Love Alters Not (44 page)

His classic features for once lacking all traces of the amused cynicism with which he viewed the world, Otton stood and gazed silently at the quizzing glass he swung gently to and fro. His eyes drifted to the pale face of the distraught girl. “I must be honest, Miss Cranford,” he said gravely, “and tell you that you've made a poor choice in coming to me. Surely your brothers have other resources. I'd think—”

“They are doing their best. One of my brothers is racing to beg the help of Sir Brian Chandler at Lac Brillant; the other is gone to the army post in Salisbury. Lord Glendenning is driving Farrar's swiftest team in search of his father, the Earl of Bowers-Malden.”

“Well then, ma'am, I fancy you've done all that can be done. When such formidable allies arrive, they will—”

“Find Sir Anthony has been hanged,” she whispered brokenly.

“No, no, ma'am. Scarcely that. He will be held at the barracks until—”

“He has not been taken to the barracks,” she interrupted once more. “It was what we had surmised also, but—but he is imprisoned in Buckler Castle.” The lazy swing of his hand arrested, Otton stared at her in mute astonishment. Desperate, she stood and faced him. “The priest in Decimus Green accompanied us there. Sir Anthony is denied all visitors. They would tell us nothing, but my brother has taken a gypsy boy to be his page, and Florian knows a scullery maid in the castle. He was able to learn that Anthony is held without food or … water.” Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and went on threadily, “He has been—cruelly beaten, sir, and—and is to be tried early in the morning, on charges of desertion and … of murdering his cousin, which is a wicked lie! Everyone in the castle knows he will be found guilty. They are—already preparing the—the gibbet!” Her voice broke. She wiped frantically at her eyes.

“Be damned!” gasped Otton, shocked out of his customary imperturbability. “They must be demented! What bucolic fool would perpetrate such a gross miscarriage of justice?”

“Lord H-Hibbard Green!”

He tensed and stood very still and silent for a moment, then quoted half to himself, “‘A beast that wants discourse of reason…' So that's it!”

“Are you acquaint with the gentleman?” asked Dimity anxiously.

“Lord forbid, ma'am. I've met him, and leave his vicinity so soon as may be. But I'll tell you this, you'll find no man hereabouts will dare oppose him. I guarantee that when your brother reaches the army post and reveals his errand, he will find the Commandant mysteriously unavailable. Sir Brian Chandler would challenge Green, but lacks the rank to prevail against him. As for Glendenning's formidable sire—” he pursed his lips judicially. “The earl's a crusty old devil, who would delight in such a contest, but if what you tell me is indeed so, Bowers-Malden can never hope to reach here in time.” He shook his head as tears slid silently down Dimity's white cheeks, and drew her into his arms. “No, no, my pretty. Never weep over spilt milk. I'll kiss away those—”

Enraged, she pushed him back. “Horrid creature! I come to beg your help, and you try to make love to me! What manner of gentleman are you?”

“No manner, m'dear.” He grinned unrepentantly. “I deny such an appellation most vehemently. I am a wanderer—a fighting man whose sword, wit, or loyalty are to be had for a price. No, never curl your lip—I do but tell you the pure truth of this marvel that is me.”

She frowned into his laughing eyes. “You were Anthony's friend once! Do you care nothing that, even as we speak, they are trying to force him to sign a confession to a murder he never committed?”

A muscle rippled in his jaw, but he said easily, “Farrar denied me. Ran me out of his house, by Jupiter! You heard him. Besides, even did I want to help him—which, mark you, is at odds with my principles—there's nought I could do against Hibbard Green. He's a very bad man, even I will admit that, but in his own district he is all-powerful. And old Tony, poor fellow, has been living on borrowed time since Prestonpans.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “My regrets, but—”

Dimity sprang forward and seized the edges of his coat. “You are the grandson of the Duke of Marbury!
He
could help! And he likes Tony!” She caught a rare glimpse of anger, and before he could speak, she put her hand over his lips. “No, no! Do not refuse. For the love of God,
help
me!”

He removed her hands from his coat and anxiously smoothed away the wrinkles she had made. “You are—something fond of our—er, deserter, I think?”

She wept openly now, racked by the terrible pain of hopelessness. “I love him with—with all my heart … all my soul. And I know … he must—must die, but Florian said … Anthony had pleaded for a firing s—squad. That monster taunts him with—with public …
h-hanging!
No matter what they say of him, sir, he is a—a brave man, and not afraid of d-death. But—the shame of—of being
hanged
will break his dear heart! Oh, God—have pity on him!” She bowed her face into her hands and sobbed.

Otton scowled, then a thoughtful expression came into his eyes. Not one to miss an opportunity, he said slowly, “There is, perhaps … one way in which you could—er, buy my services…”

Dimity lifted a pathetic, tear-streaked face. If this man could prevail upon his grandfather to come, the duke might be able to influence the court to grant Anthony's plea for a less shameful death. For that, she would do anything. No sacrifice was too great. “N-name it…” she gulped resolutely, having a very fair idea of what he meant to ask.

She had reckoned without the driving ambition of Roland Otton. “I am most interested,” he murmured, “in a certain … cypher…”

XVIII

In some respects Buckler Castle resembled its owner. Certainly, it had seen better days and, crouched like some vast and malignant menace some distance from the market town of Greenlow, it lacked both grace and dignity, inspiring travellers not with a desire to investigate the ancient structure, but rather to depart its vicinity without delay.

On this cloudy morning, however, many people had braved the rather chill wind and toiled up the hill to where Lord Hibbard Green presided in the vast chamber that had once been the hall of audience and was now converted (at no little expense to the ratepayers) to a court of justice for the district. The crowd was in a holiday mood; many had known and admired handsome young Sir Harding Farrar and were eager to see his heartless murderer brought to justice. Others, including several groups carried in by special coaches, were the grieving relatives of men who had died in the Battle of Prestonpans and who were equally eager to see justice done.

In the study adjacent to the courtroom, the local representative of the King's Justice preened before the mirror, adjusted the flowing wig that was so at odds with his bloated features, straightened his robes, and barked, “Well?”

Brooks Lambert closed the door behind him and strolled closer to my lord's bulk. “He would not sign, sir.”

“What?”
His face mottled with rage, Green jerked around. “You had all night, damn you! Do you mean that the three of you were unable to break one man? By God, but I should have done the thing myself!”

“In which case, my lord,” said Lambert dryly, “you'd likely have killed him. It seemed to me desirable that Farrar be able to walk to the dock. As to whether he signed the confession, I fail to see it as vital. You can very easily prevent his denying the charges.
You
have appointed his Counsel, and your men are already in place to stir up the yokels. With luck he'll be dragged out and lynched before the trial is concluded, and I and my fellows quite unable to hold back such a mob.”

“Humph,” growled his lordship begrudgingly. “It might serve, at that. You're no fool, Lambert.”

“I've to give you credit, sir,” murmured Lambert. “You've planned it very well. How did you manage to bring in all the grieving kinfolk?”

The baron chuckled. “Sent my men searching for them days ago. I was fairly sure Farrar would attend the bazaar since 'tis his church that is to benefit. Not that it's necessary they be here, but it adds a touch of pathos to the scene which don't hurt.”

“I only hope the boy appreciates the service you render him,” said Lambert idly.

My lord frowned. “Boy? What boy?”

“Why—the young, er, Pretender, sir. Carlton Farrar. The child who will inherit The Palfreys and the fortune.”

Hibbard Green's laughter could be heard all the way down the stairs.

*   *   *

Dimity clung very tightly to Peregrine's hand and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the monstrous figure of the man who would, she was sure, pass sentence of death on her beloved. How pleased and smug he looked, seated at the lofty bench. Even as she watched him, he directed a confident smile to someone seated in the front row. She craned her neck and caught sight of Phillip Ellsworth's handsome profile. With a pang, she thought of him stepping into Anthony's shoes as master of The Palfreys. But there was always the chance that young Carlton's claim was a true one. ‘In which case,' she thought dully, ‘the child had better be closely guarded!'

Roland Otton had been all too correct in his prediction of Peregrine's reception at the army post. Having stated his mission, he was left to cool his heels for an hour, then advised that it was most regrettable, but the Commandant was in London, and he was the only person able to intervene in such a matter. Word would be sent to him “at once.” Well aware of how slowly grind the wheels of the military administration, Peregrine had returned, raging, and now sat beside his sister, tight-lipped and seething with frustration.

Dimity felt him start, heard a muffled exclamation from Lady Helen seated to her left, and jerked her head around as a ripple of talk swept the large room. The prisoner was being brought into the dock.

Peregrine whispered, “Hang on, Mitten! Courage!”

His words seemed very far away. She saw only the beloved figure, bowed now and moving weavingly between his guards, the fair head hanging low. She heard the clank of chains as one of the guards lifted his arm and guided the manacled hand to grip the edge of the dock. Someone was reading the indictment in a singsong voice. Somehow, Dimity fought away the ache of grief and sympathy, and made herself attend.

My lord said irritably, “The prisoner does not raise his hand. Does he understand? We quite appreciate his shame and his unwillingness to meet the eyes of those who will judge him, but it must be ascertained that he is aware of the gravity of the charges against him.”

The words found their way through the haze of pain and thirst that tormented Farrar. He dragged his throbbing head up. There was an instant of stunned silence, broken by Lady Helen's horrified cry. One side of his face was almost covered by dark bruises; his mouth was swollen, and there was a deep gash above his right eye. Scarcely able to comprehend what was going forward, he swayed drunkenly as he peered about the great room, but the instinct for self-preservation was strong and he managed to croak, “Not … guilty—murder…”

However the spectators might lust to watch a villain hang, that the accused had been badly treated before a verdict was brought in did not suit their ideas of fair play, and a small ripple of protest spread and grew louder.

The shock to Dimity was less than it had been for Helen, for when Florian had brought word that Sir Anthony was being “persuaded” to sign a confession, her imagination had supplied a picture of the means of that persuasion. But although she was to an extent prepared, to see him in such a condition was so painful that she could not keep back a sob. Peregrine's hand tightened crushingly on her fingers, and she heard him swear savagely. Then, my lord was pounding with his gavel and gradually silence was achieved.

“Another demonstration of this nature, and the bailiff will clear the court,” he roared. “Captain Lambert, what is the meaning of this outrage? Sir Anthony Farrar is a prisoner in my district, and as such is under my protection. That he has been most roughly handled is all too evident, and I tell you plainly, sir, that I do not tolerate such abominations. I may be a stern man, sir, but I am an humanitarian, and as such, I demand an explanation!”

There were murmurs of gratification and support for these proper sentiments, and all eyes were on the tall young soldier as he stepped before the bench.

“I take full responsibility, my lord,” he said clearly. “When we arrested Sir Anthony yesterday, the crowd became enraged, and my men were unable to hold the line. Regrettably, the prisoner was rather mauled about before we were able to prevent such an atrocity. However, I assure you he has received continuous attention throughout the night.”

“That's very obvious, you damned nail,” growled Peregrine,
sotto voce.

The captain's forthright answer appeared to have pacified his lordship, however, and the crowd raised no further demur when he ordered that, the indictment having been read, Mr. Eccles, the Counsel for the Prisoner, might now address the jury.

Mr. Eccles, a round-faced man of middle age with a perpetual smile, folded his hands upon his ample paunch and faced the jury. This was composed of three men who whispered together and giggled throughout, a fourth who looked around with the vacuous leer of the mentally deranged, while another appeared to be slightly intoxicated, since he hiccuped repeatedly. Two older gentlemen cupped their hands about their ears and nodded at the wrong moments. Of the five remaining, one kept nodding off to sleep, one was surreptitiously sketching on a pad of paper, much to the amusement of his neighbour, and the foreman was busily engaged in flirting with a buxom damsel in the front row of the spectators.

The prisoner, Mr. Eccles pointed out to these sterling jurymen, had been taken into the home of Sir Gilbert Farrar as an orphaned little lad. He had been well treated, nay, treated with a love as deep as his own parents might have given him. From having been cast adrift upon the sea of adversity, he found himself in the most luxurious surroundings imaginable and grew up enjoying such an environment. What more natural than that he be touched by the wicked spirit of covetousness? Surely, the jury were compassionate human beings who could appreciate the temptations such a background might provoke?