Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (40 page)

The morning was damp and chill, and he wished he still had
Jeremy's fine coat. He'd had to shed it hurriedly the previous dawn
when a farm wife had come upon him in her chicken coop and had been so
courageous as to seize one of the capes and hang on, screeching bloody
murder. He'd attempted to point out that he had left more than
sufficient cash to pay for the three eggs he'd gathered, but his
protests had gone for nought. The woman had recognized him, and her
yowls were for the innocent lady he'd brutalized—not for the products
of her flock. Fortunately, her valour had not gone beyond hanging onto
his coat and, having slipped out of that garment, he'd escaped just
barely ahead of the charge of shot her husband had sent after him.

He crumpled the poster, leaned back his head, and closed his
eyes; and his sigh was not because his arm throbbed so, or because he
was cold and hungry, but for his love. Three days since he'd seen
her—only three days, yet his heart felt bruised and his spirits were
low. How could he endure a lifetime without the sparkle of those
mischievous eyes, the ripple of that lilting laugh, the challenge of
her seeking mind, the warmth of her generous heart . . ? Well, he must,
somehow, for it was quite hopeless, even were he not a hunted fugitive,
even if Sanguinet was not dead. Many people lived out a lifetime denied
the joy and companionship of love—yet they survived. If he could reach
the coast and take ship… if he could escape without dragging his
friends into his predicament, would he prove less resilient, less able
to meet the challenge Fate had flung at him? Pride answered a fierce
"No!" but love whispered, "Nanette… my little shrew…" and he sighed
again.

He had learned a good deal these past three days; notably,
that there was nothing more ghastly than to be despised by one's own
countrymen, and that not all his combined privations in Spain could
compare to the horrors of this brief time of being ruthlessly hunted.

He had escaped Moire by leading his pursuers in circles until
he was reasonably sure that most of Sanguinet's men were hot on his
heels, at which point he'd headed for the marshy ground at the foot of
the hill and left them floundering in the mire. He'd doubled back to
the road then and stolen a ride first on a passing cart of turnips and
later in the day in a hay wain. He'd snuggled deep into that fragrant
cargo and slept from pure exhaustion, only to be rudely awakened by the
tine of a pitchfork slicing through the hay an inch from his nose. He
had sprung up to find the wain halted in a farmyard bathed by a
brilliant sunrise. Three muscular farmhands had gaped at him, then
confirmed his impression of unfriendliness by sending a second
pitchfork streaking for his chest. Not staying to rebuke them for such
unmannerly conduct, he'd taken to his heels, the farmhands following
suit with lusty enthusiasm. He had eluded them at last, but the
incident had served to convince him that Jerry had spoken truly—Sir
Harry Redmond was sought throughout the Southland.

After that he'd not dared travel during the daylight hours.
The posters were everywhere and his description too accurate. For the
first time in his life he was grateful that his beard grew rapidly and
within a day or two would be sufficiently luxuriant to change his
appearance. On Saturday he'd hidden through the daylight hours and
spent the night trudging towards the sea, yet barely avoided a cluster
of hunters watching the road from a hilltop, having apparently decided
their valuable quarry would resort to nighttime travel. Sunday morning
he had to run for his life from four hefty youths who recognized him
despite his beard, and at dusk he was reduced to digging up carrots and
potatoes to ease the pangs of hunger. That night he appropriated a
threadbare woollen jacket from a barn, leaving two shillings to pay for
it. He'd lost Bolster's purse when he abandoned the coat, and after
paying for the jacket was reduced to a grand fortune of two shillings,
a sixpence, and a groat. By Monday he was so changed in appearance he
again attempted daylight travel, but was soon deterred by the several
eager bands he dodged who were very obviously seeking him. To continue
in the face of such odds would be foolhardy, and he'd hidden in a
churchyard until dusk, then struck westward for Cancrizans Priory in
Dorsetshire, stopping here when his enemy, dawn, began to light her
celestial lamps.

His thoughts lingered on his beloved little shrew. Hopefully,
she was by now recovered from the effects of shock… in which case he
thought with a tender smile, poor Bolster would have his work cut out
to prevent the valiant girl from rushing headlong into some impulsive
attempt to shield him by confessing her part in Sanguinet's death.
Mitchell also haunted his reflections: That his brother would recover
he was certain, but he dreaded the effect that vicious whipping might
have on so highly strung and sensitive a young man.

Thus, Harry Redmond, Baronet. A few short weeks ago one of
London's most admired Corinthians, now a ragged, hunted fugitive
accused of hideous crimes, with little of hope and none of joy. Yet
whose musings were perhaps less crushing than they might have been, if
only because they turned so often not upon himself but on those he
loved.

He fell asleep and awoke in early afternoon to warm sunshine.
While washing, he saw so heavily bearded a stranger reflected in the
stream that he was encouraged to step out bravely along a
flower-bedecked lane. He came upon a pedlar who, having failed to sell
him a hammer, a set of croquet mallets, or a device for extracting the
juice of lemons, was overjoyed to trade his lunch for Harry's groat.
The bread was a little stale, he confided (once the groat was safely in
his purse), and the cheese might be a trifle mouldy, since it was his
yesterday's
lunch what he hadn't et since he'd been give a pie in exchange for a
pair of scissors. Nonetheless, no meal at Waiter's had ever pleased
Harry more, and having consumed bread, cheese, and a dry currant bun,
he felt renewed in both mind and body and went upon his way whistling
cheerily.

He was soon on the borders of the New Forest and, entering
that leafy retreat gratefully, stopped at the first stream he came to
and attempted to bathe his hurt. The bandages were soiled and tattered
and the gash much swollen, frighteningly angry looking, and so painful
it was difficult to tend. He was concentrating on his task when he
sensed the presence of others. He crouched, prepared for desperate
combat, but looking up found himself surrounded by solemn-eyed gypsy
children. They seemed unafraid, and when they addressed him in the
Romany tongue, he guessed they believed him to be of their own people,
which was not surprising in view of his tanned skin and abundant dark
hair. He had always had a way with children, and his easy grin and
gentle manner did not fail him now. Soon they were gathered around,
helping as best they might. A small, motherly girl, shaking her head as
she retied the bandage, told him sadly that it was "a very nasty place"
and added that he would surely die within the week unless he came and
let 'Gammer' heal it for him. Harry was possessed of a growing fear
that the wound was mortifying, but was more afraid he would be
recognized. He thanked her but refused, his explanations that he must
get on his way being interrupted by a thougtful boy, slightly older
than the rest, who intervened to demand that they return home. Their
resentment eased into laughter when Harry made a great show of kissing
the hands of the girls and bowing with elaborate flourishes to the
boys. His small nurse was, in fact, so captivated by this procedure
that she returned to offer him her other hand, as well; and upon his
properly saluting those little fingers, he was advised that if he would
wait "a year or nine" she would marry him. He escaped this
contretemps
by confessing the prospect delightful but claiming the existence of a
'wife,' and since his lady love giggled and skipped blithely away,
could not suppose she would grieve excessively. He watched her go,
smiling at her sweet innocence, but when he turned, found the older boy
frowning at him.

Suspecting himself rumbled, he said lightly, "Don't think
she'll wear the willow for me, do you?"

The boy said nothing but brought from his pocket a much-folded
sheet of paper and held it out, his eyes large with importance.

Taking this document, Harry unfolded it and looked upon a far
grimmer poster, ominously headed with a royal 'G. R.' The reward stood
now at an unprecedented Two Thousand Guineas, and to the crimes of
Kidnapping, Assault, and Brutality, were added the cowardly, murder of
the gallant father of his victim. The details must wring the hardest
heart in the land, and his description now included the item that his
face was severely scratched, wherefore he would very likely grow a
beard to cover those telltale marks. His heart sinking, Harry muttered,
"Not much doubt who I am, is there?"

"They've took the niceness out of your eyes, sir. And made
your mouth turn down 'stead of up."

"Thank you." And all too aware that his life was held in this
child's hands, he pointed out quietly, "Two thousand guineas is a great
amount of money."

"It be," the boy acknowledged with an odd dignity. "But we
Romanys do know Devil Sanguinet. He served our people crool. Me granfer
says they've made him out good, and if they'd lie about that, the whole
lot's likely wrong."

This evidence of sagacity cheered Harry, and he asked for
advice on the state of the hunt. He was warned not to go near the
seacoast and that the country from here to Devonshire was being beaten
for him by both the populace and the military. "Ye'll be took and hung
in a hour, sir, does ye not turn about for Lunon—or the north."

If Harry was sure of anything, it was that his friends were
fighting for him; but it was very evident that Bolster had been all too
correct when he'd said it would take time. The murder, of course, had
brought in the full power of the King's justice… and there would
certainly be international ramifications. His one chance was to get out
of the country—to start life anew… "Them scratches," the boy was
muttering uncertainly. "You didn't never
really
hurt the gentry-mort?"

"Good lad! No, I never so much as raised a hand…" Harry
stopped, his thoughts on a sunlit clearing, the scene coming so vividly
to mind that the boy wondered at the wistfulness in his eyes. "Well,
and I'm a liar," he admitted, "for I boxed the lady's ears."

A broad grin spread over the small, dark face. "Were she
obstrep'rous, sir? Me dad boxes Mum's ears be she obstrep'rous. Not as
she minds nohow, for they always cuddly-kiss afterwards."

"She was… just a mite obstreperous," Harry smiled. "Yet I dare
to think she forgave me, though we did not—ah, cuddly-kiss."

They shook hands, man to man, and calling, "I hope ye gets
clean away! Kooshti divvus!" the boy ran lightly after his companions.

The woods seemed very lonely when all sounds of the children
had died away. Staring at the sparkling riffles of the stream, Harry at
last faced the truth. He could not hope to reach either the coast or
Cancrizans Priory. Nor could he very much longer journey alone. His arm
must have medical attention, for the dry burning of his skin was not,
he feared, from the sun. Reluctantly, he put pride away. The time had
come when he must call on his friends for help.

It grew very warm in the late afternoon, but Harry pushed on,
having decided to attempt a wide northerly loop and swing south again
towards the homes of Lucian St. Clair, the Earl of Harland, and Lord
John Moulton, at any one of which he was sure to find sanctuary. Of the
three great houses he preferred Lucian's Beechmead, for he knew the
Viscount and his bride would still be away and thus unanswerable for
shielding him. He was commencing to feel oddly confused at times,
however, and with the advent of dusk, blundered clumsily into a large
group of searchers he should have easily avoided. For the next two
hours he played a desperate game of least-in-sight with them. Only the
darkness saved him; and as their shouts faded, he was forced to rest
until the frantic hammering of his heart and the searing in his lungs
eased. Huddled among the reeds beside a turgid stream, he gripped his
throbbing arm and panted heavily. Never again would he be able to enjoy
the hunt, for he was commencing to know too well the helpless panic of
the hunted. When he started off once more, he was periodically shaken
by chills though his skin seemed on fire. He stumbled on until the
lights of an isolated farmhouse loomed before him. A cart covered by
sacking stood under a rickety lean-to, a large black dog snoring beside
it. To venture closer was to risk discovery, but he was too exhausted
to care. He headed for the cart, stepped over the dog, crawled inside
and, pulling the sacking over him, was lulled to sleep by the snores of
the inept canine sentry.

"What d'you mean—killed him?" exclaimed the apothecary
indignantly, putting down his saw. "Ain't s'much as laid a finger on
him yet!"

His accuser, a short, round, balding individual given to
innocently raised brows and a meek hesitancy of manner, peered more
closely at the man who sprawled in the chair of the dusty little shop,
right arm trailing over the side, bearded face sunk onto his chest, and
long legs extended before him. "Looks t'me," he blinked, "like ye've
lost the customer I brung ye, Stanley Crimp. Gentleman's been and gone
and died on ye, sure enough!"

"A sight you know of it, Bert!" Mr. Crimp's thin claw of a
hand reached for his customer's wrist nevertheless and, having located
a pulse, mirth lit his cadaverous features as he proceeded to
straighten his greasy hair, then tie a soiled apron about his middle. "
Gentleman
—is
it? That's a laugh!"