Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (36 page)

Diccon thought regretfully that she would have no trouble
recognizing this particular fugitive, but years of concealing his true
feelings stood him in good stead and as they approached the house he
managed a smile and said that all traitors were known to sport very
large black whiskers and go armed to the teeth with sword and dagger
and at least one pistol. "Indeed, you'll recognize him at a glance, for
he'll scarce be able to stagger about under all that weight!"

He was rewarded by her infectious chuckle and an invitation to
come
inside for a cup of tea. Longing to accept, he declined politely, on
the grounds that he must get back to his "post."

His "post" being the hill from which he could watch the London
Road,
thought Marietta. The road along which Eric would very likely come. She
had never pleaded for the company of any gentleman, but she swallowed
her pride and coaxed, "No, must you go? Surely you can spare us a few
minutes?"

For a second he looked down at her, his expression enigmatic,
then he asked, "Has Sir Lionel forgiven me, then?"

With all her other worries Marietta had quite forgotten her
father's wrath at Diccon's deception, and she hesitated.

He said, "I thought not. But I thank you for the invitation.
I'll go
back to the bridge and turn my glass this way. If you don't find the
boy, please wave to me from the upstairs balcony, and I'll come down
and help search for him."

"But wouldn't it be easier if you waited here? It likely won't
take me very long to find him if he's in the house or the barn."

He agreed, but pointed out that he had no wish for Sir Lionel
to see
him lurking about the house. Marietta could think of no more reasons to
delay him, and had no recourse but to thank him for his concern and
leave him there.

Diccon stood at the end of the back lawn and watched her
follow the
path that led past the west end of the house and around to the
barnyard. How graceful was her walk; how proudly she held her lovely
head. And there could be no doubt now: she knew. He had been too long
schooled to read people's faces not to recognize the fear she'd tried
so hard to hide. She was afraid of him! What a bitter irony when he
loved her so dearly. But her fear meant that she knew about Eric's
guilt, and suspected he was hunting her brother.

If she could but know how he dreaded that Eric Warrington
might come
this way, or of how passionately he prayed that her traitorous brother
would be taken long before he set foot on Lanterns soil. To watch her
valiant effort to appear light-hearted had wrung his heart, and he'd
longed to take her in his arms and cherish and comfort her. But he
shrank from admitting his involvement while there was still the
possibility that the wretched Eric would be caught in Town, or anywhere
but here. If not, if Fate levelled the ultimate challenge and he was
the man who
must
send her loved brother to shameful and hideous public execution… His
shoulders slumped. Anguished, he turned away, thinking, 'Lord,
please.
Don't make it be me! Don't let me be the one to break her heart!'

He looked up and found Mrs. Cordova standing only a few paces
distant, watching him. There was compassion in her round face, and he
knew the bland mask he showed the world had slipped. For the first time
in years he was unable to reclaim it, and without a word strode rapidly
across the meadow.

Marietta's search of the barn and sheds having proven
fruitless she
went back into the house and climbed to Arthur's room hoping he might
have returned. Once again unsuccessful, she went through the other
first-floor rooms and was about to go downstairs and see if he was in
the cellar when she heard a faint sound behind her. Friar Tuck emerged
from the passage leading to the attic stairs, his claws making little
clickings on the boards. At the sight of her he feigned terror; his
back arched and with tail bushed out and ears back he scampered along
the corridor and thundered down the stairs, headed kitchenwards, no
doubt.

He had pointed the way for her, and she went very quietly up
the
narrow attic stairs. The door was slightly ajar. Pushing it wider, she
heard a doleful sniff. Arthur sat huddled against the broken rocking
horse Eric had promised to repair last year. He looked pathetically
small and stricken, head bowed onto drawn-up knees, arms wrapped around
them as though holding himself together.

She crept inside, the creaking of the floorboards drowned by a
sudden shuddering sob. Sinking to her knees, she waited, watching him,
aching for him, wondering if somehow he'd heard about the terrible
folly of the brother he'd always idolized. When he at last lifted a
reddened and tear-streaked face, she said gently, "My dearest, how can
I help?"

He dragged a hand across his eyes and gulped a hoarse, "You
can't,
Etta. No-nobody can h-help. 'Cept him. An'—an' he won't, 'cause…" His
voice broke. " 'Cause he's jus'… bad!" He reached out, leaning to her,
the tears overflowing.

Marietta held him tight, rocking him gently, murmuring words
of
comfort until the storm of grief eased a little. Stroking his hair, she
asked, "How did you know, love? Did you overhear someone speak of it ?"

He sniffed and drew back. She gave him her handkerchief and
when he'd blown his nose and wiped his eyes he said scratchily, "I
saw
him! I told you. But you wouldn't listen. No one wouldn't!"

Bewildered, she said, "I'm sorry, dear. I don't recall—"

"No, 'cause you din't listen. But I told you! An' you said it
wasn't
him,
and that he was just l-living there! An' his name was diff'rent so I
thought it wasn't him. An' he was so… kind… to me. An' he said he
never… did nothing like that. But—but he
did,
Etta! Mr. Blake said his name's really Temple an' Cloud, so it
was
him! An'-an'… Oh, I l-liked him so
much
an' I
didn't think I'd ever like someone what… what was
wicked!"

Marietta stared wide-eyed at that small, sorrowful face, and
asked
in a half-whisper, "What did you see, Arthur? Would you please tell me
again? I'll listen hard this time. I promise."

So he told her all about the two men who had carried the
muffled
figure out to the carriage on that fateful evening. "An' Diccon said
that whatever happens
she
mustn't never be found.
I
heard
him, Etta!" He clung to her again, and
gulped, "It was his own
mama!
How could he be… so
bad
when I thought he was so
good?
How
could
he, Etta?"

She soothed him as best she might, but she felt numbed and
desolate,
and thought miserably, 'How could he indeed!' She took Arthur back to
his room and made him lie down and rest and sat beside him, hearing
again that loved voice saying, "If I told you, it would make you an
accessory, do you see?" Surely, that had been as good as an admission
of guilt, but she'd refused to believe evil of him because he had
seemed to be brave and decent and honourable.

With a sigh for her gullibility she saw that Arthur had fallen
asleep, probably worn out, poor little boy. She pulled the eiderdown
over him, closed the curtains, and tiptoed out.

Fanny was scrubbing the kitchen table, and told her that
Vaughan had
gone down to the workroom to chat with their father, and that Friar
Tuck had fairly shot out of the back door when Aunty Dova went to
gather some onions. The cat was terrified of thunder and if he'd
retreated to his favourite hiding place in the barn it was a sure sign
that they were going to have another storm from this very stormy autumn.

The skies were getting darker by the minute and Marietta
decided to
feed the chickens before the rain really came down. She met her aunt
coming out of the barn carrying a basket of onions and carrots, her
hair and her cloak flying.

"We're in for some weather," she announced. "Speaking of
which, have
you and Major Diccon quarrelled? I saw him leave. I think I've never
seen such desolation in a man's eyes. He is head over heels in love
with you, child. Now why do you smile?"

For a moment Marietta considered sharing the bitter news that
Major
Mallory Diccon Paisley had almost certainly done away with his parent,
but there was no telling what her aunt would do with that information
and if it was spread about its possible usefulness would be ended. She
said, "Because I believe he loves only his work, and is using us to
accomplish his goal."

"No, no. You wrong him, Etta. Poor creature. I cannot but pity
him."

Her eyes wide, Marietta said, "But I thought you so feared
him? Have you changed your mind?"

"I admire him. And—yes, I fear him. More than ever now, alas."

"Then, what… ? Do you think I could use this alleged love he
holds
for me? I mean, if Eric should come, might Diccon help him—for my sake?"

"I wonder." Mrs. Cordova said thoughtfully, "However he may
deny it,
there are centuries of tradition behind him. I rather suspect the case
would be, 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour
more.' Hurry and come inside, Etta. After all the rain I'm afraid we'll
have lots of trees down if this beast of a wind keeps up."

During the night the wind not only kept up, it increased to
gale
proportions, howling in the chimneys and roaring in from the sea to
hurl itself against the house with a force that threatened to tear the
roof off.

Morning brought low clouds scudding across leaden skies. The
grounds
were littered with leaves and broken branches; several tiles had fallen
from the roof; and a distant booming spoke of whitecaps crashing
against the cliffs. There were occasional lightning flashes and distant
growls of thunder. To Marietta's secret relief Eric did not put in an
appearance. Nor did either Mrs. Gillespie or Friar Tuck.

It was a good thing Merlin's hat could be tied on. He wouldn't
have
risked wearing it in the wind except that a great wizard might have a
better chance of finding a runaway cat. Sitting on the root of an oak
tree, Arthur pulled the cloak tighter under his chin. Autumn was
finishing up. It would be winter soon. Or was winter not till after
Christmas? Anyway, his feet were tired. He'd searched the house and the
barn and he'd even gone into the henhouse which had made them all
beside themselves, and Sir Strut, the big goose who ruled the grounds,
had shouted at him. Bridger had said he hadn't seen any cats, but
Bridger was cross 'cause water had come through the roof and made a
sack of oats wet, and hay had blowed everywhere. Etta had been cross,
too, 'cause Mrs. G'lespie hadn't come and how they were to get the wash
done, she didn't know. And Aunty Dova had been worried 'bout her
caravan and had gone off with Mr. Joss to see if it had been blowed
over.

If they hadn't all been so busy, he'd prob'ly never have
'scaped. He
was a bit hungry for his breakfast, but he wasn't going back. Not till
he found the Friar. And he'd best be getting along, 'cause if they was
looking for him a'ready—

A shadow fell across him. He glanced up guiltily and gave a
startled
gasp. It was the biggest and most unhandsome man he'd ever seen. It was
the sort of man you'd pretend to be the wicked giant in a story. Which
prob'ly meant it was a good man, 'cause the men you thinked were good
turned out to be bad, so prob'ly men what looked bad were good men.

He stood up and tried to be tall. "Are you a giant?" he
enquired.

A slit appeared in the strange face. Great arms were raised to
the
sides, hands clenched into great big fists and a great big voice
rumbled, "I am Ti Chiu. A mighty warrior."

He had an odd way of talking, with
l
s
for
r
s, but
p'raps he couldn't help it, so Arthur refrained from pointing out the
error. Instead, he raised his small arms to the sides and said in a
small growl, "I'm Merlin today. An' I'm a b'ginning warrior."

The slit in Ti Chiu's face became wider. "More like small
cockroach than beginning warrior. Why does Merlin sit in rain?"

"I'm
not
a cockroach! I'm looking for my
cat. He's a mighty cat. Have you seen him?"

"Your cat—it has a tail?"

" 'Course. All cats have tails!"

"No. In my country, few cats. No tails."

"I don't b'lieve you!"

The slit vanished. The Mighty Warrior stamped closer. "Many
men do I kill. Little Cockroach be careful."

"Why? I've got my sword." Glad that he had worn it under the
cloak, Arthur drew it and flourished it about.

Ti Chiu threw back his head and uttered a shattering sound
that was, hopefully, a laugh.

"If you're not doin' anything much," said Arthur, "I'd
'preciate it if you'd help me find my cat."

"I am doing much. As my master wish. Why does Small Cockroach
wear funny hat?"

"It's not funny!" said Arthur, indignantly. "It's a wizard's
hat, and you shouldn't be a rudesby!"

The gash grin vanished. The fists stretched out, then clamped
shut,
and the Mighty Warrior stepped closer. "Do you know," he growled, "what
I do to people who make fun?"

Arthur had to tilt his head up to look at him. He was afraid.
Just a
little bit. But he reminded himself that he was also Robin Hood. And
Sir Lancer Lot. And Destes'ble Dag, the Scourge of the Seven Seas. "I'm
not making fun," he said stoutly. "An' it's not nice for grown-ups to
tell raspers to little boys."

Those great hands shot out. Arthur gulped with fright as he
was
swept up and held high in the air. Like a snake hissing, Ti Chiu
demanded, "What is—rasper? And you be careful, cockroach boy!"

Arthur's heart was beating rather fast. But a true-blue
gen'leman
did not show fear. Diccon wouldn't. Whatever happened. He took a breath
and explained, "It means a fib."