Exile’s Bane (6 page)

“What are ye thinkin’ of doing?”

Ignoring Peg’s question, I calculated the slower speed Duncan and the vanguard would be forced to maintain on the moor road against Peg’s and my relatively fast passage.

“I may have an hour, no more. You should have no trouble approaching Thomas’ house by way of the old ruins. I will return if I can.”

“Yea,” Peg said, unnaturally cheery about being abandoned. She shook her cloak out around herself atop her mare. “I will await ye at Thomas’ cottage. Be thee careful.”

“You, too,” I called back.

I pushed Kalimir off the road and into a gallop. The low tree line that we had followed ended here at the top of the palisade. Within precious minutes, I was heading overland across the fog-hung moor.

Chapter Five

Kalimir pounded out onto the open moorland. I leaned forward, tight in the saddle. The moor lay dim and forbidding under an overcast sky, deep fog banks lurking in the natural depressions of the hilly wasteland. Wet air tore past me, whipping long tendrils of my hair that had escaped their tie. After riding so long in the relative seclusion of the Sheffington Road, I felt perilously exposed, unsure what I might encounter. My great bay flew over the tufty ground. Only the clear tops of the low hills around us were visible, like islands in the mist. That, and an approaching fog bank.

I brought Kalimir to a stop, and a soft breeze rose, whirling the rising mist slowly around his hocks. We started moving again, unnerved, and the mist-laden wind came in earnest, shifting around behind us, pushing us along in our headlong flight. The land sloped gently downward, the wind dropped and the mist turned to leaden fog, encapsulating us. I slowed Kalimir to a walk.

The shifting mist thinned here and there for moments at a time, giving me some indication of the muddy, trampled road ahead, or at least that I was still on the road. It had been used heavily and recently. But soon, I found myself unable to determine where I was or where I needed to go in the thickening fog. Had I also missed the Royalist vanguard? They could have passed this way, moved off to the south of the city, and seen for themselves what inhabited the place. This would then be a fool’s errand. If that were true, and when the alarm was raised, they would be slaughtered by vastly superior numbers, Duncan’s life forfeit, and Tor House once again at risk.

The intensity of my sudden attraction to Duncan Comrie had been a surprise that left me certain I would see him again. Yet two years of rebellion had taught me that nothing could be counted as certain.

At that moment, a living vision flashed across my eyes.

Gun smoke cloyed in my throat. Screams deafened me. Just beyond a wide stable entrance, a man lay alone, cruelly twisted on the ground, a pike through his powerful chest. He awaited death in silence, his breathing shallow, his wild red hair clotted with blood.

Foggy moorland reclaimed my vision. A gasp ripped out of me. Hand at my mouth, I slumped in the saddle, whimpering, for it was Duncan I had seen.

But it had not yet happened. Nor would I sit aside and allow it to happen. With a flip of my hand, I dashed away my tears and straightened in the saddle, erect, determined. I refused to accept what I had seen. That strong, adaptable man was too fast, too wary for such a death. I forced myself to concentrate on my present fog-hung surroundings, the vision refuted.

The land turned upward, and I drove Kalimir for the clearing that I prayed was at the top of the incline. To occupy my dream-stunned mind, I went over my calculations once again. With these thick fog banks, Duncan’s force would be reduced to a crawl. That force could not have gotten past me in the time they had. They
had
to be on the moor still. I needed to find them before the Roundheads in Bolton became aware of them.

I jerked my horse to a stop. Directly in front of me, what sounded like a sled being pulled through mud came to my attention, underscored by what were surely men grunting. I reined Kalimir hard to the right and down a slope into dense fog, hoping to avoid them until I could determine who they were.

Moments later, I reeled back in shock, straining my balance in the saddle.

A mobilized gun carriage consisting of limber, metal-strapped wheels, and huge iron cannon, approached to within mere feet of where I had stood. The limber, that wheeled conveyance that attached to the gun carriage and thereby created a four-wheeled means of transport, had passed into the thick mist. Now, the big cannon materialized before me, its breech thrusting upwards beyond the carriage wheels into the vapor. A transport like this was normally part of a siege train. I had seen my share of them approaching Tor House not that many months ago.

I regained my breath, pulled my sword and lay it across the pommel, then backed Kalimir carefully. The sound of men groaning with effort came closer. I kept my silence, listening, but soon their shadows appeared before me, straining at the spokes of the massive carriage wheels, pushing and pulling wherever they could gain purchase, slowly working the cannon up the hill. Six to eight horses or oxen normally hauled cannon. Yet I had completely missed them. I wasn’t about to go looking for them either, though it wasn’t unheard of, especially in a tight spot, for men to heave cannon.

Draft animals or no, this was no Royalist vanguard. In fact, I was certain it was a lagging Roundhead artillery transport still making its way from Tor House. Artillery trains were infamous, both Royalist and Roundhead, for being the last to arrive at any given point. Captain Wallace had told me this, the two of us standing on the watch-tower roof, as we watched the guns being positioned around Tor House back in February. Any relieving force was reduced to the speed of its artillery, he had assured me. But the Roundhead Colonel Rigby had happily not missed this cannon transport, which had probably become separated and lost in the fog.

Afraid to run Kalimir over the broken, rocky ground in the thick mist, I sheathed my sword, dismounted, and led him downward, hardly able to see a step ahead of me. We neared an upslope and something in the rocks spooked him. He threw up his head, dancing and snorting. It was all I could do to keep hold of the reins.

Behind me, voices bawled in the fog.

I grasped the bridle to hold the nervous horse in place, mounted on the second try, and moved away as fast as I dared across treacherous ground. A shot flew past me. Another shot went far to my right, and another farther still. They were shooting randomly, could not see me anymore than I could see them. And they must have been as afraid of me as I was of them, for moments passed in anxious silence. Still astride and effectively blind, I moved uphill.

Later, the gun carriage wheels resumed sucking through the mud again, growing fainter. By the time the land began its next upward slope, there was silence, no sound of the transport or its men. We topped a rise in a thin mist, I took a heavy breath of relief, and looked up.

My heart plummeted to my wet toes. An armored rider came out of the mist in front of me, long-barreled pistol raised, that black barrel aimed straight at me.

“Hold,” he growled.

He wore cavalry riding boots and a fine buff coat. His bridle arm was covered to the elbow by a metal bridal gauntlet, much like the one Duncan wore. A tri-bar helmet with thin vertical bars, similar to the Roundhead helmets, protected his face, and a segmented tail covered the back of his neck. I noted a limp red sash tied across his chest, but remained unsure of this deadly image before me. It could easily be a Roundhead trick. His face bore an extensive mustache and a goatee, like King Charles wore, his long hair hanging down beyond his helmet onto metal-clad shoulders.

“I stand for the King,” I called out, announcing my position, whatever it might bring. He did not move, did not seem to hear me. To me, no response meant he was no Roundhead. “I’ve come to see Captain Comrie. ‘Tis a matter of life and death,” I added, hoping to be taken seriously, rather than treated like a heart-sick strumpet, which in some ways I surely was.

“I heard shots, men’s voices,” he rumbled, unconvinced.

“Take me to Captain Comrie. There is little time.”

“This way.” He sneered, advancing, still holding the pistol on me.

Kalimir took offence at his proximity and reared, neighing loudly. His hooves thundered down. We raced past the imposing soldier directly into a line of cavalry coming up the hill behind him. Kalimir circled, waiting for my command, which never came, for a tall, broad-shouldered officer in a red cloak rode up beside me.

“Lady Elena?” came a shocked voice.

He dismounted and doffed his plumed hat, exposing a familiar head of red locks.

I reached down to this mist-blurred cavalier who had Duncan’s hair and Duncan’s burr on his words. He extended a gloved hand.

“Oh, thank God,” I cried, taking his hand and sliding off Kalimir, my ruined slippers useless in the stirrups anyway.

He put a protective arm around my shoulders, flipped his cloak over me, and hugged me close to his armored side. Under other circumstances, it would have been a great liberty for him to take, but I was too pleased to have found him to object.

I responded instead with an arm around his weapon-clad waist.

“I am surprised to see you here, Lady Elena,” he said formally, aware of the gawking men around him.

“I have come to warn you. You must stop your advance immediately.”

He looked down at me, perplexed. “How did you find us?”

Expecting appreciation and interest in what I had to offer, I let out a loud, frustrated breath.

“I did what I had to do. Roundheads are massed at Bolton. It looks like Rigby’s entire force. You must go back. You must return to Tor House.”

“My lady.” A grim smile settled on his face. His arm remained around my shoulders, though he moved away slightly. “How do you know what is in Bolton?”

“The moors are generally the most direct route to Bolton, though hardly the safest. And so I came down the Sheffington Road.” Not to be treated like a child, I shrugged off his arm and his warm cloak. “At the rise above Bolton, I could see them. Hundreds upon hundreds of round helmets streaming through the streets. Should you not believe me . . . .” I pointed toward the fog hovering at the crest of the hill. “There is a Roundhead cannon transport about a mile into that fog bank, headed for Bolton. I barely avoided them.”

“How many?” The cautious expression on his face changed to eager interest.

“That I could see, one gun, maybe eight men.”

“We heard gunfire. They shot at you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not hurt?” His gaze moved down my body, then returned to the reduced bump at my temple.

“No.”

“You are very brave.” A smile deepened the dimple in his chin.

“Duncan, you must retreat.” I ignored the guarded amusement in his stance and looked him square in the face. “They may have seen or heard your men.”

“We will not retreat. The general and I have our orders,” he said rigidly.

I pulled my cloak tight around me, hands stiff and painful in the misty cold. Yes, I remembered Prince Rupert’s orders, that Duncan was to push the general to get done what needed to be done, giving Duncan essential control of the general’s command. Despite a suspicious glance at me, he was alert and excited. I did not understand it. It surprised and upset me, not so much his questions of me, but his obvious enjoyment of his precarious situation.

“Sergeant.” He turned back to an officer who had dismounted and stood at attention behind him. “Get me Cornet Price.”

Within a few minutes, the cornet strode up to us, a bright red and white cassock worn over his buff coat. Tall and raw-boned, he wore heavy gloves, a large gorget, armor that protected his neck and chest, and a trumpet slung over his shoulder on a black cord.

“Cornet, you will return to Tor House and advise Prince Rupert, in his hearing only, that we have received intelligence that Rigby is massed at Bolton and ripe for the picking. Tell him we await his orders.”

I looked at Duncan, astounded at how easily he changed his plans. No consultation with the general; no consideration of what awaited them in Bolton.

“Wait,” Duncan said, holding the cornet in place with an outstretched, commanding hand.

“Lieutenant Foster,” he then said to the intimidating cavalier who had challenged me on my approach.

The helmeted lieutenant saluted.

“Pick a dozen men of your choice. There’s a Roundhead cannon and its crew lost out in the fog. About a mile toward Bolton, the lady says. They can’t have gotten far. Take them and their gun. Quietly. Be sure none escape.”

The lieutenant moved away, gathering his men.

“You will take Lady Elena back to Tor House with you,” Duncan commanded, turning back to the cornet.

“Honored, sir,” he said in a voice too deep for his thin build. He went for his horse.

“I will not go back,” I insisted. “I cannot.” My cloak crumpled under my clenched fingers as I pulled it close under my chin and looked around, uncomfortable under the curious gazes of seasoned cavaliers. “As it is, I’m not so sure the house guard, which was behind us, did not blunder into Bolton.” The shifting mists and solid walls of fog that huddled below the hilltop left me wary and uncertain. “If they did, the Roundheads may very well come looking for all of us.”

“You were not alone?” he asked, his face frozen in concern.

“Peg was with me. She has gone on to my friend’s home in Bolton.”

“Under the nose of the Roundhead occupation,” he said flatly, and I suspected, not so sure of my loyalty.

“The house is on the outskirts of town, easy to approach overland.”

His face brightened, and he nodded. His sudden, enlightened manner intrigued me.

The cornet arrived, mounted, his gorget and trumpet strapped to his saddle, his standard passed to another cavalier.

“The lady will remain here. Deliver that message, Cornet. At your best speed.”

“Yes, sir.”