Beloved Enemy (54 page)

Ginny
felt the cold fear creep up her back. Alex would not be expecting to walk into
an ambush fueled with the heat of personal vendetta. He would ride as always at
the head of his troops, calm and relaxed, the reins held loosely in one hand.
True, he would have breastplate and gorget as protection, sword at his hip, an
armed troop at his back, but he would be expecting to fight fair, if he had to
fight at all. He would not be on the lookout for snipers with but one target
who knew he was coming although he knew nothing of them. In her anxiety to save
Edmund's life, she had jeopardized Alex's.

"To
remove Parliament's general once and for all would be a brave stroke for the
king," Edmund said slowly. "More far reaching in its effect than
disposing of an entire troop. And I too have a score to settle with General
Marshall."

"No,
Edmund," Ginny whispered, her hand at her throat. "You have no
quarrel with the man who spared your life once and did not then take advantage
of information I gave him to pursue you." But the words were whispered to
herself because, to articulate them clearly, she would have to reveal the truth
to this company, and that truth would not alter the resolve of Joe and Kit
Marshall to rid the world of the traitor, however it might affect Edmund. What
would Edmund think of her—the willing mistress of such a man, no better than a
camp follower except that she trailed the drum for love, not coin?

"Ginny,
you will leave with the others," Edmund was saying, his eyes shining.
"They will take you to a safe house near King's Lynn, and when I come, we
will take a ship together across the North Sea."

Ginny
shook her head. "How do you expect to escape from this house, Edmund, if
you kill the general? Do you think his men will not come after you? They have
undying loyalty for their commander and will tear you limb from limb."

"Leave
that to us," Edmund said with a reassuring smile. "We will make our
plans."

For
all the world as if she was some stupid female who could not be expected to
understand the complexities of the male mind. If matters had not been so
desperate, Ginny would have found it amusing. Edmund had not always been so
inclined to dismiss her thus; clearly his present company had corrupted him.

"I
am not leaving," she said with a credible assumption of calm. "I am
not prepared to wait at King's Lynn amongst total strangers, looking for your
arrival when I know you will not be able to leave here alive."

"You
must!" Kit Marshall spoke angrily. "This is no place for a woman, and
our business with Alexander Marshall is no concern of yours."

If you
did but know, Ginny thought as she shook her head. "I stay."

"But,
Ginny." Edmund took her hands again, his voice pleading. "Do not be
stubborn in this."

"Do
not talk to me of 'stubborn,' Edmund Verney," Ginny cried. "I have
played my part in this war also, as well you know, and I have the right to
decide my own fate."

Edmund
could not gainsay her and looked helplessly at the Marshalls. Joe shrugged.
"Nothing to do with us. She's your responsibility, Edmund."

"I
am no one's responsibility," Ginny snapped, marching into the center of
the room. "You are quite mad in this and will ensure all your deaths if
you attempt this fratricide.''

"It
is no fratricide," Kit stated. "The man is no brother of ours, no son
to our father. It is our task to rid the world of a traitor who was given life
and nurtured by our family. If she will not go alone, Edmund, go with her. The
Marshalls will deal with their own."

"I
am staying," Ginny repeated. "whether Edmund goes or stays, it
matters not. I remain here." She did not care what they made of that, knew
only that she could not run, leaving Alex to his fate, that if she could not
stop this with words and sense, then she must find some other way.

"We
are ready." One of the others came into the room, thrusting a pistol into
his sash. "We have three hours until dawn." The farewells were brief
but carried the intensity of friendship forged in battle and adversity, the sad
acceptance of their lost cause. All in Grantly Manor knew that there was no
longer any hope for His Majesty unless Hamilton's forces could pull off the
miracle. The only sensible course of action now was to retreat, join up with
the prince of Wales in exile, and gather men and arms for the return.

After
their departure, a heavy silence hung over the gallery as the candles waned and
the three men primed their muskets, waiting. Ginny sat alone in a shadowy
corner of the room on a chair with a woven seat. There was no way of telling
how long it would be. She wondered if he knew of her departure, if he had come
to her chamber to make peace before he left and had found her gone. Would he
have searched for her, or assumed she would return when she was ready, as she
had done at Wimbledon—returned from her mission and found him waiting for her
in the calm certainty of the indissoluble knot that tied them?

The
first streaks of gray appeared in the sky, and the three men drew close to the
windows, looking out over the drive.  Only Edmund was truly aware of Ginny's
presence, and with that awareness came the first faint inklings of foreboding.
He remembered the way she had leaped from the boat at Alum Bay, had said that
it was right thus, that it was what she wanted. He had not questioned such
curious statements then because, in that strange situation, they had not seemed
overly strange. He had simply believed in the sacrifice she was making for
Peter and for him. Now he wondered what lay between the Roundhead general and
Virginia Courtney that kept her in this place in contradiction of her own
statements of the futility of remaining.

Hunger
took her at last out of the gallery and down to the kitchen, but she found
little of substance there, those who had left had presumably taken what
supplies there were against their own hunger on the journey. There was a little
brawn, though, and some salted cod and a flagon of cider. She ate absently,
wondering whether she should reverse her journey, run out now and alert Alex to
the ambush awaiting him. There was a certain morbid humor in the picture of
herself running desperately between the two camps reporting the actions and
intentions of each to the other in a vain, stupid attempt to avoid the
bloodshed of those she loved by those she loved. It was a situation that
somehow seemed to encapsulate the whole damnable dilemma of this godforsaken
war. Heartsick and weary, she went back to the gallery to offer Edmund some cod
and a mug of cider, which he took, giving her a sharp glance with his muttered
thanks.

Wandering
to the window, she looked out as the sky lightened into full day. Perhaps Alex
would not come after all. Perhaps, having drawn a blank at several places
already, he had decided he could not afford to delay further. Perhaps, even
now, the drums and bugle were rousing the division to muster on the parade
ground of the castle in preparation for departure. The scene was now so
familiar; she could see it in every detail, could hear the voices, the pawing
of the hooves. . . . She could hear that now, through the opened window, the
unmistakable sound of hooves, the jangle of a bridle. The three men heard it
too. They moved soundlessly to the three central windows, shrinking against the
narrow strip of wall between.

"Get
back, Ginny," Edmund hissed, seeing her standing there, heedless, in full
view of anyone coming down the drive. She stepped to one side, shrinking into a
corner by the last in the row of windows, peering round out of-the window. He
was riding as she had known he would be, no helmet, the early sun catching the
auburn-glinting hair, striking off the silver breastplate and the hilt of his
sword. He rode, as always when approaching some military destination, some ten
paces ahead of the front line, quite alone. Behind him, Ginny could discern
Diccon, Colonel Bonham, and several other familiar faces,  mostly junior
officers, included presumably so that they might increase their experience of
action before the big battle.

She
was conscious at this moment of only one thing, of how much she loved him, of
how much she wanted him with every nerve and cell of a shamelessly lusting
body. The click of a flintlock resounded like a bell clapper in the deathly
rush of the gallery, hurling her out of the wondrous daze that seemed to have
brought on a creeping paralysis, so her limbs moved as if through cotton wool
as she saw the three men raise their muskets to their shoulders, all trained on
the one man, riding, because of her, oblivious into the valley of death.

Ginny
moved behind the three men, then, like a panther on his prey, sprang at Kit who
stood in the middle. She cried Alex's name at the top of her lungs as the force
of her body threw Kit against his brother, and Edmund spun round in
astonishment. Kit's musket discharged into the air above, the shot burying
itself in the ceiling with a hail of plaster dust.

Alex
had been looking carefully at the house, looking for signs that it might be
inhabited by those whom he sought. They had tried three places during the
night's march and drawn no cover, but there was something about the brooding
quality of the silence that hung over this neglected manor that made his nose
twitch. The grass in the park might be high, the bushes tangled, the beds
choked with weeds, but the place was not untenanted. He could smell it and feel
it, and so could Bucephalus who stepped higher, lifting his nose to the wind.
In the last four years, they had ridden together up to too many houses where
the inhabitants hid from them, hoping they would turn and ride away again, for
either man or horse to be fooled.

He
heard Ginny‘s shout the instant before the bellow of the musket. Bucephalus,
too well trained to react with fear, quivered in readiness for the order that
would send him forward into the attack. But Alex was frozen for a moment that
seemed infinite, his eyes riveted on the struggle in the window. It was Ginny;
he had heard her voice, he could see her framed in the window, unmistakable to
the eyes that knew every curve and hollow of her body, every millimeter of
skin, every gesture . . . but she was back at the inn in Nottingham, nursing
her anger as he had been nursing his. Yet she was here, fighting with the
equally unmistakable figure of his brother. Then two other figures appeared in
the window, and she seemed to be locked with all three of them, calling her
warning all the time. At last he moved, hurling himself from his horse to take
cover in the box hedge as a musket roared again, and the ball whistled into the
dust just behind Bucephalus. Had he been astride his horse, it would have taken
his head with it. Pandemonium broke out in the ranks, a pistol was discharged,
but erratically this time now that its target had disappeared, and Alex, from
his position by the hedge, bellowed orders that brought the cavalcade wheeling
through the hedge and out of the line of fire from the window.

Ginny
ceased her frantic efforts to wrench the weapons from the Marshalls, who,
cursing viciously, were struggling to reload although they knew now that the
advantage of surprise was lost.

"Why?"
Edmund asked quietly, his face white as whey, his own musket unfired, hanging
loosely by the stock from his hand. "What is that man to you?"

"I
could not allow you to kill him," Ginny said in a flat voice, without
answering the question. "But I cannot allow him to kill you, either."
She bit her lip. "I will go down and talk with him."

"What
is he to you?" It was Kit this time who seized her
by the shoulder, swinging her round to face him.            

Ginny
looked at the three faces where desperation and disbelief mingled. "All
and everything," she said. "He is all and everything to me. I
betrayed him for Edmund's sake, but I could not allow you to kill him, not even
for Edmund's sake. I am sorry, my dear." She put a hand on her cousin's
arm, but he drew back from her, and she let the hand fall.

"His
mistress?" Edmund asked in the same quiet tone. "You are the mistress
of a rebel general?''

"I
would ask you to believe that, despite that, I remain loyal to the king,"
she said painfully. "Why else would I come here?"

Edmund
muttered something incomprehensible and turned away, back to the window.
"They are reforming,'' he told them. "But their muskets are trained
on every corner of the house. Do we take the cellar route?"

"What
route?" Ginny asked and then shriveled as she saw denial on every face.
She was one with the traitor outside, not to be trusted although she had come
to them in good faith, and if they had left with the others as she had begged
them to do, they would all now be safe.

"Not
I," Kit said. "I'll not skulk from a rat, creeping through passages
to flee across the fields."

The
morning quiet was suddenly shattered by a tremendous pounding from below.
Someone was hammering on the oak front door, hammering with the vigor of an
invader who would have entrance despite all opposition. Ginny moved to the door
of the gallery. "Where are you going?" Edmund rasped.

Ginny
shrugged as if nothing mattered any longer. "You will do what you feel you
must. I will do the same." She went slowly down the shallow flight of
stairs, her hand running over the smooth cherrywood of the banister, feeling
its shape and texture as an irrelevancy, yet as if its solid reality were all
the grounding she had in a world where friends became enemies, where lovers who
had accepted a form of enmity as inescapable now faced the smirch of personal
betrayal and desertion.