The Rogue's Revenge

by Lucy E. Zahnle

When Ilya saw the women approaching, an indulgent smile curved his lips. "What is all this?"

  "I am leaving," Lucia said. "I know that my husband gave you money to recompense you for our stay here and for the food and clothing you have provided us. I would like to borrow some of it for my journey. It will be refunded, I assure you."

  "And just where had you in mind to go, Your Grace?"

  "I'm going after the men, will you or no, so you might as well give me the money." Her chin lifted stubbornly and her eyes challenged his.

  The gypsy's smile broadened. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I cannot do that. I promised His Grace that you would wait for him here. Just as you say, I have been well paid to protect you and since you would be in all sorts of danger wandering about on your own, I cannot let you leave."

  She turned on her heel and strode defiantly toward the wooded path that led to the highway. Ilya gave a Romany command to one of his men and suddenly she was scooped into a pair of burly arms from behind. Cradling her like a baby, the gypsy carried her back to her wagon while Ilya walked beside them, grinning at her furious protests and lecturing her upon wifely obedience. With an exaggerated bow, he left her seething at her caravan, ordering his grandmother and the hulking man, Anton by name, to guard her.

  Lucia fumed and fretted as she lay on her cot, watching her gaolers drink wine and play at cards. The pair had tried to tempt her with the wine and the game, but, dejected and exhausted from the morning's futile exercises, she had refused them. No plan of escape immediately presented itself to her and she drifted into sleep, concocting unlikely ways to deceive the gypsies into freeing her.

  Chapter 29:

  In Which Thieves Abound

  After an unpleasant night in a drafty inn, Mountheathe was not pleased the next morning to discover that the only conveyance the Blue Bull possessed had already been let for the summer. The nearest inn with an available carriage was three miles away.

  Giles sent Madden off immediately after breakfast to procure this fabled coach, then returned to his private parlor where Concordia lay on a couch, just rousing out of her drug-induced stupor. He dosed his captive with his last vial, rang for claret, and settled back to wait for his servant's return.

  It was well after noon when Madden arrived with the hired carriage; a dilapidated relict with peeling paint and rusty springs pulled by a thin, spiritless team. Muttering an oath at his first sight of this rattletrap, he, nevertheless, proceeded to supervise the loading of it.

  Once his belongings were packed, he dragged Concordia, kicking and screaming, out of the inn and forced her into the carriage. The last of the drug having worn off almost an hour before Madden's return, Giles had had to resort to the tale of his dangerously mad sister to explain Concordia's hysteria to the suspicious innkeeper and to procure some rope to tie her up. Fortunately, Concordia's wild behavior bore out his story and everyone at the inn accepted it.

  When Giles entered the coach, Concordia pleaded with him to untie her, complaining that the ropes were cutting her wrists and ankles. As Madden whipped up the horses and headed out of the courtyard, Giles, in a rare moment of weakness, freed his captive from her bonds. Rubbing her reddened arms, Concordia thanked him, promising, with treachery in her heart, to be quiet and cooperative.

  Madden drove them back to the wrecked carriage to collect the heavy baggage. The remains of the coach were still wedged between the two trees like some animal dead in a trap, but Mountheathe's personal property had disappeared.

  "Gone! All of it!" Giles wailed as he ran to the wreck. "I've been robbed, Madden!"

  The coachman surveyed the scene from atop the box. "So it would appear, my lord."

  "Damn! Damn! Damn! Is my life destined to be one continual blight?" While Giles lamented, Concordia crept out of the other side of the coach. Before she had taken three steps, she heard a pistol cock.

  "Another inch, Missy, and I empties this barker into ye," Madden said.

  Mountheathe's brows snapped together as he rushed toward Concordia. "We've no time for these games, my girl. We have our wedding to attend. Into the coach with you."

  "No, I won't get in! And furthermore, I'll never..." Giles clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the flow of words which continued in spite of this obstruction and swung Concordia, bell- like, into the coach. He slammed the door on her and glanced back at the ruins of his elegant equipage with a sigh, congratulating himself on having the foresight to take all his money and jewelry with him to the Blue Bull. He climbed into the coach, saying wearily, "On to Scotland, Madden, and don't spare those pitiful nags. We've a great deal of time to recover."

  ***

  Having left the wooded path from the gypsies' camp for the king's highway, Robin, Peter, and Tracy stopped at every inn along the road to inquire after Mountheathe and Concordia. Early in their quest, they found the hostelry in which Giles had stayed with his sick sister on the night of the fire. They heard nothing of him at subsequent inns.

  When the gentlemen happened upon a derelict coach wedged between two trees, they dismounted to examine the ominous ruin. Peter's eyes darkened with worry and anger after Malkent discovered a splintered piece of the carriage door with the Bridland crest painted upon it.

  "They must have escaped alive, my lord." Robin tried to reassure Peter. "Otherwise, we'd have found some evidence of..."

  As if he hadn't heard the duke, Peter strode determinedly over to the coach and began to rummage inside it, poking his hands behind the seats and looking under them.

  "Whatever are you searching for, Peter?" Tracy asked. "You'll find nothing in there but squirrels."

  "Aha!" Almost tumbling out of the wreck, Peter rushed back to his companions, holding up a delicately wrought band of silver and sapphires. "Concordia's bracelet! I know it's hers because I remember admiring it at the ball when I bowed over her hand. This is positive proof that that bastard's got her!" Anxious black eyes met worried grey. "That murdering bastard's got her, Your Grace! And there doesn't seem to be a damned thing I can do about it!"

  "We shall find them, my lord! They can't have gone far without a carriage," Robin said.

  They rode on, discovering Mountheathe's trail once again at the Blue Bull and learning that he and his 'mad sister' had left only three hours before. "If we spur the horses, perhaps we can come up with them before nightfall," Peter said as the gentlemen urged their horses to a gallop.

  The sun had almost set as they entered a heavily wooded part of the road. They had not traveled far into the shadows before two mounted men, their faces covered with scarves, separated from the dark trees. "'Ands up!" one of the strangers shouted. The second one cocked a horse pistol and pointed it at the gentlemen. Leaves rustled behind them and Robin, in the midst of raising his hands, glanced over his shoulder to glimpse a third brigand, also brandishing a firearm.

  The highwaymen took the gentlemen's jewelry, money and horses, but charitably left them their clothes, disdaining gypsy garb as unworthy of serious consideration. Their business finished, the robbers galloped away, trailing the stolen mounts behind them.

  Robin, Peter, and Tracy trudged down the road toward the next inn, planning to lay information against the robbers. They also hoped to persuade the innkeeper to lend them some horses on the strength of their word that they were peers of the realm.

  "But what if the landlord won't believe us?" Tracy asked.

  "Then we'll just have to steal some mounts," Robin said with exaggerated patience. "Really, Tracy! What could be more obvious?"

  ***

  Wincing as pain shot through her shoulder, Lucia awoke and sat up in her cot. The wagon was dark, save for the desultory glow of the candle lantern on the table between her guards. Cards littered the table, the old gypsy woman still clutching a few in her hand. Her head rested against the back of her chair as she snored. Across from her, Anton slept as well, his head cradled in his arms on the table. A small pile of coins rested under his right hand while his left was curled around an earthenwa
re wine jug. A brace of horse pistols, primed and ready, lay beside him on the table.

  Motionless, Lucia listened. Silence reigned in the camp, although she was certain sentries had been posted. Standing, she leaned against the wall of the caravan, suddenly dizzy with pain. After her head cleared, she took a few steps, halting when her toe struck something that clattered like unearthly thunder. Her eyes flew to her guards, but other than a loud snort from the old woman, they remained oblivious.

  At her feet, a plate lay on the floor beside Anton, holding the remains of his supper. Staring at the chicken bones and the uneaten loaf of bread, Lucia's stomach growled. Grabbing the bread, she stuffed it in her skirt pocket and tiptoed over to the table. She carefully removed the coins from Anton's limp grasp and dropped them into her pocket to join the bread.

  Taking a long, black hooded cloak from a peg, she slipped it on, tying the strings at her throat. Discovering that it had a capacious pocket sewn to the inside of it, she took out several mandrake roots and replaced them with Anton's pistols. Glancing one last time around the shadowy wagon, she pulled her hood up over her head and opened the door, easing herself down the ladder. When her feet touched the ground, she clasped her cape close around her and froze, listening.

  Hearing only chirping crickets, she crept around the caravan until she reached the opposite side. Her wagon was situated at the edge of the encampment and she found herself, effectively, outside the boundaries of the gypsies' domain.

  Sudden footsteps rustled through the grass. She flattened herself against the wagon, hiding in the shadows as a sentry passed. She watched him disappear behind another wagon, then scurried through the woods, setting her feet at last on the moonlit path that Robin and his companions had taken that morning. When she reached the intersection of the footpath with the highway, she turned north and began her hike, using the full moon's light to find her way. Taking the bread she had stolen from her pocket, she bit into it as she walked. She had only traveled a few miles down the king's road when she heard a murmur of voices in the undergrowth ahead. Her cloak swirled in the moonlight as she ducked behind a tree and listened.

  "Quite a 'aul for one day's work," the first voice gloated.

  "Prime bit o' luck, findin' that wrecked coach full o' loot," the second voice agreed.

  "And them coves what we waylaid! I bain't sure whether they was flash or gypsies, but they was remarkable well-'eeled!"

  "One thing's for certain! They're gypsies now!" Guffaws met this sally, then the voices discussed plans to visit a nearby inn to meet a third companion.

  Lucia pulled her pistols from her cape pocket, cocked them, and inched forward, praying that the owners of those voices were too busy to notice a solitary foot-traveler passing through the night.

  Before she had taken a dozen steps, two large men on horseback detached themselves from the shadows to block her path. One of them trained a gun on her. "Well! Well!" he grinned. "What 'ave we 'ere? One o' them gypsy morts! You're out a bit late, ain't you, love? I'll wager you're lookin' for them coves what we met earlier today! They was a reg'lar gold mine. What about you?"

  "Don't look like she's got any brass to me, John, but I'll bet she 'as sommat we'd like!" the second brigand leered, swinging his leg over his saddle.

  "Aye!" With a lecherous sneer, John climbed off his horse.

  As the men dismounted, they looked away from Lucia for a moment. She raised her pistol, aimed at John, and fired. He collapsed, his blood pooling on the muddy ground. Screaming, the second robber lunged at her. She brought up her other pistol, not bothering to aim at such close range, and pulled the trigger. The attacking highwayman dropped dead at her feet.

  The horses reared and plunged at the sound of the blasts, but she managed to catch the reins of the nearest one, immediately recognizing it as Robin's prized black stallion. "It's alright, Diablo; it's alright!" she said, stroking his satiny neck as he sidled nervously. Worry gnawed at her mind. Why had a cutthroat been sitting on Robin's favorite mount? What had happened to him and his companions? She offered the horse the morsel of bread still left in her pocket, asking as he nibbled at it, "Where's your master, lad? Where's Robin?"

  By the time Diablo was calm enough to mount, the other horse had long since galloped away. Scowling as pain ripped through her shoulder, Lucia pulled herself into the saddle, waited for a sudden bout of dizziness to pass, and urged the stallion to a gallop, determined to find Robin.

  ***

  The sun had set, but the moon had not yet risen when the gentlemen, having walked for more than an hour without finding accommodation, decided to camp for the night. In spite of the recent rain, they found some dry kindling amidst the undergrowth of the forest and built a fire. Taking turns at sentry duty, they ignored their growling stomachs and tried to sleep.

  Tracy and Peter awoke the next morning to the appetizing aroma of frying fish and found Robin kneeling over the fire while six large trout sizzled on a grill of interwoven green branches laid across the hot embers. "I hope you're hungry, mes amis," he called cheerfully. "I must confess I'm ravenous."

  Peter crouched to inspect Robin's contraption. "Where did you learn how to do this?"

  "Needs must when the devil drives, Norworth! This method of cooking is called 'barbecue'. I learned how to do it in the Caribbean during my privateering days. It's crude, but it works well enough. The fish will be done soon."

  "But where did you catch the fish?" Tracy asked, sniffing the air appreciatively.

  Robin carefully turned over one of the fish with his fingers before answering. "While on watch this morning, I heard a stream not far away and sought it out at first light. I cut and wove some branches into a grill and tickled some trout, a skill my father taught me. Et voilâ! Breakfast!" Robin waved his hand as if he were performing magic.

  "And how did you manage the cleaning of this fine catch? I thought those thieving scoundrels took everything!" Tracy said.

  "In spurning our foot gear, our High Toby friends also overlooked the knife I always carry in my boot sheath." Robin lifted a steaming fish by its tail and laid it on a flat stone, one of three stacked nearby. A second fish joined the first and he handed the makeshift plate to Malkent, grinning. "Served on our finest china, my lord, washed by God, himself, in the streambed."

  When the gentlemen had finished their meal, they traveled on, arriving about midmorning at a dilapidated establishment set back from the road, its weathered shield proclaiming it the 'Wild Rose Inn'. Peter and Tracy trailed Robin into the taproom, almost colliding with him when he halted on the threshold, his head tilted slightly as if he smelled danger in the air.

  The shadowy room seemed crowded for late morning. Openly flaunting weaponry of every imaginable sort from crude clubs to pearl-handled pistols with gold inlay, ragged, sinister men sat at the tables and leaned against the walls, drinking rum and talking in low, muffled tones. Cant phrases filtered to Robin's ears and he stiffened like a deer sensing the hunter.

  He turned to his companions, noting with relief that they looked disreputable enough to blend in, although their gypsy garb definitely invited comment. "Don't say anything," he cautioned under his breath.

  "What?" Malkent blinked at him, nonplussed.

  "You and Norworth stay quiet. Your educated speech will give you away, else, and we could all end up dead. Just let me do the talking." Robin looked from Tracy's face to Peter's, seeking understanding.

  "But why?" Malkent said.

  "Because this place caters to brigands, Tracy!" Norworth hissed. "You've been domesticated too long, old man!"

  While they spoke, heads turned and ears strained to hear their whispered conversation. Feigning indifference to all the eyes upon him, Robin swaggered into the taproom, uncomfortably aware that the only empty table was, as might be expected considering the tavern's clientele, in the middle of the room. He would have felt infinitely safer and more confident with his back to the wall and his feet near the door. He took a seat at the free table, gla
ring a challenge at the other patrons. Tracy and Peter joined him, aping his mannerisms as best they could.

  In thick Cockney, Robin hailed a barmaid and ordered ale for all of them. Norworth cocked a brow, remembering the state of their finances, but said nothing. Tracy gaped at his surroundings, amazed to find himself in a den of thieves.

  The barmaid set three tankards on the table with a coquettish wink at the duke. Amberley pulled her into his lap, cupping her breast and nuzzling her ear. They launched into a bawdy conversation so heavily laced with thieves' cant that his companions could not understand one word in ten.

  Robin pressed a kiss against the giggling barmaid's throat and she scrambled out of his arms. As she turned to pick up her tray, he pinched her bottom with a cheeky grin and men at nearby tables laughed at her indignant shriek. "No horses for hire," Robin muttered under the noise. "We'll have to steal them. Drink up! It's time we were gone."

  Tracy and Peter nodded, the earl swallowing hard upon the contemplation of his first foray into crime. As they drank their ale, Malkent stared at a rascally gallant sporting a curiously wrought wooden leg at the next table. After a few seconds, this worthy took exception to Tracy's gawking.

  "'Ere now! You got a problem wi' me peg?" he growled, rising to confront Malkent. Tracy's eyes traveled from the wooden leg and the naked siren carved upon it to its owner's sallow, snarling face, twisted with anger and distrust. He stumbled to his feet, his heart pounding.

  Suddenly Robin leaped up, thrusting Tracy back into his chair with one hand. "Me mate's a wee bi' barmy! Dicked in the nob, do ye see? 'E stares at fings! 'E don' mean nuffin' by it. Leave 'im be or ye'll answer to me, mate!" Menace glittered in Robin's eyes. He was a head taller than the peg-legged man and, thinking better of the quarrel, the brigand backed down.

  The squabble had, however, caught the attention of the entire taproom. A large, bearded man stepped forward to confront Lynkellyn. "Wha' do ye mean bringin' a bloody mad 'un in 'ere? 'E might 'ave a sudden queer spell and off us all!" Muttering their agreement, the other patrons shoved back their chairs or pushed away from the walls to surround Amberley's small band.