Pale Moon Rider (29 page)

“What happened? Where is he?”

“At the moment, I am afraid, he is in a dungeon.”

“What?”

“Well, an archaic old tower room, actually, but it brings to mind a dungeon. It was, I fear, the best place we could think to hide him.”

“What happened? Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.”

“Indeed, well … the, er, captain kept his rendezvous with mad’moiselle d’Anton last night, only instead of my driving her to the meeting place, I was summarily dragged off to one side and Colonel Roth—cleverly disguised in a wig and livery—took my place. There was a confrontation and shots were exchanged. The captain managed to elude capture though there were several dozen of Roth’s men waiting in ambush. He found his way to Harwood Hall and before he could shoot us, he collapsed on the bedroom floor.”

“Collapsed?”

“Did I not mention he was shot? Rather a nasty wound, too, I must say, though I am not an expert by any means. Mad’moiselle Renée was absolutely beside herself wondering what to do when young master Antoine came barging into the bedroom, frightened by the storm. He has dreadful nightmares, you know. They both do, actually, though I would hasten to suggest the young master is—”

“Tyrone,”
Dudley
interrupted. “What about Tyrone?” Finn quirked an eyebrow. “You did say to leave nothing out.”

Dudley
glared and he continued. “Yes, well, the young master was equally distraught, what with seeing all the blood and the body, but he came around quite admirably, however, and it was he who suggested the old tower room. I must confess neither Mad’moiselle Renée or myself would have thought of it. In truth, we pass by it every day, three and four times to be sure, but there is a rather sizeable tapestry hung over the entryway and one just never thinks of it being there. Indeed, if not for master Antoine’s curiosity—apparently he stumbled into the tapestry one day quite by accident and discovered the niche behind it—I doubt we would even have known there was access to it from the main house. At any rate, it seemed the perfect solution last night and by dint of the three of us exerting a considerable effort, we managed to move Mr. Tyrone into the tower room. Unfortunately, we are none of us experienced in the carrying and moving of somewhat large, insensible bodies, and I regret to say he was bleeding again, rather persistently, right up until I left. We did what we could, of course, but a doctor’s services are most urgently required, or I shouldn’t, hold much hope of him seeing out the day.”

Dudley
blew out a long breath. It had always been a possibility, of course, that one or both of them could be shot, or even killed, but it was not something one could accept like a report of the weather.

“Mad’moiselle d’Anton hoped you would be able to help. We have a somewhat pressing need of our own to be away from
Coventry
, but she refuses to leave until the captain is seen into safe hands.”

“This happened last night, you say?”

Finn drew himself upright. “I assure you, Mad’moiselle d’Anton dispatched me as soon as it was reasonably safe to do so. As I mentioned, the countryside is swarming with Volunteers. Harwood itself is under intense scrutiny and I was forced to take my leave in a
dairy
cart. I had to bribe the boy with five shillings in order to have him drive me directly to the edge of town, whereupon I walked the rest of the way, not entirely certain of the distance required or exactly which house I was seeking. Indeed, it cost me an additional two shillings to win directions from a grimy-faced urchin relieving himself in a gutter!”

Dudley
held up his hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You were right, of course, to be cautious. Where is he wounded—an arm? A leg?”

“Just about here—” Finn pointed to the spot on his ribs. “Thankfully the bullet appears to have gone cleanly through, but he
has
lost an inordinate amount of blood and will undoubtedly lose more if a doctor does not attend him at once.”

Dudley
thought fast. There was old doc Brockman, but he was too fond of his wine to be reliable. Bartholomew probably knew someone, but that would entail another delay and another outsider knowing….

“If you give me ten minutes to dress and gather up my herbs,” Maggie came quietly up behind them, “I can stitch a wound as good as any butcher you might find willing to help at this hour.”

Dudley
started to refuse the suggestion before it was even fully out, but she silenced him with a small but emphatic
thump
as she set down the stock of the huge Brown Bess she carried. Holding it by the muzzle, she placed her other hand on her hip.

“And if you’re after saying no, Robert Dudley, ’tis too dangerous, I’ll be reminding you how much I owe Mr. Tyrone and I’ll just be going along anyway with or without your say so.”

Dudley
studied the defiant little jut to her chin and nodded. “You have five minutes. That should be long enough for us to rig out the cart.” Maggie returned his nod and hurried away, and
Dudley
shook his head as he looked at Finn. “You say he’s in the old tower?”

“It is the only place neither the soldiers nor the servants venture near.”

“Good. There is an underground passage that leads from the tower to the banks of the canal; it should be easy enough to drive the cart along the river and carry him out.”

Finn was genuinely surprised. “A passage, you say?”

“Most of the old castles hereabout have them.
Coventry
was a Parliamentary town during the civil war, but there were a few Royalist sympathizers, none of whom went without a secret back door, especially if it was near a river. And then there are the smugglers and black market dealers. Tyrone has surveyed most of these canals and roadways and knows most of the popular routes and transfer points. He also knows most of the secret ways in and out of these old manor houses, especially, er …”

“When there might be a need to steal into a lady’s boudoir?” Finn’s mouth curled with distaste. “We were wondering how he managed to get inside, past the guards and patrols.”

Dudley
threw the bolt across the front door and beckoned for Finn to follow him along the foyer, down to his own quarters. There he fetched a heavy woolen coat and wide-brimmed hat, and added two more pistols along with powder and shot to his personal arsenal before leading the way again out a rear door to the stables and coach house. By the time Maggie joined them, he had hitched a horse to a small cart and saddled his own mount.

A low, sullen mass of cloud glowered overhead, rumbling like an old man’s belly and pelting them with a steady downpour as they drove out of
Coventry
. They stayed on the main road until they reached the edge of the heath, then went by smaller, less traveled roads and paths to the banks of the canal. Within the hour they were coaxing the reluctant horse and cart down the steep incline and rattling along the rocky ledge, and likely would have driven right past the hidden entrance of the passage had a familiar head not poked out of the tangled greenery guarding the approach.

It was
Dudley
’s horse who caught the scent and nickered a soft greeting to Tyrone’s huge black stallion. Ares was too well-trained to respond until he heard
Dudley
whistle a command, but then he came through the bushes at a sedate trot, blowing and rolling his eyes to express his displeasure at being abandoned for so long.

“There, old fella.”
Dudley
dismounted and ran his hands down the gleaming neck and withers, checking the animal’s legs for any signs of damage. “You thought we forgot about you, did you? Good boy. Damned good boy.” He produced an apple from his coat pocket and it disappeared in a single bite. “Just a wee bit longer then, eh? And you’ll have company this time.”

He waved to Finn, who drove the cart through the low archway of branches and found himself under an umbrella of rock twelve or so paces deep, wide enough to shelter the horses and wagon from the rain.
Dudley
helped Maggie to disembark, then all three hurried into the passageway, pausing only once to light the lantern they had brought with them.

The tunnel was long and cluttered with debris. It smelled of damp earth and bat droppings and moved upward at a gradual angle for a hundred yards or more before taking a sharp elbow turn and sloping down. All three had to walk stooped over, their pace governed by
Dudley
’s limp. No one spoke or remarked over the occasional pile of dried bones they passed, but they were all relieved when the ceiling began to rise and the pebbled floor ended at a steep set of stone block stairs.

The door at the top scraped open on rusted hinges, and after raising the lantern and throwing a circle of light around the small chamber,
Dudley
cautioned them to watch their footing. There was a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, a reminder of even earlier times when the original keep had been built as a defense against raiders from the north.
Dudley
kicked a stone over the lip of the old cistern and counted slowly to three before he heard a splash, then took Maggie by the hand and led the way to a second door set on the far side. This opened into yet another chamber, larger and circular in shape, with vaulted stone arches supporting the ceiling and an array of more recently abandoned debris including, Finn noted with some surprise, canvas sacking, crates, lanterns, and a supply of candles.

“You implied earlier that Lord Paxton deals with smugglers?”

Dudley
snorted. “He’s one of the biggest thieves in Warwickshire. How do you think he and Edgar Vincent became so friendly?”

“I confess, the association did puzzle me,” Finn muttered. “I knew him when he was much younger, of course. Thirty years ago, to be precise, and he always did keep rather unsavory company.”

Dudley
pointed to a pair of iron rings bolted to the wall with a length of chain hanging from each. “Care to speculate when they were last used?”

Maggie shivered and poked his arm. “Just go.”

The exit to this chamber was little more than a square panel of heavily strapped planking with several wrist-thick iron bars lying alongside that could be fed through corresponding fittings in the mortar to prevent it from being opened from the other side. There were scratches in the dirt, indicating it had been used recently and when they swung it outward, they emerged at the base of the tower, in a dark well at the bottom of a circular stone staircase. The other side of the panel had been built to resemble a prayer nave, a place where the chatelaine of the castle might have come to receive evening benediction. Beneath it was a shelf that held more candles, tapers, and an old iron key long ago rusted into the wood. Clearly winded from his exertions thus far, Finn managed to regain some spark when he realized where they stood.

“There,” he exclaimed in mild amazement, pointing to a narrow arched door facing the bottom of the stairs. “That leads into the main house. That is the door master Antoine found when he leaned against the tapestry. We carried Mr. Tyrone in this way.”

With
Dudley
’s permission, he led them up the last flight of steep, winding steps. At the top he tapped twice, softly, on the door, and a moment later heard the shuffle of footsteps on the other side. When it opened, he flinched back, splashing his fingers with the hot wax.

Renée was standing less than five feet away, her body lit from the side by lantern light. Her arms were held straight out in front. Her hands, trembling visibly with the unaccustomed weight, were clutched around one of Tyrone Hart’s primed and loaded flintlocks.

“Mon dieu!”
Renée lowered the heavy gun. “I could have shot you.”

Dudley
pushed his way through the door and went straight to the pallet where Tyrone was lying. Maggie nodded briefly at Renée as she passed and while she was removing her cloak and mittens, Robbie lowered himself awkwardly onto one knee.

Tyrone might well have been mistaken for dead already if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets. His complexion, normally a robust, weathered bronze, had taken on the yellowish cast of old wax. His skin was clammy, wet to the touch, and when Robbie peeled back the blankets, the wad of linen over his ribs was an ominous red.

Behind them, Renée touched Finn’s arm. “We thought you would never come back. We thought—”

“It is raining like the very devil out there,” Finn explained, “and the roads are becoming quite treacherous. Surely you have not been up here all this time?”

“Antoine and I”—she turned to acknowledge her brother, who was standing in the shadows against the far wall—“have been taking turns sitting with M’sieur Hart I went back to my room and waited for Jenny to come with my morning chocolate, and when she did, I told her I was not feeling well and would likely remain abed all day.”

“She noticed nothing amiss?”

Renée shook her head. “I cleaned everything as best I could and put a rug over the stain on the floor. I did not know what to do with his clothes and the soiled towels, so Antoine brought them here.”

Finn’s gaze skimmed past the bundled rags in the corner. “Indeed, you seem to have been busy since I left.”