Dedicated Villain (43 page)

Heywood howled, “No! Go back, Roly!”

“What d'you think I'm trying to do?” said Mathieson between his teeth, and roared, “Back!
Back
, you fools!” Dimly, he heard shouting. The men on the ship were waving them off frantically. The big horses danced and fought in terror. Mathieson heaved on the reins and Heywood yelled encouragement to the team.

The ramp scraped deafeningly, slid, then tore free from the side. The timbers beneath collapsed, and the heavy ramp
plunged downward, landed with a thunderous crash, then bounced up again. Mathieson's caravan was battered by flying sand and spray, but the team's hooves had cleared the ramp a scant instant before it collapsed, and the surging timbers missed them by a hair.

Pale and sweating, Heywood clung to the seat, his shoulders slumping. Mathieson met his eyes and gasped, “Whew!”

MacTavish had evidently mastered Japhet's team and was swinging them around again, but there was not a moment to lose. Mathieson clambered from the seat and with Heywood ran to wrench open the back door, trying to ignore his shaky knees and the water that swirled over his boots to the ankles. A standard-sized gangplank had now been swung over the side of the barge, and three men sprinted down it to assist them. Bradford came running, moving with surprising speed for such a big man, and with Heywood's help removed a section of the caravan's floorboards. A long, flat crate was hauled from the aperture. Heywood and Mathieson took it, and carried it to the sailors, the wind battering them. Torrey and Gregor ran to help. With desperate haste, boxes and bales were hauled out. Mathieson staggered to the barge with a barrel that seemed to weigh a ton. Relieved of it, he turned back and began to splash through ever-deepening water towards the caravan.

“
The tide!
” Driving up at frantic speed, MacTavish's shout was high-pitched with urgency. “
The flood! 'Ware the flood!
”

Mathieson whirled around. A wave was rushing at them. The wind tore foam from the crest, and seemed to drive it ever faster. All across the estuary it stretched, and behind it came a dark enormity capped with white. The air was suddenly shaking to a low, petrifying growl of sound.

“
Mon Dieu!
” he breathed.

Above the uproar, MacTavish howled, “Everyone back to shore! Spring 'em!”

Racing for his caravan, Mathieson was vaguely aware that the horses were hock-deep in water; that the lines holding the ship had been cut and she was moving inland; that Heywood
was already leaping onto the seat. He made a dive for the side as the frightened team fought Heywood's restraining hands on the reins and started off. Mathieson's fingers closed around the edge of the seat; with his right hand he gripped the roof. His boot thudded against the flying wheel, and he fell onto the seat, clinging for dear life as the team raced madly for the distant path and safety.

Torrey's caravan, which had fallen to the last position, was in the lead now. Mathieson's heart jumped into his throat as the right rear wheel of that racing vehicle hit some hidden obstruction. The caravan bounced up and keeled over. Perhaps the very speed of their going saved them, for they righted, and kept on.

The horses were straining against their collars, but they were running into the teeth of the east wind and were further impeded by the pull of the undertow. The violent moments dragged past, and the bank still seemed far away. Mathieson threw a quick look back. The sea was rushing in like a maelstrom, boiling up turbulently where it encountered the deeper river water. Appalled, he heard Heywood roar, “Cut off, by Jupiter!” He jerked his head around. A fast-moving flood was between them and the bank. The horses were plunging, sending up gouts of water. Shivering and soaked to the skin, he strained his eyes through the spray and the rain, vainly seeking the red coach that would be their guide to the safe path.

A minute later, Heywood shouted, “Torrey'th out!”

A caravan ploughed like some demented great fish from the greedy sea and tore, rocking wildly, into the tall reeds. Mathieson thought, ‘I hope he found the markers!'

The water was deepening, tugging at the wheels, slowing the horses, as if the tide was determined they should not escape. Caught by the current, the caravan slewed and shook. Mathieson knew a moment of paralyzing terror. How many had experienced such despair before they were claimed by the coldly relentless sea? A grey curtain of lashing rain and spray reduced visibility to about thirty yards. They seemed to be scarcely moving.
He wondered numbly if Thad could see to guide the horses, and then realized with a stunning shock that Heywood had lost the reins and was clinging to the seat, as helpless as himself. In that horrifying instant, in that turmoil of sound and cold, pounding wind and icy water, and the awful imminence of death, the eyes of the two young men met. Mathieson thought with strange clarity, ‘If I have to go, I could not have a better man beside me!' He tore one hand from the edge of the seat, and reached out. Heywood's icy fingers closed hard around his own.

A staggering shock; a violent impact as his head slammed against something. Hurled from the seat, he thought, ‘Fiona!' and waited to be engulfed.

He landed hard and rolling. A dark shape shot past with a thundering roar. Bewildered, he realized suddenly that he was sprawled on the bank, mud and reeds beneath his cheek. The rush of relief brought tears to his eyes. With a choked laugh, he kissed a soggy clump of grass. Then, frantic little hands were pulling at him, a dear voice was sobbing his name. He looked into Fiona's white, tear-stained face and gasped, “
Mon cherie! Mon cherie!
” And sitting up, screened by the reeds, held her tight for a blissful moment.

She clung to him, whispering, “Thank God! Oh, Roly! Thank God!”

They had to run clear then, as another caravan thundered past. Shaken but exultant, Mathieson led the girl up through the reeds, and at the top peered around, counting. “Two … three … four.” Japhet's caravan, minus a wheel, was leaning against a stunted and tilting tree. “Five! By the Lord Harry—
five
! We all got back!”

“More or leth,” said Heywood breathlessly, hobbling up leaning on Elizabeth's arm and clutching his leg. “Are you all right, dear boy? Rob dethided to go tree climbing, and Torrey hath a broken head, but I rather think we're all alive.”

Holding Mathieson's hand very tightly, Fiona said, “Well, I wonder
we
are! We were terrified lest you all be drowned!” She
turned and looked down at the raging waters that surged below them. “Another minute, only …,” she muttered.

Mathieson patted her hand. “Well, it didn't come to that, child.” He strained his eyes into the rain and could dimly make out the barge, apparently attempting to come about, the sail going up jerkily, and billowing out in the wind.

Anxious, Fiona asked, “Will the sail split, do you think?”

Mathieson glanced at Heywood and said whimsically, “They've an easterly breeze, at the least. I fancy they know their business. Likely, she'll be safe away before we are.”

And he thought, ‘But what the deuce shall we do now?'

They made camp that evening in a quiet and secluded little vale south of Chester. A copse of ash trees provided some shelter from the rain which had dwindled to a steady drizzle, and from nearby came the endless chatter of a swift-flowing brook.

They were a rather subdued group; drier now, but downcast because of the failure at the estuary, and apprehensive as to their chances of bringing the remaining treasure safely to its destination. They all knew they had brushed very close to tragedy, but they had not escaped unscathed: Heywood had twisted his knee when he'd been flung from the bouncing caravan and limped painfully; Torrey's head had made violent contact with the side of his caravan, resulting in a large lump and a severe headache; Japhet had suffered a badly cut hand; and MacTavish, who had been thrown into the tree, had some badly bruised ribs, was white-faced, and looked to be at the brink of exhaustion. Perhaps, of them all Mathieson came closest to guessing the depth of the Scot's inner distress, knowing that he would blame himself because only one caravan had been successfully loaded, and that the bulk of the treasure, including the chest of jewels, still faced a long overland journey to the south coast.

While the men tended to the horses, built the fire, inspected damage done to the caravans, and hauled water, the ladies prepared stewed chicken, carrots, and onions. Soon, the little camp was redolent with the smells of woodsmoke, stew, and fresh bread procured en route from an isolated farmhouse. There was a keg of home-brewed ale also, and by the time the meal was over, the spirits of the Avon Travelling Players had lifted somewhat.

Gathered around the fire, they discussed their plans. To travel by day would be extremely dangerous now, for they carried a fortune in gold, jewels, and
objets d'art.
Were they to be searched by dragoons who had previously inspected the caravans, they might have a chance of escaping detection, but a patrol stopping them for the first time might soon discover that the jewels were not imitations, and that the spaces in the set pieces were no longer empty. Mathieson was astounded to learn that in addition to gold and plate, several paintings of great value now resided inside the set pieces, including part of a tempera triptych by Giovanni Bellini, a small portrait by Van Dyck, and an
en grisaille
drawing by Rubens. The owners of these works of art, MacTavish explained with a rueful smile, had been too fearful to attempt to sell the pieces themselves, and had instead donated the works intact to the Cause. “The Prince had requested gold,” said my lady, “but—” she shrugged and spread her hands, “he was too gracious to express anything other than his grateful thanks.”

They discussed the possibility of travelling only by night, which would also be dangerous—partly from the risk of accident to horses or caravans when traversing unknown roads in darkness, and partly because nocturnal travellers invariably aroused curiosity which might bring the military down upon them more surely than if they ventured by daylight. Also, as MacTavish pointed out, it would mean a long, slow journey, undesirable with winter coming on.

Bradford frowned thoughtfully and turned to his mother.
“Can you tell us now ma'am, exactly how far south is the chosen spot?”

Lady Clorinda hesitated, glanced at MacTavish's grave countenance, then replied carefully, “I will say only that 'tis within a few miles of the south coast.”

A dismayed chorus arose. Heywood spoke for them all when he said, irked, “I wonder they didn't make it a wee bit difficult for uth. Like Manchuria—or Africa!”

“It was chosen,” said my lady with some asperity, “because initially 'twas hoped to send the treasure all the way down from Scotland by sea, and the selected location lies near some ideally secluded coves. It is a great house with cellars containing secret rooms where the treasure could be kept concealed for as long as is required. The most zealous of English officers would never think to search the south coast for a Scots treasure trove. It seemed ideal—until the first ship was nigh wrecked in a storm in the Irish Sea and was forced to put in to Liverpool. It was little short of miraculous that the Jacobites guarding the treasure were able to off-load it without being caught. But it was because they found themselves in a veritable sea of dragoons that they had to make hasty choices for temporary storage places.” She sighed and gave a little gesture of helplessness. “None of this, alas, was foreseen.”

“Fate's best-laid traps are never foreseen,” muttered Freemon Torrey, watching Fiona sad-eyed.

“True,” agreed Bradford. “And we are, I suspect, hoist by our own petard. We've some of our scenery and most of our costumes, but we dare not stop to give performances now, else 'twould take forever and a day to get to the south coast.”

“Our first plan was to become a gypsy group,” said Cuthbert. “Perhaps we should revert to it.”

“And explain to any stray troopers how a gypsy group chances to be carrying set pieces and a pirate's treasure chest,” drawled Mathieson sardonically.

For once in agreement with his rival, Torrey said, “We'd be clapped up before you could wink an eye!”

The discussion continued, but everyone was tired, no more satisfactory solution to their difficulties was propounded, and in the end they decided to continue as they were going. They would stay away from all main roads and highways; travel as fast and as long as was possible each day; and send out advance scouts to survey their route and provide warning of any sign of the military.

The ladies prepared to retire, and Mathieson abandoned his hope for a private moment with Fiona and slipped away to check on Rumpelstiltskin. The big stallion kicked up his heels when he heard the familiar whistle and came at a run, eager for the caress of his master's hand, his head tossing, his nose searching for the carrot he knew lurked somewhere about. Laughing, Mathieson produced the treat from his pocket. “Cupboard love, is it?” he scolded, holding the carrot just out of reach. “Let me see you ask properly.” He whistled a short three-note melody, and at once the chestnut began to dance in circles, scattering the horses in his path. A low warbling note and Rumpelstiltskin came at the trot, to halt at Mathieson's spoken command. “Now—make your bow, Rump.” Obediently, the horse leaned back on his haunches, and rendered his equine bow.