Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  The sun was low in the sky when they neared Woking, the tired horses clattering wearily over a bridge across the River Wey. Diccon turned off the road and led the way into an isolated stretch of woods. Quite suddenly, gypsies were all around them. For an instant, Mitchell suspected an ambush and his hand streaked down for his pistol, but Diccon was welcomed respectfully, and the travellers were guided to a wide clearing close to the bank of the river, where stood a ring of about ten caravans,

  Mitchell was given into the care of an aged little man wearing a brilliant red scarf about his head and having very bright black eyes and a great, upcurving chin. His caravan was neat; Mitchell was invited to take off his coat; a bowl of hot water was provided, and while he washed, the old man brushed the dust from his coat. Thanking him, Mitchell went back outside. He found Diccon already seated by the camp fire, eating stew and conversing in the Romany tongue with three grim-looking men. A bowl of stew was brought to Mitchell, together with a thick slice of crusty bread. Simple fare, but he found it beyond words delicious, partly because it was eaten in the crisp fresh air, and partly because he’d been working up a hearty appetite since leaving Sussex.

  He no sooner finished the stew than fresh horses were brought up. Indignant, he declared that he had no intention of leaving Whisper here. At once a dozen heads turned his way, and a dozen pairs of hard black eyes bored at him.

  Diccon said, “She’ll be safer here than going on at the pace we must travel. I’ll grant he’s no Arabian, but this hack is used to long hauls and hard knocks.” Lowering his voice, he murmured, “And were I you, friend, I’d not be questioning the integrity of these folks. Unless you want another knife ’twixt your ribs.”

  Mitchell mounted up and reached into his pocket for his purse.

  Diccon caught his eye, and Mitchell checked, then bent to shake the hand of the man who held the hack. “Thank you for your hospitality, friend,” he said. “Shall you be camped here when we return?”

  “Who can say, Gorgio Rye? Your beautiful mare will be at Moiré Grange when you reach there.”

  Astonished, Mitchell said, “How the devil do you—”

  “If you are quite ready, Mr. Redmond,” Diccon interrupted, “I’ve to be in Abingdon tonight.”

  Jerking his head around, Mitchell gasped, “Abingdon?”

  “Too far for you?” Diccon shrugged. “I fancy your brother could teach you a thing or two about forced marches!”

  Through a rather set smile, Mitchell said, “I am very sure he could,” and rode on.

  For three long hours scarcely a word was spoken. They were slowed when the dusk deepened into evening, for there was no moon and it was difficult to see their way. It was quite dark when Diccon at last rode into the yard of an isolated and inexpensive little hedge tavern.

  Mitchell dismounted wearily, followed the eager host into a low-ceilinged foyer, and up a winding stair. His room was tiny but clean, and he sprawled with a sigh of relief onto the soft feather bed. He forced himself to stand after only a moment, however, knowing he would be asleep in no time and having not the slightest intention of granting Diccon the opportunity to remark that Harry would not have been so easily tired. He took his toilet articles from his saddlebags and spent a short time in restoring himself to some semblance of tidiness before going downstairs.

  The coffee room the host showed him into was long and low, with whitewashed walls and dark settles and benches. A fire burned on the wide hearth, but the room was deserted. The host brought a bottle of wine, and Mitchell ordered a light supper, and still Diccon had not appeared. He was grinning to himself, thinking that he might be the one to scoff in the morning, when another gentleman entered.

  The newcomer was clad in a peerless riding coat and breeches, his neckcloth unostentatiously but impeccaby tied, his topboots gleaming. A slender gentleman, with short curling hair arranged in a simple but attractive style, the aristocrat written in every proud inch of his tall figure.

  “Your thoughts must be exceedingly pleasant to bring such a smile to your face, sir,” he said.

  Mitchell gasped, “Diccon! By Jove—I didn’t know you!”

  Crossing to occupy the opposite chair, Diccon said coolly, “Good. Let us hope Sanguinet’s spies don’t.”

  “I cannot believe it! Who cut your hair?”

  “I did. Have you ordered? Ah, I see you have.”

  The host and his plump lady carried in a juicy ham and a plate of cold beef. Pickled beets, sliced cheeses, hot bread, and a steaming gooseberry pie completed the repast, and the two men applied themselves to it with enthusiasm.

  Not until the host had removed the covers and left them to their wine did Diccon say, “Too tired to talk for a minute?”

  “It will be a novel experience,” said Mitchell dryly.

  Diccon stared at him in puzzled questioning.

  “No one,” said Mitchell, “could accuse you of being garrulous, Major.”

  “Oh.” The suspicion of a smile twitched at the thin lips. “Nor you of being a lover of the quiet life. You’ve built quite a reputation since last we met, Mr. Redmond. I was surprised to learn that you are now reckoned a fine shot and a master swordsman.”

  Mitchell took a walnut from the bowl. “They seemed desirable skills to cultivate—under the circumstances.”

  “Did they?” Watching the younger man’s inscrutable face and cold eyes, Diccon thought with a faint regret that the Sanguinets had much to answer for. “And what of the skills you once hungered after? What of your passion for musty old books and ancient history? Your dream of a fellowship at Oxford?”

  “Dreams change.”

  “To become vendettas?”

  Mitchell cracked the nut between his strong fingers and said nothing.

  “I had thought your quarrel was with Parnell Sanguinet,” Diccon went on blandly, “and he is dead.”

  “Claude manipulated Parnell, as he manipulates everyone. And Claude is very much alive. And as for vendettas—Claude’s rogues attacked me, if you remember.”

  “Ah, yes. Your, er, duel. They likely mistook you for a patriot.”

  In the act of selecting another nut, Mitchell paused and looked up. “Mistook…?” he echoed softly.

  “You said yourself you care not what happens to the Regent, which being the case I can only suppose that you accompany me in pursuit of personal vengeance.”

  Mitchell frowned, then said deliberately, “It would give me the greatest satisfaction to assist the Sanguinets towards the hell they richly deserve.”

  Up went Diccon’s bushy brows. “Plural, is it? I’d have thought you would feel an obligation to Guy. After all, you shot him, and yet he was decent enough to stop—”

  “If he is in this with Claude, then of a surety Guy too!” The sly amusement in Diccon’s eyes caused Mitchell’s to become bleak. “Furthermore, Major, I do not recall remarking that I did not care what became of Prinny. If I happen to consider him to be a liability rather than an asset to England, it does not imply a lack of patriotism.”

  “I doubt the royal gentleman would agree. In point of fact, you could be clapped up for such a remark. And, speaking of liabilities, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that is exactly what you are to me.”

  “So I gather.” Irked, Mitchell said, “Considering how you begged my brother to come, I would think—”

  “Ah,” murmured Diccon, “but that, you see, was your brother.”

  “Who has just as much reason to detest the Sanguinets as have I!”

  Diccon smiled infuriatingly and began to push a walnut around his wineglass.

  “Sanguinet, I will remind you,” gritted Mitchell, leaning forward, “murdered my father.”

  “But we were never able to prove that, you know. Parnell contrived to Sir Colin’s ruin, certainly, and persecuted the lovely lady of whom you were so fond, but—”

  Mitchell had raised his wineglass, but at these words his hand jerked so that the rich port splashed onto the gleaming oak. His eyes
lifted to meet Diccon’s, and that intrepid gentleman was put in mind of the glare he had once beheld in the eyes of a cornered panther. “Perhaps,” said Mitchell with silken softness, “you will be so good as to explain what you mean by that … insinuation.”

  “Insinuation? But, my dear fellow, I had always understood you to be, ah, very fond of Miss Carlson.”

  “She is not Miss Carlson,” said Mitchell, still with his head slightly downbent while he glared up at Diccon from under his black brows. “She is the lady Harry Redmond. And if you dare to imply—”

  “That you were in love with her? Of course you were. She knew it—Harry knew it—Parnell knew it! And when he found you alone together in the woods—”

  Mitchell’s chair went over with a crash. Standing with fists clenched, he raged, “I never laid a hand on her, damn you! She loved Harry. I respected that, and I respected her!”

  Diccon leaned back, very much at his ease, his eyes as cool as Mitchell’s were blazing. “You loved her,” he repeated. “Parnell persecuted and terrorized her and victimized you and your brother. And Claude pulled the strings for all of it, and engineered your father’s death. Wherefore, you want him dead at your feet—no?”

  “Yes!” snarled Mitchell. “I’ll beat him at his own game, and call him out or strangle him with my bare hands if I have to! Is that what you want? Is that what you’ve been sneering and hinting and prying after? Then hear this, Mr. Tinker or Spy, or whatever you are, I may not be the man my brother is, and I may be no more than a liability to you, but with or without you, I’ll find Claude Sanguinet, and—”

  Diccon laughed jeeringly. “And you’ll die in that moment! Oh yes, that’s what I wanted, Redmond. To know just how you will behave in a crisis. And it is as I suspected. You don’t give a groat for England. Your only interest in this is personal vengeance!”

  “You lie, blast you! I love my country!”

  Leaning forward then, Diccon slammed one clenched fist on the table and demanded tensely, “And do you love it enough to be ruled by my decisions? Will you agree to do exactly as I say? Will you swear that if Sanguinet’s throat is within your grasp and I give you a no, you will obey me?”

  Mitchell stared down at him. His taut body relaxed. He laughed. “Like hell!”

  Diccon leaned back again. “Goodbye. And good luck.” But as Mitchell strolled to the door, he called slyly, “Pray tell me before you depart, sir. Where do you mean to search? La Mancha?”

  Gritting his teeth, Mitchell flung around. And the mockery on the lean face of this strange man banished his own scowl abruptly. “Why, you slippery devil,” he said in belated comprehension. “You know where he is!” He stalked back to stand facing Diccon once more. “That’s why you called together the few men you trusted, all victims of the Sanguinets, all intent on their destruction no matter what the cost! You did not come asking us to search them out, but to go in there and fight! Only you are too damned devious to say it straight out!”

  “Nonsense. A handful against hundreds? I cannot afford such heroics, Redmond. Mine is the meaner task. To spy and creep and learn, so that England may be forewarned—if only she will listen!—and gallant heroes such as yourself can later charge in to glory.”

  There was bitterness in his voice. Watching him, Mitchell remembered some of the things Harry had told him of this man. And of Leith’s story of the months Diccon had spent in Brittany inside Claude Sanguinet’s fortress chateau, risking death every instant and knowing that few in England would care if he paid the ultimate penalty for his devotion.

  “Small thanks you get for your trouble,” he acknowledged slowly.

  “Thanks?” Diccon’s lip curled. “I want no thanks. What I need is support! But to most of the powers in Whitehall I am a fanatical gloom merchant. A glory-seeking opportunist whose fearsome dragons have been created purely for my own aggrandizement! While Claude Sanguinet—ah! What a gentle philanthropist; a confirmed Anglophile; a God-fearing, loyal, and fond friend of the Regent. A gentleman sans reproche! And I, a bungling idiot, so that Smollet has been forced to retreat, and even Wellington looks at me askance!” He stood and paced to glare broodingly down into the fire.

  Mitchell watched him for a moment, then sat on the edge of the table and said in a subdued voice, “So you have tested me all day, have you? Well, I fear your judgement was well-founded.” Diccon swung around, surprised. Mitchell admitted wryly, “You want more of me than I’ve the courage to give. God knows I’m willing to side you in a scrap, but if you mean to venture into Claude’s camp, to masquerade as one of ’em—Lord, no! That kind of heroism is beyond my—”

  “What a blasted awful thing to say,” interrupted Diccon with considerable indignation. “Heroism, indeed! And if it did come down to that, I’d not be astonished to find you’ve more of your brother in you than I had at first—” He broke off, his head tilting, listening intently. “Ah! Here comes my word, at last!”

  “So that’s why we had to reach here tonight! I was—” And in turn Mitchell paused, his eyes widening. From the hall came a familiar voice upraised in song. A tenor voice growing louder until the door was flung open and the song died away.

  Antonio diLoretto bowed with a flourish and straightened, his dark eyes full of mischief as they flashed from Mitchell’s astonishment to Diccon’s scowl.

  “Tonio!” exclaimed Mitchell

  “It’s past time,” grunted Diccon.

  “I am here,” proclaimed diLoretto, redundantly.

  “You’re a blasted spy!” cried Mitchell with justifiable wrath. “For nigh two years I’ve paid you to be loyal to me, while all the time you worked for”—he gestured towards Diccon—“him!”

  “Ah, but, signor, have I not-a serve-a you well? Am I not-a loving you like the brother? Did I not—”

  “You’re late,” Diccon interpolated sharply.

  DiLoretto came into the room and closed the door, then removed his cloak. “I was detained,” he said with a shrug.

  The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped and darkly stained, the tear revealing a crude bandage around his forearm.

  “Is it bad?” asked Mitchell, stepping forward quickly.

  “Were you followed?” Diccon rasped, his eyes darting to the door.

  “Me?” protested diLoretto. “I am the eel, the shadow! They do not-a see even what is the way I go!”

  Pulling up a chair for his valet, Mitchell observed, “Someone saw the eel long enough to inflict that.”

  “A chance shot at the night. This, she is-a nothing! Less-a than nothing!”

  Impatient, Diccon demanded, “Then give me something. Was I right?”

  “Major de-Conn, I bow! I am all of admiration. You are—”

  “For God’s sake,” roared Diccon. “Was I right?”

  “Yes,” said diLoretto gravely.

  Diccon breathed a gratified sigh.

  “And-a yet again,” diLoretto went on with a flourish, “no!”

  * * *

  Sir Harry Redmond was blessed with remarkably keen eye-sight, but peering into the moonless night, he failed to discern the hole in the rutted lane and swore as he stumbled and went to his knees. Following close behind, Bolster almost cannoned into him and exclaimed with a breathless laugh, “I s-say, old tulip, if you’re that t-tired, you’d best mount up again.”

  From out of the gloom, Devenish called cheerily, “Poor advice, your lording; farther to fall. Tris? Are you still amongst us? Do you know where we are?”

  “I’m here, Dev. And unless I mistake it, we’re a shade west of Folkestone. There’s a fine old posting house ahead we shall have to have a look at. It would never do for us to pass our quarry in the dark.”

  “Small chance of that,” muttered the Reverend, surreptitiously clinging to the tail of his nephew’s mount. “I’d never fancied one rode to the rescue at this dashing crawl!”

  “We’re moving,” Leith pointed out. “Which is likely more than Sanguinet’s people are doing. You know the legend of
the tortoise and the hare, sir.”

  “Quiet!” cried Sir Harry sharply, and, still kneeling, bowed forward.

  “What the devil’s he doing?” hissed Devenish, peering down at the baronet.

  “P-praying, I think,” Bolster whispered.

  Redmond sprang up. “Don’t be an ass, Jerry! Leith, there’s a heavy vehicle coming up behind us. A dray, perhaps. Though I’d not have thought they’d move produce at this hour of a moonless night.”

  “Nor I.” Low-voiced, Leith called, “Gentlemen, I suspect we’ve dawdled faster than we knew. Let’s give a look at this nocturnal traveller.”

  They separated, Redmond and his uncle moving to the left side of the road, Devenish and Bolster to the right, and Leith sitting his horse squarely in the middle.

  Soon, they could hear the slow beat of many hooves, the snorting of nervous horses and the grind and creak of wheels. A dark, moving mass loomed against the night sky.

  “Halt!” commanded Leith ringingly, adding a fallacious, “In the King’s name!”

  “Mon Dieu!” a man screamed. “En avant! En avant!”

  A whip cracked. Neighing in panic, the coach horses plunged forward.

  Sir Harry raised his pistol and a stab of flame sliced the darkness, the explosion deafening. All then was confusion. The Frenchman on the box was shouting; the terrified horses screamed and plunged; the right wheeler got one leg over the trace; the left leader collided with his partner; the carriage rocked crazily. A shotgun blast added to the din.

  Devenish flung himself recklessly at the side of the coach, clambered up, and grappled with a shadowy individual who ripped out ferocious Gallic oaths even as he beat madly at his attacker. On the other side of the vehicle, Bolster wrenched open the door and plunged inside. Leith dismounted and grasped the ribbons, attempting to quiet the terrified team. Coming up beside the box, the Reverend Langridge levelled an enormous and quite inoperable blunderbuss. “Do you surrender?” he howled.