Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown

Spring, 1817

The May morning was bright and pleasantly warm. Tiny daisies
starred the lush turf of the Sussex hillside, and chestnut trees, pink
and white and red, were glorious in their new gowns. At the top of the
hill the leaves of the cluster of birches were stirred by a gentle
breeze, and on the level ground below, sunlight awoke a glitter of
diamonds on the ripples of a stream and glinted no less brightly along
three steel blades that rang and darted in deadly combat. An uneven
combat this, for two men, broad of shoulder, long of arm, and having
the grim look of merchants in death, battled a single adversary: a
tall, lean young gentleman whose every movement proclaimed the athlete,
and whose appearance branded him unmistakably as a member of that
exclusive set known as Corinthians. He was clad with quiet elegance in
buckskins and fine linen. His boots were mirror-bright, and his
bottle-green riding coat a masterpiece of tailoring. He wore no hat,
and dark hair, wet now with sweat, curled against a high, intelligent
brow. In spite of his hazardous situation there was no fear in the
long, pewter-grey eyes. Rather, they danced with exhilaration, and he
mocked and taunted his opponents as he parried and thrust, his footwork
as skilled as the slender but strong hand that so deftly manipulated
his small-sword. Of the men facing him, one was very tall and wiry,
with a narrow face, small cruel eyes, and a vindictive mouth. The
other, heavy-featured and having an untidy mop of black hair, now
attacked with the outside thrust under the wrist known as
seconde
.
It was a well-executed manoeuvre, but the Corinthian countered as
swiftly, and in a brilliant prime parade his sword beat down with
devastating power, ringing loudly against his opponent's blade and
smashing the weapon from his grip.

The black-haired man leapt out of distance, clutching his
numbed wrist. "Almost I had you, Redmond!" he cried, chagrined. "Damn
your eyes, I
almost
had you!"

Mitchell Redmond spun, lightning-fast, to deflect the wiry
man's lunge, but it was very close, the steel whispering through his
jacket. These two knew their trade, and he said, circling his own sword
warily,''So you know my name. And someone has paid highly for your
services, I think. Who wants me dead, my bullies?"

Frustrated because his blade had not struck home, the wiry
individual snarled, "How many enemies have you got, eh?" He thrust even
as he spoke, Redmond parried, and the swords rang together and locked.
The two men strained, eye to eye, foible to foible, and the assailant
went on, "How many coves have you gone and… cuckolded, fine gent that
you is? How much blood you… spilled, in all them duels of yours?"

Redmond was aware that off to the side the other ruffian was
reclaiming his weapon. With an expert twist, he broke free. "And you
think to even the score for them?" He laughed mockingly. "I'd not be
spending your blood money before it's won, were I you."

"Wouldn't you, now?" The black-haired man rejoined the attack,
coming in from the side, since Redmond was managing to keep a tree
trunk at his back. The battle escalated in intensity, the swords
flashing and ringing, the hired assassins grim and murderously
resolved, Redmond alert and very fast, and still exhilarated by this
fight. They were good. Both of them were good. But he was better. His
main concern was not to allow either of them to get behind him. And so
he parried and riposted, his blade a whirling glitter, his movements
swift, graceful, and untiring as he defended himself and managed
occasionally to snatch the offensive. Overconfident, the black-haired
man thrust in
tierce
. The blade that should have
spitted Redmond's heart was beaten aside. In a silver blur Redmond's
sword came at him. The man dodged, too late, then reeled back to lean
weakly against a tree, one hand pressed to his side, the fingers at
once stained with crimson.

The disengage, however, left Redmond vulnerable for a split
second. He had to resort to a desperate leap to avoid the wiry man's
immediate attack. Inevitably, he lost the protection of the tree, but
it did not matter because with one rogue disabled the fight would be
fair now, and it shouldn't take more than another minute or two to end
it.

He parried a thrust in
carte
, but as he
essayed the
riposte
, he sensed that someone was
close behind him. His reaction was so fast that his lithe sway almost
averted the dagger at his back. He was hampered, however, by the need
to counter the sword that menaced him, and the dagger struck home
glancingly. Redmond gasped, and staggered, and the third attacker, who
had left the horses to join his hard-pressed comrades, uttered a howl
of triumph. His wiry friend lowered his blade, grinning broadly.
Redmond recovered himself and whirled about, his drooping sword
whipping upward. The joyous howl of the back-stabber became a scream.
He grabbed at his slashed face and fled.

Belatedly, the wiry man leapt again to the attack. He found
that, far from dying, Redmond seemed cast of quicksilver. The
aristocratic features were pale now, the laughter quite gone from the
narrowed grey eyes. Redmond mounted a savage attack and, released of
the need to remain in the one location, was agile as a cat so that
where the assassin's blade was, he was not. Driven back and back by
this grim ferocity, the wiry man knew fear at last. "Will!" He cast a
frantic glance to his sagging friend. "Don't just mess about there!
Help me, for Christ's sake! Redmond's a madman!"

Redmond's laugh was harsh and without humour. His right foot
stamped forward, his knee bent gracefully, and his blade thrust in
carte
to the full length of the powerful arm behind it. The wiry man
shrieked, swayed, and went down, a spreading bloodstain brightening his
shirt front.

"Will" swore, pushed himself from the tree trunk, and
staggered away.

With reddened sword leveled, Redmond advanced, his smile
striking terror into the heart of the wounded man who lay, propped on
one elbow, helplessly watching.

"Now," Redmond murmured, "you've a free choice, carrion. You
can die, or you can tell me the name of the man who sent you."

Charity Strand's slight shoulders rose and fell in a deep
sigh. Remarking this, her attendant groom shifted in the saddle and
eyed her profile with a trace of anxiety. Mr. Best had served the
Strands for most of his life, working his way up from bootblack to head
groom, and his affection was as deep as his loyalty. He decided that
Miss Charity's face, framed by the simple straw bonnet, was still much
too thin. Her sister Rachel had persuaded her to have her hair cut
short, so that the thick sandy braids no longer wound about the
beautifully shaped head. Best wasn't sure that he approved of such
newfangled notions, but it was true enough that the fluffy curls lent a
softer look to Miss Charity's delicate features. Even so, the fine
eyes, somewhere between green and grey, appeared too large for her
face, and the clear skin seemed almost stretched over the high
cheekbones. Charity Strand had come a long way since her horse had
fallen with her five years ago. For three of those years she had been
trapped in a wheelchair, and although she had at last escaped that
painful existence, she was far from being sturdy.

To Best's way of thinking, she would have done well to accept
her brother's offer and make her permanent home at Silverings.
Certainly, she knew that Mr. Justin and his lovely wife, Lisette, would
have been nothing but pleased, for they both loved her dearly. The same
could be said of Miss Rachel (though she wasn't a Miss any more, but
was now
Mrs
. Tristram Leith). And not one could
ask for a kinder young gent than Colonel Leith, even if he
had
been as good as cashiered after Waterloo! No, the problem was that
little Miss Charity didn't seem to know where she belonged, poor lass.
Forever drifting about from the old family home at Strand Hall, to
Silverings, her brother's beautiful estate; or to Berkshire, where her
sister and the Colonel spent most of the year. One would think as she
be a old spinster lady, instead of barely two and twenty, and getting
stronger and comelier every day now, bless her heart!

The object of these musings continued to look rather wistfully
to the south, her eyes following the distant gleam of the river that
wound for better than twenty miles to where Silverings spread
graciously upon its banks. Justin and Lisette were away, of course, and
the great house closed. It was because they were in Town, and she had
preferred to remain in the country, that Rachel and Tristram had come
down to be with her. And it was because Justin understood her fondness
for their old family home that Strand Hall had been reopened for the
month he would be away. They all had grown up at the Hall, Justin,
Rachel, and Charity, but she was the only one who really loved the old
house, and she yearned to make it her permanent abode. There was little
chance she would ever marry, for she was neither pretty nor
accomplished, and she had already planted a hint in her brother's mind
that she planned to engage a chaperone and occupy Strand Hall
year-round. She stifled another sigh. Her hint had not been well
received. Justin, his blue eyes glinting, had said impatiently, "Oh, by
all means, m'dear. I think it a splendid scheme. When you reach forty."

Best saw that second sigh, and he scowled. What was she
thinking on, staring like that? Silverings lay that way. Was she
remembering last year, when Mr. Justin had come so close to slipping
his wind down there? Or were her thoughts drifting even farther away—to
France and Brittany, and the terrors she had lived through at the hands
of Claude Sanguinet? A rare lot of violence this slip of a girl had
known in her brief lifetime. It wasn't good for her to brood on that
Frenchy's wickedness! Wherefore, faithful soul that he was, Best
coughed politely and observed that it was a "nice view from here. Will
I be getting ye settled like, miss?

Charity tilted her head a little and agreed that the view was
lovely. ''But I think it will be better from the top, you know.''

Best had thought the same, but as he'd intended, his remark
had broken her reverie, and she urged her mount up the hill once more.
Satisfied, the groom slapped the reins against his horse's neck. Nosey
started off with uncharacteristic reluctance. Come to think on it, the
old fool had been acting a mite odd since they'd started up here. Dang
it all! He should've noticed! Best called to Miss Strand and dismounted
hurriedly. It took but a moment to determine that the chestnut gelding
had picked up a stone in his hoof, and another moment to dislodge it,
but Nosey, irreverently named after the Duke of Wellington, still
favoured the leg.

"Oh, dear," said Charity, "he does not go on very well, Best.
Do you suppose he has taken a stone bruise?"

Furious with himself, the groom nodded. "I fear he has, marm.
The more fool I, for not noticing. Cut his hock as well—see here."

"Poor fellow. You must take him home at once."

Best replaced the little knife he always carried, and eyed the
girl uneasily. "I do be that sorry, Miss Charity. And this the first
nice day we've had in a week and more. But I reckon as how we better
get back, else I'll have Colonel Leith a-jumpin' down me throat." He
grinned at this mild aspersion on the character of a man for whom he
had the deepest admiration, and took back the reins Charity held for
him. "I'll walk him, miss."

"Yes, do. And when you come back—"

Dismayed, he exclaimed, "Marm? Ye never mean to stay out here
all alone?"

"No, pray do not look so aghast," she said, with a little
trill of laughter. ''We are less than two miles from home and this is
Sussex, Best, not London."

"Aye, marm. And there be those across the water"—forgetting
his earlier anxieties, he jerked his head in the direction of
France—"as would hit out at the Colonel howsoever they might. And you
being his lady's sister, they might just vent their spite on you!"

The fear that never failed to grip Charity when she thought of
those terrible days in Brittany wrapped chilling fingers around her
heart. She took a steadying breath. "It is almost two years now," she
pointed out quietly. "I will not walk in terror of Monsieur S-Sanguinet
forever.'' And knowing she had stumbled over speaking that dread name,
she met Best's troubled eyes levelly and stretched forth an imperative
hand. "My sketchbook, if you please."

The groom stared miserably at that frail little hand. "Mr.
Justin would have my ears was I to leave you here alone, miss, as well
you know."

"My brother," she argued with a faint smile, "would be the
last one to have me creep about, trembling at every shadow for the rest
of my days." And knowing that this good man's balking was prompted by
love for her, she teased, "I know you mean well, but poor Nosey looks
most uncomfortable. And, my faithful friend, can you really suppose
anything evil could transpire in our gentle Sussex—especially on so
beautiful a morning?" Seeing him frown uncertainly, she hastened to
urge, "Come—it may start to rain again tomorrow, and I have promised
Miss Rachel a painting of the Hall that she may take with her when they
go back to Cloudhills."

Reluctantly, Best detached a flat and rather battered leather
case from his saddle and handed it up to her. "You'll not wander off,
miss?"

She promised to go no farther than the brow of the hill. "So
be off with you. You can walk poor Nosey home at your ease, and by the
time you come back I shall have a splendid painting for you to admire."

Her eyes twinkled merrily at him. And after all, what she'd
said was quite true. The Frenchy had frightened Miss Charity and her
sister half out of their wits, done his best to murder Colonel Leith,
and pretty near crippled poor Mr. Devenish, but that had been in
France—which everyone and his brother knew was a place fit only for
snails and serpents! Best looked around at peaceful fields, drowsing
woods, and the musical hurrying of the stream. England. Not even that
ogre, Bonaparte, had managed to invade this dear old isle; what chance
had a fumble-foot like Claude Sanguinet?