Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (41 page)

Redmond left the lanes and byways, and headed across country
again. The sun grew warmer, and he pushed on steadily, alone as he had
never been before, for now he was haunted by the memory of a valiant
companion with a gentle lilting voice, always willing to point out his
shortcomings… He smiled faintly and in another second was sighing
because he so missed that intrepid presence, the dauntless set to her
small chin, the quick way she had of entering into his moods, of
understanding his silences, sharing his mirth, steadfastly enduring the
hardships he endured. "My beloved Madame Mulot,'' he thought. The
wistfulness vanished from his eyes when he caught a glimpse of scarlet
uniforms on the hillside ahead. He swore and turned aside.

Twice after that he was driven from his intended route by the
appearance of groups of riders he dared not risk encountering, so that
it was afternoon by the time Cannibal plodded up a long rise in the
Downs. A small cluster of trees offered shade, and a little brook
gurgled close by. Redmond dismounted stiffly, allowed the horse to
slake his thirst at the brook, then unsaddled him and secured the reins
to a low shrub. Sitting with his back against a tree, Redmond stretched
out his legs gratefully. Jove, but he was tired! He took out his
timepiece. The hands seemed to ripple, and he had to rub at his eyes
before he could focus properly. Twenty minutes past one… no!
two
,
by gad! And still a long ride ahead. He should push on, but Cannibal
must be rested and he himself ached with weariness, besides which his
side was such a damnable nuisance. He propped an arm on one drawn-up
knee, leaned back his head and closed his eyes, just for a moment,
listening dully to the gossiping dance of the leaves…

He awoke with a start when his elbow slipped from his knee.
Lord! He must not do that again! The fateful ball was
tonight
,
and if he once dropped off, he was liable to sleep for a week! He took
off his wilted beaver and ran a hand through his damp hair, blinking at
the panorama spread out before him. The velvety Downs sloped ever
southwards to where lifted the distant spires of Chichester. His first
tutor had lived there, and he had spent many happy hours in that lovely
cathedral town known first to the Romans as Noviomagus, and afterwards
as Cisseceastre. Saxon kings had walked the cobbled streets, and later,
their Norman conquerors. It had seen its share of battle and death and
fire, had old Chichester. But today it was green and peaceful, quietly
occupying its assigned space in the present, securely rooted in its
past, washed by the rains and mists that swept in from the blue reaches
of the Channel…

" 'This sceptred isle,' " murmured Charity, sinking down
beside him. She expected him to leap up ranting and raving, but he only
quoted just as softly. " 'This blessed plot, this earth, this realm,
this England…' "

She had ridden desperately, all day, to come up with him and,
not having dared hope to do so, had finally caught a glimpse of him
embroiled in a dispute with a stagecoach, and guessing he meant to cut
across country, had at last found him. She knelt there gratefully,
watching him. He looked so tired and pale. The cut the bullet had
ploughed across his scalp was visible at the hairline, and his dark
hair was terribly disordered, so that she longed to tidy it, but
fearing to break his mood, did not.

In a faraway voice, he murmured, "You can see the wind."

She caught her breath and, remembering what Rachel had once
said of his absent-mindedness, knew that here again was the dreamy-eyed
boy she had glimpsed beneath the bitter cynicism; here was the boy she
could love.
Could
love? No! It was far past a
possibility. She did love him. For so long as she lived, she would
never love another. Tenderly, she prompted, "Tell me what you are
thinking."

Still gazing to the south, he said, "It is not my thought. It
was told me by a most poetical weaver named Bamford. And he was right.
If you look hard enough you can—See—just above the trees there—the glow
of it… like the aura of all those who have dwelt here before us. The
effort, the courage, the pride, the suffering… the wind of our
history…" He started, glanced at her, and coloured hotly. "What fustian
I'm jabbering. You must think me properly wits to let."

Perhaps for the first time, she realized how close he was to
total exhaustion. She said simply, "I think you are splendid."

He stared at her. "No, how could you when you saw what a
worthless craven I—" And only then did that brutal memory jolt him back
into the here and now. He gasped. "My God! What the deuce are you doing
here?"

"I followed you. No, it is no use to berate me, sir. My
brother is resting comfortably, and the innkeeper's wife is very kind
and will take proper care of him. You cannot send me away, Mitchell. My
place is here. With you."

He gazed at her. How serene she was, for all that her habit
was stained and creased, and the wind had blown her fair curls about
under that foolish little blue hat that had once been so pert and now
drooped in sadly wilted fashion. She was looking up at him as though he
was some kind of god, instead of—

"I'm not good enough for you," he muttered. "Don't you know
that, my mouse? When I saw the look in your brother's eyes last night,
I could not blame him. I'm a rake…a womanizing, fighting, brawling
idiot. And underneath it all, I'm a rank coward. A spineless—"

"Nonsense. How could I love such a one?"

His fists clenched against the need to hold her. ''You must
not love a coward."

"I do not. I love a man who faced his fear and defeated it."

He sat straighter, his eyes devouring her gentle, glowing,
dirty little face. "But I haven't, my darling girl. I never
will
,
unless I can beat Sanguinet and so prove myself a man again."

His eyes, so full of adoration, were saying much more than the
words he spoke. He was trembling, so greatly did he long to kiss her. A
wave of tenderness swept Charity. She leaned to him. Mitchell sighed,
tilted up her chin, and kissed her. And the Downs, the munching
Cannibal, the hurrying voice of the wind, faded and were gone. They
drifted together in a glory of love, joined in a long, consuming kiss
that roused a new, sweet passion in Charity, so that her arms tightened
convulsively.

Gasping, Mitchell jerked away.

"What is it?" she demanded. He kept his face averted for a
minute, and she seized her opportunity and pounced to tear at his shirt.

'' Hey!'' cried Mitchell.

Charity stared, horrified, at his bared side. From the left
armpit to below his waist, the skin was blackened by a great bruise,
dark at the centre, purpling and greenish at the edges.

"Have you no shame?" he demanded with feigned indignation,
drawing back and gingerly restoring his garments. "Dashed if ever I met
a woman with such a fixation about tearing the clothes from a fellow!"

She lifted her shocked gaze to his face. "When… did you do
that? Was it—when that brute kicked you?''

He sighed. "When I fell from the wall."

"My God! Why did you say nothing? What kind of ridiculous
stoicism—"

"How could I say anything?" he intervened, reddening. "We had
to get here."

"Yes, but you could have told Leith, or your brother, when
they came up with us. There was no need to—"

''And have them insist I be left behind, like poor Mordecai
Langridge?"

"Of course. That is ghastly! It must hurt terribly. And— you
have ridden and… and fought…" Tears glinted in her eyes. "Oh, Mitchell…
what
madness
! What unutterably
foolish
pride!"

"No!" He caught at her hands and said desperately, "Try—please
try to understand. I must do this. Don't you see? I
must
!
I have never been offered the chance to do anything worthwhile for my
country. And since Parnell Sanguinet shamed me, I have felt…" His gaze
lowered. He went on painfully, "Scarcely a human being. A weak shadow
of— of a creature."

She thought, "So Claude was right…" But she said staunchly,
"And was it a weak shadow of a creature who fought his way out of Tor
Keep? Were you less than a human being when you battled those louts in
Coventry, or when Shotten came upon us in the stable?" And she
remembered how that great brute had kicked him, and her face crumpled.

Redmond gathered her close and kissed her soft hair. " My
loyal little love," he said huskily, "would you have me give up? Would
you have me leave it to Leith and my brother to do this? Leave the task
for somebody else?"

She looked up into the grave smile, the faintly reproachful
look. And she knew suddenly that whatever the outcome, Mitchell must
run this course to its ending, even though his life be sacrificed in
vain, or if Leith and Harry were already in Brighton and the Regent
safely warned. And she knew she could not love him as much were he any
other kind of man.

"No, my very dear," she said. "I would have you be just what
you are. Always. But—please, do not
ever
leave me
behind again."

In later years, when Charity looked back upon that fateful
Wednesday in June, it remained a nightmare; an unceasing battle against
fatigue and pain, and most remorseless of all, the creeping hand of
Time. The wind grew ever more blustery and was soon a full-fledged
gale, often startling the horses and further exhausting Mitchell, who
led the way ever into the teeth of the buffeting gusts. They were
almost spent when they came in late afternoon to a neat hedge tavern
near Shoreham. They tried to hire a post chaise, but although Charity
had brought every penny from Justin's purse, Claude's ring had been
left as security for her brother's care, and now their shared funds
would allow no more than feed for the horses, a sandwich, and a pot of
tea. The food restored them, but they were, they admitted to one
another as they crossed the stableyard, a sorry-looking pair, Charity
limping and stiff, and Mitchell slightly stooped as he increasingly
favoured his battered side.

They skirted the charming little coastal village, but they
were able to see that there were unusual numbers of military about;
keen-eyed officers leading troops of men, scrutinizing all travellers,
but far more interested in riders than in carriages. Mitchell lost no
time in taking to the countryside again, but was soon obliged to detour
northwards to avoid a barrier across the road. They were driven ever
farther from their goal, arriving at Lewes at sunset, and managing to
slip into Brighton at dusk, the horses covered with sweat and dust, and
Mitchell so exhausted that he sat his horse unmoving for several
minutes after they had halted in a quiet lane not far from the seafront.

The wind howled between the buildings, sending a sign over a
haberdasher's door flying madly on its hinges and billowing the skirts
of Charity's dusty habit. At the end of the lane was a major
thoroughfare; a noisy place with many people walking along despite the
wind, and a great glow in the sky beyond that seemed too light to be a
fire. Mitchell responded to Charity's question by saying he fancied it
must be the lanterns from the Royal Pavilion. "That's the Old Steine,"
he said, nodding to the street at the end of the lane. "I fancy
Prinny's guests are arriving. We'll leave the horses here."

He dismounted, leaning against the saddle for a brief second,
then turning a haggard but smiling face as he assisted Charity down.
"We're
here
, my mouse," he said jubilantly.
"We've done it, by God!"

"We have.'' She reached up to caress his cheek. ''But we must
find help, my dear. You cannot—"

He shook his head. "Our time is almost gone. We'll have to get
inside, somehow." He offered his arm and said flirtatiously, "Will you
promenade with me, Madame Mulot?" Her eyes misting, she slipped her
hand onto his arm. It was nine o'clock.

The Steine, a wide thoroughfare with some fine houses, a few
expensive shops, and a covered walk, was crowded with an eager,
jostling throng. A long procession of luxurious carriages wound along
the street towards the Pavilion, and mounted guards were positioned at
intervals along the route, sabres drawn, eyes intent upon the shifting
mass of humanity.

Easing into the crowd, trying not to let their haste become
too apparent, Charity and Redmond were swept along until they came in
sight of the Pavilion itself, a breathtaking sight, like a palace of
the Far East, with its graceful domes and delicate wrought iron; its
balconies and cupolas and minarets, and the mighty adjoining rotunda
that housed the royal stables, all glowing in the light of countless
lanterns so that it seemed indeed a place of fantasy against the night
skies.

Leaning to Mitchell's ear, Charity called above the tumult,
"What time shall they sit down to dine, do you think?"

"At any minute, I fancy. Though to judge by this crush many
will be delayed."

"Oh, Mitch! What if Claude presents his gift at the start of
the meal?"

"I doubt it. Were I he, I'd have it delivered towards the end,
when Prinny could quite logically be expected to suffer a seizure, and
in—" He broke off, staring to the gates of the drive that wound through
the lawns to the Pavilion, and the line of Household Cavalry flanking
both sides of the entrance. "It looks," he said slowly, "as though we
dare not approach by the direct route, m'dear."

Following his eyes, Charity gasped with fright. A tall
gentleman stood conversing earnestly with one of the splendidly
caparisoned officers. A dark man, who wore his black garb well and was
obviously sufficiently important to be respectfully attended to.
"Gerard…" she whispered.

"Now look a little to the right. That's Shotten, see? With the
high-crowned brown beaver. Ah! And over there—two more of Claude's
rogues!"