Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Rats, probably,” offered Redmond, without turning from his vigil.

  Charity laughed.

  Lion went on, “Lucky I follered her. She ran to the first open door, which was the war room. Strike me silly if ever I see anything like that! People lying about all over the floor, moaning and groaning something terrible.”

  “You must have been very close behind us if they were not up and about,” observed Guy.

  “Well, I think I was, sir. But that Shotten cove was trying to get up, so I thought I’d best slow him down.” He grinned broadly and said with relish, “I tore up his neckcloth and tied him up with it, and I gagged him with his own stocking, and if that don’t stifle him, nothing will!”

  Charity clapped her hands. Guy said, “Excellent rascal!” and Redmond slanted an amused smile at the boy.

  “Oh, I served them up very fine,” boasted Lion. “Did you see that big net hanging on the wall? Monsieur Gerard told me Parnell Sanguinet fetched it back from India, and that he’d used it once to catch a tiger. Well, I trussed Monseigneur and his men up very tight, and then rolled them one by one into the net, and I tied it to the handle of the inside door.”

  “And the door opens into the corridor,” said Charity, watching Lion in awe.

  “That will make it something difficult to open,” Guy said. “I salute you, my young friend. But—how if my brother’s people simply go around to the outer door?”

  “I locked it on me way out,” said Lion, “and dropped the key in the channel. I rode as fast as I could go, with the kitten in me pocket, and when I see the yacht coming, I told some sailors Monseigneur had sent me with a urgent writing for the Captain. They didn’t believe me at first, but then they see the yacht and they didn’t dare take no chance but what I was telling the truth. So they rowed us out. Me and Little Patches.”

  “How clever you have been!” Charity clasped his hand impulsively.

  Lion blushed scarlet and looked down in embarrassment.

  “And now,” said Guy, “we must decide what we do. How you say, Redmond? It is to Birkenhead for us? Or do you think Gerard will sail around Land’s End to Portsmouth or Brighton?”

  Redmond went to sit on a chest apart from the group. “Has Claude another ship that could come up with us before we reached Birkenhead?”

  Guy frowned. “Had he Se Rallumer … even so, is not impossible.”

  “I cannot feature his failing to give chase, and at sea we will be very visible, and powerless if he signals Godoy. I think our best chance is to make straight for the Scottish coast. Devenish, I believe, has a cousin dwelling there who has already encountered Claude and who will certainly help us.”

  “Major Tyndale!” exclaimed Charity. “Of course! And his wife’s grandfather is a general who must have great influence with the authorities!” Elated, she turned to Guy, and surprised a look of sadness. With her usual warmheartedness, she crossed to sink to her knees beside his chair. “Guy, mon pauvre ami. How difficult this must be for you. We owe you our lives, but when we reach England you must do no more. We shall ask no more of you, shall we, Mr. Redmond?”

  Redmond evaded, “Do you mean to return to France, Sanguinet?”

  “Who shall say? As for tomorrow, Scotland it shall be.” He stood and with a forced smile asked, “For where must I tell our captain to steer?”

  Redmond hesitated. “The castle is in Ayrshire, but do you know whereabouts, ma’am?”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Charity, dismayed. “I’ve not the least notion.”

  Lion said, “I knows. It’s Castle Tyndale, near a village called Drumdownie. Sticks up like a bloomin’ great lighthouse it does, on the very edge of the cliffs. Can’t miss it.”

  The following morning, however, it seemed that they would very easily miss the castle. Charity had retired to her stateroom soon after dinner and gone to bed after offering up some very grateful prayers. She awoke to grey skies and pouring rain, conditions that prevailed all that day. La Hautemant sailed on steadfastly, her bow slicing waves that grew ever higher. By nightfall they were running before the wind with shortened sail, but in the wee hours the seas became less violent, and at dawn the winds died. They prowled the Scottish coast at a snail’s pace, bedevilled by mists that drifted fitfully, threatening to thicken into fog.

  Charity went on deck wrapped in one of the greatcoats that had been hung in the wardrobe of Guy’s cabin. The air was clammy, and visibility had shrunk to less than a mile. Shivering, she peered at the dark line of hills that was the coast of Scotland.

  “You are up early, little one,” said Guy, joining her at the rail.

  She turned to him with a smile. “Shall we land today, do you think?”

  “If our gallant captain can find your friend’s castle.”

  For a little while they both watched the coast, then Charity observed, “It looks very mountainous in places, Guy. Do we sail northward?”

  “I think the mists deceive us, and yes, we have had to go south around Kintyre and the Island of Arran, but now we are off Ayrshire. When the sun she come up, you shall see better.”

  Charity laughed. “The sun! What an optimist! Is Lion awake?”

  “Oui. And on the bridge, advising the Capitaine how to sail his ship. Redmond is there also.”

  They glanced at each other.

  “He was not really afraid, you know,” Guy said quietly. “It was just the clever pose to make my brother’s men relax their guard the little piece.”

  “Yes. And it worked!”

  A pause, and now although both stared at the coastline, neither saw it.

  “Charity,” Guy said hesitantly, “has he spoken to you since we came aboard?”

  “A few words only. But I don’t believe he has once looked directly at me.”

  He sighed. “He avoids my eyes also.”

  “My sister once told me—” Charity began.

  “Look!” Lion was shouting from the bridge and pointing eastwards in great excitement. “There it is! There’s Castle Tyndale!”

  Wreathed with tendrils of mist, the great castle rose at the brink of the cliffs. It presented a very different picture to that of Tor Keep, for although massive, it soared high and gracefully. Constructed of grey stone with large Gothic windows, three tall conical towers and crenellated battlements, it looked majestic, and Charity murmured, “Oh, how very beautiful it is. Like a castle from a fairy tale.”

  Lion, who had run down to join them, said with a derisive snort, “That ain’t what Mr. Devenish thought of it, Miss Charity. Monsieur Claude pulled all manner of tricks on him and Major Tyndale, ’cause Monsieur was using the castle for hisself and tried to drive ’em out. Mr. Garvey said Devenish was so scared he like to died o’ fright!”

  Appalled by the awareness that Redmond had also joined them and was standing close by, she said, “We all have an Achilles’ heel, Lion. Something that may cause the very bravest person to weaken, even if only briefly.”

  “Oh yus,” the boy scoffed. “But a real man wouldn’t never let it beat him. He’d be brave and stand buff, no matter what, he would!”

  “That would depend on how deep was his fear. Or how sensitive his nature. We are all so different, you know. And surely, the important thing is not that a man never be afraid, for such a one must be a fool, but that, however afraid, he goes on and does his best. That, I think, is true heroism, Lion.”

  Unconvinced, Lion grunted.

  Guy glanced around, saw Redmond standing there, his face expressionless, and was dismayed.

  “Your Captain says there’s a cove below the castle, Guy,” said Redmond. “He will drop anchor there, and have us taken ashore. Then he means to return to Tordarroch. He asks that we prepare to land.”

  * * *

  Dogs began to bay frantically as Charity, holding Guy’s arm, followed Lion and Redmond along the winding path that led up the cliffs to Castle Tyndale. She heard a door slam and thought with relief that someone was here, even if the Tyndales were from ho
me. Panting, she paused at the top of the path, looking back to the cove far below, but La Hautemant was already disappearing into the southern mists.

  A howl of excitement rang out. “Mitch! By God! It’s my brother! And he’s got Miss Strand!”

  Charity’s heart leapt with joy. “They’re here!” she cried wildly. “Oh, thank God!”

  She began to run, and heard whoops and shouts, distant at first, but coming closer as they rounded the side of the great structure. She had a brief impression of broad lawns and fine old trees and flowerbeds, but then the wide steps at the front of the castle were suddenly full of men.

  Redmond drawled, “Our reinforcements have arrived, certainly.”

  Guy drew back, but Charity saw her brother leap down the steps and she gave a shriek and ran joyously to meet him. With an answering shout, Justin Strand galloped to grab and hug her so hard she thought her ribs would crack. “You’re safe!” he cried emotionally, swinging her around. “Now—thank God! Thank God!”

  She kissed him wholeheartedly, saw the glint of thankful tears in his blue eyes, and then was torn from his arms, swung higher and soundly kissed by her brother-in-law, Leith’s deep voice ringing with gladness. Again, she was wrenched away, and Alain Devenish was adding his own salutes to her radiant face.

  Everyone was shouting at once. An exuberant Sir Harry Redmond pounded his quiet brother on the back, and the little clerical gentleman, Reverend Langridge, wrung and wrung at Mitchell’s hand, while beaming upon them all.

  Charity was grateful to see Tristram go and grip Guy Sanguinet’s hand and say something to him that brought a smile to Guy’s face. Devenish turned to Lion, who looked scared and ill-at-ease.

  “Look!” shouted Devenish, laughingly, holding Little Patches aloft. “Another prisoner rescued!”

  There was a sudden silence. “Jupiter!” gasped Leith, staring at the kitten. “She was with you, Charity? But—”

  “H-hey!” shouted Jeremy Bolster, running from the castle, pulling on his jacket and minus one boot. He came up with the happy crowd, halted, and threw out his arms. Charity ran into them gladly, was hugged once more, and a shy kiss planted on her cheek.

  The air rang with questions, laughter, and badinage. And Charity stood there, weeping happy tears, her heart too full for words while these dear friends and loved ones she had feared never to see again closed in around her.

  A tall, fair-haired man she had never met came out onto the steps and stood watching. Over the uproar, Leith shouted, “It’s my sister, Tyndale. Mitchell Redmond found her for us!”

  Strand asked anxiously, “My dearest girl, you are all right? They didn’t harm you?”

  “They frightened me very badly, Justin. And made me horribly drugged. But, oh, I am home! Thanks to Mr. Redmond, and Guy—and Lion!”

  Strand’s rumpled fair head jerked around to stare at the youth. “Lion…? By Jove—it is! But, you’re Garvey’s tiger!”

  Afraid, and his conscience extremely uneasy, Lion stammered, “I—I ain’t not—no more, I ain’t.”

  “Oh,” said Strand. “Well, I shouldn’t wonder! What the deuce have you done to your hair?”

  And suddenly it seemed so hilarious that Charity began to laugh and couldn’t stop, her peals of mirth so infectious that they all were drawn in until the castle rang with the sound of it. “Oh,” gasped Charity, wiping her eyes. “If that isn’t just like you, Justin! Here—here we are … just this minute escaped from that wretched man … and you must worry because Lion was made to dye his hair!”

  “Well, it looks awful.” Strand grinned. “Come along now, and meet our host!”

  They proceeded to the steps, where Major Craig Tyndale was presented. His hair was a few shades darker than that of his cousin Alain Devenish, and his pleasant features showed small trace of that ebullient young man’s famed good looks. He bowed over Charity’s hand and begged that she come inside. “My wife is away, ma’am, but I know she would wish you to borrow whatsoever you might need. I’ll send a maid upstairs with you do you wish to refresh yourself and change your dress.”

  Charity thanked him as he led the way into the lofty Great Hall and thence to a large and comfortable drawing room, since she told him she could not bear to be parted just yet from her loved ones. She had been determined to dislike this man who had stolen away the girl Devenish loved so devotedly, but she found that despite herself she warmed to him for his quiet manner, his grave smile, and his pleasant Canadian accent. His grey eyes were not perhaps as fine, but much more friendly than those of Mr. Redmond, she decided.

  Devenish said brightly, “Welcome to the haunted castle.”

  Tyndale glanced at him, but said nothing.

  “If you could only know how glad I am to be here,” Charity said fervently. “I have so much to ask you—and so much to tell.”

  Tyndale led her to a comfortable chair and went over to tug on the embroidered bell-pull. Strand and Leith seated themselves on a sofa, Devenish perched on the arm, Bolster, Sir Harry, and the Reverend Langridge pulled chairs closer, and Lion sat on the jut of the hearth, watching Little Patches creep about, making a dramatic stalk of this new place.

  “My poor girl,” said Leith kindly, “you have had a dreadful time. You know, of course, that we failed you miserably.”

  “Followed the wr-wrong coach,” Bolster said with a wry nod. “Lot of silly g-g-gudgeons!”

  “Just so soon as we realized what had happened,” put in Sir Harry, “we rushed up here, because—”

  “Because I’d told them what transpired here with good old Claude last year,” Devenish interposed. “We was expecting to find Diccon here.…” He glanced curiously at Mitchell.

  “It looks,” said the Reverend in his mild voice, “as though my nephew was luckier than us all.”

  Mitchell, who had drifted away to stand quiet and aloof beside a side window, met his brother’s curious stare. “Diccon’s dead, I think,” he said flatly.

  Sir Harry’s face twisted. “Oh, never say so!”

  “Are you perfectly sure?” Leith asked, his own face paling.

  “Then you’ve not heard from diLoretto?” Mitchell countered.

  “Your man?” Puzzled, Sir Harry shook his head. “What has he to do with Diccon, bantling?”

  Mitchell’s lips tightened. “It’s a long story. I’m not sure we’ve the time.” He turned to Leith. “I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but could you send a man up to the battlements to keep watch?”

  “By Jove!” Devenish exclaimed, his handsome face brightening. “Old Claude?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Very likely, I’m afraid.”

  A rather rumpled butler hurried in and crossed to receive Tyndale’s orders. He looked astonished and left quickly.

  Mitchell glanced at the clock as it chimed the quarter-hour. “I’ll be as brief as possible,” he said, and embarked on a very abbreviated version of his journey to Birkenhead and the fight at the bridge. “If Diccon was not killed,” he added, “he showed no sign of life. I knew diLoretto had apparently escaped detection. I fancied he’d have contacted you by this time.”

  The butler and a maid came in at this point with trays of coffee and cakes. Mitchell drew up a chair and continued his tale, pausing only to ascertain that a footman had been sent to the roof to warn of any approaching vessel. He spoke tersely until he reached the point of their final confrontation with Claude. Hesitating, he finished abruptly, “There was a bit of a tussle in the war room, but thanks to Guy we were able to get away and—”

  Indignant protests interrupted him. Devenish said, “Come on now, Redmond. You can’t fob us off like that. What kind of tussle? And how did you escape?”

  His face as expressionless as his voice, Mitchell said, “I escaped because Miss Strand wields a fearsome spear. And because Guy rescued me.” When the shouts of excitement died down, he added, “Excuse me, gentlemen. I shall let someone else finish the story.” He stood amid a flat silence and sauntered from the room.


  Bolster and Harry exchanged mystified glances.

  Guy said quickly, “Perhaps I may tell you…?” Urged to do so, he described the battle with typical modesty, so that Charity often felt called upon to interrupt. No mention was made of Mitchell’s ordeal, but between them they painted so graphic a picture of that struggle that cheers rang out when they finished.

  As soon as he could make himself heard, Leith asked, “Do you know when the crown is to be delivered? Is there a definite time?”

  Leaning in the doorway, Mitchell said, “It is to be taken to the Pavilion at Brighton. There will be a dinner party before the ball to commemorate the Battle of Waterloo, and Claude has sent Prinny a note saying that the crown is presented to him in honour of the occasion.”

  His news was greeted with dismay.

  “Wednesday?”

  “And today’s Saturday! Egad!”

  “Can we reach London in less than five days?” the Reverend wailed.

  “Not London, sir, Brighton,” corrected Leith. “And we must!”

  “If we ride like hell,” said Devenish, ever the optimist, “we could do it in half the time. Certainly by the eighteenth!”

  Leith said thoughtfully, “If we could just get some backing.”

  Tyndale nodded. “Someone will have to go to the authorities.”

  “Authorities!” Devenish regarded him with scorn. “Just like you, Craig, to want to bring in a lot of pompous officials.”

  “Doubt they’d listen, old f-fellow,” said Bolster.

  “They wouldn’t listen to me,” Leith agreed. “Or even to poor Diccon. The only other man who could help us is in Russia. We’re on our own, gentlemen. Dev’s right. If we appeal for help, we not only invite endless delays and the prolific red tape of officialdom, but we’re more than likely to be clapped up as dangerous lunatics.”

  Charity intervened hopefully, “But Mr. Redmond said your wife has a relation living nearby, Major. Her grandpapa?”

  “Very true, ma’am. General Drummond. And the old fellow is a fighter—he’ll move heaven and earth to help.”

  Automatically assuming command, Leith said, “Then you must go to him at once, Tyndale.”