Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (8 page)

Some of her scepticism must have shown in her face because
Mrs. Gillespie lowered her voice and added bodingly, "And there's bin
moans and howlings heard, and shadows what creeps and slithers about!
And there's a stranger there now! A mighty
strange
stranger! Very tall, he is, and bony and with eyes like chips of ice
what glow in the dark, so my mister says. And Cobbler Higgett,
likewise! Moves about like a shade—not a sound he makes!" She shivered.
"Makes you think poor Mrs. South's in the right of it after all!"

Marietta snipped her thread and folded the repaired pillow
slip. It was typical of country folk and their superstitious natures,
she thought. They had so much of kindness and generosity, yet their
outlook on life was very often rather shockingly narrow.

"You ask that foreign fortune-teller lady what leaves her
caravan here," said Mrs. Gillespie, annoyed because Miss Warrington
hadn't risen to the bait. "She knows, surely. Second sight, that one's
got!"

Marietta smiled inwardly. "What could Madame Olympias know?"

"Why about poor young Sam South. Hasn't I said it? They
thought as he'd run away to sea, but Mrs. South says she saw him in a
dream, and he was being kept in a cage down in the cellars at Lanterns,
and the room was full of demons and witches, all tormenting the poor
lad. After his immortal soul, they was! No doubting!"

Incredulous, Marietta said, "But—it was just a dream!"

"Mayhap it were, Miss, and mayhap it were a warning! Not a
week later they found Samuel's scarf there, what his ma had just
knitted for him! And how did it get there? That's what
I'd
like to know!"

Marietta frowned, and, uneasy despite herself, said, "Then
Constable Davis should take some men and search the horrid old place!"

"Aye, and so he did, Miss. Two months ago while you was in
London. That's when they found the scarf. They kept on looking for the
boy, and when they went back… the scarf was gone!" Her voice lowered
dramatically. "Vanished clean away in just them few minutes!"

"Oh. Well, even so, I don't see what that has to do with the
man who is living there now."

Mrs. Gillespie put her iron on the hob and
glanced cautiously to the door. "He's come back!" she hissed.
"Old Nick, is
who he is! Come back to get some more souls!"

The thought of Mr. Diccon being taken for Old Nick drew a
laugh from Marietta. She said merrily, "What rubbish! I have met the
gentleman, and I promise you he is no more of a demon than is my papa!"

Bristling, Mrs. Gillespie changed irons. "P'raps you're right,
Miss. But if it was
my
little boy, I'd not let
him go wandering off down there all by hisself! No, indeed!"

Marietta stood and with a chill edge to her tone said, "If you
refer to Mr. Arthur, he is in the back garden, using his crayons."

'Hoity-toity!' thought Mrs. Gillespie, but said nothing.

Marietta went out into the fresh radiance of the morning.
Arthur's sketch-book lay on the blanket she'd put out in the sun. The
breeze riffled the pages and stirred the swing under the mulberry tree,
but of the boy there was no sign. It was silly to pay heed to Mrs.
Gillespie's gloom-mongering, but she went inside and climbed to his
room. Five minutes later, troubled, and wishing Aunty Dova and Fanny
had not gone into the village, she set out.

He wouldn't have gone there again—he
wouldn't!
Not after what had happened yesterday. But she remembered the light in
his eyes when they'd rested on the sword that morning, and remembering
also his awed voice murmuring, "He's got a donkey!" she walked a little
faster through the lodge gates.

When she came near to Lanterns she paused, her eyes searching
the weedy grounds and the great sprawl of the house. There was no sign
of her brother, or indeed of any life. Mrs. Gillespie's superstitions
were nonsense, of course, but the silence was rather unnerving, and she
found herself unwilling to go down there. Instead, she called, her
clear voice echoing briefly, then dissipating, as if blown away by the
breeze so that the quiet seemed more intense than before. Surely, if
Arthur was here, he would have heard her? But the house was so old; the
walls were likely very thick and might blot out sound. She started down
the slope with slow reluctance.

Last evening she had been so fearful for her brother that
she'd paid little attention to the house. Now, she scanned it
curiously. It was a long structure. The wing closest to the edge of the
cliffs had been constructed with stone blocks, and pre-dated the newer
addition by, she would guess, several centuries. The first Lanterns had
been a rectangular, westward facing, two-storey hall with a
high-pitched roof, probably a later improvement, dramatised at the far
southern end by a great gable. The only windows, which were tall and
narrow, were high up, at the first-floor level. The newer addition was
very large and far less stark, its brick and timber quite charming, in
fact. It rose to the same two storeys as the original pile and
culminated in another great gable. A single-storey central wing
connecting the buildings was evidently the principal entrance. It was
dignified by a great round-headed front door, recessed under a stone
archway and approached by a low bridge, that might at one time have
been a drawbridge. There were more and wider windows, several of which
were broken and had been boarded up.

She was intrigued to see that the manor had originally been
protected by a moat, of which traces still remained in the form of
overgrown sunken gardens threaded with stepping-stones. About a hundred
yards east of the manor were the sagging remains of a gigantic barn and
several outbuildings.

Indignation gripped Marietta. The original wing, of course,
was past hope, and looked ready to tumble down the cliff at any moment,
as the southern end of the moat appeared to have done. But the newer
part of the house, although also very old, had once been beautiful, and
could be again were it not so shamefully neglected.

The gable of the north wing towered over her. Hesitating, she
had the sudden conviction that she was watched. She looked about
uneasily. A clump of tall hollyhocks by the ruined barn swayed
suspiciously. Chilled, she could almost hear Mrs. Gillespie's ominous
words: "He's Old Nick… Come back to get more souls!" Impatient with her
skittery nerves, she thought,

'Do stop being so silly, Marietta Warrington! The hollyhocks
moved because the breeze blew them, of course!'

She left the drive-path which led to the low bridge across the
moat and the central front door and walked back instead to the
stepping-stones. Negotiating them with care, she made her way around
the end of the house to what she judged to be the tradesmen's entrance.
There was no response to her knock, and lifting the latch she pushed
the door open. Surprisingly, it did not creak, and she stepped into
what must have been the scullery. It was unoccupied, as were the
buttery and pantry, and the gigantic kitchen, which was astonishingly
neat. She gazed uneasily at the fire which burned in the stove. Again,
she called, and again there was no response. She should leave at once,
but she was curious now, and she went on, peeping about at a succession
of dark and empty rooms, constantly surprised by the excellence of
craftsmanship that had gone into the construction. She had wandered
across a very large entrance hall when at last she had an indication
that she was not alone. She checked, listening intently. The closed
door before her must lead to the older wing, and from beyond that door
faint sounds became identifiable as running footsteps drawing ever
nearer. There was an unmistakable stumble, accompanied by a frenzied
panting and then a blood-curdling shriek.

Marietta's heart jumped into her throat. She turned to escape,
but paused. Suppose the runner was her brother? She bit her lip, looked
around desperately for something with which to defend herself, and
snatched up the only article within reach, a wooden and comfortingly
solid music stand. She had only time then to shrink against the wall to
one side of the door before it burst open. Another piercing shriek rang
out. Arthur raced past, head thrown back, legs pumping frantically.
Heavier footsteps were following.

A male voice roared, "You can't escape, you varmint! Stop, or—"

Somewhere beyond that voice a door must be open because light
was casting a shadow on the dusty floor—the shadow of a terrifying
figure with one upraised arm brandishing a great two-edged sword.

To shock and terror was added rage. Marietta flailed the music
stand with all her strength at the murderous creature who plunged
through the door after her brother. Her fingers tingled at the impact.
Caught squarely across the chest, the pursuer reeled backward, tripped
on the steps, fell heavily and sprawled face-down, unmoving.

Another shriek rang out.
"Etta!
What has
you gone and done?"

Her breath fluttering, Marietta cried, "It's—it's all right,
dearest. You're safe now, but… No! Stay back! Keep away from him!"

The boy eluded her outstretched hand and raced past to drop to
his knees beside the fallen man and pull at one unresponsive arm. "Sir
G'waine! Get up! Do
please
get up now! Oh, do!"

A dreadful suspicion began to dawn. Shaking, Marietta wavered
down the steps. "Arthur—what are you doing here? Did that man—"

"He's not a 'that man'!" The boy's eyes were tearfully
accusing. "I found him for a new friend. We was playing. He was Sir
G'waine, but now he's being the Black Knight and he makes it much
better than Fanny does. He didn't do nothing bad, Etta! And now, you've
gone and
killed
him dead!"

The room swung around Marietta. She was suddenly icy cold, but
she forced the faintness away, and bent over her victim. He had
discarded his coat and waistcoat, and the white shirt had ripped in his
fall. She saw a crimson stain on the fine linen and was sickened by the
fear that he had fallen on that great sword. She said in a far-away
voice, "Arthur, you must—you must help me, dear."

"Yes, but why did you do it?"

"I thought— But never mind that now. Can you find your way to
the kitchen? I think I saw a water jug. Bring it to me as quickly as
you can."

Sobbing, the boy ran off.

Marietta knelt beside the injured man and took up one thin
hand, searching for a pulse. She could have wept with relief when she
detected the beat, rapid but firm. She put down his hand gently and
tried to turn him, but although there seemed to be not an ounce of fat
on his lean body, he was far from frail and she lacked the strength to
discover where else he was hurt. She widened the tear in his shirt and,
investigating, gave a gasp. He had evidently suffered a recent injury
and the fall had broken open the wound a little, but it was not the
torn flesh that so appalled her, but the long scar that angled from his
left shoulder; the mark on his right side that looked like the imprint
of a horseshoe; the evidence of a healed bullet wound above it.

"What 'ave it 'appen to my Diccon?
Tiens!
Is 'e shot again?"

The voice at her ear almost made her jump out of her shoes.
With a muffled yelp of fright she jerked around and found a small dark
man standing beside her. "Oh! How you startled me!" she gasped.

Looking into what he later described as "the face of a
heavenly angel," his dark eyes grew round with admiration. He tore off
a knitted stocking cap, said, "Good day, mademoiselle," and repeated
his question.

He was unmistakably French, and to judge by his great hip
boots and the thick scarf knotted jauntily around his throat, was
probably a fisherman. "Are you his friend?" asked Marietta prayerfully,
and when he pursed his lips but gave a rather droll nod, she said,
"Thank heaven you have come! Would you please help me? If we can lift
him a little, and get his shirt off, I'll tear it for a bandage."

"Aaiee! That is where the doctors they 'ave at last take the
musket ball out from 'is back!" he said as they managed to remove the
shirt. Startled, Marietta jerked her head up and stared at him. "Me, I
am Yves," he said as if that explained everything. Tearing the shirt
into strips, he added, "Did my Diccon, 'e fall and cause these damages?
We all try and tell 'im it is too soon to come down 'ere! But you know
'ow 'e set 'is mind, just like Monsieur Fox!"

"Musket ball?" echoed Marietta. "Was he in the war, then?"

"But yes. At the great battle." He grinned. "But then, my
Diccon, 'is life it is one long battle,
hein?
You will know this, being—" He broke off, pausing in his efforts to eye
her uneasily.

"You
are
my Diccon's
chere
—"

Her face flaming, Marietta interpolated, "I most certainly am
not.'"

At this point Arthur came back, clutching the water jug. He
was very pale, his eyes enormous, his face tear-streaked. He glanced at
the Frenchman disinterestedly. "Hasn't Sir G'waine waked up yet? Is he
killed? Your face is all red, Etta."

Marietta had no doubt that it was. She concentrated on bathing
the wound gently, and said she was sure Mr. Diccon would be all right,
especially now that his friend had come to help him.

"But this Yves, 'e cannot remain, mademoiselle." The little
Frenchman propped Diccon's sagging head against his shoulder and looked
troubled.
"Par grace!
You 'ave see the cut 'ere
above 'is temple? And—ay! there is the most big lump! One 'opes the
'ead it is not broke."

Marietta's hands shook. "One hopes very much," she said
unsteadily. "But at all events, he cannot be left alone here. I'll have
to send for my father's carriage and take him to our house."

"But, no, mademoiselle. In this, Yves 'e can 'elp. The big
one, Yves will not try. But Monsieur Fox 'ave not mind the cart, and 'e
will take my Diccon to your 'ome. Yves will feed the rest while 'e can."