Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (40 page)

It was very quiet, the only sounds the hard blowing breaths of
the horses who stood with heads down and shoulders splattered with foam.

After a minute, Mitchell pointed out wearily, "They're liable
to be… waiting for us… up ahead."

"True," Leith acknowledged. "But if we don't stop for food…
and rest, none of us will reach Brighton."

Looking ready to topple from his cold perch, Justin Strand
said, "Stuff! We're almost there, Tris. Gad, we must be!"

"The last… hundred miles…" said Sir Harry, "is the hardest.
Can we get through, d'you suppose, Leith?"

"Not unless we split up. They're all around us now."

"No choice," Strand agreed.

"You'll want to stay with Charity, Justin," said Leith.

Pulling up her heavy head, Charity mumbled feebly,
"And…Mitchell."

Leith nodded. "Of course, dear. Now, we're just north of
Farnborough and should—"

"Are we, by Jupiter!" said Strand, brightening. "Then
Guildford cannot be more than twelve or so miles distant, and from
there it's a straight run to Brighton!"

Very aware that the horses were close to foundering, that they
all were at the edge of collapse, and that death lurked all about them,
Leith asked, "Well, Sir Harry? Are you game for that straight run?"

Harry, used to forced marches, was finding it difficult to
focus his eyes and wondered how poor old Mitch, who'd had by far the
worst time of it, was staying awake. He replied cheerfully that he
could scarcely wait to begin.

Fatigue enveloped Charity like a crushing weight. Remotely,
she felt someone grip her arm and realized she was trying to sit up and
making a sorry business of it. "I'm so… sorry," she muttered, and added
a confused, "You must not stop… only for my sake."

They all stared at her, then at each other, and appreciative
grins flickered over four weary faces.

"Please do let us stop just for a minute, love,'' said
Mitchell, not caring whether that upset Justin Strand or not.

Charity peered at him eagerly, saw the expression in his eyes,
and her heavy heart soared.

Leith said, "Strand, I want you to turn west to Basingstoke."

"The devil! It's miles out of our way!"

''Yes. You can get fresh horses there, and food. Rest until
dawn, then swing gradually southeast through the Downs until you reach
Brighton."

"Next week!" Mitchell put in indignantly. "If you don't mind,
Leith, I prefer to—"

"I do not give a tinker's damn what you prefer!" growled
Leith. ''We are not here for you—or for me, or even for your gallant
lady. We are here for England. Harry and I will make a dash for the
Pavilion. If we should fail, you will be approaching Brighton from a
direction Claude may not expect."

Mitchell nodded. "My apologies. We shall do as you say, of
course, Colonel." He turned to his brother and put out his hand. "Good
luck,
mon sauvage
."

Sir Harry pushed aside his hand and pulled him into a crushing
hug. "Don't forget what I told you, halfling. And take care of your
little wife."

Mitchell grinned at him. "Yes, Sir Captain."

Charity embraced Leith, and he gripped his brother-in-law's
hand firmly. Then the two weary, dishevelled, but still resolute little
groups mounted up, waved their good-byes, and blended into the night.

The innkeeper was annoyed. He had waited up until eleven
o'clock on the off-chance that some luxurious coach and four might pull
into his yard, and no sooner had he sought out his warm bed and settled
his nightcapped head onto the pillows than this scruffy lot had pounded
at his door. Two gents, looking like death, and one with a bullet graze
across his head or he'd never seen one; and a lady in so sorry a
condition he could only fancy they was running from something or
somebody, which meant trouble with a capital T!

"I'm not at all sure as I've a room will suit," he muttered.

"We need
two
rooms," Mitchell said,
managing to level a frigid glare.

The accent was Quality, the tilt of the chin was intimidating,
the glint in the red-rimmed eyes was familiar. Reassured, the innkeeper
said, "I've two fine chambers, sir. 'Course, me rates ain't exactly
low, but—"

"We'll pay," Mitchell snapped. "My wife is very tired. Show us
up, if you please, so that—"

"It's that damned dog again," Strand declared irritably.
Surprised, the innkeeper argued, "I didn't hear no dog, sir."

His arm about Charity's wilting form, Mitchell said sharply,
"Strand? Wake up!"

Justin rounded on him, flushed with fury. "I didn't kill
Jeremy! Do not
dare
accuse me!"

That high-pitched, querulous voice reached through the fog of
exhaustion that had possessed Charity. She fought her head up. Justin's
eyes glittered and at the edges of his high colour he was deathly
white. "Oh, my God!" she gasped and, taking his hand, said
soothingly,"It's all right, dearest. Everything is all right now."

Strand peered at her. "Lisette… ?" he said, puzzled.

"What the deuce… ?" Mitchell asked.

"Gawd!" gasped the landlord. "Only look how he shakes! I can't
have him here, sir! Sorry, but—"

Strand sighed and crumpled to the floor.

The landlord gave a squeak of fright and backed away. Kneeling
beside her brother, Charity cried, 'Justin! Oh, poor darling!"

"Get him away! Get him away!" shrilled the landlord.

Mitchell ignored him and slipped a hand onto Charity's
shoulder. "What is it?"

"Malaria." She looked up at him in anguish. "He near died of
it last year, but he's been so well, I didn't think… I suppose,
when—when he got so cold and wet…"

Mitchell stood motionless, trying to force his brain to work.
"Be still, sir!" he snapped, turning angrily on the gabbling landlord.
"The gentleman's illness is not catching, and you will be well paid for
your trouble, I do assure you. Now, wake a servant and send him for the
nearest doctor at once."

His panic subsiding when he realized there was no direct
threat to his own health, the landlord hesitated.

"I am Sir Harry Redmond," lied Mitchell and, with a gleam of
inspiration took Claude Sanguinet's ruby ring from his waistcoat pocket
and tossed it on the desk. "My wife and my brother-in-law and I were
trying to win a wager, but it looks as though fate has intervened. That
will secure our expenses. It's worth the price of ten inns such as this
one! Now—
move
!"

The landlord jumped. This gent was Quality all right, and
wasn't it just typical they'd been wagering? Cor! He snatched up the
ruby. It was worth a fortune, all right. His eyes gleaming with
avarice, he said eagerly. "Oh, at once, Sir Harry, anything you wish.
Just ask—just ask!"

The physician came with reluctance and grumbled until he
encountered Redmond's haughtily raised eyebrows and the chill,
aristocratic manner that could so effectively depress pretension. The
ostler who had summoned him had warned of the nature of the illness, so
he had brought a supply of the invaluable quinine. He found Strand
fretful and feverish, but much to Charity's relief pronounced that the
attack seemed comparatively mild and would likely be of short duration.
It was, however, imperative that the patient keep to his bed for
several days. The decree infuriated Strand, but he had learned from
bitter experience that his affliction was not to be trifled with, and
he did not protest when Redmond said that he meant to snatch a few
hours' sleep and press on very early in the morning.

Charity having gone out with the doctor, Strand said wearily,
"How I should love to have been in at the finish." He paused, then
added slowly, "You shall have to be careful. Sanguinet will have his
whole crew scouring the countryside for you."

"Perhaps." Mitchell's eyes were bleak. "They'll be looking for
several riders—not one man alone."

Watching him, Strand said, "You think Leith and your brother
have drawn most of the action, eh?"

"You should be asleep, my friend."

Strand's head tossed fretfully. "D'you fancy they've a chance
of getting through?"

Mitchell looked at him levelly. "No. No more did they." He
walked to the door, then came back. "Strand," he said, staring fixedly
at a bedpost, "if anything should happen to me… you'll take care of
her?"

Strand's head was buzzing again, but he managed to point out
that until now he had done so to the best of his ability.

"There are some things," Redmond went on, still concentrating
on the bedpost,"I should like her to have. I'll write a few lines to
Harry before I leave. I, ah, want Charity treated as befits my, er,
relict. You'll deliver the letter for me?" He glanced up, his face
rather red.

Shivering to a new onslaught of chills, Strand nodded and
wondered with a sudden deep regret if either of the brothers would
survive this mess. "H-have you told her… you're going on… alone?"

Mitchell grinned wryly. "Ain't brave enough."

It was past one o'clock before he was able to lie down, fully
clothed except for his jacket, with a loaded pistol ready to hand and
his boots close beside the bed. As he had requested, a maid crept in to
wake him at half-past four. He was not an easy man to waken, especially
when he had enjoyed less than ten hours' sleep over the past four days.
The maid patted his arm, and he mumbled. She shook his shoulder, and he
smiled drowsily at her and went back to sleep. In desperation, she
grabbed his left arm with both hands and shoved strongly. Mitchell
sprang up in bed with a muffled shout and clutched his side.

"Mercy!" cried the startled girl. "Ye said as how ye wanted to
be waked now, zur!"

Breathing very fast, he gasped out, "Dreaming… is all. Sorry,
lass."

She sighed with relief, said she had put a pannikin of hot
water and shaving articles on the washstand, and crept away. Half an
hour later, washed and shaved, his garments restored insofar as was
possible, and thus feeling somewhat more human, Redmond tiptoed into
Strand's bedchamber. The sick man looked hot, and his head tossed
restlessly against the pillows, but he was asleep. Turning to put his
letter on the mantelpiece, Redmond gave a gasp. Charity was not
sleeping in the trundle bed that he had ordered placed in here for her.
Instead, she was curled up in a wing chair beside the bed, sleeping
soundly. He propped his letter against the clock, but could not resist
what he feared might be his last look at her. Her cheeks were flushed
with sleep, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was
tangled and untidy, but the dim light of his candle awoke gleams of
gold from those rumpled curls. He touched one soft strand very gently. "
Auf
Wiedersehen
, Madame Mulot," he murmured, then he crept from
the room.

The roan stallion chosen for him was stamping impatiently in
the stableyard. The sleepy ostler holding the fiery animal regarded
Redmond without affection. He was a scrawny man with a sneering mouth
and a vindictive disposition. Because of this nob, he had been obliged
to get out of bed and ride after the doctor. Further, because of this
nob, he'd been ordered to get up only a couple of hours after he'd
again crawled 'twixt the sheets, to saddle him their best horse. Well,
he'd done it, and it served the nob right, may he rot!

"My, but he's a fine fellow," said Redmond, stroking the
stallion admiringly.

"Said you wanted a goer," said the ostler. "Cannibal's a goer."

"Yes. I thank you." Redmond pressed a coin into the man's
hand, then swung into the saddle and took the reins.

The ostler watched him. He could ride, no doubt of that, even
though he looked like he'd been swigging blue ruin for a week or two…
Probably had his first pony 'fore he was breeched, and his own groom
along of it! Much good it might do him! The ostler grinned and slouched
back into the stable.

The big roan was full of spirit and for a while Redmond
indulged his eagerness to go. The powerful animal galloped with a
rather jolting but untiring gait, and the miles passed swiftly. It was
a fair morning with a slight breeze. The sun was coming up and Redmond
rode southeast through a deserted countryside rich in wooded slopes and
hills, coming at last into dear and familiar surroundings, for this was
Hampshire, the county of his birth. He was soon less than ten miles
from home, and the longing to turn west to Moire Grange gnawed at him.
He would be looked for there, however, and thus he schooled himself to
follow Leith's orders, riding steadily southeast past quiet Alton,
drowsing in the pale morning sunlight, and over dewy meadows toward
Selborne. He had slowed Cannibal and when a stagecoach approached on
the narrow road he'd thought it safe to follow at this hour, there was
plenty of room for passing. Cannibal betrayed not a trace of
nervousness until the team drew level, then suddenly plunged at the off
leader, ears flattened against his head, eyes narrowed evilly, and
teeth snapping at the polite bay's neck. Wrenching at the head of his
carnivorous mount, Mitchell found himself the target for streams of
invective from driver, guard, and passengers, both inside and out.
Cannibal was powerful and determined, and had obviously set himself to
eat the bay.

In the resultant melee, the stagecoach plunged off the road
and into the mud. A farmer's dray and a milk wagon drew up to watch the
spectacle, and unable to escape the hostile ring of accusers, Mitchell
was trapped until he resorted to digging in his spurs and setting
Cannibal at the very small gap between the milk wagon and the hedge. He
squeaked through and rode off, followed by infuriated vituperations.
Irked because he had lost valuable time, he still supposed this to be
an isolated instance. It soon became apparent, however, that the
ostler's remarks had been less than all-embracing: Cannibal was aptly
named. He
was
a good goer, but his idiosyncrasy,
a major one, was that he yearned to eat another horse. Any horse that
came within snapping distance.