The cart-horses leaned into their collars and responded gallantly, but they were handicapped by the bulk and weight of the waggon. Each time Vespa glanced behind them it seemed to him that the troop of cuirassiers was closer. It was a race now, and one they had little chance of winning unless in some way they could give the French military gentlemen the slip.
Their chances shrank when they reached the section of the road that wound between the steep walls of the ravine. A group of travellers had spread themselves across the narrow road. They plodded along at a snail’s pace; there was no room to pass, and they showed not the slightest inclination to move aside.
Guiding the cart-horses as close as he dared, Vespa hailed the individual bringing up the rear of the train. The face that was turned to him looked familiar. The man screamed something, and the people ahead halted and glanced back. There were children, and riding the lead mule was a lady with an infant in her arms. It was the same family whose baby had almost fallen from the mule two days ago.
Vespa called urgently, “Sir, your pardon, but we are in great haste. Could you be so kind as to let us pass?”
The man stared at him expressionlessly.
Pierre stuck his head through the small door behind the driver’s seat and shouted, “The soldiers! They are catching up—”
Vespa snapped, “I am aware.”
The eyes of the man standing in the rain became very round. He craned his neck, looking back. Then he looked up at Vespa. He ran to the front of his straggling little column and called orders in a Breton dialect so broad it would have been better understood by a Scot than by a Frenchman. In a trice the mules were all at the farthest edge of the road. Vespa drove the team on carefully and as they passed, called his grateful thanks. Nobody said a word in reply, but the lady nodded and waved the infant’s tiny hand at him, the little girl smiled shyly, and briefly, on the face of the head of the house was a broad grin.
Looking back a few minutes later, Vespa saw that the family and their mules were all over the road again, and scarcely moving at all. ‘God bless ’em,’ he thought fervently. ‘They’ve repaid the favour!’ Now, the troop of soldiers would be so delayed that he might, after all, have a chance to collect his father and find a hiding place somewhere along the coast road. A slim chance, but at least a chance.
The cart-horses were going along well. The short wintry afternoon was fading, but a distant thread of smoke wound upward. It was lighter than the darkening clouds, and soon dispersed by the wind, but his hopes lifted because it meant they were within sight of the Lannions’ tavern.
Consuela opened the small door behind the seat and tugged at his coat.
“Almost there, m’dear,” he said with a triumphant grin.
“We must stop,” she cried in distress. “Look! Look!”
He looked back. Manderville was huddled over the pommel and appeared to be in imminent danger of tumbling from the saddle.
“Toby!” howled Vespa, pulling up the horses.
Broderick turned and waved and Vespa gestured urgently. Reining back, Broderick called, “Now what’s to do?”
“Paige is done! We’ll have to get him in the waggon. Give me a hand.”
Manderville was quite unconscious and breathing in an alarmingly rasping fashion. Between them, they carried him to the waggon and Consuela’s care.
“Silly chawbacon,” muttered Broderick. “Why didn’t he say something?”
But they both knew why Manderville had held out for as long as he could, and that they would have done the same.
As they closed the back doors Vespa slanted a glance up the road. It was impossible to see very far in the fading light, but for as far as he could determine there was no sign of any cuirassiers. Climbing up to the driver’s seat, he could only pray they would not reach the tavern and find Monteil waiting for them. At least the road from here was fairly level and there were few travellers on this cold afternoon. He urged the cart-horses to greater speed and promised them they would very soon be in a warm barn. The waggon rumbled along and the minutes slid past, and at last they were turning into the Lannions’ yard.
The host ran out, waving his arms excitedly. The ostler hurried to the heads of the lathered horses.
Climbing down from the seat, Vespa was stiff and tired. He’d had little in the way of sleep these past two nights, but there was no time for rest now, nor time for them to summon the skill of Monsieur Aunay, the farrier-apothecary. Before he reached the waggon doors Manderville swung them open and disdaining assistance proclaimed himself a blockhead but well-rested. It was a courageous attempt but he stumbled over the front steps, and Consuela, looking weary herself as Vespa lifted her down, whispered that she was afraid that Paige might have the pneumonia.
“And you, my brave girl, are exhausted,” he said, tightening his arms about her.
“No, no,” she lied. “I am very hardy, you know. But Pierre is fast asleep. I suppose we had as well leave him in the waggon. We shall have to press on at once—no?”
Vespa had already made up his mind that the boy must stay at the tavern, however, and that word should be sent to de Coligny. Broderick volunteered to carry the sleeping child, and Vespa and Consuela followed Manderville inside.
Lord Kincraig, fully dressed, lay on the parlour sofa. He started up eagerly as they came into the room. He looked pale and haggard but insisted he was ‘doing very much better,’ and was delighted to learn that not only had Consuela and Pierre been rescued, but the waggon was safely in the barn.
“Bravo!” he said, watching Vespa proudly. “You’ve done splendidly, my boy!”
Madame Lannion hurried in and, after a shocked look at Consuela, said a chamber was ready and that the young lady would want to wash and rest after her ordeal. Longing to offer such luxuries to his beloved, Vespa dared not, and said reluctantly that they must leave at once. “Are you able to travel, sir?”
“But no, he is not!” interjected Madame, outraged. “No more is that one!” She stabbed a finger at Manderville who had sat down on the first chair he encountered and fallen asleep. “Only hear how he breathes—as if someone in his lungs was sifting wheat! More journeying, and you will be burying them both! Nor are you yourself but a step from the grave,” she added, taking in Vespa’s drawn face and the dark shadows under his eyes. “Come, Mademoiselle, you at least shall wash your poor self and have a hot cup of coffee, if only in my kitchen!”
“I’ll be very quick,” promised Consuela.
Vespa nodded and smiled at her, then pulled a chair close to the sofa and sank into it gratefully.
Kincraig asked, low-voiced, “You are pursued?”
“Yes, sir. A troop of cuirassiers. At most, a mile or so behind. We’ve some friends along the road who will, I think, do their best to delay them but—”
“Jupiter!” Dismayed, his lordship exclaimed, “We must not fail at this stage of the game! Lend me your arm, Jack, and we’ll be on our way.”
Vespa helped him to sit up, watching his face anxiously. Kincraig was obviously in pain and momentarily bereft of breath, but he declared staunchly that with a little help he would go on nicely.
Vespa left him to rest for a minute and went out to check on the horses. Toby had not yet brought Pierre inside and he was quite prepared to find his friend snoring beside the boy in the back of the waggon.
He stretched wearily as he walked across the yard. It was dark now, and raining again, but the wind had dropped and it was very still. There was no sign of Broderick or the ostler.
The sense of danger was sudden and strong. His hand blurred down to the pistol in his belt.
Pain seared across his forearm and the pistol fell from his numbed grasp.
Amused and triumphant, Duncan Keith said, “My, but you’re fast, brother dear!”
A strong hand shoved Vespa between the shoulder blades, sending him into violent collision with the side of the waggon. The horses snorted and stamped nervously. The shutter on a lantern was opened, releasing
a bright beam of light.
Supporting himself against the waggon, Vespa blinked at a squat individual with a pouty mouth and sparse red hair under a sodden hat. The man glared at him and demanded, “What did you do with my crossbow, curse you?”
“Threw it … in the lake,” lied Vespa.
The squat man swore and started forward.
“Not yet, Rand!” Duncan Keith flourished a crimson-stained sabre. “First, we talk.”
Horrified, Vespa cried, “My God! What have you done to the boy?”
“Nothing as yet,” said Keith. “This is all yours.”
Vespa glanced down, shocked; his sleeve was wet with blood.
From his temporary sanctuary under the waggon Pierre called fiercely, “You didn’t have to cut him!”
“No.” Keith grinned. “But you must not deny me life’s simple pleasures, child. And before you ask, Captain, sir, your comrade in arms is in the waggon. We got him when he tried to carry off the boy.”
The muscles under Vespa’s ribs cramped. He endeavoured to keep his voice calm. “Dead?”
“He will be. Unless you cooperate. I met up with my man Rand, as you see. And Rand found out that Monsieur Monteil has been following my father. Now Imre Monteil is a greedy man but he is also very shrewd. He would follow this stupid cart only if it contained something of great value. I have come to relieve you of it. And—” he stepped closer to the open waggon doors “—and I do not propose to wait.”
Vespa said curtly, “I take it you’ve already searched the waggon?”
“And found only some moth-eaten rugs. Don’t attempt a delaying war of words, Vespa. You know what the old man is carrying. Tell me—and fast. My patience is short at the best of times.” He grinned broadly. “No one will miss Broderick very much, and there is always the boy—if all else fails.”
“All right, all right! You heard about the Belgian Mint robbery?”
Keith stared at him.
“I have.” Rand grunted, “A fine haul they made. Lovely fat sacks of gold!”
Incredulous, Keith said, “Do you say my so-high-and-noble father was involved in that piece of lawlessness?”
“Yes. And not for the first time, I’m afraid.”
Rand laughed, and Keith exclaimed, “Why—the old fraud! So that’s why he’s wandered about Europe all these years pretending to search for valuable carpets!”
“They’re valuable when gold louis are sewn into the backings,” said Vespa.
“Aha!” cried Rand and darted for the waggon doors.
Broderick’s limp figure was pushed out and dumped on the ground. Vespa gritted his teeth with rage and started towards him, but Keith shouted a furious, “Stay back!” flailing the sabre about so menacingly that Vespa had no choice but to obey.
From inside the waggon Rand shouted, “There’s nothing in this one but moths and dust.… I can’t feel anything solid, here, either.… I think.… your bastard brother was lying in his—Wait! Yes, by God! Here it is, Mr. Keith! And—in this other also!”
Keith gave a yell of triumph. “How much?”
“Lord knows. There’s just these two, so far as I can tell. We’ll have to tear them apart to find out!”
“Not here! We’ll take them in my coach! Get over there and help him, mon Capitaine.”
The gold-filled rugs were heavy and the cut in Vespa’s arm made the transfer of them a painful business. It was all he could do to lift the second heavy rug. As it was loaded inside his half-brother’s coach he heard hoofbeats.
Rand cried shrilly, “Horses! Coming fast. It’s those damned dragoons, like as not!”
Keith made a sudden dart and snatched for the boy.
Whipping the pistol from his pocket, Vespa shouted, “Let him be, or I’ll fire, Keith!”
Rand sprang onto the box of the coach.
Under no illusions as to the loyalty of his hireling, Keith howled, “Wait, you cur!”
Broderick, who had crawled nearer, shoved a rake at Keith’s feet. Keith tripped, cursing furiously and swung the sabre high. Broderick ducked lower and flung up an arm to shield his head.
Aiming carefully, Vespa fired.
Keith staggered, and grabbed at his arm.
“Damn you, Vespa!” He dropped the sabre, ran to his coach and clambered to the box, snatching the reins from Rand. “You lose, even so,” he shouted “The cuirassiers know you’re English spies! I hope you all go to Madame Guillotine!”
Vespa sprang for the box, but he was slow. Keith whipped up the team and with a shrill vindictive laugh turned his coach onto the road and disappeared into the night with a rumble of high, fast wheels.
“Never—saw you miss—such an easy shot,” said Broderick faintly.
Crawling from under the waggon, Pierre wailed, “Oh, sir! He got away!”
“And—with all the … blasted loot,” said Broderick.
Vespa’s smile was mirthless. “Enough, at all events, to hang him,” he said, and blew out the lantern.
Scant seconds later there came the pounding of many hooves, the jingle of spurs and harness and a French voice upraised in command. “There they go! After them!”
At a thundering gallop the troop shot past in pursuit of Duncan Keith’s coach.
Vespa knelt beside Broderick. “My poor fellow, are you badly hurt?”
“Bent … brainbox, I think. Jove, but … you’re a real sly-boots, Jack! You meant that … that wart to take the carpets!”
Actually, Vespa’s initial plan had been to foist the two gold-laden rugs off onto Imre Monteil. Fate had decreed differently, but his plan had not gone to waste. It had, in fact, come in very handy.
Broderick was staring at him.
He said with a smile, “What a thing to say!”
17
“Are they all going to die, Capitaine Jacques?”
Somewhat bewildered, Vespa looked down at the boy who sat so close beside him on the seat of the waggon. He recalled the Lannions’ adamant refusal to keep the boy with them, but he couldn’t seem to remember Pierre waking up and climbing out to him. Nor did he recall the coming of the streaks of light that were now painting the eastern sky to announce the arrival of dawn.
When they’d left the hedge-tavern it had been necessary to go along with caution, for it was so dark. Gradually, however, as if relenting, the rain had eased to a drizzle and then stopped, the clouds had begun to unravel and a full moon had sailed into view to light the heavens with its glory and to show him the road ahead. He had driven all night, torn by the conflicting needs to race on and attempt a rendezvous with the ship and to stop and seek out an apothecary for his father and his friends.
The constant jolting had wrought havoc with Lord Kincraig, who had insisted, even as he stifled a groan of pain, that they keep on, no matter what happened. Manderville was no better: burning with fever and coughing rackingly but whispering that he was starting to feel ‘more the thing.’ Broderick was deathly pale, tight-lipped and silent, his clenched fists a mute testimony to his suffering, yet able somehow to muster a grin when, it having been necessary to stop and rest the horses, Vespa had twice looked in on what Consuela called her ‘field hospital.’
Distraught, he knew that he had no choice. As a British officer, his first duty was to his country. Through that long night, it sometimes seemed to him that he could see Wellington’s fierce dark eyes fixed on him. He knew quite well what his Chief would expect of him. To fail that expectation was unthinkable.
So here he was, driving with three very sick men being bounced and jostled about in the waggon, who should have been in bed and under a doctor’s care.”
“Are they?” the boy repeated now.
“Eh? Oh—no, of course they’re not going to die. They’re just—just a little bit out of curl, but they’ll be better when they’ve rested and had something to eat.”
“So will I.” Pierre watched his face anxiously. “Are you out of curl too, sir? If your arm is very bad I can take the ribbons, you know.”
The cut in his arm was a continuing nuisance, but only one of several. His various bruises ached and his leg nagged at him ceaselessly, but the worst thing was the very odd feeling that his head was no longer in its proper place, but drifting along beside him. The temperature had plunged after the rain stopped, the cold helping him to stay awake, but he dreaded that he might fall asleep and the waggon would go off the road and get stuck in the mud, or tumble from one of the bridges spanning the rivers and streams that abounded in this region. To hand the reins over to someone else, even for half an hour, would be bliss, but a small boy, however willing, could not tool a four-in-hand. “Thank you, Pierre,” he said with a smile. “I shall keep it in mind. Meanwhile, you can help by making sure I stay awake.” He peered at the road ahead. “I wonder if we are anywhere near the coast yet.”
“I don’t know, but I am cold, and this is not a good place, Capitaine.”
Vespa looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”
“They’re all around us.” Pierre lowered his voice. “I think they have gathered here, to catch us!”
Startled, Vespa scanned the surrounding countryside, and in the brightening light he saw menhirs, which indeed seemed everywhere and were of all shapes and sizes, some towering towards the heavens, some balanced horizontally one above the other, but all mighty.
They were on a broad heath and ahead was a village looking very ancient and peaceful in the early morning. They must stop now. The horses were ready to drop and must be baited, and everyone was hungry.
He said something to Pierre about the menhirs; he wasn’t sure what. The boy seemed reassured, however, and a moment later was pointing out the sign on a tiny inn at the edge of the village.
Vespa turned the team into the yard and climbed from the seat. He had to cling to a wheel for a moment, as the inn ebbed and flowed before his eyes, but the dizziness passed and he went to open the back doors of the waggon. Consuela had fallen asleep holding Manderville’s hand. She woke when Vespa called to her, and came at once to him. Shocked by his haggard appearance, she exclaimed, “Oh, my dear! How terribly tired you are.”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 30