Beloved Enemy (51 page)

"Who
the devil — ?" A ragged figure, lying on a filthy straw pallet against the
wall, struggled onto one elbow, every movement obviously causing him
excruciating pain, but the blue eyes still flashed with the angry spirit that
she had heard in the cursing tongue. "No devil," the man said,
sinking back on the pallet. "I'm closer to death than I thought. 'Tis an
angel come for me."

"No
angel," Ginny said, coming into the cell, putting her basket on the floor
by the pallet. "Flesh and blood, I assure you. Where are you hurt?"

"Don't
tell me that after leaving me to rot in this sinkhole for five days, the
bastards've decided to send me a nurse?" The man laughed, then coughed, a
trickle of blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. "Get the Cavalier
fit for the hangman, is that it? Fit enough to dance on the end of the rope . .
." He coughed again.

"Do
not talk," Ginny instructed him, wiping the blood from his mouth.
"Show me where you are hurt." She pulled off the thin, blood-caked
blanket and then gagged at the stench of corruption. The jagged edge of his
thigh bone pointed up through the swollen, livid flesh already turning bluish-green.
Biting her lip, she sat back on her heels. "The leg must come off."
It was a brutal truth, but one the wounded man must already know.

"Too
late for that now," he said. "If they'd wanted me to live, they'd
have done it before." There was a moment's silence, then he croaked,
"Is there water, for the love of God? They left a pitcher, but God damn
them, it is out of my reach."

Ginny
filled the tin cup from the pitcher by the door and held it to his lips. It was
true. He had not the strength to survive an amputation of the limb, even if his
captors could be persuaded to provide the surgeon to perform the operation.
That slow, fierce rage filled her again. They had thrown a desperately wounded
man into a cell and left him to the as slowly or as quickly as his wounds would
dictate, and she could do nothing, absolutely nothing to save him. But she
could ease his condition a little, and she could create such a scene with Alex
that he would be forced to intervene and at least have the man moved so that he
could die like a man and not like a rat in a cess pit.

Fighting
her nausea at the reek of putrefaction, she cleansed around the wound and
bandaged it, then washed the thin feverish body with cool water that brought a
moment's easement. "Were you wounded in battle?"

"Skirmish,"
he said with an effort, closing his eyes. “Not enough of us left for a battle,
all we can do is harass the rebel bastards and try to get up with Hamilton's
forces ..."

A
string of the foulest oaths Ginny had ever heard suddenly came from the corridor
outside, and booted feet thundered, coming to a screeching halt in the doorway.
A trooper, pike at the ready stood there, still cursing until he saw that his
prisoner had not moved and the intruder was a mere woman in a serge riding
habit, bare-headed, carrying a wicker basket. "Who the devil are you,
wench?" He grabbed her arm with a painful wrench.

Ginny
drew herself up to her full height, ignoring the pain of the soldier's grip.
"Fetch General Marshall," she demanded without raising her voice.

He didn't
drop her arm, but the grip loosened, and a flash of uncertainty appeared in the
bloodshot eyes. "What's the general got to do with you?"

"That
is no concern of yours, soldier. Do as I say, and fetch him immediately.
Otherwise it will go hard with you, I promise." She was every inch John
Redfern's daughter, and he released her arm.

"Come
out of here, mistress. This is no place for the likes of you," he said,
almost beseeching.

"It
is no place for the likes of any but rats," she spat. "Maybe you are
only following orders in your treatment of this man, if so you will not be held
personally responsible. If not . . ." She stared at him, then repeated.
"Fetch General Marshall here,
at once.
I wish him to see this
man."

"I
can't do that, mistress." The soldier looked aghast. "Generals don't
concern themselves with . . ." He gestured helplessly.

"Then
summon your superior officer, and
he
may fetch the general." Having
started on this course, Ginny didn't see how she could back down, but the
thought of Alex being summoned from a high-level conference by some bewildered
sergeant at the orders of his troublemaking mistress with her inconveniently
humanitarian propensities was more than a little intimidating. He would probably
be furious, but he would certainly come.

"You
may lock me in with the prisoner if you are afraid I will spirit him away on
some magic carpet while you are gone," she went on, seeing him waver.
"For heaven's sake, man, get on with it!"

Impatiently,
she gave him a push, and the arrogant gesture seemed to convince the trooper
that he had best do as she said. The heavy door slammed, the bolts were shot,
and Ginny's heart plummeted to her boots. That suggestion had been made out of
bravado, and she had not been prepared for the reality of imprisonment in
semidarkness with a dying man. The cell contained only a pail, the straw
pallet, and the pitcher of water.

The
sergeant in the guardhouse listened incredulously to the trooper's halting
tale. "A woman with the prisoner in fifty-seven? You been drinking,
man?"

"Come
and see for yourself, Sergeant. And she's no wench, either. Proud as a queen,
givin' me orders, tellin' me to fetch General Marshall for all the world as if
the general hisself was her servant."

"But
where'd she come from?" The sergeant looked around, bewildered.
Enlightenment came from the sentry on the main gate who had just been relieved.

"Rode
in with the general's division," he informed the sergeant.   "Went 
looking  for  the  men  some  time  back.  Orders are she's to be let alone to
go where she wants." He shrugged and grinned salaciously. "Keepin'
the general's bed warm, I'll be bound. 'S all right for some."

A
rumble of agreement went around the circular chamber, together with a few lewd
remarks. The sergeant scratched his cropped head. "Well, I dunno what to
do fer he best. Guvnor'll 'ave me 'ide if 'n I disturb 'im fer no reason."

The
sentry grunted. "That General Marshall's a bad man to cross, I've 'eard
tell. If his lady wants summat 'n you don't jump, could lose more than yer
'ide, to my way o' thinkin'."

There
was a silence as the unhappy sergeant cogitated. "Left 'er in the cell,
did you?" he asked the trooper.

The
trooper nodded. "Locked the door 'n all, so she's there all right an'
tight."

"Shouldn't
've done that," the sentry pronounced judiciously. "Not locked 'er
in."

"Got
no right interferin' with the prisoners," the trooper said stoutly.
"Guvnor'd say the same. 'Is prisoner, after all."

"Ye're
right!" The sergeant sprang energetically to his feet. "We'd best lay
it before the guvnor wiv no more ado. Com' on, lad."

When
the knock came at the messroom door, one of the junior officers went
immediately to answer it. He returned to the room looking nonplussed. The
governor and General Marshall were deeply involved in a discussion about
dispensing pay to the troops in the castle, and the ensign coughed
apologetically.

"What
is it, Ensign?" Alex looked at the young man impatiently. "If you
wish for our attention, you do not need to cough, standing there like a goose
waiting for Christmas."

The
young man's ears reddened. Not being a member of the general's staff, he was
unused to the acerbic tongue or to the emphasis placed on correct bearing.
"Beg your pardon, sir." He saluted stiffly. "Sergeant Smith says
that the young lady wishes to see you at once."

"Well,
send her in," Alex replied.

"It
seems she's with a prisoner, General, and wishes you to go to her."

"What
prisoner?" the governor interrupted. "How'd she find the
prisoners?"

"The
prisoner in fifty-seven, sir," the ensign said. "I don't know how she
found him, sir, but the guard says he was doing a routine check on the corridor
and found the door to fifty-seven open. The young lady was inside and refused
to leave until the general came."

"Is
this prisoner by any chance wounded?" Alex inquired with a prickle of
foreboding. There was an uncomfortable silence. "Well, Governor?"

"Near
death," the governor replied. "By all the odds, he should've died two
days ago, but he's a stubborn so-and-so, like all the Calverts."

Alex
sighed, drawing his own conclusions. It was typical of Virginia to put him in
this impossible situation. He was a guest in the castle, and what the governor
did with his prisoners was no business of General Marshall's. He could not go
around demanding changes just because something was happening that offended
Ginny's sense of decency. It was also outrageous of her to cause this kind of
scene, in front of total strangers, and in the middle of what was proving to be
a very difficult session as it was.

"My
apologies, but if you'll excuse me, Governor, I'll go and sort this out. It
will not take me many minutes."

"I
will accompany you." The governor pushed back his chair firmly. Alex could
hardly blame him for wanting to see for himself what was going on on his
territory, but he would have preferred his confrontation with Mistress Courtney
to have had no witnesses. However, he was obliged to acknowledge the governor's
presence with a gracious smile and grit his teeth as the rest of the room
followed for all the world as if the circus was come to town.

"Who
are you?" the prisoner asked as the door clanged shut behind the jailer.
His face was twisted with the effort to speak lucidly, but the eyes were still
clear.

"Virginia
Courtney, daughter of John Redfern," she said, sitting on the floor beside
him, ignoring the chill as the damp stone struck through her skirt. "As
good a Royalist as any."

"Aye,
you must be cousin to Edmund Verney," her fellow prisoner said.

"You
know Edmund?" Ginny asked eagerly. "Can you give me news of him? Have
you seen him?"

"Two
weeks ago," he replied. "But what do you do in Nottingham Castle
demanding the attention of Parliament's most feared general?"

"Oh,
it is a long story," Ginny said dismissively. "Tell me of Edmund
quickly before they come back. I had news of him in Wimbledon, but none
since."

"If
you've a mind to find him, he's not more than ten miles distant," her
companion said with a weak chuckle. "There's a few of us left, gathering
up the stragglers for the march norm."

"Where?"
Ginny asked breathlessly, then saw the man's eyes sharpen suspiciously.

"Is
this the latest trick they've come up with? Boots and screw haven't got a thing
out of me, not even lying here without food or water, unable to reach the pail
. . ." He coughed again. "Send a pretty woman, pretending to be a
loyal Royalist who somehow has access to Parliament's generals, with hands as
soft and skilled as . . ." His voice faded, and an expression of disgust
crossed his face.

Ginny
reached into the pocket of her skirt, drew out the king's parchment, faded and
cracked now, but the seal was still clear. "I will not betray you,"
she said softly, holding it before his eyes. "The king himself trusted me
to bear his message, and I have done what I could since we left the Isle of
Wight. Will you not tell me where I may find my cousin? I would see him,
perhaps for the last time."