Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (42 page)

Blows thudded upon him, and a voice growled in his ear that
he'd best act civil to the gent. The rider grinned, a soft hissing
escaping his stained teeth as he waited. A small sound—that brought
with it the blinding flash of recognition. "He's not a gent!" Harry
croaked. "He's Devil Dice!"

There was an instant of stunned silence. Shotten froze, his
features becoming livid as all eyes turned to him. Then he threw back
his head and laughed raucously. "That's a good one!" He glanced around,
but M. Sanguinet's staunch retainers had melted into the crowd at
Harry's words, not to be seen again. "All right now," he barked,
"here's yer rope, me bullies!"

Harry's desperate attempt to speak was stifled as his head was
jerked back and the noose—already tied, he noticed—was thrust towards
him. He wished anguishedly that he'd died after Rodrigo, honourably.
But then Nanette's piquant little face flashed before his eyes and he
knew this was worthwhile… Only he so yearned to have seen her, just
once more before—

"Wait a bit!" A new voice and a pale young face frowned into
Harry's dazed eyes. That he commanded some respect here was evidenced
by the way the eager tumult quieted.

"Get on with it!" cried Shotten. "You gonna let him orf? The
Runners'll cover it all up if they get him, 'cause he's Quality, and—"

"And you bean't, eh? Very far from it, I'm sure," the newcomer
retaliated scornfully. "Redmond will hang—don't ye never doubt that. We
doesn't hold with murdering kidnappers in Winchester!" A clamour of
agreement supported his statement, and Shotten glared vindictively at
him. The brief respite was allowing Harry a chance to gather his
scattered wits. His vision was clearing, and with a leap of hope he
recognized the newcomer as Tim Van Lindsay's soldier—the fellow with
'two first names' he had helped a little that afternoon at Maidstone.
Billy somebody… Billy Ernest!

"We all knows what this'n done," Ernest was saying. "But, by
grab, we knows a sight more o' what Devil Dice done! It won't hurt to
hear what Redmond's got to tell us—knowing as he's at the gates o'
hell, as you could say." The clear eyes bored steadily at Harry. There
was no trace of recognition in their depths, yet that long look
convinced him that the youth meant to help insofar as he was able, his
harsh words merely a cover for whatever he had in mind.

The large man who held Harry's left arm demanded he "spit it
out," his grip tightening unbearably. "If you will shift… your blasted
paw a trifle, fellow," Harry rasped, "I shall endeavour to do so!"

There were a few chuckles, not unmixed with reluctant
admiration. He was gaunt, his face streaked with blood, his beard and
hair shaggy, his clothes tattered; yet there was withal a proud tilt to
his head, an indomitable light in his eyes still.

"He do be a game-un, you gotta allow him that!" observed a
rotund little man wearing a butcher's apron.

"He's a murdering liar as you shouldn't give a ear!" Dice
contradicted. "I'm a respectable gent, and no one can't prove no
different!"

Harry's gaze was fixed on that belligerent face. He'd likely
not be able to prove anything at that, but— His breath caught as he saw
at last the superb bay mare that Dice struggled to restrain. Lace! His
peerless Lace! And she was trying to come to him, snorting her
eagerness although Dice held her with a hand of iron. Her snowy
fetlocks were gone, but he'd know her anywhere in the world! "I can
prove what I say!" he claimed ringingly. "A few weeks back I was shot
by Devil Dice—or Shotten as he calls himself—and my best mare stolen.
Your—ah—'
gent'
there rides her now!"

Dice's denial was vehement and well larded with oaths; but
fear glistened in his little eyes, and he edged the mare a few paces
away.

Harry called an imperious, "Watch!" and whistled piercingly.
At once, Lace spun about and reared, whinnying and pawing the air. A
shout of excitement went up. Dice panicked, tore the mare's head round,
and galloped off.

"Stop him!" screamed Billy Ernest.

Several men sprinted in pursuit. Harry whistled again. A loud,
clear warbling note. Lace did not fail him. She swung back immediately,
and when Shotten sought to wrench her away, she bucked, coupling all
the power of her sleek muscles with her rage that she should be kept
from her beloved master. Dice shrieked and soared from the saddle, an
eager group running to apprehend him.

"Look out!" warned Ernest, jumping clear. The mare's ears
flattened and the crowd scattered madly from her headlong charge as she
thundered to Harry, teeth bared. The man holding his right arm yelped
and retreated. The large individual to his left was made of sterner
stuff, however, and swung his captive so that he himself was protected
from the mare. Lace reached across her master's shoulder and sampled
his captor. The large man let out a howl and relaxed his grip. Gasping
with pain and desperation, Harry drove a right jab into his midsection
and leapt for the saddle. He urged Lace away. How smooth was her
stride, and how lightning fast! But as he sent the mare galloping to
the woods, he saw from the corner of his eye a levelled musket. He
flung himself down and, clinging to the pommel, glanced back. Young
Ernest was limping after him, shouting threats and waving his arms,
while a great grin spread over his face as he effectively blocked the
musket owner's aim.

"Remove your hands from my body at once, Sir Harry Redmond!"
Harry straightened in the saddle and opened his eyes eagerly but saw
only a tracery of branches against the orange sky. A moment ago the sky
had been grey and it had begun to drizzle… He reached for the trailing
reins. It must be late afternoon… but was it still Wednesday . . ? He
caught himself in the nick of time, having almost tumbled to the
ground. Mustn't fall again… last time he'd barely been able to remount.
He wound the reins about the pommel and lifted his left wrist
carefully. Tucking the hand into his buttoned jacket, he flinched as
pain lanced excruciatingly from the swollen fingers to his armpit.
Damn, but he'd be put out if they had to amputate! Was that Mitch
calling him? He shook his head, angered that the fever was clouding his
mind so. "Damn you, Sanguinet," he muttered fretfully, "You
shall
not
beat me!"

He took up the reins again and rode on through countryside
that was a veritable paradise of lush greens, the meadows begemmed with
wildflowers, the air sweet with their fragrance, and everywhere the
chestnut trees, standing proudly in their pink or white crinolines like
arboreal ladies waiting for the dance. Aware only dimly of these sylvan
beauties, Harry turned Lace southeast and, in a dogged refusal to yield
to pain and weakness, sang softly the most ribald Spanish song he knew.

"Mitchell!" The Reverend Langridge hurried across the entrance
hall at Greenwings, both hands outstretched to the young man who had
burst through the front doors of the gracious old mansion, pushed past
the startled butler, and was running towards the stairs.

His face strained and grey eyes dark with fear, Mitchell
gripped his uncle's hands, his own trembling. "Hello. sir," he managed,
in a brave attempt at self-control. "Bolster told me that you and my
aunt visit the Moultons."

"Well, John's away, m'boy, but his lady has made us welcome,
bless her! And thank God she did not accompany him, for Salia was ever
a splendid nurse, as you are no doubt a—"

"Harry!" Mitchell interpolated tersely, "He—he's not… ?"

"No, no, lad," Langridge soothed. "He goes on nicely. Good
gracious, but you look ready to drop. Did anyone see you come here?"

"What? Oh, I don't know! Bolster said Harry is very near to
sticking his spoon in the wall! I must go to him!"

"Calm yourself, I beg. He's sleeping now. I was the one who
found him, you know. It was dusk, and I'd not have seen him had I not
chanced to spot a horse standing in the park. Poor fellow was fighting
frantically to drag himself back into the saddle; likely thought we
were more of those damnable bounty hunters! I ran up and took the poor
lad in my arms. He lay there, trying to smile, like the brave fellow he
is, and with tears of joy in his eyes to see it was me. "Hello, sir,"
says he. "Did I get all the way to Wimbledon, then?"

Mitchell's face twisted, and Langridge shook his head sadly.
"Poor, poor Harry. Salia has been caring for him. She is very skilled,
you know, and—"

"For the love of God!
Will
you tell me
straight out! Can he live?"

"Of course he can! Now pray do not struggle so. Your brother
is not upstairs, at all events."

Mitchell, a nightmare ride behind him, lifted one hand to his
brow and said a bewildered, "Not… upstairs? Then—where . . ?"

" 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword!' "

Mordecai started as that resonant quotation rang out. Under
his breath, Mitchell whispered a furious, "Hell and the devil!" and,
turning, smiled tautly. "Aunt Wilhemina. How do you do?"

Mrs. Langridge towered behind him, her turbaned head high, the
lofty ostrich plumes waving, and her large dark eyes grave. She wore a
robe of mulberry velvet edged with pink brocade, over a rose pink slip;
a not-unattractive combination, but spoiled by the great bishops
sleeves that contributed to an impression of vastness.

Mitchell bowed dutifully over the hand she extended and,
having scolded him for his disgraceful behaviour in France, she allowed
him to kiss her cheek, while remarking that he did not look at all
himself since he had been so brutally whipped. He stiffened and flushed
darkly, but his attempt to speak was drowned as his aunt proceeded to
point out that most of the present woes of the Redmonds sprang from
their refusal to heed the wisdom of the Bible. "'Vengeance is mine; I
will repay, saith the Lord!'" she cried, one plump hand upswung.

The set of Mitchell's jaw alarmed his uncle, who hastily
suggested that they adjourn to Lord John's study. Mitchell bestowed a
frigid bow upon his aunt; but her hand fastened upon his arm, and in a
display of kindness she said, "Harry has been magnificent throughout.
You may be very proud of him."

"I am," he said simply. "Thank you, Aunt," and followed
Mordecai.

He might have known, thought Langridge, filling two glasses
with Moulton's best Madeira, that Bolster wouldn't be able to break the
news without scaring the boy half out of his wits. Best fellow in the
world was young Bolster, but not the soul of tact. "I shall take you to
Harry directly," he smiled. "But we cannot have you looking as though
you are come for his funeral, can we? Sit down now— that's better.
Drink up. You have had a nasty shock."

The potency of the wine began to relieve some of the terrible
tension that had scourged Mitchell since Bolster had miserably told him
to hasten to his brother's side, "before it is too late…"

"Sir," he said, "do you know what happened? Where he's been?"

"He doesn't say much of it. For the first few days, save for a
brief interval or two, he was out of his head completely. All he spoke
of was his 'little shrew'—and yourself. He says he had 'a spot of
pother' in Winchester. It was a good deal more, I'd imagine, for when I
found him he was weak as a cat, had hold of the stirrup and could not
so much as pull himself to his knees. Indeed, how he came all those
miles when he must have been suffering the most hideous agonies, I
cannot—" Tardily becoming aware of the horror in his nephew's eyes, he
said in a rallying tone, "Splendid constitution, of course, else we
would have buried him the first day!" Mitchell whitened at this, but
again perceiving his blunder, the Reverend went on, "Never look so
anxious, boy. Danger's over now, praise God! Lucky I found him, though.
I did tell you it was me that found him? And lucky I'd the presence of
mind to have escorted your aunt here. She and Salia are bosom bows, you
know. Odd, isn't it? They are not at all alike. But… schooldays, that
kind of thing. Indeed, it is quite astonishing how Salia can handle—"
He coughed, reddened, and finished, "Well, enough of that! How are you,
my boy? You got into quite a nasty muddle yourself."

… quite a nasty muddle… Mitchell smiled a shade too brightly.
"Perfectly fit, thank you, sir. My back's almost healed."

Perhaps, thought Langridge regretfully. But your spirit ain't.

The day was not warm, the sun hiding behind a hazy overcast,
while a brisk breeze riffled the leaves on the old trees that stood
majestically about Greenwings's velvet sward. Mitchell was aghast,
therefore, to be conducted to the rear terrace where a youthful maid
kept vigil beside a bed. Astounded, he strode to look down at his
brother. Harry lay on his side, sleeping peacefully, the coverlet
pulled high around him, but his left arm bared to the elements.
Glancing at the wound, Mitchell gasped, and he jerked scared eyes to
the haggard features, clean shaven now, but very white save for the
dark hollows about the eyes. Aching with sympathy, he reached out to
lightly touch the tumbled hair.

"Now burn you, Mitch!" grumbled Harry, turning onto his back
and opening his eyes. "I
knew
you'd come rushing
here like Horatio to the gate, or whatever in the hell it was he rushed
to."

A brilliant grin gave the lie to his scolding. The hand he
stretched out was cool and firm, if rather bony, so that gripping it
between both his own, Mitchell blinked rapidly and, fighting for
control, said a choked, "Blast you! What a deuce of a fright you… gave
me!"

"No, did I? Well, I understand just how you felt." Harry's
fingers tightened and he added, "You look splendid, young cub."

Mitchell was quite powerless to respond, and for an
emotion-charged moment they maintained that strong handclasp while
their eyes conveyed the love their lips could not speak. Then Mitchell
swung away and, having made a show of blowing his nose, grunted, "And
it was not Horatio but Horatius; nor a gate but a—"