The Riddle of the Lost Lover (39 page)

The men worked swiftly to pole-up the cart-horses. Consuela and Pierre bound the hapless
cuirassier
and he was dragged, barking out ferocious threats, into the house. Within five minutes the waggon of the Crazy Carpet Collector was speeding along under wind-whipped trees.

Broderick led the way, following a rutted track that he assured them would bring them onto the road leading to the hedge-tavern. Vespa rode Bruine, keeping close to the waggon, and Manderville drove, with Pierre and Consuela perched on the seat beside him. There was little talk, even the boy sensing their tension although nobody voiced the fears that were uppermost in all their minds: that the French military were much too close on their heels; and that Imre Monteil knew exactly where they would go.

Broderick's ‘quickest route' began to seem very much the long way round. The heavy waggon bumped and jolted over the uneven surface, and the wind became a near gale, blowing a cold drizzling rain into their faces, and sending branches and leaves flying.

They'd been travelling for half an hour when they turned west onto the road to the Lannion hedge-tavern. The river was running high now, the water roiling and full of debris. Vespa realized belatedly that the oddly constructed bridge was a comparatively flimsy wooden structure. If it could not bear the weight of the heavy waggon … He glanced uneasily at Manderville, and saw apprehension on the handsome features. “Hold up!” he shouted.

Manderville pulled up the team.

Vespa sent Consuela and Pierre across the bridge on foot. Broderick and Manderville rode, and Vespa—over Manderville's hoarse but indignant protests—drove the waggon. The carthorses trod onto the timbers and began to snort and toss their heads uneasily. The bridge creaked and it seemed to Vespa that it swayed. He thought, ‘Please God, we're so close now!' If the waggon crashed into that muddy boil of water below it would be the end of his father's brave struggle and he would have failed his General. On the far bank he could see Consuela looking pale and frightened, watching him and clinging to Manderville's arm. The bridge creaked even more menacingly. There was a sudden loud crack and the off wheeler neighed and pranced in the traces. Vespa's heart jumped into his throat. A large carriage approaching from the west stopped, and pulled off to the side of the road. Rain sheeted down blindingly. ‘Nothing ventured,' he thought and in desperation whipped up the horses. They plunged forward and the bridge definitely swayed, but then there were shouts of triumph, the wheels thudded onto solid ground, and he could breathe again.

Consuela flew to climb onto the waggon seat and hug him. “Wretched Englishman,” she half-sobbed. “As if anything was worth taking such a chance! I had rather see the stupid waggon swept away than have you go down with it!”

“To say truth, love, so would I,” he admitted, kissing her forehead. “But Wellington and England are desperately in need of my father's ‘Spring Carpet!'”

He ordered Consuela and Pierre to travel inside so that they could keep dry, and then they were off again, this time with Manderville bringing up the rear. The afternoon was wearing on and the wind seemed ever stronger. After a while Manderville galloped to the front of the waggon, and tried to shout, but his voice was now quite gone. He gestured urgently to the east. Vespa leaned to the side and peered back. Far off he saw the glitter of light on metal.

Breastplates and helmets.

“Here comes the cavalry,” he muttered grimly, and cracked the whip over the heads of the team.

The cart-horses leaned into their collars and responded gallantly, but they were handicapped by the bulk and weight of the waggon. Each time Vespa glanced behind them it seemed to him that the troop of
cuirassiers
was closer. It was a race now, and one they had little chance of winning unless in some way they could give the French military gentlemen the slip.

Their chances shrank when they reached the section of the road that wound between the steep walls of the ravine. A group of travellers had spread themselves across the narrow road. They plodded along at a snail's pace; there was no room to pass, and they showed not the slightest inclination to move aside.

Guiding the cart-horses as close as he dared, Vespa hailed the individual bringing up the rear of the train. The face that was turned to him looked familiar. The man screamed something, and the people ahead halted and glanced back. There were children, and riding the lead mule was a lady with an infant in her arms. It was the same family whose baby had almost fallen from the mule two days ago.

Vespa called urgently, “Sir, your pardon, but we are in great haste. Could you be so kind as to let us pass?”

The man stared at him expressionlessly.

Pierre stuck his head through the small door behind the driver's seat and shouted, “The soldiers! They are catching up—”

Vespa snapped, “I am aware.”

The eyes of the man standing in the rain became very round. He craned his neck, looking back. Then he looked up at Vespa. He ran to the front of his straggling little column and called orders in a Breton dialect so broad it would have been better understood by a Scot than by a Frenchman. In a trice the mules were all at the farthest edge of the road. Vespa drove the team on carefully and as they passed, called his grateful thanks. Nobody said a word in reply, but the lady nodded and waved the infant's tiny hand at him, the little girl smiled shyly, and briefly, on the face of the head of the house was a broad grin.

Looking back a few minutes later, Vespa saw that the family and their mules were all over the road again, and scarcely moving at all. ‘God bless 'em,' he thought fervently. ‘They've repaid the favour!' Now, the troop of soldiers would be so delayed that he might, after all, have a chance to collect his father and find a hiding place somewhere along the coast road. A slim chance, but at least a chance.

The cart-horses were going along well. The short wintry afternoon was fading, but a distant thread of smoke wound upward. It was lighter than the darkening clouds, and soon dispersed by the wind, but his hopes lifted because it meant they were within sight of the Lannions' tavern.

Consuela opened the small door behind the seat and tugged at his coat.

“Almost there, m'dear,” he said with a triumphant grin.

“We must stop,” she cried in distress. “Look! Look!”

He looked back. Manderville was huddled over the pommel and appeared to be in imminent danger of tumbling from the saddle.

“Toby!” howled Vespa, pulling up the horses.

Broderick turned and waved and Vespa gestured urgently. Reining back, Broderick called, “Now what's to do?”

“Paige is done! We'll have to get him in the waggon. Give me a hand.”

Manderville was quite unconscious and breathing in an alarmingly rasping fashion. Between them, they carried him to the waggon and Consuela's care.

“Silly chawbacon,” muttered Broderick. “Why didn't he say something?”

But they both knew why Manderville had held out for as long as he could, and that they would have done the same.

As they closed the back doors Vespa slanted a glance up the road. It was impossible to see very far in the fading light, but for as far as he could determine there was no sign of any
cuirassiers.
Climbing up to the driver's seat, he could only pray they would not reach the tavern and find Monteil waiting for them. At least the road from here was fairly level and there were few travellers on this cold afternoon. He urged the cart-horses to greater speed and promised them they would very soon be in a warm barn. The waggon rumbled along and the minutes slid past, and at last they were turning into the Lannions' yard.

The host ran out, waving his arms excitedly. The ostler hurried to the heads of the lathered horses.

Climbing down from the seat, Vespa was stiff and tired. He'd had little in the way of sleep these past two nights, but there was no time for rest now, nor time for them to summon the skill of Monsieur Aunay, the farrier-apothecary. Before he reached the waggon doors Manderville swung them open and disdaining assistance proclaimed himself a blockhead but well-rested. It was a courageous attempt but he stumbled over the front steps, and Consuela, looking weary herself as Vespa lifted her down, whispered that she was afraid that Paige might have the pneumonia.

“And you, my brave girl, are exhausted,” he said, tightening his arms about her.

“No, no,” she lied. “I am very hardy, you know. But Pierre is fast asleep. I suppose we had as well leave him in the waggon. We shall have to press on at once—no?”

Vespa had already made up his mind that the boy must stay at the tavern, however, and that word should be sent to de Coligny. Broderick volunteered to carry the sleeping child, and Vespa and Consuela followed Manderville inside.

Lord Kincraig, fully dressed, lay on the parlour sofa. He started up eagerly as they came into the room. He looked pale and haggard but insisted he was ‘doing very much better,' and was delighted to learn that not only had Consuela and Pierre been rescued, but the waggon was safely in the barn.

“Bravo!” he said, watching Vespa proudly. “You've done splendidly, my boy!”

Madame Lannion hurried in and, after a shocked look at Consuela, said a chamber was ready and that the young lady would want to wash and rest after her ordeal. Longing to offer such luxuries to his beloved, Vespa dared not, and said reluctantly that they must leave at once. “Are you able to travel, sir?”

“But no, he is not!” interjected Madame, outraged. “No more is that one!” She stabbed a finger at Manderville who had sat down on the first chair he encountered and fallen asleep. “Only hear how he breathes—as if someone in his lungs was sifting wheat! More journeying, and you will be burying them both! Nor are you yourself but a step from the grave,” she added, taking in Vespa's drawn face and the dark shadows under his eyes. “Come, Mademoiselle, you at least shall wash your poor self and have a hot cup of coffee, if only in my kitchen!”

“I'll be very quick,” promised Consuela.

Vespa nodded and smiled at her, then pulled a chair close to the sofa and sank into it gratefully.

Kincraig asked, low-voiced, “You are pursued?”

“Yes, sir. A troop of
cuirassiers.
At most, a mile or so behind. We've some friends along the road who will, I think, do their best to delay them but—”

“Jupiter!” Dismayed, his lordship exclaimed, “We must not fail at this stage of the game! Lend me your arm, Jack, and we'll be on our way.”

Vespa helped him to sit up, watching his face anxiously. Kincraig was obviously in pain and momentarily bereft of breath, but he declared staunchly that with a little help he would go on nicely.

Vespa left him to rest for a minute and went out to check on the horses. Toby had not yet brought Pierre inside and he was quite prepared to find his friend snoring beside the boy in the back of the waggon.

He stretched wearily as he walked across the yard. It was dark now, and raining again, but the wind had dropped and it was very still. There was no sign of Broderick or the ostler.

The sense of danger was sudden and strong. His hand blurred down to the pistol in his belt.

Pain seared across his forearm and the pistol fell from his numbed grasp.

Amused and triumphant, Duncan Keith said, “My, but you're fast, brother dear!”

A strong hand shoved Vespa between the shoulder blades, sending him into violent collision with the side of the waggon. The horses snorted and stamped nervously. The shutter on a lantern was opened, releasing a bright beam of light.

Supporting himself against the waggon, Vespa blinked at a squat individual with a pouty mouth and sparse red hair under a sodden hat. The man glared at him and demanded, “What did you do with my crossbow, curse you?”

“Threw it … in the lake,” lied Vespa.

The squat man swore and started forward.

“Not yet, Rand!” Duncan Keith flourished a crimson-stained sabre. “First, we talk.”

Horrified, Vespa cried, “My God! What have you done to the boy?”

“Nothing as yet,” said Keith. “This is all yours.”

Vespa glanced down, shocked; his sleeve was wet with blood.

From his temporary sanctuary under the waggon Pierre called fiercely, “You didn't have to cut him!”

“No.” Keith grinned. “But you must not deny me life's simple pleasures, child. And before you ask, Captain, sir, your comrade in arms is in the waggon. We got him when he tried to carry off the boy.”

The muscles under Vespa's ribs cramped. He endeavoured to keep his voice calm. “Dead?”

“He will be. Unless you cooperate. I met up with my man Rand, as you see. And Rand found out that Monsieur Monteil has been following my father. Now Imre Monteil is a greedy man but he is also very shrewd. He would follow this stupid cart only if it contained something of great value. I have come to relieve you of it. And—” he stepped closer to the open waggon doors “—and I do not propose to wait.”

Vespa said curtly, “I take it you've already searched the waggon?”

“And found only some moth-eaten rugs. Don't attempt a delaying war of words, Vespa. You know what the old man is carrying. Tell me—and fast. My patience is short at the best of times.” He grinned broadly. “No one will miss Broderick very much, and there is always the boy—if all else fails.”

“All right, all right! You heard about the Belgian Mint robbery?”

Keith stared at him.

“I have.” Rand grunted, “A fine haul they made. Lovely fat sacks of gold!”

Incredulous, Keith said, “Do you say my so-high-and-noble father was involved in that piece of lawlessness?”

“Yes. And not for the first time, I'm afraid.”

Rand laughed, and Keith exclaimed, “Why—the old fraud! So
that's
why he's wandered about Europe all these years pretending to search for valuable carpets!”