slender chance,” he told her, “but I employed it. I waited in London, in hiding, close upon a fortnight ere I had an opportunity of seeing Sunderland. He laughed me to scorn at first, and threatened me with the Tower. But I told him the letter was in safe hands and would remain there in earnest of his good behaviour, and that did he have me arrested it would instantly be laid before the King and bring his own head to the block more surely even than my own. It frightened him; but it had scarcely done so, sweet, had he known that that precious letter was still in my boot, for my boot was on my leg, and my leg was in the room with the rest of me.

  “He surrendered at last, and gave me papers proving that Trenchard and I – for I stipulated for old Nick’s safety too – were His Majesty’s accredited agents in the West. I loathed the title. But…” – he spread his hands and smiled – “it was that or widowing you.”

  She took his face in her hands and stroked it fondly, and they sat thus until a dry cough behind them roused them from their joyous silence. Mr Trenchard was sauntering towards them, his left eye tucked farther under his hat than usual, his hands behind him.

  “’Tis a thirsty evening,” he informed them.

  “Go, tell Richard so,” said Wilding, who knew naught of Richard’s altered ways.

  “I’ve thought of it; but haply he’s sensitive on the scor
e of drinking with me again. He has done it twice to his undoing.”

  “He’ll do it a third time, no doubt,” said Mr Wilding curtly, and Trenchard, taking the hint, turned with a shrug, and went up the lawn towards the house. He found Richard in the porch, where he had lingered fearfully, waiting for news. At sight of Mr Trenchard’s grim, weather-beaten countenance he came forward suddenly.

  “How has it sped?” he asked, his lips twitching on the words.

  “Yonder they sit,” said Trenchard, pointing down the lawn.

  “No, no. I mean… Sir Rowland.”

  “Oh, Sir Rowland?” cried the old sinner, as though Sir Rowland were some matter long forgotten. He sighed. “Alas, poor Swiney! I fear I’ve cheated him.”

  “You mean?”

  “Art slow at inference, Dick. Sir Rowland has passed away in the odour of villainy.”

  Richard clasped nervous hands together and raised his colourless eyes to heaven.

  “May the Lord have mercy on his soul!” said he.

  “May He, indeed!” said Trenchard, when he had recovered from his surprise. “But,” he added pessimistically, “I doubt the rogue’s in hell.”

  Richard’s eyes kindled suddenly, and he quoted from the thirtieth Psalm, “‘I will extol thee, O Lord; for Thou hast lifted me up, and hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.’” Dumfounded, wondering, indeed, was Westmacott’s mind unhinged, Trenchard scanned him narrowly. Richard caught the glance and misinterpreted it for one of reproof. He bethought him that his joy was unrighteous. He stifled it, and forced his lips to sigh “Poor Blake!”

  “Poor, indeed!” quoth Trenchard, and adapted a remembered line of his play-acting days to suit the case. “The tears live in an onion that shall water his grave. Though, perhaps, I am forgetting Swiney.” Then, in a brisker tone, “Come, Richard. What like is the muscadine you keep at Lupton House?”

  “I have abjured all wine,” said Richard.

  “A plague you have!” quoth Trenchard, understanding less and less. “Have you turned Mussulman, perchance?”

  “No,” answered Richard sternly, “Christian.”

  Trenchard hesitated, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. “Hum,” said he at length. “Peace be with you, then. I’ll leave you here to bay the moon to your heart’s content. Perhaps Jasper will know where to find me a brain-wash.” And with a final suspicious, wondering look at the whilom bibber, he passed into the house, much exercised on the score of the sanity of this family into which his friend Anthony had married.

  Outside, the twilight shadows were deepening.

  “Shall we home, sweet?” whispered Mr Wilding.

  The shadows befriended her, a veil for her sudden confusion. She breathed something that seemed no more than a sigh, though more it seemed to Anthony Wilding.

  Synopses

  Titles published by House of Stratus

  Anthony Wilding

  The scene is Monmouth’s Rebellion, set in the West Country in seventeenth century England. As the ill-fated and weak ’King Monmouth’ attempts to rally his insubordinate troops, Anthony Wilding embarks upon his own quest – to woo his unwilling bride. The political and personal stories are magically interwoven in this exciting historical romance, and it is Wilding who ultimately emerges the wiser of the two men.

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  Bardleys The Magnificent

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  Chivalry

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  The Gamester

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  Gates of Doom

  ’Depend above all on Pauncefort’, announced King James, ’his loyalty is dependable as steel. He is with us body and soul and to the last penny of his fortune.’ So when Pauncefort does indeed face bankruptcy after the collapse of the South Sea Company, the king’s supreme confidence now seems rather foolish. And as Pauncefort’s thoughts
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  Heroic Lives

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  The Historical Night’s Entertainment

  Raphael Sabatini wrote ’ The Historical Night’s Entertainment ’ to thrill and delight his readers with accounts of bizarre and extraordinary episodes. Based on real events, he brings to them his own masterly embellishments, adding all the liveliness and excitement of fiction. There are thirteen diverse historical scenarios covered, ranging from the murder of Lord Darnley, the story of St. Bartholomew, and the drownings at Nantes, to Casonova’s escape and the assissination of a Swedish King.

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  The Hounds of God

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