Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Thought so,” the smith said, nodding smugly. “I bin to Lon’on. Recernized yer way o’ talking. Now didn’t I tell ye so, Bert?”

  “I am in a hurry,” imparted Redmond.

  “Ar. Well, we all is, ain’t we, sir?”

  The smith grinned at his friends who, ready to laugh at anything apparently, guffawed loudly, one uptilting a flask which confirmed Redmond’s suspicions. Aggravated, he whirled on them sharply and they scattered, still whooping, into the night.

  “Ye’ll likely find our ways a mite different up here,” said the smith. “But I reckon ye won’t be much upset, eh?” His beaming grin faded when it met a cold glare. “Ar,” he said, with a sniff. “All right, then. Redmond be the name, eh? Ye get that, Jamie?”

  A shock-headed lad, writing laboriously in a ledger, nodded. “Fust name?” he asked, yawning.

  “You certainly do things differently,” grumbled Redmond, trying to contain his building wrath.

  “I’ve heard the Scots are very thrifty,” whispered Charity, tugging at his sleeve. “Please, could we hurry? I am so very tired.”

  She looked wan and exhausted. Redmond snapped, “My name is Mitchell Redmond. M-i-t-c-h-e-l-l.” He added sardonically, “You get that down, Jamie?”

  “Ar. And the lady?”

  “The deuce! If ever I—”

  Charity intervened hurriedly, “I am Charity Strand. But we are only renting the horses, you know. Is that all you need?”

  “Cripes, missus!” The smith scratched his grizzled head. “Folks ain’t usually in this much of a hurry. Was ye meaning to leave the nags here, then?”

  “Good God!” gritted Redmond. “Do you want the bill of sale, I’ve not got it!” The smith stared at him openmouthed. Relegating him to the status of an escaped Bedlamite, Redmond tried another tack. “My apologies if we, ah, violate your regular ways of conducting business. We are, as I’d thought to have made clear, in a great hurry. I’ll make it worth your trouble to expedite matters.”

  He had spoken the magic words. “Ar,” said the smith, grinning broadly. “In that case, we’ll make do wi’ what we got. And don’t ye never worrit, everything’ll be done right and proper and yer nags took good care of.”

  “Thank you. Now, the lady is tired. If you’ll direct us to a tavern we will return when you’ve finished.” The smith blinked and, anticipating some further cause for complaint, Redmond added a sarcastic, “Unless you disapprove.”

  “They’d oughta sign first,” said the boy with an offended frown.

  “Great stamping snails!” Redmond marched to the dim corner where the boy hovered. “Sign—where?”

  Jamie jabbed a grubby finger at a well-worn ledger. “’Ere, sir. The lady, too.” And alarmed by the glare sparking from those deadly grey eyes, he cried hastily, “It do be the law, sir!”

  “Then you’ve some damned stupid laws up here,” raged Mitchell. “My apologies, ma’am, but to satisfy these dolts…”

  She tottered over and scrawled her name, the page blurring before her eyes.

  Slipping a steadying arm about her, Redmond said, “Now, kindly direct me to an inn where we may be comfortable.”

  A dead silence followed this reasonable request.

  Breathing rather hard, Redmond enquired grittily, “You do speak English, I think?”

  “I’ll … be gormed,” whispered Jamie.

  “You’ll be damned well sat on your brazier in a minute!” roared Redmond, his right fist clenching.

  “Down the lane, yonder,” said the smith hurriedly. “The New World. Sits back, it do. Quiet and reasonable like. Will ye be paying me in the marning then, sir?”

  “The morning! Devil I will! Have the horses fed and watered and the mare shod in an hour, if you please.”

  Still supporting Charity’s wilting form, Redmond strode into the lane, muttering maledictions upon all bacon-brained Scots blacksmiths.

  They left behind a stunned silence.

  Looking at the boy, the smith whistled. “The bare-faced gall of some o’ they Lun’on folks! Lor’, but it’s a wicked city and no mistake!”

  “If ever I see a pair on the run,” the boy said, nodding owlishly.

  “Didn’t want to give his name…?”

  Jamie grinned. “‘Where we may be comfortable,’” he said, mimicking Redmond’s cultured accents.

  The smith gave a rumble of laughter. The boy joined in, and they laughed until the night rang with the sound of it.

  Chapter 15

  Charity awoke slowly, resenting the heavy hand that tugged at her shoulder. Blinking heavy eyes, she saw a round white blob that gradually materialized into the wavering flame of a candle with beyond it a comely, rosy-cheeked face framed by a frilly mob cap.

  “Och, but it be a wicked shame tae wake ye afore dawn, missus,” said this vision repentantly. “But last nicht, ye ken, ye was sae fashed lest I promise tae rrrrouse ye afore y’r mon was abrrroad.”

  Charity regarded her drowsily. Her man…? What on earth was the girl— “Good heavens!” she gasped, sitting up as memory returned. And, “Ahhh!” she cried to the protest of muscles seemingly nailed to her bones.

  “Puir wee lassie,” commiserated the maid, but with a dimple of mischief appearing in her cheek.

  “He—he’s not … gone?” Charity managed to enquire.

  “Gone? What—and leave ye sae soon? Losh! He wouldna be sae hearrrtless, surely?”

  “Much you know of it,” grumbled Charity, but seeing consternation come into the guileless face, she smiled and went on, “He worries that I cannot ride again today. Ride we must, and I’ve no wish to be left alone, you see.”

  “Ah,” said the girl, smiling and nodding as though much relieved. “Is’t stiff ye are, then? I’ll run fer me liniment. Nae, do ye not stirrr, missus. We’ll hae ye up and aboot ’fore the rat can wink his eye!” And she was gone, leaving Charity to the amused reflection that there were more differences than accent in the way English was spoken in Scotland.

  The maid was as good as her word; Charity was anointed, massaged, and bathed, and all with firm expert hands, so that by the time she was ready to dress she felt much restored. Her garments had been laundered while she slept, and her habit brushed and pressed. The maid told her that Mr. Redmond had arranged this, and Charity felt a warm gratitude as she donned the fresh, clean clothes.

  Thus it was that when Mitchell Redmond emerged from his room, it was to see the door opposite opening and Charity stepping into the hall. She looked neat as a pin, he thought. The touch of yesterday’s sun and wind glowed from her cheeks and the end of her little nose, and her hair seemed to have been lightened a shade or two so that it shone like guinea gold against her skin.

  Charity greeted him with a shy and rather anxious smile. “It was very kind in you to let me rest here, when I know you had planned to leave at once. And I do so thank you for having my clothes laundered. I only hope we’ve not lost a great deal of time because of it.”

  “We’d not have got very far at all events,” he said, politely offering his arm as they walked to the stairs. “A mist came up which must have stopped any traveller. I was tired myself, to say truth. But we created quite some consternation when I carried you up the stairs. Do you remember?” He chuckled. “I think the host’s good lady was shattered when I left you and went to my own chamber.”

  Blushing, Charity said, “It’s very clear they do not believe we are brother and sister.” The words at once brought thought of Justin and Rachel, and the swift thrust of worry.

  Redmond was beginning to recognize the emotions that flashed so swiftly across her small face. He murmured, “If they had come up with us I’d have asked Dev or your brother to stay here with you. As it is…” His lips tightened and he left the sentence unfinished.

  She looked up at him as they came to the downstairs hall. It was the first time she’d seen his face clearly since the previous afternoon, for everything after dusk was a vague blur. Guilt seized her when she s
aw the scratches she’d put on his cheek. He looked stern, and she said, “You must be just as anxious as I. Your uncle seems such a warm-hearted man, and Rachel told me that you and your brother are very attached.”

  His expression softened. “Yes. I’ve seen little of Harry this past year, but he’s a dashed good fellow.”

  At this point the tavern keeper bustled up to them, all smiles, to usher them into the coffee room where a fire was already roaring up the chimney, and a branch of candles brightening the table he led them to.

  Pulling out Charity’s chair, Redmond said, “I’m afraid we can’t wait, host. We’ll have whatever’s ready. When does the smithy open?”

  “Which one, sir?” His dark little eyes beaming merrily, the rotund man answered, “There be an ample sufficiency of ’em hereabouts.”

  “Natural enough in a town this size.” Redmond took the opposite chair. “It was a short way down the lane.”

  “Ah, ye’ll be meaning Samuel’s, I expect. He’s likely at work this hour and more. Now, sir, we’ve some rare cold ham, and me old woman’s already got eggs a-sizzling in the pan. With some fresh bannocks and coffee—would that suit?”

  It suited very well, and when they had done justice to it and the host had poured two steaming mugs of excellent coffee and departed, Charity asked, “Should we not delay long enough to look about the town a little before we leave? Our people may have come up with us in the night.”

  “So might Sanguinet. And we’d waste a good hour until full light.”

  Charity trembled and raised no more demurrals. Redmond paid their tariff, and they went into the cold misty dawn and started down the lane. Despite the abigail’s ministrations, Charity was aghast to find she could scarcely put one foot before the other, and her knees seemed during the night to have become markedly farther apart than they’d been hitherto. She had the unhappy impression that she was waddling like a duck and was grateful for the darkness as she struggled along.

  The smithy door was wide, the bellows busily at work, the brazier glowing. The horses were ready, and Charity noted with delight that a sidesaddle had been put on the mare. Redmond ignored her thanks, being himself exasperated by the charges, which he grumbled were excessive. The smith gave him a hard look, and for a moment Charity thought he was going to refuse to divulge the direction to Carlisle, but he barked out a few instructions, then turned and went off, to come back with a folded sheet of paper that he thrust at Redmond. “Here,” he grunted. “Ye might find this of use.”

  Somewhat mollified, Redmond put the paper in his pocket. He paid the man off, threw Charity up into the saddle, and they rode into the lane.

  “Odd old duck,” Redmond muttered.

  Trying not to whimper as she adjusted painfully to the movements of the horse, Charity pointed out that it was nice of the smith to write down the direction for them.

  “Nice, but scarcely necessary. His instructions were not so complex I can’t remember ’em.”

  Despite this assertion, it was still too dark to see very far, and Redmond had to strain his eyes to find the narrow lane the smith had suggested they follow. Charity tried to ignore her many discomforts and sent up a belated prayer of thanks for their having journeyed this far without being caught by Sanguinet’s men. She followed this with a plea that today she might do better and not become so exhausted as she had done yesterday.

  They left the lane when they came to a wider thoroughfare, and soon were clattering over a bridge. By the time the sky in the east was lightening, they had turned south and the intervening hills blocked any view they might have had of Dumfries. They held to a steady lope for several miles, and it seemed to Charity that she ached less, perhaps because she was so much more at home in the familiar sidesaddle.

  The sun came up; a few clouds drifted lazily about, and the azure sky promised a lovely day to come. Redmond was quiet and withdrawn. His shirt looked freshly laundered, and his cravat was as neatly tied as though his faithful little valet had dressed him. His lean face was slightly bronzed, which made him, thought Charity, better looking than ever, but he seemed troubled and she wondered if he’d lost his way again. She said nothing, fearing to ruffle his famous pride.

  Meeting her gaze, he said, “D’ye see the water to the west of us? That’ll be the Solway.”

  The sparkling blue Firth looked cool and inviting against the deep green of the meadows. “How very pretty it is,” she murmured.

  Redmond scowled. “We can’t dawdle like this, ma’am.” She looked at him, and he added grimly, “It is Sunday.”

  She thought, “Heaven help us! It is!” and urged her willing mare to a canter.

  It was very early, and for a time they encountered little traffic. An occasional cart rattled northwards, and once a stagecoach bowled past at a great rate of speed, the outside passengers hanging on for dear life and looking tired and rumpled.

  Soon Redmond slowed to the lope again. The miles and hours slipped away, and the sun became warmer. Up hill and down they went, through dappled drowsing woods and beside serene lakes, until gradually the trees gave way to rolling heathland, mile upon mile of it, stretching away to the horizon. Charity was beginning to long for a rest when Redmond reined in and sat motionless, staring ahead so fixedly that her heart gave a leap of apprehension. Looking where he looked, she saw what appeared to be an elevated path, long and narrow, winding away to east and west as far as the eye could see, the stone sides that supported it covered with mosses and small plants, the narrow surface grassed over.

  Awed, she whispered, “Hadrian’s Wall! Oh, I had never realized it stuck up so high!”

  “Twelve feet or thereabouts,” he murmured. “Higher in the east.”

  It was quite a different voice. Charity glanced at him sharply. The stern expression had given way to a dreaming look; a younger look. She thought, “So this is the scholar.” And wanting for some obscure reason to prolong this new mood, she said, “Only think, it has been standing here on guard like this, for seventeen hundred years.”

  He smiled in proprietary fashion at that mighty wall. “There were one thousand cavalry at Carlisle.”

  “Yes. Romans, with their tunics and swords and helms … Oh, Mr. Redmond, can you not picture them riding proudly along the top? Dare we…”

  He turned to her, a boyish eagerness lighting his eyes. “The horses should have a rest…”

  They grinned conspiratorially at each other, galloped down the slope, and turned off the road at the foot of the wall.

  Redmond leapt from the saddle and lifted Charity down. They tethered the horses to some nearby shrubs. Redmond put out his hand, Charity put hers into it, and they ran along until they came to some rough steps leading upwards. Redmond helped Charity over the more difficult spots, and at the top they stepped gingerly onto the ancient surface, their feet treading where the sandals of Rome’s Centurions had trod so many long centuries ago. They walked only a short way and by mutual consent stopped, looking north to the rugged grandeur that was Scotland and south to the blue mountains of England.

  There was no sign of another human being. The sweet warm air whispered against their faces; a solitary puffy white cloud meandered across the heavens; a little clump of wildflowers danced to the tune of the breeze, lifting pink and violet faces to the sun. Charity closed her eyes for a moment. Only the faint call of a cuckoo disturbed the silence—a silence that might have been that of almost two thousand years past.… Almost she could hear the tramp of feet, the clank of sidearms; almost she could see the glint of the sun on armour.… Opening her eyes, she saw Redmond watching her, faintly smiling.

  “‘The inaudible and noiseless foot of time,’” he quoted.

  “Yes. I wonder what they talked of, or hoped for. One pictures them as having been so strong and merciless. But I suppose they were only ordinary human beings, marching along this wall in a strange, barbaric land. Dreaming of sweethearts, perhaps, or wives and children left behind.…”

  “Or of dinner, wai
ting up ahead. But only see how it goes on and on. Is it not marvelous? Yet how many wretched lives were spent in laying these stones one upon the other, day after day, year after year.”

  Charity stumbled, and his arm went out instinctively to steady her. Unthinkingly, she allowed her arm to slip in a reciprocal fashion around his waist. “I wonder,” she said, “if they had any notion it would last this long?”

  Her words jogged him back to harsh reality. “We have been here too long,” he said. And only then did they both notice exactly how they stood.

  They each stepped back hurriedly. Redmond glanced to the north, trod on a crumbling edge that disintegrated beneath his boot, and toppled. One instant he was beside Charity. The next, with a shocked cry, he had fallen from sight.

  She gave a little shriek, picked up the skirts of her habit and fairly flew to the steps. Backing down, she slid the last three, skinning her knees, but she scrambled up at once to race, panicked, to where he lay.

  He lifted his head and peered up at her. “What a gudgeon you must think … me,” he panted laughingly.

  She sank down beside him. “Are you all right? My heavens! You might have broken your back!”

  He felt his side and one hip, and said with a rueful grin, “I think my, er, dignity is bruised.”

  Relieved, she said, “Another affliction we share.”

  He lay there for a minute, catching his breath, watching her. Touched by the sun, her hair formed a bright halo around her fragile features, and he saw that now, in this light, her eyes were more green than grey. “She’s really quite a taking little thing,” he thought. “And pluck to the backbone.…” “What,” he asked, “is the other?”

  “Why, our love of history, of course.”

  “Yes.” He sat up. “And if we’re to see England’s history prosper, Monsieur Mulot, we must be on our way.”

  Charity picked up the paper that had fallen from his jacket during his rapid descent. “Your directions … comrade.”