Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (37 page)

"Much they care! They live safely in their London mansions and
on their lush south country estates. What do they know of these once
beautiful moors and heaths? Do you think they care if the valleys are
blasted by smokestacks; if the trees wither and die; if factory towns
spring up that are an abomination to God's green earth?"

Fascinated by his grim face, Charity cried, "Then they must be
made
to know! Somebody must—"

A sharp, staccato explosion sounded. Something whistled past
Charity's ear. Redmond jerked around in the saddle. A small knot of
horsemen was coming up fast. Even as he looked, he saw the flash of
another shot. They had not resorted to pistols in Warrington. Even that
wretched Shotten had carried a club, not a gun. Sanguinet must be
getting desperate. He reached over and slapped Charity's mare hard
across the rump. The animal leapt forward and was away at the gallop.
Redmond adjusted his own pace and reached down for the pistol in his
saddle holster, but glancing back again, he decided the distance was
too great for accuracy. He urged his horse to a faster gait, keeping
ever between Charity and the merciless hunters who followed.

It scarcely seemed possible that Shotten and his crew had come
up so soon. The innkeeper in Warrington had vowed to keep them locked
up until morning. True, he had risked that stop in Stoke-on-Trent, but
they'd only rested for two hours, surely not sufficient to— And the
answer came with a jolt. "Liverpool! Claude must have sent another lot
by ship!" But how they could have been seen, how they could have been
tracked down so swiftly, baffled him. They had ridden hard all through
the evening and into the night, their way lit by that devilish red
glare from the foundries. He had pushed Charity so hard, so
mercilessly, even when she sagged with fatigue. And bless her brave
heart, she had responded, her only care seeming to be for him. He
pressed one hand to the unending throb in his side and wondered how
much longer they had. If they were run down, if he was killed, what
would become of Charity? He gritted his teeth. Harry would come. Harry
never failed. If he himself should fall, Harry would take up the torch
and take care of Charity…

Another shot rang out, and he felt his sleeve plucked by
invisible fingers. Someone back there was a fine marksman.

Charity's face, frightened, turned to him, and he waved
reassurance at her, but glancing back, he saw that they were close.
Much too close.

He snatched up a pistol. Then, reining his horse to a sudden
rearing halt, he turned about, drew the second pistol, took quick aim,
and fired once and twice. He was quite prepared for death and was
mildly surprised when a ball whistled past without touching him. The
first rider had pitched from the saddle at once. The second man aimed a
long-barrelled pistol and fired, but the lead horse reared in fright as
its master fell and then caromed into its neighbour, and the shot went
wide. The second man was thrown, and a wild melee ensued as the
following riders were unable to swerve in time. Grinning with delight,
Redmond drove home his spurs and tore after Charity.

Soon, the rain began again. The clouds seemed ever lower and
ever more lurid. Charity cringed as thunder rolled distantly and the
red heavens were split by a blue glare. Southwards, a hilltop loomed,
studded with the angular shapes of buildings and chimneys. They were
coming into a town—a large one by the look of it. Perhaps they would
have a chance there. Perhaps they could hide from Claude's hunters.

Lightning flashed again as they raced side by side across a
bridge, the flash reflected briefly from a boil of fast water far below.

"Coventry!" Redmond shouted. "Stay close beside me, my mouse!"

They galloped through the almost deserted streets of the
suburbs. A man leaned from the window of a chaise, shouting
unintelligible wrath because they had rounded a comer so suddenly they
almost collided with him. A heavy dray was ahead, but they were past
like the wind, one to each side, thunder growling as though pushing
them ever faster. They overtook a rumbling stagecoach, and Charity saw
the pale blur of a face at the window, a young boy, awake and staring
out at them.

Mitchell shouted a warning and turned sharply onto a very
narrow, cobblestoned street lined with tall, half-timbered houses that
seemed striving to kiss the opposite gables as they leaned across the
narrow thoroughfare. Lightning flashed vividly, and the thunder was
almost instantaneous, shattering the night with a deafening clap of
sound. Charity's mare screamed with fright and reared madly. Taken by
surprise, she was hurled from the saddle. She landed very hard…

She was riding across the Downs, laughing as Justin
demonstrated that he could stand on his saddle. And then, suddenly she
was falling. Justin was running to her, shouting, "Charity… my
precious! My beloved! Dear God, not
her
— please,
not her…"

Only the voice was not that of her brother. And it was so
agonized, so broken. She must help him… She managed to open her eyes
and tried to smile. It all came back, then. Her legs felt not so bad.
It was her head that ached so fiercely. And Mitchell Redmond's was the
dark, griefstricken countenance that bent above her. "I'm… all right,"
she managed.

He gave a great shuddering sob and raised her very gently. But
when she did not cry out or seem hurt, he crushed her against him for a
brief, but exquisite, few seconds.

"Can you stand?" he asked unsteadily. "I'm afraid your horse
bolted, back towards them. If they saw where she came from…"

She stood, his arm tight about her.

"We'll take my hack," he said, guiding her wavering steps,
"until—"

A thunder of hooves. A triumphant shout. Redmond groaned a
curse, grabbed for his holster, and cursed again as the hack panicked
and cantered away. He swept Charity into the looming darkness of a
recessed door and swung about, fists clenched, knowing helplessly that
he had a minute or two at most.

Charity said, "Mitch! Here!"

And something was thrust into his hand. Sanguinet's bullies
were galloping straight at him, but there was no shooting now, as there
had been none in the stable. He thought, ''They've no need to fire.
They can ride me down and get the book…"

He swung up the walking cane Charity had passed him, only to
discover that he held not a cane, but a long, wet gentleman's umbrella
that had apparently been left out to drain. He grinned suddenly, jumped
into the centre of the street and, as the five horses thundered at him,
whipped open the umbrella with a snap, right under their highbred noses.

Chaos. A turmoil of rearing, neighing, kicking horseflesh and
cursing, howling men. To top it off, Charity was screaming at the top
of her lungs. Windows were flung up. Lamps began to shine from upper
floors.

A burly ruffian, wielding a serviceable-looking cudgel, raced
at Mitchell. He dodged at the last second, but this man was skilled in
his murderous calling, and he struck out, the blow grazing Mitchell's
temple and sending him staggering.

The burly man whirled and came in, grinning.

"
En garde
…" gasped Mitchell
breathlessly, flourishing the umbrella as if it had been a sword.

His adversary's reply was crudely profane, but as he came on
full tilt, his cudgel whipping for the head, Mitchell's right foot
stamped forward and he thrust in a superb return from the wrist driving
by a hairsbreadth under the whizzing cudgel. The point of the umbrella
rammed into the burly man's middle. He sat down abruptly, opening and
shutting his mouth, his eyes round and staring like a landed trout. His
friends had sorted themselves out and they came at a run. Mitchell
stepped back a pace, his umbrella circling warily. From above, someone
shouted, "Hey! Four to one! That ain't fair! Play the game square, you
coves!'' And a bottle ricochetted from the arm of one of the ruffians,
drawing a howl of rage and pain.

The last man had halted and drawn a pistol. The shot was
deafening in the narrow confines of the street.

A white-hot pain lanced across Mitchell's scalp. Dimly, he
heard windows slamming shut. Lamps were extinguished. He must not go
down… he must not. He shook his head desperately, wiped blood from his
eyes, gripped his umbrella and stepped forward. "Come on… you
bastards…" he croaked.

They came on in a hurly-burly of swinging fists, flailing
clubs, and jeering profanity. Mitchell jabbed the umbrella into the
stomach of one, swiped it across the face of another, and was staggered
by a blow that sent him to his knees. Dazed, he saw a boot flying at
his eyes and managed to sway aside. A knife was plunging down at him.
He thought, "Charity…"

A shot rang out. The knife coming straight for his chest fell
ringingly onto the cobbles. A wild hussar yell echoed along the street.
Mitchell stiffened, a gleam of hope lighting his blurred eyes.
Horses—coming fast. The little knot of men around him was scattered as
a flying body launched into their midst. Flattened under a brawling
mass of humanity, Mitchell saw a familiar dark head and the gleam of
narrow green eyes. "Harry…!" he gasped.

Somebody howled and thudded to the cobbles. Jeremy Bolster
blinked up at him. "Well, don't just sit there, old f-fellow. Missing a
jolly good scr-scrap!"

"What I do not understand," said Mitchell, holding a foaming
tankard and submitting while Charity gently bathed gash in his head,
"is how in blazes you found us."

They had ridden to this quiet inn as soon as Sanguinet's troop
had been, as Alain Devenish blithely put it, "dealt with." Charity had
been pulled into her brother's arms for a crushing hug, then thrown up
into the saddle of her hack which had apparently followed the other
horses and was found to be standing placidly nearby. Mitchell had
mounted the best of the Sanguinet animals, and they'd quickly departed
a neighbourhood that resounded with shouts for the Watch and a belated
blowing of shrill whistles. They had spoken little on the way here, but
now, gathered in a cosy parlour Leith had bespoken, the friends were
exuberant, and everyone started to talk at once until Leith said
laughingly that Mitchell deserved the first hearing.

Now, in response to that initial question, Bolster beamed
despite a split lip and said, "Didn't find you, old boy. Followed
them
.
Been following 'em since Liverpool. They n-never once looked behind,
silly bacon brains."

Watching his brother anxiously, Sir Harry said, "Sorry we were
so long coming up with you, Mitch. But we lost them after they crossed
the bridge. Had it not been for the gunfire, we might not have found
you at all."

Mitchell grinned up at him, then lowered his head again as
Charity pulled at his ear. He said fervently, "I've never been so glad
in my life as to see your old phiz. When I rode away from the castle,
there were so damned many of 'em, I was afraid, er—"

"So were we," Leith supplied gravely. "We delayed them as long
as we could, but some of them stole Tyndale's horses and were off after
you."

Devenish said, ''We'd have been dog's meat for sure, save that
General Drummond and his friends were out hunting. They heard the
uproar and came at the gallop."

Strand set down his tankard and added, "Sanguinet's men ran
back to their boats when they saw our reinforcements, and Drummond was
good enough to offer us the use of his yacht. Luckily it was readied to
take him down to Blackpool, so we were able to sail fairly soon.''

"We thought we spotted you near Preston, soon after we
disembarked," the Reverend Langridge said around the slice of beef he
was attending to.

"But we lost you," Devenish put in, "so we just kept riding
south, hoping to come up with you."

Holding a bloody handkerchief to a gash in his cheek, Justin
Strand said, "It occurred to us that you might decide to take ship at
Liverpool, so we turned that way—"

"And followed a so-called short cut," Devenish interrupted.
"Which was lucky because just before we joined the main road,
Sanguinet's little covey of choirboys trotted past."

"And we let them l-lead us to you," said Bolster.

"Well, I'm dashed grateful you did," said Mitchell,
straightening as Charity finished her task, and smiling up at her.

"Didn't look to me that you needed our help," Devenish said,
grinning. "Five to one should be child's play for a fighter like you,
Redmond."

Mitchell looked at him narrowly, realized he was sincere, and
flushed a little.

Justin Strand had noted the glance his sister bestowed on this
notorious gentleman. He frowned and said rather grittily, "How you
managed to convey my sister safely this far, this fast, I cannot guess,
Redmond. But I'm forever in your debt."

Charity turned to him, surprised by the hauteur in his voice.
She saw his eyes and asked quickly, "Justin, how is Guy?"

Strand hesitated. Leith said regretfully, "We don't know, I'm
afraid. But I fancy you saw that the ball took him in the body. He
saved my life. Tyndale was winged in our struggle, and the General
carried him and Guy to Castle Drummond."

Charity's lips trembled, seeing which Devenish said gently,
"He was breathing when we lifted him into the carriage, and Drummond
has a daughter who's a dashed fine nurse. We can but hope for the best,
m'dear."

Strand added, "The General also promised to contact the
authorities at once and try to get word despatched to London." He
directed a searching look at his sister. "Do sit down, poor girl. You
look worn to a shade."

Her thoughts still with a very gallant gentleman of France,
Charity sighed. But it was no use grieving. One could only pray. She
carried her bowl to the door and handed it to the maid, who emptied it
and refilled it with warm water. Returning, Charity sat at the table
beside her brother and turned his cheek so that she could bathe his
hurt.