Farrell crept away to take a temporary position behind a tree, and Erienne waited for the roar of his pistol to come as a signal. She was so tense that she wondered how she would be able to hit anything, even after her husband’s careful tutoring. The horror she had seen within the last moments made her aware of what Christopher might be dealing with in his night rides. Though he had not admitted to being the dreaded nighthawk, she could not dismiss the evidence she had seen, and she vowed to be more understanding toward his cause in the future.
Her brother’s shot rang out, and Erienne’s fingers tightened as she settled her aim. She felt a nauseous quivering in her stomach when she saw two forms collapse abruptly near the lantern. A shout rang out from one of the thieves, and they scattered from the light, but not soon enough. Erienne gave herself no time to debate her actions; she knew the life of the girl depended on how quickly she could make the other pistol bark. This time she tried not to blink as the shot exploded, but it was all she could do to keep the weapon steady. Her surprise was so great when she saw another man fall that she almost looked around to see if Farrell had fired at the same time. Then she heard his rustling movements on the other side of her, and knew he was just settling into place again. Licking her parched lips, she began to reload. She was shaking as hard as she was praying, and she had to take a steadying grip on herself to be able to complete the task. The deafening roar of Farrell’s musket rent the air, and the scream that followed sent a coldness coursing through her veins. She raised the sights of her weapon, finding the halo of light void of the fleeing thieves. Her eyes searched, and the moonlight showed her a hint of movement at the base of the bluff below. She kept her gaze fastened on the darkness until the shadow proved to be a man climbing up toward her. Coming slowly to her feet, she clutched the butt of the flintlock with both hands and set her sights on the moving body. The fellow raised his head to glance about, and this time she closed her eyes tightly as she squeezed the trigger. The report deafened her, but not enough to blot out the thumping, thudding sound of his body falling down the incline. She banished the gore from her thoughts as she saw Farrell scrambling toward his horse.
Quickly Erienne reloaded and then waited in the appalling silence, her eyes searching the shadows for any sign of a skulker. She heard the gelding thrash through the woods behind her, and after a moment her brother came into her range of vision. He plunged from the darkness, racing headlong toward the coach and, when he neared the girl, flung himself down from the steed, holding one of the reins in his left hand as he ran to her. Halting beside her, he began to saw at the tough cords that bound the girl.
Erienne watched carefully for any movement that would prove itself a target for her weapon. She was aware of no warning sound or movement, but of a sudden she was nearly engulfed from behind. A hand reached over her shoulder to seize the pistol, and the same arm swept her back against a rock hard frame. Before she could cry out, a gloved hand clapped across her mouth and a gruff voice, curt and hushed, filled her mind.
“You little minx, what are you trying to do? Get on that damned nag and get out of here before you get yourself killed!”
The arm spun her about, and she was set free. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the huge form that stood before her. The enveloping cloak blended with ebony darkness, and though she tried to see into the deep shadow beneath the cowl, she found no proof that a face was even there.
“Christopher?” His name came in a tentative question.
“Go! Get out of here!” he commanded.
The hooded head turned slightly toward the glade. Two figures had left the darkness of the woods and were approaching Farrell from behind. He had half freed the girl and gave no sign of being aware of them.
“Damn!”
The expletive came from the deep cowl, then in a rush the night rider was gone. Erienne stumbled back as he appeared a brief second later on a huge black horse. The pair sailed out of the darkness, seeming to take flight as they went past. The stallion’s hooves struck sparks from the rock-littered slope, and a low, keening moan sent shivers up her spine. From the extended arm of the flying dark figure there came a flash and a roar of a pistol. One of the thieves fell with a scream, clutching his chest, and the weapon lowered from sight. When the hand reappeared, it was filled with a long, gleaming length of steel. The saber swept high briefly, and the eerie battle cry was renewed. The horse rushed on as the second brigand dropped his knife and struggled to draw and cock his own flintlock. The saber dipped as the shadow dashed past him. The pistol fell, and the man staggered a few steps and slowly sank to the ground.
The black-cloaked rider made a sweep of the field, then approached Farrell, who halted in his task and stood back brandishing the ridiculously short blade in his good hand. The night rider gave him no heed, but with the tip of his saber flipped one of the lanterns onto the road, where it crashed and flickered out. Another one followed in a flaming arch, landing in the same spot and lighting the spilled oil. The hawk paused and stared down at Farrell briefly, then gestured to the girl, whose wrists were still bound to the coach.
“Get her free and get out of here!” The saber pointed up the hillside, and the voice, though low, bore an unmistakable tone of command. “And take that twit of a sister with you when you go!”
The black steed moved alongside the coach, and the saber swung low again. The last lantern sailed into the air and then broke apart on the road. The only light in the glade was provided by moonlight and by the small, greedy flames of the spilled oil, which failed to illuminate the figures near the coach.
In a moment Farrell had the girl free and labored to lift her to the back of the horse. After a fruitless effort, he stopped and hauled himself into the saddle, then freeing a stirrup for the girl, held his crippled arm down.
“My arm is useless. Take hold of it, and I will pull you up. Use the stirrup.”
The girl complied, and in a trice was behind him on the horse. She had no need to be told to secure her position but clutched her arms tightly about his waist.
Farrell kicked the steed, and the horse lunged forward. A shot was fired from the woods as he raced off, but it whistled wide. He hauled back on the reins when he neared the slope where he had left Erienne and yelled up. The night rider followed him, and his terse bark rang out in a tone that brooked no disobedience.
“Go! Get out of here!”
Erienne had already retraced a few steps back into the woods and with the aid of a decaying stump, climbed atop the mare. She set the steed to flight, skimming along the shadows of the trees. The night rider spurred the stallion, keeping behind her fleeing form but holding to the moonlit road. He was there when Erienne cast a quick glance over her shoulder. When she disappeared over the hill, he halted and swung his horse sideways to prevent any possible pursuit. As he waited, he leisurely reloaded his pistol and let his gaze range over the clearing he had just left.
In the silence, small sounds of movement came from the brush as the highwaymen crept cautiously forth. A figure came to the edge of the firelight and then another. The night rider watched his quarry gather like a once-flushed flock of birds coming back to feed.
“Aye,” he muttered to himself. “And they need to be flushed again.”
He lifted the saber high and set heel to his mount, giving voice to the keening wail that was his war cry. The robbers needed only the sight of the apparition sweeping down upon them like a hunting hawk, the darkened gleam of the saber in the night, and the ominous thunder of the great hooves to abandon their bravado. One of the thieves bellowed a warning even as he took flight himself. The others scrambled over each other to get away and once more sought safety in the underbrush, all save one.
The undaunted highwayman drew his pistol with his left hand and his sword with the right and held them wide to either side as the specter flew toward him. Here was the experienced soldier who did not panic under adversity.
“Fools!” he roared. “He is but one! If you will not
stand and fight, I will take this one myself!”
“He’s yers, Cap’n!” a voice shouted back.
A short space away the huge black beast sat on his haunches and slid to a halt. The thief glanced away from the other’s saber and saw the threatening bore of a horse pistol held in the opposite hand.
“Well, Mr. Phantom,” the man challenged boldly, “will it be a test of lead?” The pistol lifted slightly. “Or of steel?” He saluted his adversary with a quick sweep of the blade.
Though the highwayman wore a cloth covering over his head, the night shadow recognized the curt phrases and subtle accent of the one he faced.
“Milord Sheriff, we meet at last.”
“So! You know me, my friend.” The sardonic tone turned to sneering laughter. “That knowledge will cost you your life. What shall it be? Your saber?”
“Nay, I have another weapon to match your own,” the whispery voice replied.
First the saber and then the pistol were thrust back into their respective sheaths. Turning the horse sideways to shield against a shot, the night specter dismounted. He waited until Allan Parker tucked his pistol away before slapping the rump of the stallion to send him into the clearing a short distance away. He drew a slim rapier, whose naked length winked a silvery blue in the moonlight. Casually he returned the salute.
Parker bent slightly to drag a dagger from his boottop. The style of the duel was clear. It would be of the Burgundian cavalier, a forceful attack to close and bring both weapons into play, either to trap the single blade of the opponent or thrust the short blade into the ribs.
The black hawk reached his left arm behind his back, and catching the length of his cloak, wrapped some of its fullness around his arm to form a shield of sorts that could as easily entangle a blade. Parker recognized the ploy and realized he faced no simple opponent but one well versed in the art of arms. He also took note of the brace of smaller pistols the man carried in his waistband. This was indeed to be a test to the death.
The swords came together in a light play, but after the initial engagements, the sheriff grew more cautious. His first simple attacks were turned aside with ease, and the riposte was so swift and sure he was forced to labor in his own defense. He was left with no doubt as to the skill of the man he faced.
A brief chuckle came from the cowl, and the harsh, whispery voice lent no hint of its owner’s identity. “Do you worry yet, Milord Sheriff?”
Allan laughed as he met his opponent’s sudden attack with his long blade but slashed empty night air with the short one when the night rider faded lightly away from its threat. “I do not know you now, my friend, but I shall look upon your face soon enough.”
He lunged into his own attack in the second quarter but had to quickly retreat as it was effectively parried and the other’s blade threatened his groin.
“Not as easy as Timmy Sears, eh?” the hawk queried with a sneer.
Parker almost stumbled but recovered quickly. “How…”
“Who else would Timmy have gone to after I visited him that night? You are the thieves’ captain, and naturally you would have been the one he went looking for to make his confessions. He was a fool to tell you what he had spilled. It cost him his life.”
The blue blade began to weave a tighter pattern, and in spite of the sheriff’s best efforts, which were considerable, its hungry tongue licked ever closer to his body. A sudden sharp pain stung his left forearm, then a tug sent the dagger sailing far into the high grass.
As he labored to protect himself, Parker was seized with the sudden belief that this relentless shadow could kill whenever the whim betook him. A light sweat glistened on Parker’s face, and his upper lip trembled with stress of this new knowledge.
“Then there was Ben,” the night rider continued. “Frail, no possible challenge to one of your skill.”
Breathing heavily, Parker did not answer. An ache had begun to grow in his right shoulder as he beat down pass after pass.
“Did he put up much of a fight?” the hooded foe chided. “Or did you catch him in a nap?”
The sheriff panted, and sweat flew from his brow. For the first time in his life he knew he faced one who could kill him.
“You are too young to be the one I search for. There is another who keeps his silk trappings clean while you do his filthy deeds. Lord Talbot, perhaps?”
“You bas…bastard!” Parker gasped. “Fight like a man! Show your face!”
“ ’Tis death to see it, Milord Sheriff. Didn’t you know?” His chiding laughter mocked the other.
Parker’s gaze shifted momentarily behind his opponent, and he almost smiled. He found new energy and set upon his adversary in a savage fury. His heavier blade chopped, hacked, and stabbed, but was ever met and found no fragile flesh to flay.
Of a sudden, there was a shout, and two thieves launched an attack from the shadows where they had crept, but the night rider ducked beneath their assault. One of the flailing arms pulled the hood from his head before the two brigands came together with a crunch in midair and fell half stunned behind him. He locked hilts with the sheriff, meeting his attack, and they stood face to face.
“You!” Allan cried.
Christopher Seton laughed in the sheriff’s face. “Death, Milord Sheriff. But later.”
He shoved hard, and the man stumbled back into a full charge of an onrushing four, sending them falling in a tangled heap as Christopher wickedly slashed the air with his sword. A sharp, piercing whistle rent the night, and the stallion charged forward. Christopher thrust his blade into its sheath, and as the steed came alongside, caught an arm across the saddle. His feet struck the ground, and with the impetus, he swung astride his fleeing mount.
The sheriff scrambled to his feet and, with a snarled curse, clawed the pistol from his belt. He lowered the sights of the weapon to send a leaden ball in thunderous pursuit of the flying night hawk, but to no effect. He cursed again and glanced around. Another man was kneeling in the dust, leveling a long musket at the target. Allan snatched it from him and took the shot himself.
Christopher felt a searing blow against his right side before he heard the roar of the musket. The reins fell from his numbed right hand, and he lurched aside. The ground was a dark blur beneath him, ready to consume him, but he sought to keep his senses. He twisted his left hand in the flying mane and, by sheer dint of will, pulled himself upright. The pace of his mount seemed to slow as he slumped low over its back.
The sheriff let out a caterwauling cry and, with a loud command, launched his men to their horses. “After him, you fools! Don’t let him escape!”
“Go, Saracen! Go!” Christopher grunted as each flying pace shook him to the core. “Show them your heels, lad! Go!”
The stallion was running free, but he held to the road as the easier course. A shout came from somewhere behind, and a bullet whined by close at hand. Saracen stretched out and fairly flew as the sheriff led his men in a headlong chase through the moonlit night.
The road dipped after it came over the hill, then wound through the valley, bending to the left as it began to meander across the low hills. Once the pursuers were out of sight, Christopher spoke to the stallion and coaxed him into a slow trot. He leaned forward and managed to catch first one rein, then the other and regained a better degree of control. He slowed the steed to a walk, then sent him scrambling down the bank into a thicket below. There he halted in the cover of trees and carefully tucked the cloak beneath and around a warm and sticky right leg, lest the blood from his side leave a trail that could be followed in daylight.
Erienne had fallen behind deliberately and let Farrell lead the chase. Realizing that the cloaked form was no longer trailing her, she paused on a distant knoll and searched along the road where she had just come, hoping he would soon appear. She was certain this shade of the night was the one she thought him to be. Tonight he had set himself against the lawless, murdering band as one bent on a mission of justice, and she had seen enough to convince her t
hat his intent was for good and not evil.
The mare had forded brooklets and traversed dew-laden fields and dusty roads until her white stockings were well begrimed. She pranced, worrying at the restraint that held her in place, but Erienne gave the impatient steed no mind as she fought a battle of indecision. A gunshot had echoed across the moors, and then a heavier boom of a musket had followed. The second report was what frightened her, for the night rider had not been equipped with such a weapon. The questions blazed through her mind. Should she return to help? Could she assist him? Or would it be better if she was gone, giving him the freedom he would need to see to himself?
She peered intently down the road and tried to sort out the shadows cast by low, fleeting clouds for any possible movement of man or beast. For a moment her eyes betrayed her, and she thought she saw a man coming on a horse, but when the moonlight swept the road a moment later, there was nothing. Her head came up as she caught the sound of a distant rumble, and she listened until it became the thunder of mounted horsemen coming full apace.
Erienne reined the mare about and kicked hard with her heel to send the steed leaping into a fast run. Her cloak billowed out behind, and when the lawless band came over the rising, they raised up a hue and cry at seeing the black-winged figure fleeing ahead of them. The air cracked with a report of a pistol, but the shot whined harmlessly past.
A Rose in Winter Page 48