Seacliff (48 page)

She saw it then.

As they sped down the face of a wave into a deep trough she saw a slight pale streak running up the face of the rock. When the boat rose, she lost it, then searched in panic and found it again, pointing it out to the men. A fair portion of it was under the water’s surface, and it was evident by the force of the tide against the stone that she had made a costly, stupid error. She had hoped to be able to come under the path, or alongside it, with the boat; but the only possible way they would be able to make it in was to bring the boat as close as they dared, and swim for shore. The stairs carved into the stone were wide and deep, and there were wooden railings lashed onto thin iron posts driven into the bedrock. These she could see more clearly as they approached the cliff. But how to get to them without being dashed to death?

Jonson gave over the tiller to the man called Danny and came to stand beside her. His expression told her he saw the predicament at once, and they were silent for several minutes. “Well,” he said, “leastways, we ain’t got the rain.”

Her nod was desultory. The rain had indeed stopped, and there were occasional narrow gaps in the clouds; but the wind stayed with them. The wind, and the breakers.

“If we get too close, it’ll be like hammer and anvil and us between,” he said finally, a depth of sorrow in his voice that made her want to weep.

“A few moments,” she said through her teeth. “Damn, if we only had a few moments we could…”

She stopped, her voice trailing into the night wind. “M’lady?” Jonson peered closely at her, thinking she had reached the end of her tether. “M’lady?”

“Willy,” she said, looking around the mast straight at him, “do you think we could leave this boat in less than a minute?” Jonson frowned. “Less than a minute?”

“A minute. One minute. Less than half that, in fact.”

He glanced around and shrugged. “If it means livin’ or gettin’ bashed, I’d say we could.”

“Then grab hold, Mr. Jonson!” And she took the mast in both hands and began pulling, pushing, laughing when he saw her purpose and took hold of it, too.

Nearer they moved; and the rocks took on definite shape.

Nearer they got; and the lower floors of Seacliff above them vanished from view.

Three men and Caitlin struggled with the mast, and though the others strained and shouted to keep the oars deep in the water and slow their progress, they moved inevitably, inexorably … nearer.

A crackling noise like a thousand bolts of lightning shattered the air around them and the mast gave way sharply, spilling them all into the bottom of the boat. Jonson was calling out orders even before he got to his feet, and Caitlin was rushing toward the bow, the masthead in her grip, the rest of it held by those who came behind. It reminded her of nothing so much as a whaler’s harpoon, and their quarry towered above their heads implacably silent, while the sea demonically thundered around them.

An oar splintered.

Another oar snapped in half and Danny lost control of the rudder for a heart-stopping moment.

Nearer they crept.

They could hear now the roaring of the tide in the several caves that pocked the wall, the waves smashing in and swirling around them, returning in time to whip the small craft in another assault. Seacliff was then completely out of sight.

Nearer they came.

Twenty yards remained, and Caitlin could feel the tension grow around her, a palpable force that weighed down her shoulders and dried out her mouth.

The word was passed: Immediately the masthead touched the wall, they were to make their way forward and jump for the steps. The railings were slippery, dripping spray and clumps of kelp, and it was understood there would be little help for them if they slipped and went under. They were to hit the step, grab the railing, and start running as best they could until they were far enough up so all the others had room and there was no danger of a rogue wave taking them back again.

Ten yards, and she heard someone praying, heard the rest of them responding.

Five yards, and she braced herself.

A touch in the small of her back, but she did not turn her head. She knew Jonson was asking if she wanted to go first, and she shook her head.

The waves swelled and dragged. They drew to within five feet and slipped back five more. The men on the oars swore into the wind at the top of their voices as they, and Danny at the rudder, tried desperately to keep the bow near their target.

The masthead scraped rock, pulled away, rammed into it with such force that a sudden brace of fire raced along her arms to her shoulders. She gasped, and shouted, and the first two men vaulted off the bow. Time stopped, the wind howled defiance, and when a curtain of spray receded she could see them on hands and knees making their way upward. Their ragged cheering was short-lived; the bow and mast struck the wall again and the second pair made their leap. Then Jonson scrambled back through the deepening water in the bottom and waved Danny forward. He protested, but the farmer yanked him to his feet with one powerful hand and shoved him past Caitlin. She called good luck after him, braced herself again, and the last pair but one left the bow in a sudden explosion of white, cold water.

It wasn’t until they were safely off that she realized she alone was holding the mast. The end weight was too much. She lowered it, turned in a panic and braced it against its own stump. One time, she thought; this would work one time, and it would be over. Then she looked up at Willy, who was grinning at her and nodding.

“No!” she shouted, and pointed a command. Jonson refused, still grinning.

“Damn you, Jonson, this is your mistress, not some barmaid. Do as you’re told!”

Jonson, trained by generations of subservience to the Evans family, took a deep breath while Caitlin knelt on the skiff’s bottom and took hold of the mast near the stump. She waited. The boat rose, moving more swiftly now that the oars weren’t being used as brakes. When the mast speared the wall a third time he was past her on the dead run, leaping long before he reached the bow, his arms out, his mouth open in a cry, and his figure immediately cut off from her sight by the untimely blast of a wave less than five feet below him.

At the same time, the mast finally gave way. Slammed backward by the collision and out of Caitlin’s grip, then gouged through the blunt stem, shattering into pieces as it went. The boat spun wildly about, and she was thrown to her stomach. Nearly a foot of water filled the boat now, and as the craft slipped forward and back in the sequence of waves it also dropped lower, until each movement of the water sent gallons spilling over its sides. Caitlin flailed and spat, thinking she could hear someone screaming at her over the wind. But whatever the instructions were, they came too late. The boat capsized, and the raging sea closed over her, engulfing her in a maelstrom of black water.

M
artin Randall stood in the back room of his cottage and looked out the rear window. The wind had abated somewhat, yet the tiny panes still trembled at its passing, and an occasional flurry of rain blurred his vision. He turned around with a sigh and strode to a small table in the middle of the room. A brown and red crock and a glazed goblet beckoned, and he resisted for only a moment before pouring himself the gin and emptying the glass in a single gulp.

The fire made him gasp; the tears in his eyes lingered before he brushed them angrily away.

He poured a second ration, and he sat on a rickety chair and stared at the cloudy liquid, wishing it were wine, wishing it were poison. But poison, he decided, was too good for him. He should be banished into the mountains without a stitch of clothing on him, forced to suffer the same fate to which he had condemned Lady Morgan. He snarled and gripped the goblet more tightly. No, he thought; even that was too good for him. He should be flailed. Every inch of skin on his back peeled off an inch at a time. He should bleed to death, slowly. It was only fitting, only just.

He lifted the goblet to his lips, and his arm froze.

He listened intently, his heart suddenly filling his throat.

A minute passed, and another before he relaxed. The wind, Martin told himself; you’re hearing voices on the wind now.

And why not? Hadn’t he been hearing Caitlin’s voice in his dreams for over a week now? Hadn’t his nightmares driven Quinn from his bed to one of her own, back there on the other side of that curtain? She had tried mightily to console him and assuage his rampant guilt, but not even her vast love for him enabled his mind to work clearly. He heard her now, tossing in her sleep, and wanted desperately to go to her. To have her hold him, give him comfort.

He held the thought and nursed it, finally set down the untouched goblet and rose to his feet. He swayed, then grabbed the edge of the table and started for the curtain… and froze again, his head cocked and his eyes narrowed.

There! Damn his eyes, there was something moving out there.

Keeping well away from the window, he inched toward the back door. It could be a deer, a fox, one of Shamac’s confounded dogs, but he didn’t really think so. The sounds he’d heard were quiet enough, but not carrying an animal’s stealth. The muscles across his stomach tightened, and he reached for a stout walking stick propped against the wall. If not a fox, then maybe it was a weasel—one of Flint’s men finally coming for him. The reign of silent terror was over, and he would be the first victim of the new era.

A muffled thump sounded as something heavy fell against the door. Randall jumped back in surprise, the stick poised over his shoulder like a club.

Another sound, and before he could react the door flew open and into his astonished arms fell the sodden, half-drowned form of Terry Wyndym.

“My… God!” Randall exclaimed.

“No,” Terry gasped with a grateful weak smile. “Just me and the lady.”

T
here were no guards posted around the perimeter of the barracks, and only a handful of lanterns burned outside the buildings’ single doors. Griffin nodded bitterly to himself, wondering why he should be surprised. Flint, after all, was a supremely confident man and would probably try to enlist any man who managed to penetrate the valley this deeply.

There were eight low buildings, four on either side of a narrow grassy lane that was littered with benches, wine sacks, and scattered articles of clothing—not all of them men’s. As far as he could tell, no one was outside. Two of the seven men with him had already slipped around to the other side, and an owl’s weak call told him they were in place.

The man standing next to him in the shadow of the trees grunted. Griffin laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “In a few minutes, Peter,” he said to the man, who had once lived on Radnor land. “We must be sure Wyndym and Mistress Evans have reached their places safely.”

“And how do we do that?” came the gravelly voiced answer. “Do we fly over there?”

“We wait,” he said, “and we listen. If we hear nothing in the next hour, we’ll begin, and pray they’ve done their work quietly.”

Peter made a wet noise of disgust and crouched down on his haunches. Griffin did the same, taking from his belt a long hunting knife that he scraped over the toes of his boots absently, keeping his mind a blank, watching for signs of movement at the eight doorways, listening for a signal from Caitlin.

And when he judged the hour had indeed slipped by, he was tempted to wait another. Tempted, but no more. Instead, he rose and flexed the muscles of his legs to loosen them, nodded to Peter, who disappeared into the woodland to warn the others, then filled his lungs with air and allowed himself a grin.

He stepped out from under the tree and walked boldly toward the nearest door. The lantern affixed to the frame hung only from a loop of wire that was twisted around a nail. Deftly and soundlessly he unfastened the wire, possessed himself of the lantern, then turned his back to the building, and walked to the center of the open area. At the same time the rest of his men did the same.

It was an odd sight: eight men standing in a strong wind, their shirts rippling hard about them, their hair flailing around their eyes, and their mouths working at extraordinary grins. It was incredible, many of them were thinking, how a man such as Flint could be so arrogantly confident that he did not protect his own back yard. Yet it was also typical. And somewhat sobering that they should be here, here at Seacliff after all this time.

Griffin lifted his lantern. The others did the same.

Then in a flurry of comets, they flung the lanterns against the walls where they shattered in sharp explosions, the oil running down the planks in ribbons of blue-gold flame that momentarily covered the windows. Griffin did not expect the barracks to bum to the ground, not after all the rain and not in the high wind, but he hoped the fires would last long enough to cause panic.

They did.

Shouts and hysterical screams split the night air, and the outlaws raced to stand by the doors, clubs in hand. The doors soon enough flew open as Flint’s mercenaries tumbled outside, struggling into their clothes or cloaks, several of them tripping over their own feet and spilling ignominiously to the ground.

It was, Griffin thought later, almost pathetically easy. Those who escaped the well-placed outlaws’ clubs were either too drunk or too confused to offer much resistance. In addition, most of his men were quick-witted enough to exchange their clubs and staffs for the muskets Flint’s soldiers carried. After that, it was only a matter of a few minutes before three dozen mercenaries were herded into the first building and jammed against the rear wall. And when he was positive there was no one else in the other barracks, Griffin faced his prisoners, hands on his hips, his hunting knife exposed so that the blade glinted in the lantern-light.

“’Ere, ’oo the ’ell are you?” one of the men demanded.

“Does it really matter?” Griff said, facing the stunned, sullen men. “What does matter, it seems to me, is that you are all in here, and I’m the one who has you.”

“Not for long,” someone else offered. “We’ll be due on post in a while.”

“My friend,” Griffin said, bowing mockingly, “in a while you’ll not have any posts to be due on.” He paused, letting his words penetrate before dropping his casual manner. “Now listen to me, the lot of you. We’re not out to harm anyone, but should you try for the door we’ll not stop to ask your reason. You’ll be shot down, simple as that. And while we’re waiting for a message I’m expecting, you would do well, I should think, to consider the method of your employment. You may discover it will be healthier to take your gold from me.”