Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “I’d sooner go with you, Colonel. At all events, I doubt the General could find us help in time.”

  “Perhaps not. But if we fail, somebody in authority must attempt to make the truth known.”

  Tyndale looked downcast, but he strode over to tug on the bell-rope once more, and when the butler ran in with an immediacy that betrayed the fact he’d been close by, he said, “Send word to the stables, if you please. We shall need six”—he scanned the tense group—“no, forgot Mr. Redmond—seven fast horses, and a coach and four. Quickly, man!”

  The butler flew.

  Also taking inventory, Guy said, “Major Tyndale, you have also forget me, I think?”

  Tyndale glanced questioningly to Leith.

  Tristram said, “Guy, under the circumstances, I think it best you stay clear. You can help us most by going with the Major and providing any needed details.”

  “And what about me?” demanded Charity, as they all stood. “I’ll not be left, Tris!”

  He smiled at her fondly. “My dear girl, you have done splendidly, but you surely do not intend to gallop down Scotland and the length of England with a bunch of wild men who—”

  “Of course she don’t,” Strand interjected. “My sister will ride with you, Tyndale.”

  “Precisely why I ordered up the coach and four,” said the Major.

  Her eyes blazing with indignation, Charity declared, “Well, I’ll not! I have been kidnapped and bullied and petrified these two weeks and more! I’ll not now be abandoned miles from home. Besides, I want to see how Rachel goes on.”

  “For heaven’s sake, do not talk such rubbish, child,” said Strand in his impatient fashion. “A fine sight you’d present in your muslin gown, riding at the gallop!”

  Mitchell drawled, “Do you mean to argue about it much longer, we’d as well start preparing our blacks.”

  Tyndale said briskly, “We’d best arm ourselves, gentlemen. The gun room is this way.”

  As they hurried into the hall, Strand seized Charity’s elbow. “Find yourself a cloak, love. The wind’s coming up.”

  Overhearing, Tyndale said, “You will find whatever you need in my wife’s room, ma’am.” He walked beside her and gestured to a hovering lackey.

  The brothers were alone. Mitchell regarded Harry without expression. A faint smile curving his lips, Harry went over and tilted his brother’s chin up. “Caught one here, I see,” he murmured, lightly touching the bruised mouth. He dropped his hand onto Mitchell’s shoulder. “Well done, halfling! Gad, but I’m proud of you.”

  Mitchell met his eyes squarely. “Only because Guy and Miss Strand did not tell you the whole. I was listening outside.” He saw Harry’s smile fade into a look of consternation but nerving himself, ploughed on. “Do you know what Claude said? He said I’d spent these last thirteen months trying to prove my manhood.”

  Harry had thought the same. Shocked, he managed to say with relative calm, “Is that so? Well, if it was truth, you’ve certainly proved it.”

  “No.” Mitchell turned away, picked up a dainty Sèvres compote dish and inspected it unseeingly.

  Angered, Harry exclaimed, “Good God, Mitch! If this coup does not convince you, I do not know what will! You longed to face Claude. You did, and—”

  “And learnt to the full what cowardice—real, panicked cowardice—feels like.”

  Harry caught his breath. With his tense gaze fixed on that stern averted profile, he waited.

  “When Claude discovered my true identity, he—” Mitchell set the compote dish down with care and turned to face him. “He questioned me.”

  “Bastard! With his fists, I take it?”

  “No. With a whip.”

  Harry stiffened and his dark brows drew together over slitted eyes.

  “I showed yellow as a dog,” said Mitchell flatly, his head well up, but his thin hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

  “Well, er, well, dammit, of course you did! What more natural, considering that only a year ago you were near killed by that flogging you—” Mitchell jerked his head away. And longing to throw an arm about those rigid shoulders, Harry said stoutly, “You recovered yourself. That’s the important thing. In spite of your very natural reaction, you got them out of there.”

  “Guy got us out. I recovered myself, I suppose you could say; to a point, that is all.”

  Indignant, Harry argued, “Miss Strand said you fought like a tiger. That don’t sound like ‘to a point.’”

  Mitchell could no longer meet those fiercely loyal eyes, but Harry must know the bitter truth. His voice began to falter, as he said, “When Claude threatened me with that whip, I couldn’t describe how I felt. And—when it struck me … oh, it wasn’t the pain that I mean, exactly. It was as if I was—petrified. I simply couldn’t move. If—if Guy hadn’t torn the whip from Claude—” He took a deep, trembling breath. “I doubt you’d be proud of me today, Sauvage.”

  Damning Claude Sanguinet from the depths of his soul, Harry growled, “I am not proud of you now. You blasted idealistic young idiot! What you experienced was shock. And perfectly understandable. Good God, Mitch, must you set yourself on a pedestal so impossibly high you’re not allowed to be human?”

  “Set myself on a—” gasped Mitchell. “Well, of all the—”

  “Be still! Now you just listen for a minute! I’ve seen better men than you, or me, or even Leith, panic in battle: seasoned fighting men who suddenly faced something they could not deal with, so that they ran, screaming, from the field. And I’ve seen the best of them come back and fight again—more gallantly than before.” Harry paced to grip Mitchell’s arm strongly. “Give yourself a chance, you blasted high-in-the-instep young chawbacon!”

  Mitchell shook his head miserably. “You say that now. But if I’d behaved in so cowardly a way on a battlefield, you’d have likely had me shot out of hand.” Before Harry could comment, he pulled a small, battered notebook from his pocket. “I carried this in my boot until today. You take charge of it, Sir Captain. Diccon thought it vital that it should be delivered with the greatest despatch to someone in authority. Wellington, I’d think would be—”

  “The devil I will!” Harry waved the book away. “I don’t want the blasted thing! You got it. You deliver it.”

  “For the love of God! Have you understood nothing I’ve told you? If Claude should get his hands on me again, and I have this, I might—”

  “Turn yellow, as you did this time?” finished Harry brutally.

  Stunned, Mitchell stared at him.

  “Panic for an instant?” went on Harry. “Then fight on, as you did this time? Well, what in hell’s wrong with that? Oh no, my lad! You’ll not shove the responsibility off onto me. I’ve the utmost faith in you. Besides—” he slanted an oblique glance at Mitchell’s pale face, and added, “I’ve done my share. I fought on the Peninsula. You didn’t, you young rapscallion.” His own heart twisted as he saw his brother flinch. “I’m getting old,” he said blandly.

  “Old!” exclaimed Mitchell. “You’re not thirty!”

  “Ah, but I’ve lived hard.…” He paused, the twinkle fading from his eyes. He said awkwardly, “And you forget, I’ve watched you grow up. I know that you could not possibly be a coward, Mitch.”

  Through a long silent moment their eyes met and held, the affection they usually disguised now very apparent. Then Harry said with an embarrassed laugh, “You’d better not be—else I shall have to break your stupid neck!”

  Mitchell turned away. His voice rather muffled, he said, “Damned … cawker…”

  * * *

  Yolande Drummond Leith was only a little taller than Charity, and if her figure was more rounded, the difference in dress size was not so marked as to be impossible. Torn by guilt lest her determination cause the gentlemen to be delayed, Charity changed into a dashing dark blue riding habit, with trembling haste jammed a jaunty little blue hat on the curls the abigail had hurriedly brushed into a semblance of neatness, and all but ran a
long the hall once more.

  She had been quicker than she knew; the men were gathered on the drive, watching grooms lead fine saddled horses from the stables, a closed carriage following.

  Lion, holding Little Patches, came over. “You’ll let me go along wi’ you, Miss Charity?” he pleaded.

  “Of course,” she answered with a reassuring smile. “However could we—” She checked to a faint sound like a distant shout that seemed to be coming from— She jerked her head back. A small figure, high atop the battlements, waved madly. Spinning around she saw many men racing up the side path from the beach. Men armed with pistols, muskets, clubs, or the gleaming steel of sword and dagger. And to one side stood Claude Sanguinet, bruised and hatless, aiming a pistol at Tristam Leith’s back.

  “Tris!” screamed Charity.

  Leith whipped around.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Guy sprang in front of him.

  A bright flame blossomed from the pistol. Horrified, Charity heard the following blast of the shot. Guy jerked backwards and fell.

  The men grouped about Leith exploded into action. A volley of shots sent the attackers scattering for cover.

  Leith shouted, “Mitch! Go! We’ll hold ’em as long as we can!”

  Mitchell, now clad in a riding coat and boots borrowed from Tyndale, at once swung into the saddle of a fine grey horse. Crouching low over the animal’s mane, he drove home his spurs and was away like the wind, a flurry of shots following.

  Devenish sprinted to throw an arm around Charity and drag her around to the far side of the castle. Far below she caught a glimpse of a large ship riding at anchor, a longboat making towards the shore, crowded with more men.

  “That triple damned idiot,” fumed Devenish, glancing at the battlements. “Was he asleep up there?”

  “Look! Look!” cried Charity. “Another boat, Dev!”

  “The devil! Our Claude has brought a whole blasted battalion of his rogues with him! You must get out of this!”

  Another outburst of shots, and Strand ran up leading a frightened bay horse. “Here you go, love,” he cried, beckoning Charity to him. “Hurry!”

  She ran to his side. He kissed her and threw her into the saddle. It was not a sidesaddle, but she threw one knee over the pommel and took the reins, bending to call a frantic, “But what about you and—”

  “Follow Redmond!” said Strand. “We’ll come.”

  The shots became louder and closer. Devenish slapped the horse’s rump sharply. The mare needed no more urging and bolted madly down the drive.

  Chapter 14

  Half an hour later, having caught sight of Mitchell Redmond only three times, Charity surmounted a steep hill and scanned the road ahead in desperation. Her anxious gaze swept across dimpling emerald valleys and gentle hills framed by the dark blue of distant mountains. Here and there the chimneys of some isolated farmhouse rose above the trees. A corner of her mind scolded that the Scots called them crofts, not farms.… Black-faced sheep grazed contentedly on the slope to her left. The sun came out from behind racing clouds, sending shadows scudding across the land. At any other time she would have joyed in the beauty of it all, but now she knew only dismay because as far as she could see there was no sign of horse and rider.

  She turned in the saddle, looking fearfully back the way she had come. There was no sign of Claude’s relentless followers, but neither did any loved and familiar figures gallop to accompany her. She urged her mount on, wondering miserably if Justin was unhurt … if Guy had been killed, or—

  She gave a squeak of fright as she rounded a sharp curve and a horseman charged from a stand of birches beside the road.

  Lowering his levelled pistol, Redmond gasped, “You! Good God! I thought—”

  “Thank heaven,” Charity babbled. “I was afraid I had quite lost you!”

  He restored the pistol to his saddle holster, glanced northwards and asked, “Where are the others? Is my brother all right, do you know?”

  “I don’t! I dare not think—” She broke off, biting her lip and trying not to cry. “Justin threw me onto this horse and sent me after you. Another longboat was coming ashore and many men. I am so afraid.…” Her voice shredded into silence.

  Redmond said harshly, “Nonsense. They’ll do their possible. They’re a damned fine bunch. Just now, ma’am, I am going to have to ride like fury. Keep up if you can, but when we come into Dumfries I must leave you and head south very fast, if I’m to have any chance of reaching the Pavilion by Wednesday evening.”

  So he doubted her ability to keep up. It was true that she was not used to lengthy rides, but her health was vastly improved these days. She just might surprise the gentleman! And so, when he spurred, she spurred also. Redmond rode a big grey gelding; her own mount had an untiring stride that ate up the miles steadily. But their way led through country that became increasingly hilly, and often Redmond had to slow to rest the horses.

  Five hours later, Charity was aching with fatigue and parched with thirst. But she knew that Redmond often glanced back the way they had come, and she resolved to fall dead from the saddle before she would beg him to stop.

  The wind was colder and the clouds darkening when he turned into the yard of a croft nestled in a small valley. He dismounted with easy grace and no sign of weariness, but when he reached to lift Charity down, she stared at him blankly for a moment, doubting her ability to move.

  One dark brow lifted, the side of his mouth twisting into a faint sneer that inflamed her. She slipped from the saddle. He caught her waist, which was fortuitous, for her legs were numbed, and she tottered for an instant.

  He murmured, “I’m sorry, Miss Strand. This must be very taxing for you.”

  “I shall … manage,” she gasped defiantly, but Mitchell’s steady gaze caused her to be oddly flustered. She stepped back and remembering, took out her handkerchief, unwrapped Claude’s ruby ring and thrust it at him. “Here, take this horrid thing.”

  He stared down at the great ruby, then put it into his waistcoat pocket as the door of the small house opened.

  The crofter came out to them. “Is it food or fresh horses ye’ll be after, sir?” he asked in a thick Scots accent. “I can gie ye the vittles. But ye’ll need tae ride tae McDougall’s fer hacks.”

  A scrawny woman, wiping red, work-roughened hands on an immaculate apron, came to the door. “’Tis only a wee way, sir,” she said with a friendly smile. “If ye’d pre-fair it, ma mon can gae fer ye, while ye set and eat. I’ve some pork pie ye’re welcome tae.”

  “Splendid.” Redmond handed the reins to the crofter. “Will you be so very good as to take care of these animals until they’re sent for? And get me the best mounts you can hire from your neighbour. My sister and I are summoned to Carlisle. Our father lies dangerously ill there.” He discussed the arrangements briefly, pressed a guinea into the man’s hand and was rewarded by a delighted grin. “Now, ma’am,” he said, turning to the farm wife, “if we may impose on you?”

  She bobbed a curtsey and ushered them through a tiny overfurnished parlour and into a wide kitchen, fragrant and cosy, with a fine fire leaping on the hearth, and a small table before it.

  Twenty minutes later, washed, fed, and refreshed, they went outside to find two likely-looking mounts already waiting. Redmond paid the costs from the fat purse Harry had thrust into his hand only seconds before Sanguinet’s appearance. He turned to boost Charity into the saddle, only to hesitate and remark frowningly that she could not continue without a proper sidesaddle. “You had best stay here until—”

  Charity was already very unpleasantly aware of the long and awkward ride this morning, but she said a dauntless, “No! Help me up, if you please. I’ll ride astride.”

  “Astride!” His gaze flickered over her habit. “In that?”

  “It will serve,” she said confidently, while praying the skirt would not split when she mounted.

  He scowled. “Of all the ridiculous—”

  “We waste time, brot
her dear,” she reminded sweetly.

  Redmond gave her a level look and bent to receive her boot, which he thought absurdly small, and tossed her up into the saddle.

  Before her accident, Charity had been something of a tomboy, and this was not her first experience at riding astride, so that her mount was not as gruesome as Redmond had anticipated. However, although Yolande’s habit was sturdily made, it had not been intended for such a reach and it slid above Charity’s ankles revealingly as she settled into the saddle.

  The crofter and his wife stared, patently astonished. Redmond slanted an embarrassed glance at them. “Women!” he muttered, and strode to his own mount.

  Watching them ride out, the crofter said dubiously, “I’ll allow ’tis warranted. Under the caircumstances. Their pa dyin’, ye ken.”

  “Aye.” His wife nudged him in the ribs. “If ’tis Carlisle they’re bound fer in sic a tearing rush. They didna look much like kinfolk tae me. Him sae bonny and dark, and her sae fair.”

  “Whist! They didna act like lovers, neither. Scarce a worrud ’twixt ’em the entire time.”

  “Much ye know o’ lovers!” she scoffed, then squealed as he chased her into the house.

  * * *

  Redmond set a steady pace that afternoon, so that Charity soon began to chafe at their rate of progress and wonder if it was out of concern for her that they travelled so slowly. She glanced at him, preparing to broach the subject, but he had not spoken for the past hour and his face was set in such grim lines that she decided to say nothing. After another hour, their route followed what was little more than an uphill footpath, becoming ever more steep. When they reached the summit, Redmond looked back, and Charity turned also. Green hills and gently sloping valleys spread as far as she could see, but still there was no sign of riders, and her heart sank. Surely, if all had gone well, Justin and Tris and Devenish would have come after her. Surely, at least they would have come … unless … She thrust such dark conjecture away and turned back. Redmond’s eyes were shifting away from her. He said quietly, “They may have led Claude’s lot in another direction, you know.”