Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “Mitchell…” she whispered. “Oh—Mitchell…!”

  He picked her up and carried her, still kissing her, to the rickety bed. “We have … so little time,” he said softly, as he laid her there.

  She smiled and reached up to him.

  Mitchell moved cautiously onto the bed and took her in his arms. “My precious … Madame Mulot…” he said huskily. And he gathered her closer, kissing her again and again, his hands caressing every part of her frail body. But when he raised his head to bend over her, she was asleep.

  Mitchell Redmond, notorious rake and duellist, smiled faintly, sighed, and kissed her white brow. He eased himself from the bed, and gazing down at her, muttered wryly, “Just as well, beloved.…” He pulled the musty blankets over her, carried the lamp to where it would not trouble her eyes, and returned to the fire. He checked the pistols one at a time, then laid them close by. Crossing to the window, he peered out, but could discern only the gleam of lamplight upon the wet surface of the lane, the tossing branches of trees, and, distantly, a great red glow in the sky that brought an angry scowl to his face. For a while he occupied himself with the business of shaving. Finishing, he went back to the fire and took out his timepiece. One hour more and they must be gone. Even now, he flirted with disaster by stopping here. His eyes slanted to the bed. She must have rest. God bless her valiant soul, she must sleep—just for a little while.

  That blessing being denied him, Redmond sat straighter, keeping his vigil over the girl he once had judged as elegant as a grey fieldmouse.

  * * *

  The sky was ablaze, the heavy clouds pulsing a sullen crimson, the rainy night lit by the lurid red glow.

  “Whatever is it?” asked Charity breathlessly as they halted the horses for a moment at the top of a rise.

  Redmond said savagely, “It is what they have done to our England. The money grubbers with their tools and wheels and the steam for their Satanic machines. These black fields were once green and lush. These gentle people each owned a little trade and plied it with honour and dignity. And then came the machines that could do as much in a day as a man could do in a week. Now, the countryside is dying, the streams are polluted with vat dyes and soot so that even the fish are gone. From here to Birmingham and beyond, the machines spread starvation and disillusion.”

  Appalled, and yet impressed by the depth of his anger, she asked, “And—the people?”

  He shrugged. “The craftsman who took pride in the cloth he wove on his own loom is the slave of today, who works at a grinding pace for a man he may never even meet and who can no longer have any sense of dignity or personal accomplishment. Because he makes so little, his wife has to work beside him; their children toil for fifteen, sometimes sixteen, hours a day at the shuttles, their little hands—” He broke off. “I should not rant so, but—God, how I hate them! These soulless money grubbers and their stinking machines!”

  “But can nothing be done? Do not the officials, the people in Whitehall know what is happening?”

  “Much they care! They live safely in their London mansions and on their lush south country estates. What do they know of these once beautiful moors and heaths? Do you think they care if the valleys are blasted by smokestacks; if the trees wither and die; if factory towns spring up that are an abomination to God’s green earth?”

  Fascinated by his grim face, Charity cried, “Then they must be made to know! Somebody must—”

  A sharp, staccato explosion sounded. Something whistled past Charity’s ear. Redmond jerked around in the saddle. A small knot of horsemen was coming up fast. Even as he looked, he saw the flash of another shot. They had not resorted to pistols in Warrington. Even that wretched Shotten had carried a club, not a gun. Sanguinet must be getting desperate. He reached over and slapped Charity’s mare hard across the rump. The animal leapt forward and was away at the gallop. Redmond adjusted his own pace and reached down for the pistol in his saddle holster, but glancing back again, he decided the distance was too great for accuracy. He urged his horse to a faster gait, keeping ever between Charity and the merciless hunters who followed.

  It scarcely seemed possible that Shotten and his crew had come up so soon. The innkeeper in Warrington had vowed to keep them locked up until morning. True, he had risked that stop in Stoke-on-Trent, but they’d only rested for two hours, surely not sufficient to— And the answer came with a jolt “Liverpool! Claude must have sent another lot by ship!” But how they could have been seen, how they could have been tracked down so swiftly, baffled him. They had ridden hard all through the evening and into the night, their way lit by that devilish red glare from the foundries. He had pushed Charity so hard, so mercilessly, even when she sagged with fatigue. And bless her brave heart, she had responded, her only care seeming to be for him. He pressed one hand to the unending throb in his side and wondered how much longer they had. If they were run down, if he was killed, what would become of Charity? He gritted his teeth. Harry would come. Harry never failed. If he himself should fall, Harry would take up the torch and take care of Charity.…

  Another shot rang out, and he felt his sleeve plucked by invisible fingers. Someone back there was a fine marksman. Charity’s face, frightened, turned to him, and he waved reassurance at her, but glancing back, he saw that they were close. Much too close.

  He snatched up a pistol. Then, reining his horse to a sudden rearing halt, he turned about, drew the second pistol, took quick aim, and fired once and twice. He was quite prepared for death and was mildly surprised when a ball whistled past without touching him. The first rider had pitched from the saddle at once. The second man aimed a long-barrelled pistol and fired, but the lead horse reared in fright as its master fell and then caromed into its neighbour, and the shot went wide. The second man was thrown, and a wild melee ensued as the following riders were unable to swerve in time. Grinning with delight, Redmond drove home his spurs and tore after Charity.

  Soon, the rain began again. The clouds seemed ever lower and ever more lurid. Charity cringed as thunder rolled distantly and the red heavens were split by a blue glare. Southwards, a hilltop loomed, studded with the angular shapes of buildings and chimneys. They were coming into a town—a large one by the look of it. Perhaps they would have a chance there. Perhaps they could hide from Claude’s hunters.

  Lightning flashed again as they raced side by side across a bridge, the flash reflected briefly from a boil of fast water far below.

  “Coventry!” Redmond shouted. “Stay close beside me, my mouse!”

  They galloped through the almost deserted streets of the suburbs. A man leaned from the window of a chaise, shouting unintelligible wrath because they had rounded a corner so suddenly they almost collided with him. A heavy dray was ahead, but they were past like the wind, one to each side, thunder growling as though pushing them ever faster. They overtook a rumbling stagecoach, and Charity saw the pale blur of a face at the window, a young boy, awake and staring out at them.

  Mitchell shouted a warning and turned sharply onto a very narrow, cobblestoned street lined with tall, half-timbered houses that seemed striving to kiss the opposite gables as they leaned across the narrow thoroughfare. Lightning flashed vividly, and the thunder was almost instantaneous, shattering the night with a deafening clap of sound. Charity’s mare screamed with fright and reared madly. Taken by surprise, she was hurled from the saddle. She landed very hard.…

  She was riding across the Downs, laughing as Justin demonstrated that he could stand on his saddle. And then, suddenly she was falling. Justin was running to her, shouting, “Charity … my precious! My beloved! Dear God, not her—please, not her.…”

  Only the voice was not that of her brother. And it was so agonized, so broken. She must help him.… She managed to open her eyes and tried to smile. It all came back, then. Her legs felt not so bad. It was her head that ached so fiercely. And Mitchell Redmond’s was the dark, grief-stricken countenance that bent above her. “I’m … all right,” she managed.


  He gave a great shuddering sob and raised her very gently. But when she did not cry out or seem hurt, he crushed her against him for a brief, but exquisite, few seconds.

  “Can you stand?” he asked unsteadily. “I’m afraid your horse bolted, back towards them. If they saw where she came from…”

  She stood, his arm tight about her.

  “We’ll take my hack,” he said, guiding her wavering steps, “until—”

  A thunder of hooves. A triumphant shout. Redmond groaned a curse, grabbed for his holster, and cursed again as the hack panicked and cantered away. He swept Charity into the looming darkness of a recessed door and swung about, fists clenched, knowing helplessly that he had a minute or two at most.

  Charity said, “Mitch! Here!”

  And something was thrust into his hand. Sanguinet’s bullies were galloping straight at him, but there was no shooting now, as there had been none in the stable. He thought, “They’ve no need to fire. They can ride me down and get the book.…”

  He swung up the walking cane Charity had passed him, only to discover that he held not a cane, but a long, wet gentleman’s umbrella that had apparently been left out to drain. He grinned suddenly, jumped into the centre of the street and, as the five horses thundered at him, whipped open the umbrella with a snap, right under their highbred noses.

  Chaos. A turmoil of rearing, neighing, kicking horseflesh and cursing, howling men. To top it off, Charity was screaming at the top of her lungs. Windows were flung up. Lamps began to shine from upper floors.

  A burly ruffian, wielding a serviceable-looking cudgel, raced at Mitchell. He dodged at the last second, but this man was skilled in his murderous calling, and he struck out, the blow grazing Mitchell’s temple and sending him staggering. The burly man whirled and came in, grinning.

  “En garde…” gasped Mitchell breathlessly, flourishing the umbrella as if it had been a sword.

  His adversary’s reply was crudely profane, but as he came on full tilt, his cudgel whipping for the head, Mitchell’s right foot stamped forward and he thrust in a superb return from the wrist driving by a hairsbreadth under the whizzing cudgel. The point of the umbrella rammed into the burly man’s middle. He sat down abruptly, opening and shutting his mouth, his eyes round and staring like a landed trout. His friends had sorted themselves out and they came at a run. Mitchell stepped back a pace, his umbrella circling warily. From above, someone shouted, “Hey! Four to one! That ain’t fair! Play the game square, you coves!” And a bottle ricochetted from the arm of one of the ruffians, drawing a howl of rage and pain.

  The last man had halted and drawn a pistol. The shot was deafening in the narrow confines of the street.

  A white-hot pain lanced across Mitchell’s scalp. Dimly, he heard windows slamming shut. Lamps were extinguished. He must not go down … he must not. He shook his head desperately, wiped blood from his eyes, gripped his umbrella and stepped forward. “Come on … you bastards…” he croaked.

  They came on in a hurly-burly of swinging fists, flailing clubs, and jeering profanity. Mitchell jabbed the umbrella into the stomach of one, swiped it across the face of another, and was staggered by a blow that sent him to his knees. Dazed, he saw a boot flying at his eyes and managed to sway aside. A knife was plunging down at him. He thought, “Charity…”

  A shot rang out. The knife coming straight for his chest fell ringingly onto the cobbles. A wild hussar yell echoed along the street. Mitchell stiffened, a gleam of hope lighting his blurred eyes. Horses—coming fast. The little knot of men around him was scattered as a flying body launched into their midst. Flattened under a brawling mass of humanity, Mitchell saw a familiar dark head and the gleam of narrow green eyes. “Harry…!” he gasped.

  Somebody howled and thudded to the cobbles. Jeremy Bolster blinked up at him. “Well, don’t just sit there, old f-fellow. Missing a jolly good scr-scrap!”

  * * *

  “What I do not understand,” said Mitchell, holding a foaming tankard and submitting while Charity gently bathed the gash in his head, “is how in blazes you found us.”

  They had ridden to this quiet inn as soon as Sanguinet’s troop had been, as Alain Devenish blithely put it, “dealt with.” Charity had been pulled into her brother’s arms for a crushing hug, then thrown up into the saddle of her hack which had apparently followed the other horses and was found to be standing placidly nearby. Mitchell had mounted the best of the Sanguinet animals, and they’d quickly departed a neighbourhood that resounded with shouts for the Watch and a belated blowing of shrill whistles. They had spoken little on the way here, but now, gathered in a cosy parlour Leith had bespoken, the friends were exuberant, and everyone started to talk at once until Leith said laughingly that Mitchell deserved the first hearing.

  Now, in response to that initial question, Bolster beamed despite a split lip and said, “Didn’t find you, old boy. Followed them. Been following ’em since Liverpool. They n-never once looked behind, silly bacon brains.”

  Watching his brother anxiously, Sir Harry said, “Sorry we were so long coming up with you, Mitch. But we lost them after they crossed the bridge. Had it not been for the gunfire, we might not have found you at all.”

  Mitchell grinned up at him, then lowered his head again as Charity pulled at his ear. He said fervently, “I’ve never been so glad in my life as to see your old phiz. When I rode away from the castle, there were so damned many of ’em, I was afraid, er—”

  “So were we,” Leith supplied gravely. “We delayed them as long as we could, but some of them stole Tyndale’s horses and were off after you.”

  Devenish said, “We’d have been dog’s meat for sure, save that General Drummond and his friends were out hunting. They heard the uproar and came at the gallop.”

  Strand set down his tankard and added, “Sanguinet’s men ran back to their boats when they saw our reinforcements, and Drummond was good enough to offer us the use of his yacht. Luckily it was readied to take him down to Blackpool, so we were able to sail fairly soon.”

  “We thought we spotted you near Preston, soon after we disembarked,” the Reverend Langridge said around the slice of beef he was attending to.

  “But we lost you,” Devenish put in, “so we just kept riding south, hoping to come up with you.”

  Holding a bloody handkerchief to a gash in his cheek, Justin Strand said, “It occurred to us that you might decide to take ship at Liverpool, so we turned that way—”

  “And followed a so-called short cut,” Devenish interrupted. “Which was lucky because just before we joined the main road, Sanguinet’s little covey of choirboys trotted past.”

  “And we let them l-lead us to you,” said Bolster.

  “Well, I’m dashed grateful you did,” said Mitchell, straightening as Charity finished her task, and smiling up at her.

  “Didn’t look to me that you needed our help,” Devenish said, grinning. “Five to one should be child’s play for a fighter like you, Redmond.”

  Mitchell looked at him narrowly, realized he was sincere, and flushed a little.

  Justin Strand had noted the glance his sister bestowed on this notorious gentleman. He frowned and said rather grittily, “How you managed to convey my sister safely this far, this fast, I cannot guess, Redmond. But I’m forever in your debt.”

  Charity turned to him, surprised by the hauteur in his voice. She saw his eyes and asked quickly, “Justin, how is Guy?”

  Strand hesitated. Leith said regretfully, “We don’t know, I’m afraid. But I fancy you saw that the ball took him in the body. He saved my life. Tyndale was winged in our struggle, and the General carried him and Guy to Castle Drummond.”

  Charity’s lips trembled, seeing which Devenish said gently, “He was breathing when we lifted him into the carriage, and Drummond has a daughter who’s a dashed fine nurse. We can but hope for the best, m’dear.”

  Strand added, “The General also promised to contact the authorities at once and try to get word despat
ched to London.” He directed a searching look at his sister. “Do sit down, poor girl. You look worn to a shade.”

  Her thoughts still with a very gallant gentleman of France, Charity sighed. But it was no use grieving. One could only pray. She carried her bowl to the door and handed it to the maid, who emptied it and refilled it with warm water. Returning, Charity sat at the table beside her brother and turned his cheek so that she could bathe his hurt.

  Sir Harry, watching Mitchell, asked, “Mitch, are you all right? You look like the devil.”

  “Merci, mon sauvage,” said Mitchell, lightly. “Well, what next, Colonel? Are we to make a dash for Brighton at dawn?”

  “I wish I could say yes. Lord knows you look as if you could use some sleep. The thing is, there’s a full moon tonight. We must be on the road in an hour, I’m afraid.” Leith turned to Charity. “I’ve asked the host for a bedchamber for you, my dear. You must be exhausted.”

  Her dismayed glance flashed to Mitchell, but Leith stood and reached for her hand. “Come now, Strand can finish that. I must have a word with you in private.” She knew he meant to urge her to remain here, but she was too tired to argue in front of them all, and so went out with him.

  Lion came in as they left. His red curls showed dark brown roots, lending him a most odd appearance, but his eyebrows were growing back so that his face no longer had the strangely naked look.

  Mitchell said, “So you’re still among us, are you?”

  “’Sright, guvnor,” said Lion, grinning.

  “What became of Little Patches?”

  The Reverend said, “She jumped into the carriage when they lifted poor Guy Sanguinet inside. I think Major Tyndale allowed her to stay.” He yawned. “D’you know, Harry, I believe I shall go and have a nice wash and perhaps just lie down for a few minutes.”