The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (13 page)

Joshua did.
 
The implement in his hand had a small lever which caused the needle to retract.
 
If the interfering young jackanapes in front of him insisted on examining it, his career on the bench would be finished – along with his reputation.

He said slowly, ‘I don’t see as this is any affair of yours.
 
But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have the woman returned to gaol till a fresh trial can be arranged.’

Eden hesitated.
 
He knew he was over-stepping his authority but he suddenly realised that he’d seen more blood, hatred and obscene violence in the last week than he could tolerate.
 
And he was fairly sure that any trial the so-called witch received at the hands of this man would result in her being sent to either the gallows or the stake.
 
Consequently, he decided to push his luck and hope that – if trouble came of it – Lambert would back him up.

‘It’s an idea,’ he acknowledged smoothly. ‘But then, so is showing me your witch-probe.
 
On the other hand, it might be best if the accused were released into the custody of the Army while further investigations are made.’ He paused and then, hiding the lie beneath a bland smile, ‘It’s matter in which certain of my superiors take great personal interest, you understand.’

Joshua wasn’t sure he believed this but, since saying so was likely to result in him being forced to exhibit the probe, he had no choice but to remain silent.
 
Quelling a desire to wipe out the inconvenient young officer’s smug smile with the back of his hand, he shrugged and said, ‘You’d better take her, then.
 
But the good people of Worcester have a right to see justice done.’

‘My point exactly,’ murmured Eden.
 
And turning, ordered his troopers to take charge of the accused.

Fortunately, they were all survivors of Upton and, though puzzled by his behaviour and uneasy about its possible outcome, they obeyed without question.
 

Half-relieved at the unexpected reprieve and half-frightened that the nightmare was going to begin all over again, Deborah found herself surrounded by a clutch of burly, wooden-faced individuals who – though they made no attempt to man-handle her – looked far from reassuring.
 
Meanwhile, the whispers which had been rustling along the public benches turned into a low rumble of anger.

Ignoring it, Eden nodded to Sergeant Trotter to take the woman out. There was an out-burst of cat-calls and spitting but none of the onlookers were quite brave enough to get in the way of the Army.
 
Eden waited until he was sure there would be no trouble.
 
Then, according the magistrate the briefest of bows and raising his voice a little, he said, ‘Your forbearance does you credit, Mr Vincent.
 
I shall see that it’s not forgotten.’
 
Upon which Parthian shot, he stalked off in the wake of his men.

Outside in the street, Sergeant Trotter was marching Deborah Hart smartly in the direction of the Commandery and wondering what he was supposed to do with her when he got there.

Catching up with him, Eden said ruefully, ‘I know, Rob – I know.
 
But what else could I do?’

‘That’s as maybe, sir,’ came the reproving reply. ‘But what’s to become of her now?
 
We can’t cope with no more prisoners – and if you send her home, her neighbours’ll string her up quicker’n you can wink.’

This was something Eden had not considered.
 
Looking at the dirty, dishevelled creature he’d rescued purely as a matter of principle, he said, ‘Is that true?’

Deborah pushed back her hair with shaking hands and stammered, ‘Probably. And if they d-don’t, the magistrate will come for me again fast enough.’
 
Then, drawing a long, painful breath, ‘I don’t understand.
 
Why did you take me out of there?
 
Am I not to be t-tried again?’

Frowning absently, Eden shook his head.

‘Not if I can help it.
 
Have you relatives you can go to?’

‘No.
 
My husband’s dead and I – I’ve no one else,’ she replied faintly. And, overcome with the vicissitudes of the last weeks, crumpled quietly away on to the cobbles.

*
 
*
 
*

While, for want of a better solution, Eden concealed Mistress Hart amidst the usual assortment of wives, mistresses and whores, Verity Marriott learned that a severely wounded officer answering Captain Austin’s description had been moved, along with a number of other similarly unhopeful cases, to the cellar of the Commandery.

On the following morning, sick with fright, she followed a guard down the steps into the malodourous gloom where a dozen or so men lay struggling to retain their frail hold on life.
 
And there amongst them, on a lumpy pallet in the corner, she found Nicholas … his face sunken, his skin grey and his breathing scarcely perceptible beneath the thin blanket which covered him – yet still miraculously alive.
 
Verity’s nerves snarled and she froze.

Bored and eager to return to his dice-game, the guard said, ‘Well?’

She swallowed hard and nodded.

‘Yes.
 
It – it’s my brother.
 
Does no one … is no one looking after him?’

The guard shrugged and, twitching back the blanket, said, ‘The surgeon’s already done everything he could.’

Unprepared for the mass of bandages wound awkwardly around the place where Nicholas’s left arm should have been, she made a small choking sound. She knelt in the dirty straw at his and said softly, ‘Nicholas?
 
Nick?
 
It – it’s Verity.’

‘You’re wasting your time,’ said the guard impatiently.
 
And he tramped away.

Verity absorbed the matted brown hair, the colourless tightly-stretched skin and the empty unfocussed stare.
 
And that was when the truth hit her.
 
He was dying – but not of his wound, nor even of fever or infection.
 
He was dying from lack of will to do otherwise.

Fright and misery transmuted themselves into anger.
 
She didn’t know if he was already past saving.
 
She only knew that she had to do something.
 
So she gritted her teeth, gave him a violent shake and said raggedly, ‘Wake up.
 
You’re
not
going to die – do you hear me?
 
You are not going to die!
’
 
And was about to shake him again when, from the top of the stairs came footsteps and a new, extremely disapproving voice.

‘This place stinks like a bloody midden.
 
When did you last empty the slop pails, you idle bugger?’

‘Yesterday morning, Sarge.’

‘That’s Sergeant Trotter to you, lad.
 
And I suppose you’ve been too busy with your dice-box to do it since then, have you?’

‘I’m here on guard-duty, Sergeant.
 
I ain’t a flaming cleaner.’

‘You’re here to do as you’re told.
 
So move your arse and start getting this place fit to be seen. Colonel Maxwell’s on his way to see if you’ve got anybody fit to send south.
 
And if he finds the buckets full to the brim and puke all over the floor, I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes - so get a move on!’

The footsteps receded and a door slammed.
 
Verity whispered rapidly, ‘Did you hear?
 
Colonel Maxwell’s coming.
 
He’s the one they say saved that woman charged with witchcraft.
 
And if he’d put himself out for her, he might do as much for you.’
 
She shook Nicholas again.
 
‘Are you listening?
 
He might be able to get you out of here.
 
But not …
not
if you won’t wake up!’ And finally, in desperation, she slapped his face.

It was nearly an hour before she met the Colonel who was her only hope and, by then, she’d managed to rouse Nicholas sufficiently to take a few sips of water but not enough to speak.
 
Consequently, she had no idea whether he understood anything she’d been saying or not.

Colonel Maxwell, who was younger than she’d expected, frowned at her and said, ‘This is no place for you.
 
Go home.’

She stood up and pushed back her hair.
 
‘Please.
 
Help us.’

‘To do what?’ asked Eden automatically.
 
But he already knew … just as, looking down at the fellow on the pallet, he knew that it was probably hopeless.
 
As gently as he could, he said, ‘I’m sorry … but moving him now would almost certainly kill --’

‘It won’t!
 
He hasn’t died yet and he won’t die now.
 
Just help me get him out of this evil place.’
 
She spread pleading hands.
 
‘If he was your brother or your friend, would you leave him here?
 
Would
you?’

‘No.
 
I wouldn’t.
 
But where do you want to take him?
 
Back to your home?’

‘I can’t.
 
My step-father would throw him into the street – and me with him.’
 
She hesitated and then, tried a different tack. ‘You met him yesterday at the courthouse.
 
He’s Magistrate Vincent.’

Eden’s eyes widened slightly and he gave a short laugh. Then he stared down at Nicholas.
 
He still thought the case was hopeless … but he had taken a strong dislike to Joshua Vincent and the conditions in the room around him were a disgrace.
 
Finally and with reluctance, he said, ‘Very well.
 
I’ll have him moved – though God knows where to.
 
And I have nobody who can undertake the task of nursing him.
 
So --’

‘I’ll do it.’
 
Verity interrupted him without giving a second thought to what she was promising.
 
‘I’ll look after him.’

Eden wondered what on earth he was going to do with a dying man and a child and recognised that he should simply say no – just as yesterday he should have stayed out of the business of Deborah Hart.
 
Faint ironic humour stirred and he murmured, ‘I must be completely out of my mind. As for what Sergeant Trotter is going to say … I hate to think.’

*
 
*
 
*

Much to Eden’s surprise, Nicholas Austin did not die.
 
He made the journey from Worcester to London strapped to a pallet in one of the baggage wagons, nursed single-handedly by Verity until Sergeant Trotter – who didn’t believe in witchcraft but reckoned there was no smoke without fire – enlisted the aid of Mistress Hart.
 

Whatever took place during the next two days was something – judging from the expression on his sergeant’s face – that Eden preferred not to know about.
 
But at the end of them, Deborah appeared outside his billet one evening and said, ‘The young man is better, I think – and the girl has had some rest.
 
She’s not his sister, by the way.’

‘Not?’

‘No. Her name is Marriott, his is Austin. And she thinks she’s in love with him.’

‘Oh my God,’ groaned Eden.
 
‘She’s just a child!
 
And I suppose she also thinks it’s mutual?’

‘I hope not. As far as I can make out, she’d only met him twice before you turned up.’

Eden closed his eyes and swore.

‘Wonderful!
 
What the hell am I supposed to do with her?’

‘More to the point, what are you going to do with
him?
 
Put him in prison?’

‘I should.
 
And in the end, I may not have any choice.’

‘Well, at least you’ve saved his life.
 
And mine.’
 
She drew a slightly unsteady breath. ‘I don’t know how to thank you for that.’

‘By continuing to look after the children,’ returned Eden briskly. ‘And when young Austin is fit to hold a conversation, let me know.’

*
 
*
 
*

By the time they reached the outskirts of London and made camp on Hounslow Heath, Nicholas was able to sit up and even feed himself.
 
He had not, however, become any more communicative and only ever spoke in response to direct questions.
 
Informing Colonel Maxwell of this, Deborah added, ‘He’s still in pain but that isn’t the real problem.
 
He’s depressed and shocked over the loss of his arm and I suspect he thinks this journey will end in the Tower.
 
So the only future he sees is one he doesn’t want.’

‘And the girl?’

‘She’s starting to realise that saving a life isn’t always for the best … and it frightens her.’
 
Deborah looked into the hazel eyes, careful to disguise what she was beginning to feel for him.
 
Then, with a faint smile, ‘If you’ve any comfort to offer, now might be a good time.’