Sanguinet's Crown

by Patricia Veryan

  “I’m with you, sir,” said Bolster.

  Harry stood. “Good notion.” He glanced at his brother. “Mitch?”

  Very aware that Justin Strand’s blue eyes were boring at him, Mitchell said, “I’ll have a word with Strand first, Harry.”

  Devenish glanced from one to the other. He’d give a good deal, he thought, to know what Justin meant to say to the man who had been alone with his loved sister for the better part of three days. But it was not his right. He stood, gripped hard at the table edge, then sauntered after Harry and the Reverend with only the suggestion of a limp.

  Strand looked after him uneasily.

  Mitchell said, “That leg’s giving him hell.”

  Strand nodded. “God knows how he’s lasted this long. Dev can run on nerve longer than any man I know.”

  “He’s a right game ’un,” said Lion. “Should I go along of him and see if I can help, sir?”

  “If you please,” said Strand.

  Lion hurried out, closing the door behind him.

  Strand finished applying sticking plaster to his cheek, then crossed to take the chair closest to Redmond. Whatever else, the poor fellow looked properly done up, and God knows, he’d done well, but … With somewhat strained formality, he began, “It must have been a—a devilish coil for you. I mean, having to take things easily for Charity’s sake, when you—”

  Redmond threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Take things … easily … is it? Oh, egad!” He saw the bewilderment and vexation in Strand’s face, and leaned across the table. “You are wondering what I’ve done to your sister, and God knows, you’re justified. I have forced that frail girl to ride like hell hour after hour, through rain and cold and the most brutal conditions imaginable. I’ve dragged her out of second-floor windows, starved her until she fainted, stripped off her garments—” He saw Strand’s face whiten, and went on more soberly, “I have seen her too exhausted to speak, yet riding on still; I’ve seen her bend a damn great cudgel over the head of a murderous scoundrel so as to save my worthless neck; I have … picked her up after her horse threw her, and—and thought her dead, only to have her look up at me and … smile.” His voice became strained. He stopped speaking and put a hand wearily across his eyes for a minute.

  Staring at him, astounded, Strand said an awed, “Charity? But, but she’s practically an invalid! I do not see how—”

  “She is incomparable,” Redmond went on quietly, looking up again. “Never a word of complaint, never a whimper. That dauntless, valiant little soul is the bravest lady I ever met.” He met Strand’s faintly aghast gaze and added gravely, “She is also—my wife.”

  Strand leapt to his feet, his face thunderous. “Your … what?”

  Watching him coolly, Redmond nodded. “We were married at Gretna Green.”

  “The hell you were!” His fists clenching, Strand raged, “By God, Redmond! If you took advantage—”

  Redmond drawled mockingly, “Am I to deduce I do not suit for a brother-in-law?”

  “Damn your eyes! She is a complete innocent! I fancied you would have behaved like a gentleman!” White with anger, he snarled, “I’ve every right—”

  Redmond gestured wearily. “No, do not call me out, I beg. My fault—I should not have let you run on. Only…” He broke off with an impatient shrug. “Shall we call it a mariage de convenance?”

  The wind taken out of his sails, Strand sat down abruptly. “Oh, I see.”

  “Nothing more,” said Redmond. And thought how very nearly it had become a real marriage. He felt terribly tired and discouraged suddenly and said slowly, “I have promised to procure a divorce for the lady. So soon as we’re done with this.”

  Looking into his shadowed eyes, Strand was shocked. “I should have known,” he said. “Damned if I’m not getting hot at hand of late!” He put out his hand, standing.

  Redmond stood also, and they shook hands.

  Strand said awkwardly, “Thank you.” And went upstairs, feeling as though he’d spat in a cathedral.

  * * *

  “There will be five of us,” said Leith, looking around at the battered little band that stood together in the fragrant stables. “If we—”

  “Don’t ferget me, sir,” said Lion, coming quickly to join them. “I can fight good, I can!”

  “And I make seven!” The Reverend bustled into the circle of lamplight, his pudgy face indignant. “You young Bucks judge me antiquated, I collect? Well, I will not be left behind like some old codger, and so I tell you!”

  Sir Harry laughed and clapped his uncle on the shoulder. “Very well, sir.” He glanced at the dubious Leith, his eyes glinting. “No use, Tris. I know this gentleman too well. He’ll jaw your ear off and come anyway. Might as well give up now.”

  Leith said sternly, “This will be a no-holds-barred race, sir. If all the mercenaries we saw on the ship disembarked at Liverpool, we may well have half a hundred of the varmints after us. They’ll stop at nothing, I do assure you.”

  “Then why,” said the Reverend patiently, “do you stand about wasting time?”

  Leith’s slow smile dawned. “As you will.”

  “Do you mean to split us, Leith?” asked Mitchell.

  “It might broaden our chances of getting through,” Leith answered. “Three of us could ride through Oxford and Reading, and the rest stay on this road, going south through Northampton, Wolverton, and St. Albans. But—” He broke off and glanced around. “Any better notions?”

  “I have!” Devenish swaggered to join them. “If you’ve any notions of abandoning me here, my dastardly friends, you may be damned.”

  “Good God!” groaned Leith, exasperated. “Dev, you infernal idiot, you can scarce stay in the saddle. You—”

  “If we were not friends, Tris,” said Devenish, his eyes blazing with characteristic eagerness for this challenge, “I’d pummel your head for even thinking of shutting me out! I’ve a grudge to pay against our Claude, too, you know! Furthermore, I mislike the plan to split us. Divide and conquer, old lad. And it would be such a pity if Claude was to win.”

  “I agree,” said Sir Harry. “If we’ve half a hundred of Claude’s rogues to deal with, we shall do them no disservice do we split up, but likely render ourselves more vulnerable in a fight.”

  Leith refrained from the obvious comment that in a fight seven men would have little chance against fifty. “Very well. Lion, you must stay here and guard my sister.” Lion groaned, but Strand muttered, “I don’t like that, Leith. Not enough protection, and if Claude gets his hands on her again…”

  From the shadows of a stall, Charity said quietly, “I shall have all the protection I could wish, gentlemen.” She rode her mare into the light, a large bundle hanging from the pommel of her saddle, her cloak and hood already about her, and determination written in every line of her tired face.

  “The deuce!” exclaimed Strand. “I say you shall not go, Charity!”

  “It is too much to ask of any woman,” Devenish protested. “And Claude is running scared now, no telling what his devils might do.”

  “Much better stay here and be safe and warm, dear lady,” the Reverend added.

  “Thank you. But I shall stay beside my husband,” said Charity.

  A chorus of gasps went up. Devenish, staring at Mitchell, started for him, angrily.

  Strand said, “Wasn’t much else they could do, Dev.”

  “The devil there wasn’t! He stayed off the travelled highways for the most part. Likely no one saw them who’d know ’em from Adam! No need for a bolt to the Green—unless he—”

  Strand caught his arm as he plunged forward. “Redmond has promised to buy a Bill of Divorcement as soon as we’re done with this! Cool down, will you?”

  Devenish halted, to glare, seething, as Mitchell went to look up into Charity’s face.

  Taking the hand she stretched down to him, Mitchell said softly, “You must be very tired, m’dear. I wish you will stay here. You’d be safer than trav
elling with us. And you should perhaps bear in mind that just in case anything goes awry, Rachel may stand in sore need of you.”

  Her grip on his hand tightened. She said intensely, “Do not ask me to stay here. I must be with you.”

  Her eyes were imploring. For a long moment he gazed up at her; then he nodded. “Very well, but promise me that if things look bad, you will be guided by me.”

  “I promise.”

  * * *

  They rode until the moon went down and made good time until they passed through the hills north of Towcester. There, disaster struck. The storm had rolled away, but the rains started again and they were proceeding at a trot through a heavy downpour when a bridge collapsed under them. Leith and Sir Harry, who had been in the lead, were barely clear of the old structure. Mitchell heard the creaks and felt the boards shake beneath them and spurred madly, whipping Charity’s horse across in the nick of time. The Reverend and Jeremy Bolster were hurled into the swollen river, and only some desperate efforts on the part of Devenish, Lion, and Justin Strand, who waded to the rescue, saved them. Inevitably, they were delayed and had to creep cautiously through inky blackness to Towcester and an accommodating tavern where they were able to dry their clothes and hire fresh horses.

  It was more than an hour before they could continue. They set out at first light, but were barely a dozen miles past the quiet village when they nearly ran into a party of Sanguinet’s men. It was the Reverend who prevented a direct confrontation. He had begun to sneeze and snuffle and, fearing that he would be judged unwell, had gone off on a small detour so as to blow his nose in private. It was thus that he topped a rise, saw the group of riders, and, recognizing one of them, was able to catch up with and warn his friends in the nick of time. Leith turned westward in a wide loop, and then swung back across country towards Banbury and the Oxford road.

  Again, the weather placed an infuriating check on their progress. Devenish grumbled that it was more like February than June when they were twice obliged to ford streams made treacherous by the heavy rains. They were all thoroughly soaked, and the wind came up from the east, chilling them through. It was ten o’clock before they reached Banbury, and Langridge was coughing distressfully. With stern implacability Leith decreed that he must ride no farther and they left him at a pleasant inn, the host’s motherly spouse making a great business of caring for him, and the Reverend protesting between sneezes that he was perfectly able to go on.

  The sun peeped through the clouds soon after they started off again; the rain ceased, and the air grew warmer. There was mud everywhere, however, and the going was slow. They did not glimpse Oxford until after noon, but Charity’s heart gave a leap of hope when she saw the distant spires of the ancient town. Here, at last, they must find help and men of reason. As though in response to her thought, only moments later a troop of soldiers rode towards them.

  Devenish, who was very pale and had spoken scarcely a word for the last several miles, muttered, “Any chance of enlisting their aid, d’you think, Tris?”

  Leith regarded the troopers doubtfully. “Better not waste our time.”

  The troop passed on both sides. Suddenly, the four men bringing up the rear fanned out in front of them, and the desperate little band was surrounded.

  A stern-faced Captain with magnificent black whiskers rode through his men, halted, and tossed a brisk salute. “Have I the honour to address Colonel Tristram Leith?”

  Exultant, Devenish exclaimed, “Good old Smollet to the rescue! At last!”

  “I am Leith,” said Tristram.

  “And are there also present—” the Captain drew a sheet of neatly folded paper from his pocket, spread it out, and read, “Sir Harry Redmond, Mr. Mitchell Redmond, Lord Jeremy Bolster, Mr. Alain Devenish, the Reverend Mordecai Langridge, and Mr. Justin Strand?”

  The presence of all but the Reverend having been acknowledged, the Captain’s whiskers seemed to vibrate with gratification. He replaced his paper, smiled, and said, “Gentlemen, you are under arrest.”

  With an authoritative lift of one hand, Leith silenced the angry chorus of protest. “On what charge?”

  “Mr. Mitchell Redmond is charged with kidnapping and piracy on the high seas.” The Captain ignored Devenish’s hoot of laughter and went on formidably, “My Lord Bolster, Sir Harry Redmond, Mr. Devenish, and Mr. Strand are charged with assault, battery, and horse stealing. Colonel Tristram Leith is charged with the murder of Mr. Guy Sanguinet.”

  Charity’s face twisted. She gasped, “Oh no! Guy is dead?”

  The Captain’s hard brown eyes flickered from her droopingly sodden cloak and hat, to her muddied boots. “You, madam,” he said with a curl of the lip, “are at liberty to go. Men, forward!”

  The troopers turned their mounts.

  Charity’s frightened eyes flew to Mitchell. He said low and urgently, “You’re our only hope now, Madame Mulot,” and leaned to throw an arm about her and kiss her. She responded, but was slightly taken aback, under the circumstances, to feel his hand at her bosom. Something hard dug into her. She felt a chill of apprehension, then the troopers were coming between them and she had to rein back. The soldiers and their prisoners moved on. She waved in response to the shouted farewells and waves that were directed at her. Then the bridge was very empty, and she and Lion were alone.

  Dully, she tidied the laces at her bosom, unobtrusively tucking Diccon’s precious notebook more securely into her camisole.

  “That bastard!” grated Lion furiously. “Pardin, ma’am, but that there Sanguinet wins every time. I see him push my master down and down till he wasn’t nothing but dirt. Now he’s won again. It ain’t right!”

  Charity thought wretchedly, “What shall I do without him? Without all of them?” And she said, “He’s indecently rich, Lion. Much too powerful. How he would laugh.” Her shoulders pulled back. She said vibrantly, “He shall not win! That evil man must not harm our dear land! Lion, you and I must go on! We must get to Brighton somehow … we must!”

  “We will, missus,” he said stoutly. “Don’t you never worrit.”

  Nonetheless, they started off together in a mutually dismal silence, each aware of how slight were their chances. After a while, Charity reined to a halt in a pleasant copse of young birch trees. “Perhaps,” she said, “if we were to go to the authorities in Oxford, we—” And she stopped, her heart giving a scared leap.

  Where they had come from, she could not tell. How they could have been so swift and soundless was astounding, but lean men with dark hair and still, bronzed faces formed a wide ring about them. Several wore colourful scarves around their heads, and gold gleamed in their ears.

  Lion muttered, “Gypsies. Gawd! They’ll be arter our horses for sure.”

  Two of the men stepped forward. One was not much more than a boy, with wide, intelligent dark eyes and a proud lift to his strong chin. The other … Charity gave a sudden squeal of excitement and slid from her saddle.

  “DiLoretto!”

  “Signorina!” The Italian swept her a flourishing bow. “We again have meet. They circumstances they not-a so good, but”—his shoulders shrugged in that all-embracing gesture she remembered so well—“we make better, eh?”

  Tears trembled on her lashes. She said unsteadily, “How glad I am to see you. But my brother and—they have been taken away and, oh, it is all so dreadful! If only you could help, but we are running out of time, and—”

  “Madame,” he interrupted this desperate muddle, “tell me only this. Have you in your saddle, or about-a your person, perhaps, the crown of Charlemagne?”

  “No. Gerard took it to the Regent last week.”

  “Mama mia!” DiLoretto struck his forehead with his clenched fist, so hard that he staggered back a step. “I must tell this to my Diccon.”

  “Then Diccon is alive? Thank God! Where?”

  “To the west. Five miles, about. He is not-a very alive, signorina. We go quickly, now.”

  “No, no! We cannot. DiLoretto, listen
to me! My brother and—and Mr. Redmond and their friends have been arrested. Even now they are being taken under heavy guard to Oxford. Our only hope would be to get them away before they reach the town. Oh, please, can you help me?”

  DiLoretto looked at her thoughtfully, then he said, “Beside myself, this young-a man is called Daniel. He does not speak, but he will know.”

  Daniel watched Charity, his head tilted to one side. After a minute a broad grin spread across his dark features.

  Thus it was that a short while later, a troop of soldiers escorting six prisoners across a bridge that spanned the swiftly flowing Cherwell River unexpectedly became embroiled with a noisily squabbling band of gypsies.

  The Captain in charge of the troop, his glossy whiskers twitching with vexation at this interruption of their majestic progress, roared an order for the ragtag band to clear the bridge. Instead, three caravans trundled up the far side and began to vie for the right-of-way. The argument became fierce. Voices, including that of the Captain, rose. Noses were pulled. Fists flew. Suddenly the bridge was a turmoil of flying fists, rearing, nervous horses, and angry soldiers.

  Mitchell, recognizing one dark young face, caught his brother’s eye and mouthed, “Daniel!” Sir Harry, following his gaze, brightened and nudged Leith. Mitchell drove home his spurs and his hack reared, neighing in fright. The line of troopers broke.

  “Stop!” howled the Captain. “Stop—in the name of the King!”

  Instead, six superb horsemen galloped madly down the bridge and towards a distant rise where a fair lady and a boy with flaming hair waited.

  “Shoot!” roared the Captain.

  The troopers strove to obey, but were hampered on every side by struggling gypsies. One man, more ambitious than his companions, fought his way clear, musket in hand, and rode in pursuit, the rest of the troop following belatedly.

  The first trooper took careful aim and fired.

  Bolster, bringing up the rear of the escaping band, felt his mount stagger. He jerked his feet from the stirrups and was thrown clear as the poor hack went down with a scream and a thrash of legs. Harry Redmond, glancing back, saw Jeremy getting to his feet and three troopers bearing down fast. With a whoop, Sir Harry swung around and galloped back. Bolster reached up, Sir Harry leaned down; a heave and a leap, and his lordship was mounted behind his friend. Another roar from a levelled musket. Bolster jolted and clutched at his head. His grip on Harry’s waist loosened. Harry grabbed for him, but Jeremy was already falling. He landed rolling, then lay very still.