Feather Castles (39 page)

“Did you tell Raoul to be sure the screens are down before he reaches the gates?”

“D'you take me for a clunch? He will inform the gatekeepers that he was sent by Claude to collect a distinguished latecomer. They'll not stop an empty carriage.”

“Good. Come on!”

Below, was a fairyland of lights. In addition to the usual decorative illuminations, the winding drivepath was brightened by colourful Japanese paper lanterns hung from iron stakes driven into the lawn. The two young men paused briefly, eyeing the daunting course they must travel. A faint squawk sounded, and Tristram said, “So that's where you were.”

Devenish stroked the duck's feathers fondly. “Didn't think I would abandon the poor old lady, did you?”

Tristram grinned, “No. Never that.” He clapped Devenish on the shoulder, and at once a slim hand came up to cover his own and grip it hard. It was the only acknowledgment they made of the fact they both knew they might well be going to their deaths. Then, they started down, wherever possible keeping to the shrubs and trees, their objective the far-distant main lodge gate.

What a wild, darting, dodgingly erratic flight that was! The wind was rising, and the three-quarter moon was often hidden by cloud-rack, but the illuminations rendered the progress of the fugitives exceedingly hazardous. Three times they saw guards, but were able to elude them, partly because of the fascinating distractions of the constant procession of carriages which by every law of society should not be departing for at least three more hours. Flabbergasted, Claude's men gawked at the swiftly travelling vehicles, thus granting Tristram and Devenish the chance to make their perilous darts from trees to shrubs, unobserved. They passed the loom of the miniature English castle, the waters of the moat reflecting the green light that bathed it. Starting on, they crouched again as three guards materialized just ahead—guards so intrigued to observe the abrupt flight of yet another carriage that they were oblivious to the two men who plunged for the shelter of a formal rose bed only yards away. The balance of this garden provided good cover, with its lush flower beds, tall clusters of hollyhocks, and rose arbours, but the Egyptian area was less accommodating, and their progress here was painfully slow and nerve-wracking.

“Where…” gasped Devenish, a hand pressed to his side, “is our—Claude?”

“Must be—searching the other way. Now!”

They darted on, and were almost to the trees dividing this and the Grecian gardens when they had to fling themselves down again to avoid detection by two horsemen, galloping madly for the gates.

“Gerard!” panted Tristram. “Who was—other?”

“Didn't … see. Are we—properly cut off … d'you think?”

Tristram suspected that they were, but did not answer. A few minutes later, they sought the sanctuary of a clump of tall grasses when the horsemen returned as rapidly as before. The next stretch of lawn was long and open, the places of concealment few and far between. Still, the steady stream of fleeing guests was their best ally. Whenever possible, Tristram set a desperate pace, and coming at last to the trees, he was spent and reeling, his head pounding unmercifully. Beside him, Devenish sprawled flat on his back, his voice a sobbing rasp as he admitted he could run no farther. Tristram dropped to his knees. “We've done … jolly well…” he gasped. “Never thought we would … reach this point so—easily.”

“Easily!”

“Could be worse. Save for Claude's guests—they might have … let the hounds loose.”

“True. And I doubt I could've … handled that lot! Speaking of guests—” Devenish uttered a soft, wheezing laugh. “There goes another! D'you ever see such a—a panicked exodus? Like a blasted … Roman chariot race! Old Claude must have—”

Tristram's hand closed over his mouth shutting off the words, as an approaching French voice said, “… have I seen anything to equal it! I tell you this,
mon ami,
something it is very much amiss at the chateau.”

“Aye. And the Englishers at the root of it, I'll warrant!”

“Then our eyes we will keep wide, my Jacques, and perchance win ourselves the big reward—no?”

They loomed into sight; tall dark shapes against the lighter darkness of the night sky. The one called Jacques asked, “You will recall monseigneur's instructions? If we ever again see the Englishmen in the gardens at night, it is the case of ‘shoot first' and then apologize, eh?”

“I always respect a man,” chortled his friend, “who can follow orders.”

They moved off, and were almost out of earshot when Mrs. O'Crumbs, objecting to being restrained, uttered an indignant and penetrating squawk.

“Confound it!” breathed Tristram furiously. “You'd best let her go!”

The retreating footsteps halted. A voice exclaimed suspiciously, “What was that?”

Unaware of her peril, the duck lurched out of the trees, pecking hopefully at the grass.

“Well, it was not a whale!” proclaimed Jacques scornfully. “A bit of sport, at all events.”

Face grim, Devenish started up. Hauling him down, cursing him softly, Tristram heard the other guard admonish his friend to save his ammunition. “We may stand in need of it before this night is out.
Voilà!
Another carriage and going hellbent! What in the name of
le Bon Dieu…
?”

They wandered off and, scarcely waiting for their departure, Devenish darted out to recapture his pet. “Silly old woman!” he scolded, stroking her neck gently. “Almost you were in a French stewing pot!”

“And almost we were discovered!” growled Tristram.

At once, Devenish flared, “Because of me—is that your meaning? Well, I shall not leave her, sir. So perhaps I'd best free you of my disturbing presence!” He eluded Tristram's restraining hand and charged across the open space toward the trees of the Cathay garden.

Tristram groaned his exasperation and peered after the two guards in an effort to discover whether Devenish's wild flight had been detected. They were walking uphill, however, and did not turn back. He sprinted after Devenish and saw him plunge full tilt into the far belt of trees. When Tristram entered those same trees he was met by the sounds of desperate combat. Curses in French and English interspersed, together with much trampling about and the thud of blows. Moving swiftly, Tristram saw Devenish, beset by two hefty guards, fighting gamely, but sadly outclassed by his larger and professional assailants. Tristram ran up and tapped one of the guards on the shoulder. The man spun about and was lifted to his toes by the uppercut that connected hard and true to the point of his jaw.

Heartened, Devenish drove a right into the midsection of his opponent and as the man doubled up, finished him with a flashing left. He then turned to confront his unexpected ally and beamed, “Well met, Sir Knight!”

“You,” said Tristram, breathing hard, “are, without a doubt, the most aggravating, strutting damned gamecock, I ever—”

Devenish chortled irrepressibly; Tristram was forced to a reluctant grin, and cautiously, they left the sanctuary of the trees, side by side. “Your head is bleeding again,” Devenish advised.

“I cannot wonder.” Tristram raised a hand to investigate. “When one has to cope with a bedlamite like—”

“Hey!” Devenish interpolated. “Where's Mrs. O'Crumbs?”

He glanced back. The little duck wove her patient sideways route to them. Devenish froze. Beyond her, two riders broke from the trees, and eastward were several men on foot, running silently to come up with them. His cry of warning was cut off by a metallic twang and, groaning, he sank down, gripping at the steel shaft that protruded from his thigh.

Pistol in hand, Claude rode up, calling, “Well done!” to Gerard, who was replacing a crossbow in the sling about his shoulder.

Tristram stood rigid for an instant, then, accepting the futility of resistance, dropped to one knee beside Devenish who lay propped on one elbow. “Let me see,” he said, moving the clutching hand from the wound.

“How glad I am that you are not yet dead,” Claude grinned. He fingered his jaw, the bruise apparent even in the darkness. “You, I believe, were the one who kicked me?”

“The honour … was mine,” Devenish gasped unevenly.

“Honour must always be rewarded,” purred Claude. “Perhaps you would now be so kind,
mon Colonel,
as to tell me where you have concealed the Misses Strand and my paintings.”

Startled, Tristram looked up from his inspection of Devenish's injury. Surely the man must know that Raoul had driven the girls to safety? On the other hand, between the widespread panic over the outbreak of the “pox,” the melee that had raged before the stables and a perhaps justified reluctance of Claude's servants to impart such news, it was possible he did
not
know! The exquisite humour of the situation dawning on Tristram, he burst into a laugh and, glancing down, saw Devenish grin responsively.

Such insouciance astounded Claude. “Perhaps,” he said, “it is that I did not make myself clear. I should have added that when you tell me what I ask, I shall remove the bolt from your friend. There are several ways in which that can be accomplished, you know. Regrettably, none pleasant. But some less, shall we say—taxing?—than others.” He waved a protesting hand. “Ah—you mistake! Unlike my brother Parnell, I derive no enjoyment from inflicting suffering. It does, in fact, repel me. But,” he shrugged, “you see my predicament?”

Tristram frowned down at Devenish. The bolt was cruelly designed so as to inflict the most possible damage when removed, unless it were to be sawn through, which would of itself constitute a gruelling ordeal. Devenish winked indomitably, but he was sweating, his eyes full of pain, and his face white even in the red glow of the Pagoda. “He needs a doctor,” Tristram said slowly.

“And I need my fiancée and my paintings,” Claude smiled. “Never let it be said that I am unkind. We will carry your friend to the Pagoda and do what we may for him. Meanwhile, Gerard can ride for Dr. Ulrich, though I suspect he is by this time considerably—as you English would say—bosky.”

A grim smile curved Tristram's mouth. So Claude didn't know about Ulrich, either. He must really have ridden out in a hurry!

Claude gestured to Gerard. The steward hesitated briefly, but the runners had now come up with them, and he reined around and rode off. Hope stirred in Tristram's heart. Three guards—and Claude. As if reading his mind, Claude said, “Michel, you will be so kind as to keep your pistol trained on our gallant Colonel at all times. Meanwhile, call in the men.”

Michel's pistol was aimed obediently. With his free hand he drew a whistle from his tunic and blew three loud blasts, then repeated the signal.

Watching Tristram in amusement, Claude said, “Do you know, Colonel, you look quite downcast. Have no fear. I honour my obligations. You two men—help Monsieur Devenish.”

Tristram lifted Devenish to his feet, and the guards supported him on either side, his arms across their shoulders. As they started towards the Pagoda, yet another carriage rumbled down the drive. Claude glared after it, then said chattily, “At first, Leith, I feared you had been sent by your government. But it was Miss Strand all the time, was it not? And the paintings you took purely because you became curious?”

Tristram was thinking that whatever he was going to do, it must be soon, before the rest of the guards converged on them. But—with that pistol at his back, the chances were poor. Sanguinet wanted to boast, obviously. Which might prove useful in case they ever got clear. Therefore, he answered, “I could not understand why such dull paintings were important.”

Claude gave a little crow of pleasure. “But of course you could not. They are not paintings, in the true sense of the word. They are screens, my dear fellow, but not for draughts. They fit inside a carriage I have had specially built. Can you guess why?”

Looking into those jubilant eyes, Tristram managed to keep his own countenance grave. “Screens? If the glare offends you, why not use curtains?”

Claude laughed delightedly. “Oh, but they are not for the glare. You scowl—you are baffled! Yet, I assure you, my screens are
most
important. To France! Aha!
That
surprises you, I see!” He glanced at the guards and lapsing into English, went on, “The secret I unfold, dear
mon Colonel.
You think you have us beaten, eh? But many among us are loyal to Bonaparte. I have the fortune to win the favour of your Prince—a silly fellow. Still, he someday will be King, and by the populace is thus revered, no?”

“No,” answered Tristram, baldly. “He is probably the most unpopular prince England has ever inherited from the House of Hanover.”

“Even so, he have represent your so—so irritant small island. Your government, your peasants even, must be much
embarrassé
were he—shall we say—stole?”

Devenish, whose head was sagging, raised it at this, and gasped incredulously, “Crazy … as a moonling!”

Equally stunned, Tristram was silent. This deadly information was, he knew, being vouchsafed only because Claude believed there was no chance of his schemes being betrayed. Surely, Devenish must be as aware of their sentence of death—and how he was to bring the poor fellow out of this, he could not guess. “If you are serious,” he said scornfully, “pray accept my sympathy. Prinny is guarded at all times. You'd not come near him!”

“You really so think?” Claude asked archly. “Were you aware, my dear friend, that your Prince have built himself a palace at the village named Bright'emstone? Oh, the splendid extravagance, but funds he have into it pour so that he is much criticised. He down there dares not go so often as he wish—a situation that pique him. So I—his friend and admirer—will him show the secret mode of travel. A means to slip to his Pavilion or his new inamorata, with none the wiser being. He is at heart child—wilful, eager, trusting child. Do you doubt his delight? Do you doubt he play my small game?” Tristram's face was unreadable, but Devenish could not hide his consternation, and Sanguinet chuckled. “Your fat Prince into my magical carriage he climb, and Pouf!” he gestured dramatically. “He disappear! Until I choose to allow he reappear. When my terms are met.” In French again, he asked, “Now, my dear Devenish, do you not think I shall—as you might say—do the thing?”