The roan stallion chosen for him was stamping impatiently in the stableyard. The sleepy ostler holding the fiery animal regarded Redmond without affection. He was a scrawny man with a sneering mouth and a vindictive disposition. Because of this nob, he had been obliged to get out of bed and ride after the doctor. Further, because of this nob, he’d been ordered to get up only a couple of hours after he’d again crawled ’twixt the sheets, to saddle him their best horse. Well, he’d done it, and it served the nob right, may he rot!
“My, but he’s a fine fellow,” said Redmond, stroking the stallion admiringly.
“Said you wanted a goer,” said the ostler. “Cannibal’s a goer.”
“Yes. I thank you.” Redmond pressed a coin into the man’s hand, then swung into the saddle and took the reins.
The ostler watched him. He could ride, no doubt of that, even though he looked like he’d been swigging blue ruin for a week or two.… Probably had his first pony ’fore he was breeched, and his own groom along of it! Much good it might do him! The ostler grinned and slouched back into the stable.
The big roan was full of spirit and for a while Redmond indulged his eagerness to go. The powerful animal galloped with a rather jolting but untiring gait, and the miles passed swiftly. It was a fair morning with a slight breeze. The sun was coming up and Redmond rode southeast through a deserted countryside rich in wooded slopes and hills, coming at last into dear and familiar surroundings, for this was Hampshire, the county of his birth. He was soon less than ten miles from home, and the longing to turn west to Moiré Grange gnawed at him. He would be looked for there, however, and thus he schooled himself to follow Leith’s orders, riding steadily southeast past quiet Alton, drowsing in the pale morning sunlight, and over dewy meadows toward Selborne. He had slowed Cannibal and when a stagecoach approached on the narrow road he’d thought it safe to follow at this hour, there was plenty of room for passing. Cannibal betrayed not a trace of nervousness until the team drew level, then suddenly plunged at the off leader, ears flattened against his head, eyes narrowed evilly, and teeth snapping at the polite bay’s neck. Wrenching at the head of his carnivorous mount, Mitchell found himself the target for streams of invective from driver, guard, and passengers, both inside and out. Cannibal was powerful and determined, and had obviously set himself to eat the bay.
In the resultant melee, the stagecoach plunged off the road and into the mud. A farmer’s dray and a milk wagon drew up to watch the spectacle, and unable to escape the hostile ring of accusers, Mitchell was trapped until he resorted to digging in his spurs and setting Cannibal at the very small gap between the milk wagon and the hedge. He squeaked through and rode off, followed by infuriated vituperations. Irked because he had lost valuable time, he still supposed this to be an isolated instance. It soon became apparent, however, that the ostler’s remarks had been less than all-embracing: Cannibal was aptly named. He was a good goer, but his idiosyncrasy, a major one, was that he yearned to eat another horse. Any horse that came within snapping distance.
Redmond left the lanes and byways, and headed across country again. The sun grew warmer, and he pushed on steadily, alone as he had never been before, for now he was haunted by the memory of a valiant companion with a gentle lilting voice, always willing to point out his shortcomings.… He smiled faintly and in another second was sighing because he so missed that intrepid presence, the dauntless set to her small chin, the quick way she had of entering into his moods, of understanding his silences, sharing his mirth, steadfastly enduring the hardships he endured. “My beloved Madame Mulot,” he thought. The wistfulness vanished from his eyes when he caught a glimpse of scarlet uniforms on the hillside ahead. He swore and turned aside.
Twice after that he was driven from his intended route by the appearance of groups of riders he dared not risk encountering, so that it was afternoon by the time Cannibal plodded up a long rise in the Downs. A small cluster of trees offered shade, and a little brook gurgled close by. Redmond dismounted stiffly, allowed the horse to slake his thirst at the brook, then unsaddled him and secured the reins to a low shrub. Sitting with his back against a tree, Redmond stretched out his legs gratefully. Jove, but he was tired! He took out his timepiece. The hands seemed to ripple, and he had to rub at his eyes before he could focus properly. Twenty minutes past one … no! two, by gad! And still a long ride ahead. He should push on, but Cannibal must be rested and he himself ached with weariness, besides which his side was such a damnable nuisance. He propped an arm on one drawn-up knee, leaned back his head and closed his eyes, just for a moment, listening dully to the gossiping dance of the leaves.…
He awoke with a start when his elbow slipped from his knee. Lord! He must not do that again! The fateful ball was tonight, and if he once dropped off, he was liable to sleep for a week! He took off his wilted beaver and ran a hand through his damp hair, blinking at the panorama spread out before him. The velvety Downs sloped ever southwards to where lifted the distant spires of Chichester. His first tutor had lived there, and he had spent many happy hours in that lovely cathedral town known first to the Romans as Noviomagus, and afterwards as Cisseceastre. Saxon kings had walked the cobbled streets, and later, their Norman conquerors. It had seen its share of battle and death and fire, had old Chichester. But today it was green and peaceful, quietly occupying its assigned space in the present, securely rooted in its past, washed by the rains and mists that swept in from the blue reaches of the Channel.…
“‘This sceptred isle,’” murmured Charity, sinking down beside him. She expected him to leap up ranting and raving, but he only quoted just as softly. “‘This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England…’”
She had ridden desperately, all day, to come up with him and, not having dared hope to do so, had finally caught a glimpse of him embroiled in a dispute with a stagecoach, and guessing he meant to cut across country, had at last found him. She knelt there gratefully, watching him. He looked so tired and pale. The cut the bullet had ploughed across his scalp was visible at the hairline, and his dark hair was terribly disordered, so that she longed to tidy it, but fearing to break his mood, did not.
In a faraway voice, he murmured, “You can see the wind.”
She caught her breath and, remembering what Rachel had once said of his absent-mindedness, knew that here again was the dreamy-eyed boy she had glimpsed beneath the bitter cynicism; here was the boy she could love. Could love? No! It was far past a possibility. She did love him. For so long as she lived, she would never love another. Tenderly, she prompted, “Tell me what you are thinking.”
Still gazing to the south, he said, “It is not my thought. It was told me by a most poetical weaver named Bamford. And he was right. If you look hard enough you can—See—just above the trees there—the glow of it … like the aura of all those who have dwelt here before us. The effort, the courage, the pride, the suffering … the wind of our history.…” He started, glanced at her, and coloured hotly. “What fustian I’m jabbering. You must think me properly wits to let.”
Perhaps for the first time, she realized how close he was to total exhaustion. She said simply, “I think you are splendid.”
He stared at her. “No, how could you when you saw what a worthless craven I—” And only then did that brutal memory jolt him back into the here and now. He gasped. “My God! What the deuce are you doing here?”
“I followed you. No, it is no use to berate me, sir. My brother is resting comfortably, and the innkeeper’s wife is very kind and will take proper care of him. You cannot send me away, Mitchell. My place is here. With you.”
He gazed at her. How serene she was, for all that her habit was stained and creased, and the wind had blown her fair curls about under that foolish little blue hat that had once been so pert and now drooped in sadly wilted fashion. She was looking up at him as though he was some kind of god, instead of— “I’m not good enough for you,” he muttered. “Don’t you know that, my mouse? When I saw the look in your brothe
r’s eyes last night, I could not blame him. I’m a rake … a womanizing, fighting, brawling idiot. And underneath it all, I’m a rank coward. A spineless—”
“Nonsense. How could I love such a one?”
His fists clenched against the need to hold her. “You must not love a coward.”
“I do not. I love a man who faced his fear and defeated it.”
He sat straighter, his eyes devouring her gentle, glowing, dirty little face. “But I haven’t, my darling girl. I never will, unless I can beat Sanguinet and so prove myself a man again.”
His eyes, so full of adoration, were saying much more than the words he spoke. He was trembling, so greatly did he long to kiss her. A wave of tenderness swept Charity. She leaned to him. Mitchell sighed, tilted up her chin, and kissed her. And the Downs, the munching Cannibal, the hurrying voice of the wind, faded and were gone. They drifted together in a glory of love, joined in a long, consuming kiss that roused a new, sweet passion in Charity, so that her arms tightened convulsively.
Gasping, Mitchell jerked away.
“What is it?” she demanded. He kept his face averted for a minute, and she seized her opportunity and pounced to tear at his shirt.
“Hey!” cried Mitchell.
Charity stared, horrified, at his bared side. From the left armpit to below his waist, the skin was blackened by a great bruise, dark at the centre, purpling and greenish at the edges.
“Have you no shame?” he demanded with feigned indignation, drawing back and gingerly restoring his garments. “Dashed if ever I met a woman with such a fixation about tearing the clothes from a fellow!”
She lifted her shocked gaze to his face. “When … did you do that? Was it—when that brute kicked you?”
He sighed. “When I fell from the wall.”
“My God! Why did you say nothing? What kind of ridiculous stoicism—”
“How could I say anything?” he intervened, reddening. “We had to get here.”
“Yes, but you could have told Leith, or your brother, when they came up with us. There was no need to—”
“And have them insist I be left behind, like poor Mordecai Langridge?”
“Of course. That is ghastly! It must hurt terribly. And—you have ridden and … and fought…” Tears glinted in her eyes. “Oh, Mitchell … what madness! What unutterably foolish pride!”
“No!” He caught at her hands and said desperately, “Try—please try to understand. I must do this. Don’t you see? I must! I have never been offered the chance to do anything worthwhile for my country. And since Parnell Sanguinet shamed me, I have felt…” His gaze lowered. He went on painfully, “Scarcely a human being. A weak shadow of—of a creature.”
She thought, “So Claude was right…” But she said staunchly, “And was it a weak shadow of a creature who fought his way out of Tor Keep? Were you less than a human being when you battled those louts in Coventry, or when Shotten came upon us in the stable?” And she remembered how that great brute had kicked him, and her face crumpled.
Redmond gathered her close and kissed her soft hair. “My loyal little love,” he said huskily, “would you have me give up? Would you have me leave it to Leith and my brother to do this? Leave the task for somebody else?”
She looked up into the grave smile, the faintly reproachful look. And she knew suddenly that whatever the outcome, Mitchell must run this course to its ending, even though his life be sacrificed in vain, or if Leith and Harry were already in Brighton and the Regent safely warned. And she knew she could not love him as much were he any other kind of man.
“No, my very dear,” she said. “I would have you be just what you are. Always. But—please, do not ever leave me behind again.”
Chapter 19
In later years, when Charity looked back upon that fateful Wednesday in June, it remained a nightmare; an unceasing battle against fatigue and pain, and most remorseless of all, the creeping hand of Time. The wind grew ever more blustery and was soon a full-fledged gale, often startling the horses and further exhausting Mitchell, who led the way ever into the teeth of the buffeting gusts. They were almost spent when they came in late afternoon to a neat hedge tavern near Shoreham. They tried to hire a post chaise, but although Charity had brought every penny from Justin’s purse, Claude’s ring had been left as security for her brother’s care, and now their shared funds would allow no more than feed for the horses, a sandwich, and a pot of tea. The food restored them, but they were, they admitted to one another as they crossed the stableyard, a sorry-looking pair, Charity limping and stiff, and Mitchell slightly stooped as he increasingly favoured his battered side.
They skirted the charming little coastal village, but they were able to see that there were unusual numbers of military about; keen-eyed officers leading troops of men, scrutinizing all travellers, but far more interested in riders than in carriages. Mitchell lost no time in taking to the countryside again, but was soon obliged to detour northwards to avoid a barrier across the road. They were driven ever farther from their goal, arriving at Lewes at sunset, and managing to slip into Brighton at dusk, the horses covered with sweat and dust, and Mitchell so exhausted that he sat his horse unmoving for several minutes after they had halted in a quiet lane not far from the seafront.
The wind howled between the buildings, sending a sign over a haberdasher’s door flying madly on its hinges and billowing the skirts of Charity’s dusty habit. At the end of the lane was a major thoroughfare; a noisy place with many people walking along despite the wind, and a great glow in the sky beyond that seemed too light to be a fire. Mitchell responded to Charity’s question by saying he fancied it must be the lanterns from the Royal Pavilion. “That’s the Old Steine,” he said, nodding to the street at the end of the lane. “I fancy Prinny’s guests are arriving. We’ll leave the horses here.”
He dismounted, leaning against the saddle for a brief second, then turning a haggard but smiling face as he assisted Charity down. “We’re here, my mouse,” he said jubilantly. “We’ve done it, by God!”
“We have.” She reached up to caress his cheek. “But we must find help, my dear. You cannot—”
He shook his head. “Our time is almost gone. We’ll have to get inside, somehow.” He offered his arm and said flirtatiously, “Will you promenade with me, Madame Mulot?”
Her eyes misting, she slipped her hand onto his arm.
It was nine o’clock.
The Steine, a wide thoroughfare with some fine houses, a few expensive shops, and a covered walk, was crowded with an eager, jostling throng. A long procession of luxurious carriages wound along the street towards the Pavilion, and mounted guards were positioned at intervals along the route, sabres drawn, eyes intent upon the shifting mass of humanity.
Easing into the crowd, trying not to let their haste become too apparent, Charity and Redmond were swept along until they came in sight of the Pavilion itself, a breathtaking sight, like a palace of the Far East, with its graceful domes and delicate wrought iron; its balconies and cupolas and minarets, and the mighty adjoining rotunda that housed the royal stables, all glowing in the light of countless lanterns so that it seemed indeed a place of fantasy against the night skies.
Leaning to Mitchell’s ear, Charity called above the tumult, “What time shall they sit down to dine, do you think?”
“At any minute, I fancy. Though to judge by this crush many will be delayed.”
“Oh, Mitch! What if Claude presents his gift at the start of the meal?”
“I doubt it. Were I he, I’d have it delivered towards the end, when Prinny could quite logically be expected to suffer a seizure, and in—” He broke off, staring to the gates of the drive that wound through the lawns to the Pavilion, and the line of Household Cavalry flanking both sides of the entrance. “It looks,” he said slowly, “as though we dare not approach by the direct route, m’dear.”
Following his eyes, Charity gasped with fright. A tall gentleman stood conversing earnestly with one of the s
plendidly caparisoned officers. A dark man, who wore his black garb well and was obviously sufficiently important to be respectfully attended to. “Gerard…” she whispered.
“Now look a little to the right. That’s Shotten, see? With the high-crowned brown beaver. Ah! And over there—two more of Claude’s rogues!”
“Oh! And look on the other side of the drive, by the yellow flowers—that sullen-looking creature in the green coat—that’s Clem! One of the men who kidnapped me! Oh, Mitchell!” She turned to clutch his arm in dismay. “Whatever shall we—”
An impatient group pushed past. Mitchell winced and staggered. A shout went up, and clinging to his arm, Charity saw a fine town carriage of dark brown, trimmed with silver, the crest on the door very familiar. “Vaille!” she screamed, and pushing through the crowd, waved desperately. “Vaille!”
A handsome, distinguished face appeared at the window. The Duke of Vaille scanned the throng, but then his coach was past and Charity’s cries were swallowed up in the roar of acclaim as he was recognized. Two splendidly mounted cavalrymen walked their horses forward, eyeing the girl suspiciously.
Tears of frustration in her eyes, she stretched out her hands appealingly. They reined up and one of the magnificent beings leaned down from his Olympian heights. “Move along, ma’am,” he said with firm officiousness.
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