Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (34 page)

Josie wasn't too sure just how to get to Castle Tyndale
(having only been there once), but she could smell the sea, and once
they were safely out of sight of the house, turned confidently in what
she imagined to be a lane leading westward.

Half an hour later, she was a rather frightened little girl
harbouring the uneasy suspicion that she was a wee bit lost. The sun
was starting to be blotted out by clouds, and she wished she had
brought the new cloak Miss Yolande had given her. She looked about
worriedly. Scotland was nice, and the hills was bigger than in England.
The trouble was, there wasn't never many folks about, and not many
houses nor signposts, neither. How a body was to know which way to go
was hard to tell. If the sun would start to go down she would know
where was the west, but the sun, uncooperative, was high in the sky.
Her heart gave a jump when she heard a cantering horse, and she guided
Molly-My-Lass into some tall shrubs by the lane, fearing the grooms
from Steep Drummond were after her. She was vastly relieved to see
Major Craig's Indian man riding up. She almost called out to him, but
then realized he would be just as liable to return her to Steep
Drummond as would the General's grooms, and so sat quietly while he
went on past. She watched him, admiring the easy grace with which he
rode, almost as if he was one with the sleek bay mare. He was headed
for the castle, that was sure.

Josie coaxed Molly-My-Lass into a trot and followed, careful
to stay out of sight and earshot.

In all his life Montelongo had never seen such a climate as
that which bedevilled the occupants of the British Isles. Nor had he
imagined that so small an island could manage to be so perplexing. He
had been quite sure of his route when he left the castle this morning.
Now, not only was he lost, but he would wager a paint pony that the
last knock-in-the-cradle who had assured him it was only three miles at
the outside from the Kilmarnock road, "give or take a half-mile" was
more lost than he! That had been at least five miles back, and he still
had not come to the promised large signpost and the turn he was to
take. To add to his indignation, the bright weather that had blessed
his departure had given way to heavy clouds, so that he could not now
judge the position of the sun.

Thus he was pleased to observe two mounted gentlemen a short
distance ahead. They were riding at a walk and turned to him amiably as
he approached, evincing neither surprise nor curiosity by reason of his
unorthodox appearance.

"Hello there," called the taller of the pair, a well set up
individual wearing a frieze coat. "You'll be Major Tyndale's man, eh?"

Montelongo nodded.

"Heard of you. I'm in the service of Mr. Walter Donald,"
vouchsafed the stranger. "Name of Wood. This here gent is Mr. Barnham."

Montelongo acknowledged the introduction and asked, in his
tense fashion, if they could direct him to Kilmarnock.

They could. They were, in fact, going that way themselves and
would be glad to set him on the right road if he wouldn't mind waiting
a minute while they stopped at Mr. Wood's house. This detail having
been agreed to, they rode along all three, the two Englishmen chatting
slanderously about their employers, and Montelongo listening with no
small amusement.

Mr. Wood's cottage was located across a field, some way from
the lane and so isolated that there was not another house in sight.
Messrs. Barnham and Montelongo waited before the battered picket fence
while Mr. Wood went later. He reappeared after a few minutes to say
that his wife was off somewhere, and if the gentlemen would care to
dismount and step inside, he could offer them a spot of ale to wash the
dust away before they resumed their journey.

It was the first time the Iroquois had met with such instant
hospitality in a strange land, and he willingly accompanied his new
friends into the cottage.

Ten minutes later, the shabby parlour swimming dizzily before
his eyes, he lowered his head to the table and with a heavy sigh sank
into sleep.

Mr. Wood bent over him, seized his shoulder and shook him, at
first gently, then roughly. He lifted his eyes to smile with
gratification at Mr. Barnham. "Well, that's done!" he observed. "Now
we'll truss him up all neat and tidy. Just in case."

"But I thought," demurred Mr. Barnham, "that we wasn't to
leave no signs of force."

"No more we won't. We'll loose him come dawn. But mark them
shoulders, me lad. This here savage has probably got muscles what you
and me never dreamt of! There ain't no telling how long he'll sleep,
for one thing I didn't dare do was to give him too much. I ain't taking
no chances he'll wake up whilst you and me is having a nice convivial
chat as you might say!" Mr. Barnham applauding this decision, they
proceeded to bind their unwitting victim. "Very tidy," said Mr.
Barnham. "If he does start to wake up early, what you going to do?"

"Leave his knife close to hand. It'll take him some time to
get it and get loose, 'cause he won't be thinking clear—spite of all
them muscles. Either way, we'll be least in sight and he can go
strolling off, free as air, back to the castle, tripping through the
daisies in the dawn. Just like Mr. Shotten wants." He laughed. "By
which time," he added, "he'll be what you might call a
Johnny-come-lately!"

"You mean a Monty-come-morning!" leered Mr. Barnham.

"Aye. Morning. Spelt
m-o-n-r-n-i-n-g
,"
said Mr. Wood.

This clever play on words so titillated them that they
repaired to the kitchen and found a bottle of much stronger content
than ale, with which they decided to celebrate their success.

They went back to the parlour, settled down, and enjoyed the
bottle together, while Montelongo slept.

Unwilling to provide the smugglers with any cause for
suspicion, the cousins agreed that they would proceed in their usual
manner while awaiting Montelongo's return with the "reinforcements."
They spent most of the afternoon, therefore, in thoroughly inspecting
the stables and barn, returning to the castle in a chilly dusk with a
long list of necessary repairs.

The fact that Montelongo had not as yet come back was worrying
Tyndale. Devenish, however, reasoned that the Constable at Kilmamock
might have felt it advisable to refer the matter to a higher authority,
or might at this very moment be positioning his men about the castle.
"Suppose they do come," Devenish whispered as they walked across the
stableyard. "What in the deuce are we to show them? We don't know how
to find either Free Traders or contraband! The Constable will laugh at
us!"

"I don't think he will take action yet, but if he does, we
will at least be enabled to make a proper search of the basements.
That's where the hidden rooms are, I'm sure of it. And even if we are
laughed at, someone in authority will have been warned of what's going
on here. Just—in case."

Those last three last words caused Devenish considerable
disquiet as he walked along the hall towards his bedchamber. It had not
occurred to him that the smugglers might really be willing to commit
murder. If they did decide to cut up stiff and were able to put a
period to him and Tyndale, it would be a proper bumble broth, for
everyone would merely think the feud had been fought over again. He was
dismayed and, as he opened the door, called down a blessing on the head
of the absent Montelongo. It was a jolly good thing that—

He checked, his hand still on the doornob, his eyes glued to
the opposite wall. The portrait was macabre once more and, even knowing
that the cruel distortion of his mother's loveliness was a ruse, goose
bumps rose on his flesh. He drew a hissing breath, then sprinted along
the corridor to his cousin's room. "Craig!" he gasped, plunging in
without ceremony. "The portrait!"

Tyndale was in his shirt sleeves, in the act of pouring water
into his washbowl. He looked up, startled, as Devenish flung the door
open, and at once set down the water pitcher and ran with him to the
adjoining room. The sight of the portrait checked his hurried progress.
He paused in the open doorway, gazing at it. "Lord!" he breathed.
"Small wonder it so distressed you!" And he wandered closer, drawn by
that monstrous image.

"At least you've seen it!" said Devenish. 'This time we were
quick enough."

"And there wasn't no need," sneered a crude London voice. "
'Cause it's all done, coves. All over with!"

The cousins spun about as the door slammed shut. Four men
leaned against the wall, watching them with various degrees of
amusement. The one who had spoken was a large, powerful individual,
dressed without elegance in a brown riding coat, breeches, and
topboots. He was whistling in a soft, hissing monotone, as ostlers
whistle when currying a horse, and his small, hard eyes were fixed on
Devenish in leering mockery.

"Shotten…!" breathed Devenish. "So—
Sanguinet
is behind this?"

Shotten laughed. "Monsewer's a vindictive man, 'e is."

Glancing at his cousin, Tyndale said, "Your French—er,
acquaintance in Dinan? Aha! So this is a vendetta. Whatever did you do
to so upset the gentleman?"

"Yer kinsman was so foolish, sir," volunteered Shotten, "so
downright stupid as ter kick Claude Sanguinet in the jaw and then throw
him in a nasty wet pond! Monsewer, 'e hadn't never bin treated like
that afore. And 'e didn't take to it!"

Devenish made a swift appraisal of the others. One was lean
and leathery, his narrow face holding an expression of sneering
malevolence. The other two were as burly as Shotten, and both held
horse pistols. This, he thought, his pulses beginning to race with
excitement, would be a close-run thing…

With unruffled calm, Tyndale drawled, "If you expect us to
believe that Monsieur Sanguinet has expended all this time and effort
on a simpler matter of revenge—"

"You mistake that, sir," said Shotten, with that infuriatingly
oily deference. "Fact is, we don't give beans fer what you believe. And
just look at me, fergetting' me manners! That there thin little cove as
ye see aholding up the wall—that's Fritch. The chap with all the pretty
curls"—he gestured to a man who was quite bald—"his monicker is
Jethro—he's a very gentle, friendly type o'cove."

The "friendly type" uttered a roar of mirth at this witticism,
displaying a few crooked teeth. The younger, sandy-haired man next to
him stood away from the wall and interrupted harshly, "You talk too
much, Shotten. They can live without knowing of my name!"

"Ar," giggled Fritch. "But not fer long, Walter, me bucko!"

The cousins exchanged swift glances. "A fine set of rum
touches you cry friends with!" protested Tyndale. He turned from
Devenish's irrepressible grin to Shotten's beady-eyed antagonism. "When
shall we meet your master?"

"You know what, Major War Hero?" said Shotten, strolling
forward. "I don't like yer face, nor yer way o' talkin', nor nothing
else about yer. Ain't no man is
my
master! No
man! Clear?"

"The words." Tyndale shrugged. "But they are of doubtful
veracity."

Shotten's little eyes narrowed, and the pistol in his hand
swung upwards a trifle. "And wot might that jawbreaker mean?"

The sandy-haired man laughed. "He means as you be lying,
Shotten. Which you is. Sanguinet's
your
master
just as much as what he's
ours
."

"Keep yer dirty fat mouth in yer pocket!" Shotten snarled
murderously.

"Never mind about Walter," Fritch advised in his nasal,
whining voice. "He's a bit upset like."

"
You'll
be upset if we make a hog wallow
of this," snapped Walter, his pale eyes glinting. "It could mean the
nubbing cheat for the lot on us!"

"You would do well to heed him," Devenish corroborated. "Else
you will most certainly end up swinging on Tyburn."

"Well, don't worry about it, my dear old friend," said Shotten
with a broad grin. " 'Cause you won't be invited ter watch us kick!"

Devenish clicked his tongue. "Pity. I would so enjoy it."

"I think it all a Canterbury tale from start to finish,"
Tyndale interposed hurriedly, misliking the way Shotten advanced on his
indomitable cousin. "You were using my castle long before we chanced up
here, and for something more profitable than pure vengeance, I'll
wager."

Shotten halted abruptly. Fritch looked shaken. Jethro and
Walter exchanged scared glances, and the bald man wiped off the top of
his head with a grimy sleeve. "If the soldier come at that much," he
muttered uneasily, "maybe he told that old devil up at Steep Drummond."

"And maybe that 'old devil' is bringing up his men this very
minute," taunted Devenish. "My military cousin is full of tricks, I
warn you. You had best scamper whilst yet you may."

"Shut him up, Shotten!" whined Fritch, his cunning eyes
darting about. "As well snuff him now as later."

"Wot?" exclaimed Shotten, much shocked. "Rush me dear old
friend off quick and easy? Oh, no, my cove. I want Mr. Devenish ter be
give plenty o'time ter think of it… afore he follers his poor dad orf
the roof."

Something very cold clamped around Devenish's heart.

Tyndale, his fists clenching, said, "I see. You mean to keep
the legend alive by a repeat performance. So it was Sanguinet who
spread the news of the original tragedy. Had he planned this from the
start?"

" 'Course not," jeered Shotten. "We didn't know nothing about
you
,
Major, sir. Monsieur didn't even know as the owner o' this ruin was
related ter our old friend Mr. Devenish. But— well, strike a light,
guv, you can't 'ardly blame him. I mean— arter all, it was fair made to
order, eh?" He sighed and shook his head dolefully. "Wot a shame as you
went and bubbled it. We was so hoping ter surprise yer."

"I doubt you will surprise anyone," Tyndale said
contemptuously. "If I am believed to have pushed my cousin off the
battlements, how shall you explain my own demise?"