The Riddle of the Lost Lover (40 page)

“They're valuable when gold
louis
are sewn into the backings,” said Vespa.

“Aha!” cried Rand and darted for the waggon doors.

Broderick's limp figure was pushed out and dumped on the ground. Vespa gritted his teeth with rage and started towards him, but Keith shouted a furious, “Stay back!” flailing the sabre about so menacingly that Vespa had no choice but to obey.

From inside the waggon Rand shouted, “There's nothing in this one but moths and dust.… I can't feel anything solid, here, either.… I think.… your bastard brother was lying in his—Wait! Yes, by God! Here it is, Mr. Keith! And—in this other also!”

Keith gave a yell of triumph. “How much?”

“Lord knows. There's just these two, so far as I can tell. We'll have to tear them apart to find out!”

“Not here! We'll take them in my coach! Get over there and help him,
mon Capitaine.
”

The gold-filled rugs were heavy and the cut in Vespa's arm made the transfer of them a painful business. It was all he could do to lift the second heavy rug. As it was loaded inside his half-brother's coach he heard hoofbeats.

Rand cried shrilly, “Horses! Coming fast. It's those damned dragoons, like as not!”

Keith made a sudden dart and snatched for the boy.

Whipping the pistol from his pocket, Vespa shouted, “Let him be, or I'll fire, Keith!”

Rand sprang onto the box of the coach.

Under no illusions as to the loyalty of his hireling, Keith howled, “Wait, you cur!”

Broderick, who had crawled nearer, shoved a rake at Keith's feet. Keith tripped, cursing furiously and swung the sabre high. Broderick ducked lower and flung up an arm to shield his head.

Aiming carefully, Vespa fired.

Keith staggered, and grabbed at his arm.

“Damn you, Vespa!” He dropped the sabre, ran to his coach and clambered to the box, snatching the reins from Rand. “You lose, even so,” he shouted “The
cuirassiers
know you're English spies! I hope you all go to Madame Guillotine!”

Vespa sprang for the box, but he was slow. Keith whipped up the team and with a shrill vindictive laugh turned his coach onto the road and disappeared into the night with a rumble of high, fast wheels.

“Never—saw you miss—such an easy shot,” said Broderick faintly.

Crawling from under the waggon, Pierre wailed, “Oh, sir! He got away!”

“And—with all the … blasted loot,” said Broderick.

Vespa's smile was mirthless. “Enough, at all events, to hang him,” he said, and blew out the lantern.

Scant seconds later there came the pounding of many hooves, the jingle of spurs and harness and a French voice upraised in command. “There they go! After them!”

At a thundering gallop the troop shot past in pursuit of Duncan Keith's coach.

Vespa knelt beside Broderick. “My poor fellow, are you badly hurt?”

“Bent … brainbox, I think. Jove, but … you're a real sly-boots, Jack! You
meant
that … that wart to take the carpets!”

Actually, Vespa's initial plan had been to foist the two gold-laden rugs off onto Imre Monteil. Fate had decreed differently, but his plan had not gone to waste. It had, in fact, come in very handy.

Broderick was staring at him.

He said with a smile, “What a thing to say!”

17

“Are they all going to die, Capitaine Jacques?”

Somewhat bewildered, Vespa looked down at the boy who sat so close beside him on the seat of the waggon. He recalled the Lannions' adamant refusal to keep the boy with them, but he couldn't seem to remember Pierre waking up and climbing out to him. Nor did he recall the coming of the streaks of light that were now painting the eastern sky to announce the arrival of dawn.

When they'd left the hedge-tavern it had been necessary to go along with caution, for it was so dark. Gradually, however, as if relenting, the rain had eased to a drizzle and then stopped, the clouds had begun to unravel and a full moon had sailed into view to light the heavens with its glory and to show him the road ahead. He had driven all night, torn by the conflicting needs to race on and attempt a rendezvous with the ship and to stop and seek out an apothecary for his father and his friends.

The constant jolting had wrought havoc with Lord Kincraig, who had insisted, even as he stifled a groan of pain, that they keep on, no matter what happened. Manderville was no better: burning with fever and coughing rackingly but whispering that he was starting to feel ‘more the thing.' Broderick was deathly pale, tight-lipped and silent, his clenched fists a mute testimony to his suffering, yet able somehow to muster a grin when, it having been necessary to stop and rest the horses, Vespa had twice looked in on what Consuela called her ‘field hospital.'

Distraught, he knew that he had no choice. As a British officer, his first duty was to his country. Through that long night, it sometimes seemed to him that he could see Wellington's fierce dark eyes fixed on him. He knew quite well what his Chief would expect of him. To fail that expectation was unthinkable.

So here he was, driving with three very sick men being bounced and jostled about in the waggon, who should have been in bed and under a doctor's care.”

“Are they?” the boy repeated now.

“Eh? Oh—no, of course they're not going to die. They're just—just a little bit out of curl, but they'll be better when they've rested and had something to eat.”

“So will I.” Pierre watched his face anxiously. “Are you out of curl too, sir? If your arm is very bad I can take the ribbons, you know.”

The cut in his arm was a continuing nuisance, but only one of several. His various bruises ached and his leg nagged at him ceaselessly, but the worst thing was the very odd feeling that his head was no longer in its proper place, but drifting along beside him. The temperature had plunged after the rain stopped, the cold helping him to stay awake, but he dreaded that he might fall asleep and the waggon would go off the road and get stuck in the mud, or tumble from one of the bridges spanning the rivers and streams that abounded in this region. To hand the reins over to someone else, even for half an hour, would be bliss, but a small boy, however willing, could not tool a four-in-hand. “Thank you, Pierre,” he said with a smile. “I shall keep it in mind. Meanwhile, you can help by making sure I stay awake.” He peered at the road ahead. “I wonder if we are anywhere near the coast yet.”

“I don't know, but I am cold, and this is not a good place, Capitaine.”

Vespa looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“They're all around us.” Pierre lowered his voice. “I think they have gathered here, to catch us!”

Startled, Vespa scanned the surrounding countryside, and in the brightening light he saw menhirs, which indeed seemed everywhere and were of all shapes and sizes, some towering towards the heavens, some balanced horizontally one above the other, but all mighty.

They were on a broad heath and ahead was a village looking very ancient and peaceful in the early morning. They must stop now. The horses were ready to drop and must be baited, and everyone was hungry.

He said something to Pierre about the menhirs; he wasn't sure what. The boy seemed reassured, however, and a moment later was pointing out the sign on a tiny inn at the edge of the village.

Vespa turned the team into the yard and climbed from the seat. He had to cling to a wheel for a moment, as the inn ebbed and flowed before his eyes, but the dizziness passed and he went to open the back doors of the waggon. Consuela had fallen asleep holding Manderville's hand. She woke when Vespa called to her, and came at once to him. Shocked by his haggard appearance, she exclaimed, “Oh, my dear! How terribly tired you are.”

He kissed the cool soft fingers that caressed his cheek and, looking in at the casualties, asked, “How do they go on?”

“Your father has slept much of the night. Toby, I think, must have a concussion, and has been in considerable pain. He has only now dropped off to sleep. Paige has been delirious at times. He is full of fever, poor soul. I'm afraid.…” The words trailed off, then she said a touch too brightly, “Dare we go in and command some breakfast? Just a cup of coffee would be heaven!”

He agreed and sent her off with Pierre to see what they could buy.

A wizened little ostler came out of the stables pulling on a coat and yawning, his breath hanging like a small white cloud on the frosty air. In later years the one thing about the inn that stood out in Vespa's memory was the scorn on the face of that solitary ostler. “Monsieur,” he said acidly, “is doubtless aware he is killing his horses. Monsieur is no doubt on a mission of supreme urgency that he would so ill treat these fine beasts.”

At this point Manderville began to mutter wildly. The ostler viewed the waggon suspiciously.

“Mon Pére,”
said Vespa, tapping his temple. “Poor old fellow.”

The ostler led the team towards the barn, the curl of his lip conveying his belief that monsieur's papa was not the only one in the family with a brain-box full of maggots. “Poor beasts,” he grumbled. “I shall take off your harness and walk you until you have cooled a trifle, then—”

“No!” Feeling the ultimate villain, Vespa said, “Rub them down and water them, if you please. But keep them poled up, and they can have no feed. I must press on as soon as possible.”

With a dark scowl the ostler observed that monsieur's accent it was not that of a Breton. Vespa repeated the tale of his Italian birth.

Staring, the ostler said, “Monsieur have the bad injury.”

Vespa glanced down. There was a dark stain on his gauntlet; the bandage around the cut on his arm had been a very makeshift affair and must have slipped. “I was—er, chopping wood,” he said.

The ostler met his eyes steadily, then began to lead the team up and down and around the yard.

Very sure that the man had not believed a word of his story and that the moment their backs were turned they would be reported to the authorities as suspicious foreigners, Vespa stamped up and down trying to get warm while he kept watch.

A very young and sleepy fire-boy was the only person yet stirring in the kitchens and the most Consuela was able to bring away was a bowl of chicken broth and some stale baguettes. When she carried these provisions outside, Vespa marvelled because, in the miraculous fashion of creatures feminine, she had brushed out her lustrous curls and washed her face, and looked as bright and pretty as though she was a happy young girl setting forth on some carefree excursion. Pierre trailed after her, carrying a pan of water, and the ostler's curiosity reawakened when they both disappeared into the waggon.

It was growing lighter with each passing minute, and as soon as he dared Vespa guided the team out onto the road once more, followed by the incensed ostler who stood shaking his first after them. For the next few hours they travelled through increasingly populated areas, skirting little towns and picturesque villages, halting occasionally at some secluded spot for a brief rest, and coming at length into a richly forested area, and then a succession of green gentle valleys.

They had not once been challenged nor had there been any sign of Monteil or soldiers, and Vespa was half asleep when Consuela asked, “Where are we going, Jack?”

She was sitting beside him. He looked at her blankly. It seemed a very foolish question. Where were they going? He replied, “I've no idea. Except…” he racked his brain “except that we're heading to the west. I hope.”

“Yes, dear.” She reached up and pushed the damp hair back from his forehead. “But do you know where we are to meet the ship?”

Of course he didn't know where they were to meet the ship. He said severely, “You know we don't know. They know we don't know.
They
must find
us,
you see, but they can't sail on French soil.” That didn't sound quite right, and he paused, frowning.

Somewhere, somebody shouted. Consuela slid to the side and looked back. “We are being followed! Oh, Jack, they're coming very fast!”

“Is it those blasted
cuirassiers
again?”

“No. I think it must be Monsieur Monteil!”

“Devil take him,” moaned Vespa, whipping up the team. “Does he never give up?”

They raced at a thundering gallop along the road. The reins must be soaking wet because they were so heavy it was all Vespa could do to hold them up. Now, something was blinding him. Blinking, he realized it was sunlight. Pale winter sunlight on water. There was a beach—a long beautiful beach. The sand was white, and glittering.

Pierre screamed, “Look! Look! A great ship!”

Vespa muttered, “I see a sort of lagoon—are those all ships?”

Consuela looked at him worriedly. “They are islands, dear. The ship is far out and at least five miles to the south. It will never find us.”

Peering from the small window behind the seat, Broderick called weakly, “Someone has! See there!”

“Soldiers!” cried Pierre. “And they're coming right for us, Captain Jack!”

Vespa was concentrating on trying to lift the whip. It was incredibly heavy and he was so very tired. He'd just close his eyes for a minute.… His head nodded and he jerked himself awake. This wouldn't do! He must keep on—he
must not
fail his General and his country. But why couldn't he hold onto the reins? What on earth … was the matter with him?

And then came another pair of hands; strong little hands that took the reins from his failing grasp, and a beloved voice that said, “Let me help, my love. Can you see the soldiers now?”

He shook his head hard. Yes, he could see them now. Coming from the south. Straight for them. At the gallop. A troop of—of what? The uniforms seemed to be red, but he couldn't distinguish the brass plate with the imperial N and the crown that would brand them Lancers. And now they were clad in dazzling white—like Carabiniers but minus the easily identifiable tall helmets. Why on earth had they changed their uniforms?