"I must… second the motion," panted the slight young man, struggling to his feet, and swaying back and forth as he peered at Tristram. "My brawl, sir. Must… ask…" Here, he sagged so far forward that Tristram was obliged to place a hand against his chest to steady him. "Must…" he repeated, his voice barely audible, "request—"
Shotten grinned, reached out and knocked Tristram's supporting arm clear.
The young man crumpled to the floor but at once commenced a dogged effort to regain his feet. A laugh went up, but the youth's pluck had not escaped the crowd, and there were admiring cries also. The light was brighter here, several of the customers having brought their table candles with them, and thus he was revealed to be older than Tristram had supposed; somewhere in the neighbourhood of three and twenty. His colouring was fair, his light curling hair sadly in need of trimming. Intensely blue eyes were shadowed by fatigue or illness, and his features, very pale, were astonishingly perfect and so delicately carven as to possess an almost girlish beauty. He had succeeded in getting one foot under him when Shotten's boot shoved him backwards once more. "Devil take you… fellow!" he gasped indignantly. "How may I… knock you down if—you will not let me up?"
"Knock me dahn?" hooted Shotten. "You? That's a corker, that is!"
"Even so," said Tristram, "you must let him get up."
"Oh, I must, must I?" sneered Shotten. "Well, I won't. But I'll tell yer what." He paced closer to thrust his beefy features under Tristram's nose. "You can get yer fancy jawing and yer fancy sporty idees outta my way so I can teach that there pretty little chap not ter prig wot don't belong ter him!"
The object of this discussion was by now on his feet and reeling forward. Shotten saw him from the corner of his eye and swung his large fist to backhand the youth, who went down to lie sprawled and, this time, motionless.
"Now—if yer 'ighness don't mind," grinned Shotten, "I'll wipe me boots on that little lad, and—"
Tristram's hand caught his greyish cravat. "I do mind," he said, his eyes grim. "That was a filthy, cowardly blow, and—"
"Outside!" wailed the tavernkeeper, dancing about them in his anxiety. He ran to swing the door open. "Please, gentlemen—much more room out here!"
Tristram glanced to him. Shotten struck hard, his fist catching Tristram below the ear, staggering him. Leaping in with a shout of triumph, Shotten followed up that first unsportsmanlike attack with a solid uppercut to the jaw. Jarred to the edge of unconsciousness, Tristram was propelled backward through the open door, and fell heavily in the yard.
Howling a unanimous verdict of "Foul!" the crowd followed happily, until the only occupant of the tap was the delicate youth stretched out on the floor.
Triumphant, Shotten ran at his victim and drew back one large boot. This, the patrons of "The Cat and Dragon" would not countenance, and deterred by angry shouts of "Let be, dang ye!" he hesitated, then stood back, his great knotted fists ready.
Tristram came dizzily to his knees. Shotten grinned and aimed a mighty right. How that whistling fist could miss, he was never afterwards able to understand, but miss it did. The next thing he knew, a steel clamp had fastened about his leg and he was down, the breath knocked from his lungs. Tristram stumbled to his feet, shaking his head in an effort to clear it despite the throbbing that warned he was still in no condition to undertake this battle. Shotten lay and got his wind. He was well aware of the soldier's state of health, else he would never have challenged him, for Shotten made it a practice to bet only on a sure thing. He'd been surprised by the ease with which he'd been brought down, but he was still confident. Groaning, he rolled onto his side and, ever cunning, strove feebly to get to his knees, then launched himself in a tigerish spring at the waiting Tristram.
It was eye to eye then, a jarring exchange of blows between two big men, neither lacking experience. The thud of feet, the solid whack of fists, the laboured breathing were the only sounds to disturb the summer night, for the crowd was rapt and silent, watching a contest that would be described for weeks to come. Shotten's power lay in his brute strength; Tristram, well taught in the years memory clouded, brought scientific footwork to the contest, so that he seemed never to be where Shotten aimed. Feinting, blocking, dodging, ever elusive, he delivered telling blows that began to wear down his adversary until Shotten, in the midst of a curse, jack-knifed to the left that rammed into his midriff. Tristram jumped in, but whatever else he might be, Shotten had bottom; he straightened and a punishing right seemed to split Tristram's skull. Sickened by the pain of it, he reeled back, Shotten rushing in eagerly. Gasping for breath and half blind, Tristram launched a right jab. Shotten yowled and crimson streamed from his bulbous nose. He was seldom really hurt in a brawl, and he retaliated typically: Tristram was staggered, not by a fist, but by the hissing vitriol of words.
"Perishin' fool! Shining up to Sanguinet's trollop. Thought yer could make her throw him over? That's a laugh! She knows which side her bread is buttered, does that one!" And seeing his foe white where he was not bruised, and the dark eyes stunned, Shotten laughed and struck with all his strength. Tristram blocked and deflected that savage blow to an extent, but still it smashed his head back. He scarcely felt it. Blinking, he crouched slightly and moved forward. There were those in London's Corinthian set who would have indulged in some heavy wagering had they seen that advance. As it was, the excitement of the onlookers manifested itself in a roar of acclaim dying swiftly to a breathless stillness. Shotten saw the younger man's eyes narrowed and glittering, and in the set of the jaw, the thin line of the bloodied lips, he read death and for the first time was afraid. Edging back, he dodged the jab that shot at him, retaliated with a right that would have levelled his opponent had it connected, then was driven mercilessly by a rain of blows, each seemingly heavier and more telling than the last, until an explosive uppercut lifted him to his toes. He was quite unconscious before he hit the earth.
Murder blazing in his eyes and in his heart, Tristram bent over that still form, then whirled as hands pounded at his shoulders and voices shouted in wild acclaim. The villagers, elated by the fine struggle they had witnessed, were eager to buy the victor a tankard of home brew. But when that deadly glare was turned upon them, they faltered and drew away. A new diversion offered in the ceremonial carrying of Shotten to the trough, into which he was dumped amid much hilarity. The small crowd then proceeded happily to the tap.
Tristram followed, groped his way to a secluded table and sat there, chin on fist, staring at the opposite settle, oblivious of the many curious glances that came his way. An odd lassitude was stealing over him, but aside from the throbbing in his head, he felt little pain from his bruises. He wondered in detached fashion what he would have done to that foul-mouthed vermin had he been alone…
"You took my brawl!" quoth an irked voice.
The handsome youth who had precipitated all this stood over him, a large contusion across one cheekbone and a ferocious frown on his face.
"I—cannot deny it," Tristram admitted.
"He had a right, you know."
Raising one swelling hand to his swelling jaw, Tristram allowed with a wry smile that he was aware of that fact.
"I meant," said the young man severely, "he had a right to be provoked."
"Why? Had you blackened his—er—good name, perhaps?"
A gleam of mischief stole into those blue eyes. "Stole his beef." He nodded reinforcingly as he saw incredulity in the scarred face below him. "'S right. Slipped a slice off his plate while he wasn't looking. Clean as a whistle. Or—almost." He looked ruefully at one scratched hand. "He stabbed me with his fork. Instead of the beef. By mistake, I'll own." The twinkle in his eyes very pronounced, he added, "He was a trifle surprised."
Tristram chuckled. "I can believe it."
"He said that since I'd put his beef away, which I had, no denying, he would put me away. Fair enough. Only he don't fight fair!"
"So I learned."
"Did you, by Jove? Last I remember, y
ou were talking to him. Not the slightest use trying to reason with a lout like that. Strike first and—er whatever it is, later!" He put out a slender hand, smiling.
Tristram shook it, started up, and was obliged to lean on the table as the scene swung before his blurring eyes and his head seemed to explode. From a great distance he heard a concerned voice enquiring if he was all right. "Just… my head," he said faintly. "Been a bother since Water— Water—" And he forgot where he was for a while.
"Devenish," said the young man, pouring scalding coffee into two mugs. "Alain Devenish, at your service." He set the coffee pot before the blazing fire in this cozy parlour of "The Cat and Dragon," handed the larger mug to Tristram, then settled himself in a wooden rocking chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "The thing is, I cannot go back. The old uncle said that I would never amount to anything save gallows bait, the way I was going. And that I was not to show him my face again 'til I'd proven myself worthy of my name. Deuced hot at hand, is the old boy!"
Tristram blinked into those indignant eyes, sipped the restoring coffee and stretched sleepily in the overstuffed, sagging, but comfortable chair he had been urged to accept. "Your guardian?" he asked.
"Yes. Frightful Tartar. No pleasing him. None. He's been difficult since I was sent down from King's."
"Cambridge?" asked Tristram, then winced, splashing coffee from the mug.
He had already revealed what he might of his own name and circumstances, and Devenish rescued the mug and peered anxiously at his guest's lowered head. "Your head still give you a twinge now and then?" he asked. "Shouldn't wonder if it did tonight. That clod hit dashed hard."
"It's not that… entirely. Only—when I remember something, I seem to—to have to pay a blasted… forfeit." He looked up, with a wry grin. "Bit of a nuisance."
Despite the grin, sweat beaded his forehead, and Devenish, his heart going out to the man, said, "And it has been like this since Waterloo?"
"Not so often of late. Fortunately. And I am getting snatches of memory. Now—" he retrieved his coffee, "tell me, if you will, why you were sent down."
"Silly nonsense. How was I to know the Proctor would break his ankle?"
A glimmer of amusement lit Tristram's tired eyes. "Lay on, Macduff."
"Yes—well, that's what we did, as a matter of fact. The old boy fancied himself an athlete. He used to roust us all out of bed at the crack of dawn every dashed day and make us run around The Backs with no shirts until we damn near froze. So, one morning we—I—covered the soles of his shoes with glue." He chuckled reminiscently. "Didn't think it had worked at first, but as he trotted along, he started to gather up all sorts of stuff. Before you could wink an eye, his feet were as wide as they were long. Clumsy chap fell over them."
"And—broke his ankle?"
Devenish nodded, trying to look contrite, but his eyes twinkling. "Yes. Sorry to say."
"And you—owned up?"
"Well . . . yes."
"And got sent down." Tristram laughed. "I wonder you were not bought a pair of colours and packed off to the Peninsula!"
"Was. The colours, at least. But I only got myself another Proctor."
"Captain?"
"Major. Blasted martinet. The Peninsula would have been grand, but instead I did my soldiering in Hyde Park, Richmond Park, Wimbledon Common. All in full regalia, no matter how beastly hot the weather. How that old devil loved to make us drill for hours, while he snored in the shade. Then he would mount up, whip out his sabre, hold it at arm's length, and prance out in front, natty and neat, while we exhausted slaves followed. The fellow was so puffed up in his own conceit, there was no bearing it." His eyes became grim suddenly. "Used to call me—'My Pretty.'" He fixed Tristram with a challenging stare, but that worthy, having a very good idea of the price Devenish must pay for his unbelievable looks, was commendably unsmiling.
"I trust," he said gravely, "you evened the score?"
The twinkle returned. "Didn't I, though! One of my fellows claimed to have been a locksmith, though I suspect milling kens was more his line. You'd not believe the tools he carried—one of which was—a fine saw." His eyes danced, and a corner of his beautifully shaped mouth twitched.
Staring at him blankly, Tristram began to grin. "Not—the sabre?"
Devenish nodded irrepressibly. "Almost clear through! Then we slipped it back into the scabbard, and in a few hours, off we went to the Parade Ground. Had I known the Duke would be there…"
"Oh, gad! Wellington?"
"Quite unexpectedly. It was after Toulouse, you see. At all events, what was done, was done. Never had our Major ridden so straight. A regular wooden image! Then, just as we approached the reviewing party, out came the sabre! It began to sag almost at once. And just—just as we passed Old Hooky—" he chortled uncontrollably, "it—it fell right off!"
Tristram gave a shout of laughter. "Would that I'd seen it!"
"Hooky saw it. You should have heard him howl!" Wiping his eyes, Devenish gasped, "I was not cashiered, exactly. But the Major made it so hot for me, I was obliged to sell out. Still—deuce take it—it was worth every second!"
Rather breathless, Tristram remarked, "And—your guardian?"
"As you might expect. Cast me forth, and all that sort of fustian. I wouldn't mind so much—only…" Devenish looked rather fixedly at the banked-up fire, and said, "I rather miss the old tyrant. And Yolande—and Miss Farthing. Just occasionally."
Yolande… Yolande … Tristram frowned. He had known someone by that name—somewhere. "Your sisters?"
"Cousin. Yolande, that is. Yolande Drummond. She lives at Park Parapine." He sighed. "Nice chit. Miss Farthing's my mare." Brightening with an effort, he added, "And also the sum total of my fortune at the moment."
Tristram glanced around this parlour that must certainly be the best "The Cat and Dragon" had to offer. "Then—you must allow me to help pay for all this."
"Not in the least necessary, old fellow. You have already paid for it."
Tristram clapped a hand to the purse Sister Maria Evangeline had so generously provided. It was considerably lighter. Peering at his depleted fortune, he said indignantly, "The devil! You had no right, sir!"
"Oh, none at all. If you like," Devenish said hopefully, "you can call me out for it."
The crossing was rough, and with each mile Rachel's heart grew heavier, so that she finally feigned illness, and retired to her cabin. Madame Fleur was genuinely afflicted, and Claude instructed his Captain to put in at Cherbourg rather than attempt the reefs of Normandy in such weather. They passed the night in a comfortable inn, and it came as no surprise to Rachel when, after breakfast, M. Gerard procured a very well-sprung carriage for their journey southward, together with a second coach to convey the servants and the luggage. The drive was long and monotonous however, and the weather gloomy, and when they approached their destination, Rachel thought the countryside very parched and barren, despite the occasional spatters of rain. Claude was pleasant as always,providing them with a running commentary concerning the province through which they passed, and speaking proudly of its colorful history.
Despite herself, Rachel's attention wandered, and she was mildly startled when Charity exclaimed, "Did you hear that, dearest? Monsieur Claude is descended from the ancient kings of Brittany! You are marrying into a royal family!"
"Is that indeed so, Claude?" Rachel asked, surprised. "You never mentioned it."
He shrugged. "One does not go about bragging of one's ancestors. You also are from a fine old house, my love, n'est ce pas?"
Her smile was forced. What he said was true; the name Strand had once been a proud one. But now, she thought sadly, trampled in the dust.
They left the coast and headed inland. There were few habitations to be seen, and the terrain was very broken and rocky. With sinking heart, Rachel thought it lonely and inhospitable, so different from the beautiful French countryside she knew, or her lush and gentle Sussex. Up hill and down, rumble and jolt and jingle, until
quite suddenly they plunged into thick woods, and soon the way ahead was blocked by giant iron gates hung from white stone pillars, and with a high wall leading off in either direction. Just inside the gates, and to one side of the drive, was a lodge, and three men in black livery sat at a table before it, throwing dice. They all sprang up as the carriage approached, and ran to open the gates. The carnage swept through; Gerard, who rode with the outriders, pausing to call that a second vehicle followed. Rachel caught only a fleeting glimpse of the men, but they seemed to her a grim lot, their shouts of welcome, which were accompanied by neither smiles nor enthusiasm, appearing a concession to protocol rather than an evidence of affection.
Immediately, there was a vast improvement in the scenery. These woods were well-thinned, the undergrowth lush but confined to pleasantly shaped shrubs and fern.
Leaving the leafy shade, they came out into an area of downsloping turf, dotted with little arbours and neatly tended flower beds. As if in welcome, the sun came out, drawing a flash from the top of a broad hill that lifted ahead, much of it concealed by trees. Claude, seated beside Rachel, drew her hand through his arm. "See how even the sunshine greets you, my dear," he said kindly. "It knows you come to your future home. I must explain that my Papa built the chateau. He scoured the world for the objets d'art you will see. The drivepath we follow loops around the hill through many gardens, each true to its own theme, and separated from the others by trees. The first of these we are now entering. Beyond is the Baghdad Garden."
The trees fell away. Rachel's gasp was echoed by a delighted exclamation from Charity. They were in an area of indescribable beauty, a place of exotic shrubs, mosaic-tiled walks and statuary that of itself must be worth a fortune. The lawns were like rippling green velvet, and gardeners laboured among flower beds that were riots of colour. The path wound gently upward, revealing its wonders gradually. Rachel gasped again when a mosque came into view. It was scaled down to the size of a cottage, but startingly authentic, even to the gilded towers and minarets.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 02] - Feather Castles Page 12