Rapscallion (32 page)

"He didn't
deserve to die."

"No, he
didn't. But
we
didn't kill him."

Lasseur sighed.
"You reckon that absolves us of responsibility? I think not. You know, I
once heard an old proverb that says the road to Hell is paved with good
intentions. I'm not sure I understood what that meant, until now." He
stared at Hawkwood, dampness misting the corner of his eye. "I miss my
son, Matthew. I want to go home and hold him close and tell him that I love
him. This bloody war ..."

"Wars don't
start by themselves," Hawkwood said. "You want to blame anyone, blame
the bastard politicians."

"And to
whom do
they
answer?
God?
I'm not sure He even
exists any more." With a gesture of frustration, Lasseur got to his feet
and tucked the cheroot back in his pocket. "Enough of this; I need to
clear my mind. I'm going for a walk. And before you say anything, don't worry;
I'm not going to run away. I won't go beyond the woods. I'll stick to the
farm." He patted Hawkwood on the shoulder. "You're a good friend,
Matthew Hooper. I'm glad we're together."

Hawkwood said
nothing. He watched Lasseur walk away, head down. As a father, it was
inevitable that Lasseur should have been hit harder by the boy's murder.
Hawkwood thought about his own reaction to Lucien Ballard's death. He'd felt
anger but, unlike Lasseur, he'd felt no guilt. He wondered what that said about
him. Hawkwood had never wanted the responsibility of fatherhood. Was that
something he could live with? Yes, it was. He wondered why he was even asking
himself the question, especially when he had more pressing matters on his mind;
like how to get a message to Bow Street, for one.

But what
information did he have for James Read anyway? Ludd would have been told about
the escape by now. He'd know Hawkwood was on the run. Hawkwood's own store of
knowledge didn't extend much beyond that. He still needed to find out who was
behind the escape organization. Until he had that information, all he could do
was maintain his deception and see where the road led him. With luck and
application, he'd be able to pick up information further down the line.

As he walked,
Lasseur could see that more than a few areas of the farm were in need of
repair. There were gaps in the walls of the barn. A corner of the cow stall was
falling down. There were gate-posts that needed replacing, and the meadow grass
close to the house and a number of trees at the sides and rear needed chopping
back. They were small jobs, but Lasseur knew from his wife's parents' farm
that, if small jobs were not tackled, they grew into bigger jobs. It was the
same on board ship.

The woman had
told them that there was a man who helped out, but so far there had been no
sign of him. Lasseur glanced over towards the house and caught sight of the
stack of logs by the back door, and next to it the axe stuck blade-deep in a
chopping block with a birch broom propped up against it. Weren't witches
supposed to ride on broomsticks? Lasseur grinned to himself.

Then he saw the
dog.

He stopped,
uncertain. The animal was behaving strangely; padding to and fro outside the
door, breaking off to scratch on the wood, as if it wanted to be let in. There
was no sign of the woman. The dog continued its pawing. Lasseur could hear it
whining. He drew closer.

The dog saw him
coming. He could tell it was unsure, as if it didn't recognize him. He waited
for the bark, but it didn't come. Instead, the dog returned to the door and
scratched again. Then it turned and came slowly towards Lasseur, head low. It
looked as if it couldn't decide whether to wag its tail or not.

"Here,
Rab," Lasseur said softly, crouching down and ruffling the dog's ears.
"What's the matter, boy?"

He realized he
was addressing the dog in French. He switched to English. "Good boy."

The dog squirmed
away from him and headed back towards the door.

At first Lasseur
thought it was the dog whining, but the sounds were coming from inside the
house. Curious, he walked forward. The closer he got to the door, the more it
sounded as though someone was in distress. The dog looked back at him and made
a snuffling noise. It obviously wanted to be let in.

Lasseur bent and
looked through the window into the kitchen. A large table dominated the centre
of the room. The base of the woman's spine was pressed against it. Her skirt hem
was raised high upon her bare hips. A lank-haired man was leaning forward over
her, his legs between her parted thighs. Lasseur could not see his face and his
back obstructed Lasseur's view of the woman's features. The man was reaching
down between his legs. Lasseur couldn't tell if he was fumbling with his own
clothes or the woman's. He saw a hand reach out and clasp the man's shoulder.

Lasseur stepped
back hurriedly, fearful that they might have sensed his shadow at the glass.
The sounds he'd taken for whimpers from someone under duress had in fact been
cries of passion. He looked down at the dog, which was still watching him
expectantly, and smiled ruefully. "Sorry, my friend, but I'm not sure
your mistress would appreciate the interruption."

Lasseur tried to
cast his mind back. Had the dog barked earlier? He couldn't remember. More than
likely, he'd been too busy rinsing the grime of the hulk out of his ears.

The woman's
lover was probably the man she'd mentioned earlier. He tried to quell the irrational
feeling of envy that rose in his chest.

He was turning
away from the house when the sound of a blow stopped him in his tracks. This
time, there could be no mistake. The utterance that accompanied it was guttural
and unmistakably male while the responding cry came from a woman in distress,
not the throes of ecstasy.

Lasseur returned
quickly to the window and peered into the room. The positions of the two
figures had hardly altered. The woman's back was still arched. The man had not
moved from between her legs. But this time Lasseur could see it all. The man's
left hand was clamped over her mouth, while his right fumbled with the front
flap of his breeches. Her hand was still on his shoulder but as Lasseur could
now see, she was not trying to pull the man to her but to thrust him away. As
he took in the scene, the woman's head turned towards him and Lasseur found
himself staring into her face. The woman's eyes widened. Lasseur saw that her
blouse was ripped, enough that her left breast was almost fully exposed. He saw
then the track of a tear on her cheek.

The dog was
already thrusting past him as Lasseur slammed the door back against its hinges.

The man turned,
his hand poised over his half-unbuttoned crotch flap. Shock flooded his face.
There was no scar. It was not the man Jess had described to them as her helper.

The dog leapt
forward with a growl. For its age, it showed unexpected agility.

Instinctively,
the man lashed out with his foot. There was a shrill yelp as his boot made
contact with the dog's ribs. The woman cried out as Lasseur sprang forward and
scythed the back of his hand against the man's jaw. There was a satisfying
sound of knuckles striking flesh and bone. The man grunted and jerked away, but
not before Lasseur had caught the whiff of alcohol on his breath. Following
through, Lasseur took hold of an arm and a fistful of hair. As he hurled the
man across the room, the woman pushed herself away from the table and began
rearranging her dress. The dog was barking furiously at the man, who twisted
free and staggered backwards through the open door. Lasseur, eyes dark with
anger, stormed after him. The man dabbed a hand to his lip. It came away
stained crimson. He stared at the blood, then at Lasseur and finally at the
woman. "You bitch! You wanted it! Don't tell me you didn't!"

Clutching the
torn half of her blouse to her body, she stood in the doorway, her face
burning, her breasts rising and falling. "Not with you, Seth!
Never with you.
Hell would freeze over before that."

The man's gaze
moved to Lasseur, then flickered sideways.

Lasseur's heart
turned over when he saw what had caught the man's attention.

They both moved
at the same time, but Lasseur knew he wasn't going to make it, he was too far
away. The woman's attacker jerked the axe out of the chopping block. His mouth
split in a crooked grin. "First I'm going to deal with you; then I'll take
care of her."

Lasseur looked
for a weapon. He grabbed a log and held it before him like a club. It seemed
spectacularly inadequate.

There was a
bark. The dog, its courage restored, had made a lumbering dash for the open
door. The woman grabbed for the dog's neck and missed. Her blouse slipped,
revealing her nakedness once more.
"Rab, no!"

The man swung the
axe. The dog jinked aside as the blade missed its skull by inches. It continued
to bark, growing more excited.

Lasseur moved
forward, brandishing the log.

The axe man
sneered, revealing stained and uneven teeth. His hair hung in greasy fronds
around his pockmarked face. He wasn't big, about Lasseur's height, but his
frame was solid and muscular. "That the best you can do?" He curved
the axe towards Lasseur's skull. Lasseur swung the log in an attempt to parry
the blow. The axe blade thudded into the wood, wrenching it out of Lasseur's
hand.

Lasseur heard
the woman cry out, "No, Seth!" as the attacker moved in, axe held
high.

And a tall dark
shape detached itself from the corner of the wall.

"Hey!"

The axe man
turned.

Hawkwood whipped
the broom through the air.

The scream that
erupted from the axe man's throat as the broom head raked across his face was
so intense it reduced even the dog to silence. Lasseur could only guess at the
number of birch twigs that formed the broom head, but the end of each one had
flayed the attacker's skin like a sharpened claw. Dropping the blade, the axe
wielder stumbled away and lifted his hands to his ruined flesh. Blood oozed
from between his fingers.

Lasseur picked
up the axe. His unshaven face was a savage mask. Before Hawkwood could stop
him, he ran forward and kicked the attacker to the ground. The man raised his
arms to protect himself. His face looked as if it had been lashed with a
scourge.

"Not so
brave now, are you?" Lasseur grated. "
Lache/"

Through the
bloody runnels, he saw the man's expression change. Instantly, Lasseur knew his
accent had betrayed him. He raised the axe. The man cringed.

A hand fell
across his arm. Lasseur heard the woman say, "Don't!"

Lasseur shook
his head. "He forced himself on you. Don't you want him punished?"

"Not like
that." She looked down at her attacker. Her eyes flashed. "But if you
show your face here again, Seth, I'll take the gun to you. I swear it."

Lasseur glared
down at the blood-streaked face.

"If you
kill him, Paul," Hawkwood said, his hand sliding from Lasseur's arm to the
axe handle, "and they catch us, they'll hang us for certain."

"He needs
to know that I
will
kill him if he comes near her again."

"He
knows," Hawkwood said. "Believe me, he knows."

Slowly, Lasseur
relinquished his hold, allowing Hawkwood to take possession of the axe.

"Go home,
Seth," the woman said. Her face was still highlighted with colour.
"Go now, while you still can."

Lasseur backed
away, his eyes afire, and the man rose unsteadily to his feet. With a final
glare of defiance he turned and stumbled towards the woods. Only when he had
been swallowed by the trees did Hawkwood place the axe back in the chopping
block.

Lasseur picked
up the broom and leant it against the wall.
"A very
under-rated weapon, the broom; especially in the hands of an expert."
He threw Hawkwood a look before turning to the woman. "Are you hurt,
madame?"

Still staring
towards the trees, she shook her head and then shivered. "I am
unharmed."

"But you're
cold. Here, take my coat."

Lasseur removed
his jacket. She did not protest as he placed it over her shoulders. Suddenly,
she looked around, her face anxious.
"Rab?"

"He's
here," Lasseur said as the dog loped towards her, tail wagging.

She ruffled the
dog's hair, her face softening with relief.

"Come,"
Lasseur said gently.

There was only a
slight pause, then, gathering the jacket about her and holding the torn halves
of her blouse to her breast, she nodded and turned towards the house.

Hawkwood and
Lasseur fell into step beside her. The dog followed close behind. When they
reached the threshold, she paused and gave a small gasp, as if seeing the
disorder for the first time. The floor, Hawkwood saw over her shoulder, was in
disarray and littered with dirt and debris; shards of earthenware lay strewn
among a scattering of twigs and leaves that had been crushed underfoot,
presumably during the assault. More plants and herbs hung from the beams. The
room was more like an apothecary's herbarium than a kitchen.