Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (17 page)

She had a vague recollection of a woman appearing beside the
bed, with a glass of warm milk and a sandwich of cold roast beef. And
there had been something to do with Little Patches. She sat up, holding
her head which ached dully and seemed vexingly wooden…

A touch aroused her. The buxom woman was again beside her, a
kind smile upon her broad, rosy-cheeked face. "Come along, poor
creature," she said in that soft country accent. "Sad it is to see ye
still so sick and wan. Your genelmens has paid me handsome to care for
ye, and so I will. Only look, ma'am, I do have bringed your little
friend.'' She held up Little Patches, and the kitten struggled free and
leapt onto the bed to butt and purr and generally greet a familiar
human.

Charity stroked her and fought to speak. It was a tremendous
task. She said indistinctly, "You must… help. I—I am pris'ner.
Please—help—"

"There, there, poor soul." The woman stroked her hair gently.
''Such a sweet face. What a pity. What a pity. Come, me dearie, and let
Polly just wash you a little bit."

So Charity was washed and dressed. She lowered her head
obediently when asked to do so, and a hairbrush was applied to her
thick hair with brisk strokes. She was sitting at a table beside the
window, drinking tea and eating some toast and strawberry jam. The
woman was talking about Little patches and how the kitten had gobbled
up the leftover fish last night. "Oh, but she's a saucy little sprat of
a cat. Polly would like to keep her, yes, she would, surely."

And there was something she must say. Something very
important… "Polly… brother will—come. Justin… tell him… tell him…"

"Yes, for sure I will, my dearie dear. Only he do be
downstairs, this very minute. Waiting for ye. And so grieving and sad
he scarce can speak, poor soul. And no wonder.'' A cloak was draped
about Charity. Someone was holding her arm. It was Clem—not Justin. And
Jean-Paul was arguing with the kind-hearted Polly.

"No, but it
do
be her cat, sir. I beg ye
will not take it from the poor lass, so fond of it as she is. I'll have
the boy put a box and earth in your carriage… no trouble…"

They were in a cold, fresh dawn. The great black coach waited
like the chariot of death.

Throwing off her strange lethargy, Charity tore from Clem's
grasp and ran back to Polly, who watched, wringing her apron in
distress.

"Help—help!" she cried frantically. "Do not let them… take…"

Jean-Paul said in a soothing voice, "No, no, dear Mary. We
shall not take your little friend. You shall keep the cat." His arm
slipped about Charity's shoulders, his fingers gripping cruelly even as
he said a loving, "Dear lady, your poor brother waits to care for you."
He turned her, shaking his head helplessly at Polly as Charity screamed
shrilly. And under his breath, he grated, "Into the coach you go,
madame. And—
vite
!"

She was inside the coach again, her shoulder feeling bruised
and sore and her head spinning so. She leaned back against the squabs.
Far, far off, she heard Clem grumbling, "… should have thrown the
dratted creature at the fat mort! A rare sauce she's got, saddling us
with one of her unwanted mogs!"

"Situation is," explained Jean-Paul patiently, "that the fat
one has now a kind heart for us. Not a suspicious heart. This rough
ground we travel must be got over as light as may be. Besides, this is
a cat of many colours. I find it pleasing."

"You would," grunted Clem, disgusted.

Charity fell asleep.

It seemed that she dwelt in a strange void, midway between
sleep and waking, in which she was aware of what took place around her,
but only in a remote fashion. A portion of her mind told her that she
was drugged, but she supposed they must not have dared give her too
strong a dose, so that instead of being completely unconscious, she
drifted in this trance-like state. The journey went on interminably,
but the carriage was no longer stuffy, because the screens had been
rolled up. She knew when, at some time in the later afternoon, the
outriders left them, and she realized this would confuse the men who
followed, for no longer was the coach escorted, nor did it appear to
contain only one passenger. The men who guarded her were less
antagonistic. Jean-Paul amused himself in playing with Little Patches,
and even Clem chuckled occasionally and joined in entertaining the
little animal.

Quite suddenly, Charity was in a bedchamber, a chambermaid
caring for her. A tray was brought to her, but she was not hungry and
could only eat a few mouthfuls despite the maid's urging. She tried to
talk to the girl, but was unable to form the words, and when she tried
to write, her eyes refused to focus and the pen wavered erratically
over the page.

She was back in the coach again, and the wheels went on and on
until they spun her into sleep. This time, for what seemed an eternity…

She awoke to find the carriage rocking so violently that it
seemed they must overturn. Her head ached, and her mouth was dry as
dust, but she could see clearly, and her mind seemed less clouded. She
was bathed in a scarlet glow, which was peculiar because it could not
be sunset again—unless she had slept all night and throughout the
following day. They must have made a bed for her on one of the seats,
for she lay full-length. The blanket thrown over her was warm, but it
smelled musty, and the wool was rough, scratching against her chin.
There was a familiar scent in her nostrils; a frightening scent. She
threw back the blanket, sat up, and yelped as she struck her head on
the roof. Only it was not the roof. And she was no longer in the
carriage.

Fear spurring her, she stood and ran to the window. A round
window. And her bed was a bunk, with another over it, from which a tiny
arm stretched out while a pink mouth voiced a scratchy greeting.

Charity stood on tiptoe and looked out the porthole. A grey
tumbling sea stretched away to the dim horizon. Even as she watched,
the vessel rolled into a deep trough and the waves loomed up until they
blotted out the crimson sky.

Despair overcame her. She sank down the wooden side until she
knelt huddled on the floor. The carriage must have turned about while
she slept. She was on her way to Brittany after all. And once she was
in that terrible chateau she was doomed. If Tristram or Justin or Dev
should come, it would be to their deaths, for Claude would be ready and
waiting.

There was no hope now. No hope at all. She bowed her head into
her hands and wept.

"I'm getting old, Redmond," said Diccon gloomily, watching
diLoretto, who stood in the rainy yard, haggling with the ostler of the
Jolly Tar tavern. "Why did I not think of Ireland? God knows it's
logical enough. It should have been one of the first places I'd guess,
yet it never so much as occurred to me."

Mitchell rested his shoulders against the wall of the inn and
finished the ale in his tankard. They had been in the saddle since
dawn, most of that time spent in a misting drizzle. They'd traversed
Oxfordshire, progressing damply through the beauties of the Cotswolds,
and now faced a chill and rainy afternoon with many miles still before
them. Diccon had hoped to be in the Black Country by now, but for
reasons best known to himself, he had twice detoured, first far to the
east, and then doubling back southwards again, before continuing to
this quiet inn near Stratford-on-Avon.

"You still don't know it's Ireland," Mitchell pointed out.
"All Tonio discovered was that Sanguinet's people have been spotted on
the docks at Birkenhead. Which could mean anything." He glanced at the
intelligence officer curiously. "How was he able to find out that much,
by the by?"

He half expected a polite evasion. Diccon surprised him. "One
of my most promising men is a young gypsy. Lucian St. Clair sent him to
me, and he's proved to be invaluable. His people know more of what
transpires on moonlit nights on unfrequented byways and secluded coves
than our fellows at Bow Street will ever know. And as you've already
seen, they provide me with an efficient network of eyes, ears, and
sometimes help. I'd seen Daniel, my gypsy, on my interrupted search in
Essex. Dan was on the trail of one of Claude's lieutenants. A man whose
very presence in England indicates that Claude is almost ready. Daniel
was sure he would have news for me very soon, so before you and I left
Sussex, I sent Tonio to seek him out and report to me at Abingdon. You,
ah, may have noticed he was missing."

"Damned rogue! I had to pack my own saddlebags. But how did he
know where to find this Daniel?"

"There's an ancient church in Little Snoring at the edge of
the Ashdown Forest. It has a leper's window that was, I believe, put to
much use during the Jacobite Rebellion. It has been used by the Folk
for many years, and a note left in that window reaches Daniel in jig
time."

''I see. You've lots of tricks up your sleeve. And Tonio?''

"Has been indebted to me for some time. I arranged for your
meeting with him, knowing you harboured a grudge against the Sanguinets
and that sooner or later you'd come to grips with them. Had you stirred
up anything interesting, Tonio would have reported it to me at once."

After a pause, Mitchell asked, "And you believe Claude will
make his move this year?"

"This
year
? Good God, Redmond! Mine has
not been a life free from hazard. I've several old wounds that make
riding unpleasant in rainy weather, and I haul a lead ball in my back
that can be deuced annoying in the face of sustained travel. Do you
think I'd essay this mad dash had we a half-year to spare?"

"Considering I number one-third of your army," said Mitchell
with dry sarcasm, "I've not been kept well informed, to put it mildly!"

Diccon glanced at him, a sudden twinkle in his eyes. "Very
well, General. I think our Claude means to strike within the month."

"My God!" Mitchell pushed his shoulders from the wall and
regarded his companion in horror.

Diccon nodded. "You carry identification papers, I presume?
Letters, calling cards, that sort of thing?"

"Yes. Of course. Why?"

"Get rid of 'em. Anything that might identify you."

Staring at him, Mitchell said slowly, "You think they're after
us?"

"Sanguinet has eyes everywhere. I changed my appearance, but…"
Diccon paused and went on with obvious reluctance, "If anything should
chance to go awry, I carry a small notebook in a special inner pocket
under my left arm. It contains much of what I already know, and a good
deal that I suspect. If I should be downed, that book
must
reach Smollet, or failing him—Wellington." He looked up, met two steady
grey eyes, and said, "It is quite vital, or I would not ask you."

"I'm very sure of
 that
," said
Mitchell, rather ruefully.

Almost, Diccon smiled. "I may rely on you, then?"

"I'll do my damnedest," said Mitchell Redmond.

The rain continued. In late afternoon they caught a blurred
glimpse of the seven-hundred-year-old might of Kenilworth Castle, then
swung west, keeping to the wooded country and avoiding the plateau
where perched old Birmingham, once so famous for its fine swordsmiths
and cutlers and now wreathed in smoke and grime and frenetic with the
hurry and bustle that machines had brought. Heading north again through
the Black Country, Mitchell was so tight-lipped and silent that
diLoretto enquired anxiously if his back was troubling him again. But
it was the desecration of these once lovely heaths and moors that
troubled him, and he answered rather savagely that there were worse
things in life than a clean knife cut.

Soon, drifting mists combined with gathering darkness to make
further travel impossible. They stopped at a cosy wayside inn and
bespoke two rooms. An excellent supper, topped off by a board of
Cheshire's famous cheeses sent Mitchell up to bed so drowsy that he
fell asleep on top of the eiderdown. DiLoretto pulled off his boots and
threw a blanket over him, and he did not stir until Diccon shook him
awake in a gloomy dawn, and they were off again.

Wolverhampton was smoky and depressing, and although Mitchell
was impressed by Abraham Darby's magnificent iron bridge across the
River Severn that had dazzled England almost four decades ago, he was
very glad when they left the Black Country and came again to clean
streams and pure green fields.

In late afternoon the sun came out to illumine Shropshire's
emerald hills and they rode past farms nestling gently in their rich
valleys; past chuckling rivers and quiet pools, making good progress
until the mists came up again, impeding both the view and their speed.
They had to pick their way through the shrouded beauties of Cheshire,
past heaths and desolate moorlands where hills loomed unexpectedly, and
they would come without warning upon ancient towns and hamlets enriched
by their wealth of black and white half-timbered houses.

They left the mist behind and at sunset were approaching the
fine old walled city of Chester, nestled in the bend of the River Dee.
Here they encountered happy crowds and chaos, for it was time for the
annual race meeting down on the Roodee, a level tract of land along the
river, where all Cheshire, Staffordshire, and Shropshire seemed bound
to come together to attend the races. The roads were clogged by a
merry, jostling throng, who had bespoken the last bed and bench at
every inn, tavern, and posting house for miles around. Even diLoretto
could find no heart to sing after a long search confirmed there was not
a room to be had. They were able to get some food and to find fresh
mounts, and then reluctantly pressed on.

It was past ten o'clock when the horses slowed. Mitchell,
bowed forward half asleep over the pommel, straightened, yawned, and
glanced at Diccon. The tall man was turning back to peer along the lane
they travelled, and there was that in his attitude that instantly
brought Mitchell to full awareness. "What's to do?" he asked.