by Jo Beverley
It tasted horrible, and I poured it out of the window immediately, rinsing it and my mouth out with water from the ewer at my dressing table. The sunlight glinted on my tooth cup for a moment when I poured out the gin, and I thought of the Grail that Mr. Marstone spoke of so reverently. I sighed, feeling quite low, for except for his claims about that cup, it looked little different from the one I use to brush my teeth.
No matter; he will be gone in a week’s time, and that will be the end of the little tin Grail, and this man will trouble me no more.
—Arabella
Chapter 3
WHEREIN MR. MARSTONE DEPARTS, AND MISS TEMPLAR PONDERS ROCKS.
April 13, 1806
A scream awoke me, jolting me upright in my bed, which caused pain through my wounded arm—much better than yesterday, but still painful. I could hear running outside my door, and frantic conversation.
The cries were too intense to be the result of a servant’s mishap. Fearing the worst, I hastily arose from bed and clothed myself as quickly as I could, forgoing any attempt at tying my neckcloth in a decent manner.
As a result, my disheveled appearance did nothing to dispel the suspicious look that Lady Templar bent on me when I opened my chamber door.
“Where,” she said in angry tones, “is my daughter?”
Dread became a weight in my stomach as I heard her words. “I do not know,” I said.
“But you suspect,” she replied, eyeing me with chill hauteur, the like of which I had not seen since I had served as a lieutenant on Colonel Wellesley’s staff.
I looked directly at her. “It depends on how she disappeared.”
“Come,” she said. “You shall see for yourself.” She turned and led me down the hall to another room and then thrust open the door.
The room was in shambles, and the windows were wide-open. Either Miss Templar fought mightily, or her kidnappers were extraordinarily clumsy and had fallen over the furniture. I hoped there had been a fight; the thought of Arabella as a helpless captive made the dread and guilt I already felt nearly crushing.
I forced back my emotions and made myself look coolly about the room. Perhaps a fight had occurred here; but there were papers scattered upon the floor from a writing table, and . . . a toothbrush near the water pitcher, and no cup.
I looked at Lady Templar squarely. “Yes, I suspect,” I replied. “I promise you I shall retrieve her.”
“You had better, young man!” she said sternly, as if I had been no more than six years old, rather than twenty-four. “And you had better tell me what you have to do with the disappearance of my child.”
I managed not to grit my teeth, and maintained as much as I could an air of concerned politeness. “I shall certainly tell you, but—” I looked pointedly at the servants gathered all agog in the hall.
She cast the same grim look at the servants, who scattered. “Come,” she said. “We shall talk in the parlor.”
She shut the door firmly after me, and then sat stiffly on a chair near the window. She did not bid me sit; it was just as well, for I had the uncomfortable feeling that I would have fidgeted under her stern and unwavering gaze.
“Well?” she said.
I paused, trying to find soothing words, but none came forward. “I am afraid Bonaparte’s spies are after the Holy Grail, and no doubt believe that Miss Templar has it.”
Lady Templar gazed at me, aghast. “You brought the Grail in my daughter’s vicinity and did not see fit to tell me? Dear heaven!” She stood and paced the floor, agitated. “I have spent years—years—keeping my children from all knowledge of the Grail or any other holy relic, for such things have caused nothing but trouble for the Templar family and have even contributed to my husband’s death.” She stopped and turned an angry look at me. “When, Mr. Marstone, were you going to tell me—if at all?” She held up her hand as I opened my mouth to reply. “Do not speak! Dare I hope you have not brought the Spear of Destiny with you, either?”
I admit I was confounded. I had not thought she would know of the removal of either the Grail or the spear. I could not help grimacing. “No, I have not the spear. I dropped it in the Thames.”
“The Thames.” She eyed me as if I were a lizard just crawled out from under a stone. “You brought both the Grail and the spear—at the same time—to England.”
“So I was ordered by the Grail Council, my lady.”
“The Grail Council.” Her voice was full of loathing. “As if that group of dusty old men know anything beyond the end of their noses!”
“I think—”
“Oh, they have caused me nothing but trouble! Did they not send my husband into danger, and eventually to his death? Did they not cause me such anxiety that I lost not one, not two, but five children at birth? It was a miracle my sixth child, Bertie, was born alive, and then Arabella not long after!”
“But—”
“And now this, after all my efforts at shielding them from certain death!” She moved her hand, no doubt to forestall me from speaking again, but I barreled in.
“All of which compels me to leave immediately in search of your daughter; I can do little else, especially because of your hospitality to me in my time of need.”
She eyed me skeptically. “You! You were wounded and with a fever but a few days ago—” She stopped, her eyes widening with clear horror. “No . . . Too dangerous a combination . . . You did not . . . In my house—”
“I have the Grail in my bedchamber, yes, my lady,” I said.
“You what?”
“As a result,” I said hastily, “it is necessary that I take it away from here as soon as possible, find your daughter and return her safely to you.” I gave a short bow, took my leave of Lady Templar and averted my eyes from her decided swoon onto a chaise longue.
Though every sense urged me to depart the Templar household immediately, I had to go over Arabella’s chamber thoroughly, in case I could discern something about her kidnappers and develop a plan to defeat them. It was clear she was kidnapped during the wee hours of the morning. Her maid had apparently come upon the villains, but had been knocked out and pushed into the wardrobe, her mouth gagged. Anger burned within me—Arabella’s abductors had not the decency to take her maid with them for propriety’s sake, and they did not hesitate to brutalize women.
I forced back my fury; I had to keep my mind clear. They had gone down the rope ladder that had been cleverly attached to the window by means of sharp hooks sunk into the windowsill. It was too bad that her room was in the back of the house rather than in the front facing the street. There was a garden in the back, and a sizable fence, ensuring that any activity would have a good chance of being concealed.
I noticed with satisfaction that more than a few strands of black hair were scattered near the window—I could assume from this that Arabella had fought her captors and had done some damage to them. It gave me hope she would do her best to defend herself, and it also meant she might do what she could to delay them. There were also two sets of muddy footsteps on the floor, one large, one smaller. Two men, then. It would be more difficult to escape two men than one.
As to where she might have gone: Bonaparte is not a patient man. I doubt he or his minions would know much about the elements necessary for the proper use of the Grail; the so-called Emperor of France would be interested only in the power the Grail (and the Spear of Destiny) could give him. Therefore, they are traveling south to the coast, heading for France.
I hope. I will question the servants and anyone who might have seen them. As soon as I find Miss Templar, both of us must find our way to Rosslyn Chapel to secure the safety of the Holy Grail.
It is clear I stayed too long in the Templar household. I lost the Spear of Destiny, and the Grail Guardian has been kidnapped by Bonaparte’s spies. As a result, I know I am not worthy to be the Grail Knight. I will therefore offer my resignation to the council.
But I cannot think of that now. I must save Arabella, and do my best to bring the
Grail to a safe place and one committed to the forces of good, far away from Bonaparte’s ambition. I am impatient to be off, but I cannot afford to be ill-prepared for this mission. Only a minute more, please God, until—Yes, it’s a footman delivering the papers I need. At last, I’m off—
—W. Marstone
April 13, 1806
I have the most dreadful headache, and the jostling I received in the horribly sprung coach did nothing to remedy it. And why am I in a coach when I have a pain that seems fit to split my head? Why, it is only this: I have been kidnapped.
Kidnapped. I am quite annoyed at myself. This is my reward for resolving to put away my pistols and sword and trying to behave in a ladylike way so that I may get myself a husband: I had no weapon at hand in my bedchamber when villains climbed through my bedroom window, and thus could do nothing but bite, kick and hit with my fists. I think I would have been able to knock at least one senseless if I had made a good swing with my reticule, in which I normally carry a sizable rock or two. Unfortunately, I had managed only to loop the reticule’s cord around my wrist before one of the men knocked me on my head.
If anyone imagines I am bitter about this, they would be correct. This is what happens when I obey Mama’s rules about not carrying such unladylike objects as a pistol (even a lady’s pistol!) or a small dagger. However, she said nothing about rocks. As a result, I have a few rocks in my reticule, along with my pencil, a small purse containing a few shillings, a needle and thread, a handkerchief large enough to be practical and a small account book. I felt better for having rocks; I used to carry a pistol in my reticule when Papa was alive, for there had been the danger of being kidnapped for ransom when Papa would go off on one of his missions or other. But after his passing, Mama deemed our situation no longer dangerous, for no one else in our family works for the Home Office or is sent off on missions.
As a result, I cannot fathom why these men wished to kidnap me, for though my dowry is respectable, no one could say either it or my family’s funds are anything near a fortune. Unless . . .
I remembered William’s insistence that Bonaparte’s spies are after the Grail. Yet, I do not have it! How could anyone think that I might—
I had to put away my account book and pencil—awkwardly, for my wrists were still sore from being tied a few hours ago. The carriage had drawn to a stop, causing the man who sat in the coach with me to give one more oxlike snort before waking.
I was not let out.
One of the villains returned to the carriage with food, a somewhat decent meal of cheese and ham between two thick slices of bread. I confess I was quite hungry, so I ate all of it as well as drank down the large mug of hot tea. There is no use in refusing food, for it does no good to be faint with hunger when the opportunity to escape presents itself. There was not enough room in the coach for me to swing my rock-laden reticule, so I could not do it then. How unfortunate that I did not bring my penknife with me, for at least I would have had the satisfaction of sticking the horrid man who had been sitting next to me with it.
He is a large, dull-looking cad, and would have looked better if he did not have a nose so sharp that he could very likely cut paper with it. He fancies himself, for he attempted a flirtation with a chambermaid at the last inn at which we stopped, but she very intelligently snubbed him. I believe his name is something-or-other Front-de-Boeuf (Beefhead, a well-deserved name, I am sure), which is a French name, but his accent sounds more Irish than French. I have heard that some Irish have rebelled to the point of wishing to ally themselves with Bonaparte. Regardless, either origin bodes ill for me.
The other villain’s name is Vaudois, but he goes by the name of Waldo here, as it is an easier name to go by than a French one. He is a slight, lean man, who seems to have a penchant for red-and-white waistcoats. On first sight he seems harmless enough, but he has a way of blending into the background, despite his waistcoat, that makes me feel more uneasy about him than I do about Beefhead.
At least I have a strategy. I have so far pretended to be a senseless, helpless twit of a female, and so they do not suspect I have a plan of escape. I note they have pistols but no swords. I do not know where they are taking me. Screaming does not help—they have convinced almost all we have encountered that I am headed for a madhouse. I did manage to slip a note and a shilling to a maidservant at one inn, asking her to give it to William Marstone, should he come by. A foolish hope, but . . .
After my meal, the carriage took me another few miles to a cottage. I am now in a small bedroom, and from its musty smell, it has not been occupied in a while. Still, the bed has fresh linens on it, my hands remain untied, and I still have my reticule.
I hope that Mama will not worry herself to death and that William will not be so foolish as to try to rescue me, for I fear his injury and illness will hamper him should he confront these villains.
William . . . I wish I had believed him about the Grail. I did, in part. Had I believed him wholly, perhaps the Grail would have been well on its way to its rightful place by now.
However, it serves no one for me to brood over past ills. I must look to the future, and for now put away my account book. Night comes near, and I must be sharp and observe as much as I can. As soon as I find a way, I will escape these villains who have taken me from my home.
If I am indeed the Grail Guardian, I have been a poor one. But I shall make amends, somehow. I hope. . . .
—Arabella
April 14, 1806
I am convinced that everything William has said is true.
The villains brought me to another cottage as the sun slipped barely past the horizon, and locked me into a room that was fairly comfortable, though plainly decorated. I decided to rest, for I had little sleep in the ill-sprung coach, and thought it best to be as alert as possible for any means of escape. I left a torn piece of my skirt hanging discreetly on a small bush outside my window. I hope whoever comes after me—if anyone does—will take it as a clue.
It seemed my head rested on the pillow but a few minutes before the door opened and Beefhead entered. It was morning—I must have slept heavily. He eyed me warily, for all the world as if I were a snake about to strike, which lifted my mood considerably. There is something surprisingly jolly about striking fear into one’s enemies. Unfortunately, before I could grasp my rock-laden reticule, Mr. Waldo also entered. It was a bit of a letdown that both of them were there, but the wary look also existed in Mr. Waldo’s eyes, so I was able to maintain a cheerful frame of mind.
“At the very least, you should have the decency to knock before you enter!” I said, eyeing Beefhead and Mr. Waldo with—I hoped—all the chill hauteur a patroness of Almack’s might level on a vulgar mushroom of a person. I had the satisfaction of seeing Beefhead shift uncomfortably on his feet, but Mr. Waldo seemed unmoved.
“And I demand you release me! I cannot see why you have abducted me, for I assure you I am not worth any sort of ransom you might wish to level on my family.”
“So you have said before,” said Mr. Waldo. “But I assure you that you are worth . . . something.” I managed not to swallow, for I did not want to appear as if I knew what he was talking of. I admit to some fear; I have heard of what the abductors of young women have done to them. However, he turned to Beefhead and nodded, and my attention was caught by the two velvet bags—one small and one large—the man held.
“I take it you are familiar with this?” He nodded to his companion in crime, and the other man opened the bags. I noticed that Beefhead had on white gloves, which was not at all complementary with the rest of his attire, but all thoughts fled from my mind when a golden glow peeped from the large bag, and then fully beamed forth from the item that was held carefully in his hand.
It was a spear, but oh, that word is so inadequate to describe it! I managed to see past the pure light emanating from it to the way it was made, and saw that the spear’s blade was old, so very old, and the base of it was encased in gold. It had been clumsily attached to a
wood handle the size of my hand—Too short, was the thought that flashed in my mind. Yet it made me think of the oppressed, the poor, the enslaved, and how it was necessary to free them from evildoers and from those whom power had corrupted. . . .
“And this?”
Waldo’s voice pulled me reluctantly from gazing at the glow of the spear, and I looked at the item Beefhead had pulled from the other sack.
It was my tin toothbrush cup. I could not help casting Mr. Waldo a look of disbelief, for what anyone might want with my tooth cup—
I quickly looked away, pressing my lips together. I knew immediately what they had been after, and I was hard put not to laugh. Indeed, I am afraid my shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, and I hoped that the two men would mistake it for suppressed weeping.
“You may refuse to confirm it in words, but your expression tells all, Miss Templar,” Waldo said. “You well know what we hold, ordinary though they may seem: the Spear of Destiny, and the Holy Grail.”
Ordinary! Well, my tin toothbrushing cup is certainly ordinary, and the actual Grail looks not much more than that (except, I admit, for the slight glow and disappearing holes), but how anyone could look at the spear and think it ordinary is beyond me. The light that comes from it would brighten a room at night as well as any fire.
But I put on a woeful expression, and looked sadly at both Beefhead and Waldo. “I scarce know what all this should mean to me! I am only newly out in London, and have not even been presented to the queen. And if you do indeed have this—this Grail, did you call it?—and that nasty pointy thing, and if they are so important to you, why do you need me? Please let me go home to my mama! I am certain she is ill with worry over me!”
I hated to sound so ineffectual and whiny, but I was counting it as strategy, and if it led them to underestimate me, then it was all to the good.