Rapscallion (50 page)

Seizing
his opportunity, the picket sprinted towards them. Hawkwood grabbed Lasseur's
hand, hauled himself up and threw himself across the top of the stonework.
Another shot sounded as Hawkwood reached down for the ladder. He hunched his
shoulders and felt the wind as the ball churred past his ear and thudded into
the wall.

The
picket was only feet away.

"No
time!" Lasseur gasped when he saw what Hawkwood was trying to do.

But
when Hawkwood bent down and hooked his hand around the ladder's top rung,
Lasseur did the same.

The
picket leapt forward, hand outstretched.

And
was left clutching air as, together, Hawkwood and Lasseur hauled the ladder up
and out of his reach and pitched it over the wall.

As the ladder toppled, more shots rang out. Chips flew from the
stone as Hawkwood and Lasseur let go. There was no time to consider the
consequences of a nine-foot drop. Hawkwood jumped, missed the falling ladder by
inches, hit the ground and rolled. Then he was up and running and Lasseur was
following him into the trees.

The
woods closed in around them. There was no discernible path; only sporadic gaps
in the undergrowth. They ran on; tree roots snapping at their heels; brambles
tugging at their clothes. A small clearing appeared. They darted across it and
a pathway opened up before them; a deep-sided gulley, overhung with branches. A
deer track, Hawkwood supposed, judging from the slot marks; crisscrossed by
even narrower funnels that suggested regular use by fox or badger.

They
plunged into the gulley, moving as swiftly as the uneven surface would allow,
careful not to lose their footing, finally emerging into an even denser patch
of woodland at the bottom of the slope. They paused for breath, sucking air
into their tortured lungs. Hawkwood tried to look back up the hill but his view
was obscured by swathes of foliage.

When
they had first entered the trees, a jabber of birdsong had announced their
presence to the wood's more elusive inhabitants. Now, the wildlife around them
had fallen silent, evaluating this new invasion of their territory.

They
moved off again, knowing their sole purpose was to put as much distance as
possible between themselves and their pursuers. Secure in the knowledge that
Morgan, far from giving up the chase, would be marshalling his forces, it made
sense to stay on the deer trail for as long as possible. Better that than try
to blunder through less accessible tracts of woodland, thus allowing the
hunters to catch up. Hawkwood estimated they had probably travelled a little
over a mile since scaling the wall. It wasn't far enough. But as long as they
had the advantage of cover and could move at speed they had a chance.

It
was warm, even under the shade of the trees. Both of them were soaked in sweat
when Hawkwood called another halt. Heart thumping, he remained still, and
listened. Sunlight filtered down through the overhead canopy, creating shadows
among the thickets. Bird calls were the only sounds that broke the stillness.

"I
think I saw Masson and Leberte," Lasseur gasped, chest heaving.

Hawkwood
frowned and found his breath.
"Where?"

"Back
at the wall.
They were among the men chasing
us. Leberte was carrying a musket."

"That's
probably how come I wasn't hit. I never rated French marksmanship."
Hawkwood smiled.

"Perhaps
he missed on purpose," Lasseur said, still panting.

Hawkwood
considered the possibility and wondered if Lasseur was grasping at straws.

"And
perhaps we'll never know," Hawkwood said.

It
was then that he heard it. The noise came from somewhere up behind the trees,
beyond the gulley, in the direction of the Haunt.

The
baying of a hound.

He
saw the colour leave Lasseur's face when a second dog took up the chorus.

Hawkwood
had a sudden vision of Thor and Odin, fangs bared. His heart ran cold at the
prospect. He looked at Lasseur. The privateer's shirt was soaked in sweat.

"We
have to move," Hawkwood said.

Lasseur
nodded dully. He looked up, squinting through the canopy, then stuck out an arm
and pointed.
"That way."

"What's
in that direction?"

"The
river."

"You're
sure?"

"Yes."

"Then
we'd better run faster," Hawkwood said.

The
deer trail petered out a couple of hundred yards further on. The woodland was
becoming less dense; the gaps between the trees more frequent. Through them,
Hawkwood could see the beginnings of pastureland, smooth green meadows dotted
with sheep. He could see hedges and a stile and a house in the distance.

And
all the while he could hear the hounds. He could hear shouts, too. They sounded
a lot closer than they had before. The hunters were still behind them, and they
were gaining. It seemed to Hawkwood that there were more than two dogs chasing
them, but he wasn't about to stop and check.

Lasseur
closed his eyes, as if he was trying to block off the sound, or not think of
the consequences if they allowed themselves to get caught.

They
were approaching a wide clearing beyond the trees ahead. As they drew closer,
Hawkwood realized the significance of the clearing's width. It wasn't a
clearing. It was a lane. They stumbled to a halt, dropping to a crouch behind
a small clump of alders.

Hawkwood
wondered if it was the same road that had taken them to the Haunt on that first
night. In the moonlight, all stretches of road had looked the same. He craned
his head. The track was lined with wheel ruts, which meant it was a well-
established route. He could see cattle tracks, too.

He
eased forward cautiously. Fifty yards to their right, the lane bent out of
sight, but showed empty in both directions. A bark sounded from behind them.

"They're
catching up!" Lasseur tugged urgently at Hawkwood's sleeve. "Come
on!"

He
was on the point of stepping out when Hawkwood pulled him back down. Lasseur
was about to protest when he felt the vibrations. He ducked. Three seconds
later, two
horsemen
appeared around the right-hand
bend, riding hard.

As
the hoofbeats receded, Lasseur raised his head. "How did you know?"
he whispered.

"Practice,"
Hawkwood said.

"Morgan's
men?"
Lasseur suggested.

"We'll
have to assume so."

They
crossed the lane and stepped quickly into the woods on the other side. Behind
them, they could hear the shouts of the dog handlers. It sounded as if they
were beating the underbrush for game, as if they knew they were drawing close
to their quarry.

The
trees began to thin out once more. Hawkwood and Lasseur moved forward as if
walking on glass. At the edge of the woods, they stopped. Hawkwood could see
the river. It lay beyond a strip of meadow, less than a pebble's toss from
them. It was broad, at least thirty yards in width and shaded by trees on both
banks. He looked to his left. Two hundred yards away there was an ancient stone
bridge. He could see the parapet and beneath it a keystone and the curve of an
arch. He could see the tops of reeds, too, and he could hear water rushing over
a weir.

A
series of howls, sounding ever closer and rising in volume, reminded them why
they had sought out the water. If they could make it to the river, it would be
hard - hopefully impossible - for the dogs to track them.

They
stepped from the trees.

And
a twig snapped at the edge of the wood behind them.

Hawkwood
and Lasseur froze. Hawkwood was aware of a shadow moving to his right. His
nostrils caught a familiar whiff.

"Got
you now," Del said. As he moved into the open, his mouth formed a
grotesque gash in his thin face. He was dressed in work clothes. There was no
ghostly skull, nor a monk's robe. Just the pistol gripped in his hand.

Another
chorus of baying came from the woods at their back and Hawkwood knew with sickening
finality that Morgan's men had finally managed to close the gap.

Del
grinned again. "Saw you coming. You were making a
real
racket. Now we'll have some fun," he said. His voice seemed to change, to
take on a darker, crueller tone. Suddenly, Del didn't seem quite so oafish.

"No,"
Lasseur said. "I don't think so. Not today."

It
was the timbre in Lasseur's voice that alerted Del to the imminent danger. His
response was immediate, driven by panic.

Hawkwood
was standing to Lasseur's right and thus partially blocking Del's view as
Lasseur drew the pistol from his belt. With an alacrity that belied his doltish
looks, Del raised his pistol and fired. Hawkwood felt the impact of the ball
against his skull. As he went down in a vortex of pain, he heard Lasseur return
fire. His last memory was of seeing a bright flower bloom in scarlet abandon
across Del's chest.

Before
the world ended.

At
one point it felt as if he was falling, the next as if he was floating, drifting
at the mercy of a weak tide, ebbing back and forth without purpose, never quite
breaching the waves and never quite reaching the shore. One moment he was cold,
the next he was bathed in perspiration. During each of these episodes there had
been a strange taste - bitter, but not unpleasant - which had lingered on his
tongue and at the back of his throat.

He'd
also been vaguely aware of shadows and voices. But the shadows, like all
shadows, had been without definition and the words he thought he'd heard had
been like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Sometimes they had seemed close and
almost audible, at other times they were no more than whispers, as if the
speakers were far away and afraid of being overheard. He'd suspected they were
talking about him and had strained his ears to hear better, but the harder he'd
tried the harder it had been to mark the conversation clearly.

He
also had a hazy recollection of a cup being placed against his lips and of
swallowing, but with no clear memory of what he might have ingested. Once, he
thought he heard a dog bark and a cry started in his throat, but then the sound
faded abruptly and the tightness in his chest began to ease and the moment
passed and he did not feel so afraid.

When
he opened his eyes he thought for one terrible moment that he was back in the
hulk's sick berth. The stinging sensation along the side of his skull,
although mild, seemed horribly reminiscent, until the feel of a cool, damp
cloth and gentle fingers smearing something on his scalp began to soothe the
hurt away and he heard a woman's voice say softly, "He's awake."

The
voice sounded vaguely familiar.

Maddie
?
Hawkwood thought.

He
turned his head. He was lying in a narrow bed. Alongside the bed was a night
stand upon which stood an unlit candle in a holder, a bowl and some small
blue-glass jars. He could not tell what they contained.

A
woman's face was looking down at him. It did not belong to Maddie Teague.

"Hello,
Captain," Jess Flynn said.

"About
time," Lasseur said, appearing from behind Jess Flynn's shoulder.
"How do you feel?"

Hawkwood
stared at them both and wondered if he was dreaming. He touched fingertips to
his skull and winced.
"Tired of getting hit on the
head."
He took his fingers away. They were sticky, as if they had
been dipped in beeswax. He rubbed the ends of his fingers together.

"Don't
worry, Captain, it's only an ointment. I make it myself from special oils and
herbs," Jess Flynn said. "It reduces the pain and encourages healing.
The ball grazed your skull, which was why you lost consciousness. You were very
lucky; there was some bleeding and you were feverish for a while, but that's
all."

"Good
thing it was only your head," Lasseur said, smiling. "Anywhere else
and I'd have been worried."