Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Mais oui! Mais oui! Do not fire, monsieur, s’il vous plaît—do not!”

  Devenish, whose flying fist had connected to good effect, panted, “This one will give us no trouble, sir. Tris, throw me your tinderbox and we’ll have a little light here.”

  Leith went over and handed up his box, and Devenish lit one of the lamps.

  A chaotic scene was revealed. The coach horses were in a hopeless tangle; the guard sagged, unconscious, over the side of the box; the driver cringed, whimpering before the menace of Langridge’s blunderbuss.

  “Jeremy,” Leith called, “is Charity all right?”

  Bolster stuck his golden head out of the wide-flung door. “’Fraid we’ve made a, er, slight error,” he said in a decidedly hollow voice. “Charity ain’t here. This coach really is empty!”

  “Oh, God!” Leith groaned. “We’ve been duped, then. That damned rogue has had us following a decoy coach!”

  Sir Harry muttered sombrely, “God help poor little Miss Strand. We’ve lost her!”

  * * *

  Far beyond the dark depths of sleep, someone was calling, “Miss! Miss! Wake up!” Charity was warm and snug, and the effort to respond was great, but respond she must, and somehow she forced her eyes open and blinked stupidly around the dim and unfamiliar room.

  A plump woman, her features indistinguishable, was bending over the bed, tugging at her shoulder. “Your brother and your French cousin be waiting,” imparted this shadowy individual. “They axed me to wake ye. Be ye ’wake now, miss?” The heavy hand commenced the tugging again, and Charity pulled away, saying drowsily that she was indeed awake and where in the world was Agatha?

  The tugging ceased. The woman deposited a candle on a rickety chest of drawers. “Fit for Bedlam, poor lass,” she muttered under her breath. “Just like the genelmens said.” She turned back to the bed. “Now you please to wake up, miss. I’ll fetch a pitcher of hot water directly.”

  She was gone when Charity fought her way out of the morass of the feather bed and tried dully to recall the events of the previous day. They had reached this lonely inn at nightfall when she was so exhausted by the long hours of rattling about in the great coach that she had barely been able to totter into the old building. She had a dim memory of Jean-Paul engaging in a murmurous conversation with a little round-eyed fat man who had peered at her in obvious unease and remonstrated until the Frenchman brought out his purse. This civilized act had apparently lulled the host’s fears, and she had been ushered upstairs by all three men and shown into a tiny, low-roofed chamber under the eaves. It was the oddest thing that she had been unable to talk to the innkeeper. Every time she tried to speak, her voice was suspended and the words would not come. The door had been slammed shut, and a key turned in the lock. Rushing over to the window, she at once discovered why this particular room had been chosen. The window frames had been painted with a too generous hand so that there was no way to force the windows open. Wearily, Charity had unfastened her cloak, released a yawning kitten and, staying only to remove her gown and hang it on a convenient hook, had crawled into bed.

  She had a vague recollection of a woman appearing beside the bed, with a glass of warm milk and a sandwich of cold roast beef. And there had been something to do with Little Patches. She sat up, holding her head which ached dully and seemed vexingly wooden.…

  A touch aroused her. The buxom woman was again beside her, a kind smile upon her broad, rosy-cheeked face. “Come along, poor creature,” she said in that soft country accent. “Sad it is to see ye still so sick and wan. Your genelmens has paid me handsome to care for ye, and so I will. Only look, ma’am, I do have bringed your little friend.” She held up Little Patches, and the kitten struggled free and leapt onto the bed to butt and purr and generally greet a familiar human.

  Charity stroked her and fought to speak. It was a tremendous task. She said indistinctly, “You must … help. I—I am pris’ner. Please—help—”

  “There, there, poor soul.” The woman stroked her hair gently. “Such a sweet face. What a pity. What a pity. Come, me dearie, and let Polly just wash you a little bit.”

  So Charity was washed and dressed. She lowered her head obediently when asked to do so, and a hairbrush was applied to her thick hair with brisk strokes. She was sitting at a table beside the window, drinking tea and eating some toast and strawberry jam. The woman was talking about Little Patches and how the kitten had gobbled up the leftover fish last night. “Oh, but she’s a saucy little sprat of a cat. Polly would like to keep her, yes, she would, surely.”

  And there was something she must say. Something very important.… “Polly … brother will—come. Justin … tell him … tell him…”

  “Yes, for sure I will, my dearie dear. Only he do be downstairs, this very minute. Waiting for ye. And so grieving and sad he scarce can speak, poor soul. And no wonder.” A cloak was draped about Charity. Someone was holding her arm. It was Clem—not Justin. And Jean-Paul was arguing with the kind-hearted Polly.

  “No, but it do be her cat, sir. I beg ye will not take it from the poor lass, so fond of it as she is. I’ll have the boy put a box and earth in your carriage … no trouble.…”

  They were in a cold, fresh dawn. The great black coach waited like the chariot of death.

  Throwing off her strange lethargy, Charity tore from Clem’s grasp and ran back to Polly, who watched, wringing her apron in distress.

  “Help—help!” she cried frantically. “Do not let them … take…”

  Jean-Paul said in a soothing voice, “No, no, dear Mary. We shall not take your little friend. You shall keep the cat.” His arm slipped about Charity’s shoulders, his fingers gripping cruelly even as he said a loving, “Dear lady, your poor brother waits to care for you.” He turned her, shaking his head helplessly at Polly as Charity screamed shrilly. And under his breath, he grated, “Into the coach you go, madame. And—vite!”

  She was inside the coach again, her shoulder feeling bruised and sore and her head spinning so. She leaned back against the squabs. Far, far off, she heard Clem grumbling, “… should have thrown the dratted creature at the fat mort! A rare sauce she’s got, saddling us with one of her unwanted mogs!”

  “Situation is,” explained Jean-Paul patiently, “that the fat one has now a kind heart for us. Not a suspicious heart. This rough ground we travel must be got over as light as may be. Besides, this is a cat of many colours. I find it pleasing.”

  “You would,” grunted Clem, disgusted.

  Charity fell asleep.

  * * *

  It seemed that she dwelt in a strange void, midway between sleep and waking, in which she was aware of what took place around her, but only in a remote fashion. A portion of her mind told her that she was drugged, but she supposed they must not have dared give her too strong a dose, so that instead of being completely unconscious, she drifted in this trancelike state. The journey went on interminably, but the carriage was no longer stuffy, because the screens had been rolled up. She knew when, at some time in the later afternoon, the outriders left them, and she realized this would confuse the men who followed, for no longer was the coach escorted, nor did it appear to contain only one passenger. The men who guarded her were less antagonistic. Jean-Paul amused himself in playing with Little Patches, and even Clem chuckled occasionally and joined in entertaining the little animal.

  Quite suddenly, Charity was in a bedchamber, a chambermaid caring for her. A tray was brought to her, but she was not hungry and could only eat a few mouthfuls despite the maid’s urging. She tried to talk to the girl, but was unable to form the words, and when she tried to write, her eyes refused to focus and the pen wavered erratically over the page.

  She was back in the coach again, and the wheels went on and on until they spun her into sleep. This time, for what seemed an eternity.…

  She awoke to find the carriage rocking so violently that it seemed they must overturn. Her head ached, and her mouth was dry as dust, but she could see clearly,
and her mind seemed less clouded. She was bathed in a scarlet glow, which was peculiar because it could not be sunset again—unless she had slept all night and throughout the following day. They must have made a bed for her on one of the seats, for she lay full-length. The blanket thrown over her was warm, but it smelled musty, and the wool was rough, scratching against her chin. There was a familiar scent in her nostrils; a frightening scent. She threw back the blanket, sat up, and yelped as she struck her head on the roof. Only it was not the roof. And she was no longer in the carriage.

  Fear spurring her, she stood and ran to the window. A round window. And her bed was a bunk, with another over it, from which a tiny arm stretched out while a pink mouth voiced a scratchy greeting.

  Charity stood on tiptoe and looked out the porthole. A grey tumbling sea stretched away to the dim horizon. Even as she watched, the vessel rolled into a deep trough and the waves loomed up until they blotted out the crimson sky.

  Despair overcame her. She sank down the wooden side until she knelt huddled on the floor. The carriage must have turned about while she slept. She was on her way to Brittany after all. And once she was in that terrible chateau she was doomed. If Tristram or Justin or Dev should come, it would be to their deaths, for Claude would be ready and waiting.

  There was no hope now. No hope at all. She bowed her head into her hands and wept.

  Chapter 9

  “I’m getting old, Redmond,” said Diccon gloomily, watching diLoretto, who stood in the rainy yard, haggling with the ostler of the Jolly Tar tavern. “Why did I not think of Ireland? God knows it’s logical enough. It should have been one of the first places I’d guess, yet it never so much as occurred to me.”

  Mitchell rested his shoulders against the wall of the inn and finished the ale in his tankard. They had been in the saddle since dawn, most of that time spent in a misting drizzle. They’d traversed Oxfordshire, progressing damply through the beauties of the Cotswolds, and now faced a chill and rainy afternoon with many miles still before them. Diccon had hoped to be in the Black Country by now, but for reasons best known to himself, he had twice detoured, first far to the east, and then doubling back southwards again, before continuing to this quiet inn near Stratford-on-Avon.

  “You still don’t know it’s Ireland,” Mitchell pointed out. “All Tonio discovered was that Sanguinet’s people have been spotted on the docks at Birkenhead. Which could mean anything.” He glanced at the intelligence officer curiously. “How was he able to find out that much, by the by?”

  He half expected a polite evasion. Diccon surprised him. “One of my most promising men is a young gypsy. Lucian St. Clair sent him to me, and he’s proved to be invaluable. His people know more of what transpires on moonlit nights on unfrequented byways and secluded coves than our fellows at Bow Street will ever know. And as you’ve already seen, they provide me with an efficient network of eyes, ears, and sometimes help. I’d seen Daniel, my gypsy, on my interrupted search in Essex. Dan was on the trail of one of Claude’s lieutenants. A man whose very presence in England indicates that Claude is almost ready. Daniel was sure he would have news for me very soon, so before you and I left Sussex, I sent Tonio to seek him out and report to me at Abingdon. You, ah, may have noticed he was missing.”

  “Damned rogue! I had to pack my own saddlebags. But how did he know where to find this Daniel?”

  “There’s an ancient church in Little Snoring at the edge of the Ashdown Forest. It has a leper’s window that was, I believe, put to much use during the Jacobite Rebellion. It has been used by the Folk for many years, and a note left in that window reaches Daniel in jig time.”

  “I see. You’ve lots of tricks up your sleeve. And Tonio?”

  “Has been indebted to me for some time. I arranged for your meeting with him, knowing you harboured a grudge against the Sanguinets and that sooner or later you’d come to grips with them. Had you stirred up anything interesting, Tonio would have reported it to me at once.”

  After a pause, Mitchell asked, “And you believe Claude will make his move this year?”

  “This year? Good God, Redmond! Mine has not been a life free from hazard. I’ve several old wounds that make riding unpleasant in rainy weather, and I haul a lead ball in my back that can be deuced annoying in the face of sustained travel. Do you think I’d essay this mad dash had we a half-year to spare?”

  “Considering I number one-third of your army,” said Mitchell with dry sarcasm, “I’ve not been kept well informed, to put it mildly!”

  Diccon glanced at him, a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “Very well, General. I think our Claude means to strike within the month.”

  “My God!” Mitchell pushed his shoulders from the wall and regarded his companion in horror.

  Diccon nodded. “You carry identification papers, I presume? Letters, calling cards, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes. Of course. Why?”

  “Get rid of ’em. Anything that might identify you.”

  Staring at him, Mitchell said slowly, “You think they’re after us?”

  “Sanguinet has eyes everywhere. I changed my appearance, but…” Diccon paused and went on with obvious reluctance, “If anything should chance to go awry, I carry a small notebook in a special inner pocket under my left arm. It contains much of what I already know, and a good deal that I suspect. If I should be downed, that book must reach Smollet, or failing him—Wellington.” He looked up, met two steady grey eyes, and said, “It is quite vital, or I would not ask you.”

  “I’m very sure of that,” said Mitchell, rather ruefully.

  Almost, Diccon smiled. “I may rely on you, then?”

  “I’ll do my damnedest,” said Mitchell Redmond.

  * * *

  The rain continued. In late afternoon they caught a blurred glimpse of the seven-hundred-year-old might of Kenilworth Castle, then swung west, keeping to the wooded country and avoiding the plateau where perched old Birmingham, once so famous for its fine swordsmiths and cutlers and now wreathed in smoke and grime and frenetic with the hurry and bustle that machines had brought. Heading north again through the Black Country, Mitchell was so tight-lipped and silent that diLoretto enquired anxiously if his back was troubling him again. But it was the desecration of these once lovely heaths and moors that troubled him, and he answered rather savagely that there were worse things in life than a clean knife cut.

  Soon, drifting mists combined with gathering darkness to make further travel impossible. They stopped at a cosy wayside inn and bespoke two rooms. An excellent supper, topped off by a board of Cheshire’s famous cheeses sent Mitchell up to bed so drowsy that he fell asleep on top of the eiderdown. DiLoretto pulled off his boots and threw a blanket over him, and he did not stir until Diccon shook him awake in a gloomy dawn, and they were off again.

  Wolverhampton was smoky and depressing, and although Mitchell was impressed by Abraham Darby’s magnificent iron bridge across the River Severn that had dazzled England almost four decades ago, he was very glad when they left the Black Country and came again to clean streams and pure green fields.

  In late afternoon the sun came out to illumine Shropshire’s emerald hills and they rode past farms nestling gently in their rich valleys; past chuckling rivers and quiet pools, making good progress until the mists came up again, impeding both the view and their speed. They had to pick their way through the shrouded beauties of Cheshire, past heaths and desolate moorlands where hills loomed unexpectedly, and they would come without warning upon ancient towns and hamlets enriched by their wealth of black and white half-timbered houses.

  They left the mist behind and at sunset were approaching the fine old walled city of Chester, nestled in the bend of the River Dee. Here they encountered happy crowds and chaos, for it was time for the annual race meeting down on the Roodee, a level tract of land along the river, where all Cheshire, Staffordshire, and Shropshire seemed bound to come together to attend the races. The roads were clogged by a merry, jostling throng, who had besp
oken the last bed and bench at every inn, tavern, and posting house for miles around. Even diLoretto could find no heart to sing after a long search confirmed there was not a room to be had. They were able to get some food and to find fresh mounts, and then reluctantly pressed on.

  It was past ten o’clock when the horses slowed. Mitchell, bowed forward half asleep over the pommel, straightened, yawned, and glanced at Diccon. The tall man was turning back to peer along the lane they travelled, and there was that in his attitude that instantly brought Mitchell to full awareness. “What’s to do?” he asked.

  “Half a dozen horses following. I hoped we’d lost ’em, but they’re coming up fast.”

  Mitchell gave the cuffs of his gauntlets a tug. “Forewarned,” he said.

  Diccon knew with an uneasy assessment of the odds that they were all very tired, and it would be an uneven fight, for diLoretto, however willing, was no swordsman. The smell of the sea tinged the air, and the new moon, a faint sliver of palest gold in the sky, lit the heavens just sufficiently to reveal a strange distant forest lifting bare thin arms against the night. Masts. He said grimly, “They mean to stop us before we take ship. Hasten!”

  They drove home their spurs and were away in a burst of speed. And, at once, from behind came an answering thunder of hooves in hot pursuit.

  The winding lane they followed was shut in on both sides by hedgerows and was lonely and deserted at this hour, but two or three miles ahead was the Mersey, and shipping knew no light or dark. There would be loadings and offloadings, and too many men about for Sanguinet’s bullies to dare attack. It soon became evident, however, that they would be overtaken long before they reached the estuary. The hacks they’d found had been far from prime, but the best available; their pursuers had evidently fared better. They were gaining steadily so that soon the creak and jingle of harness could be heard in addition to those relentlessly beating hooves. A shot rang out, then another, the balls whistling unpleasantly close. To add to their woes, the moon seemed to be brightening and there was water everywhere now, the light reflecting from river, mere, and marshland. The lane straightened ahead. Soon they would be in open country with not even the occasional hedgerows to hinder the aim of their pursuers. “We’ll be picked off like clay pigeons,” Mitchell thought grimly.