Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (37 page)

"Just a trifle."

"If you had managed to refrain from advising that nasty little
weasel he was a nasty little weasel, he might not have pushed you down
the steps."

"But he might. And I am not in the habit of grovelling to such
as he."

"Very true, Master High and Mighty. Are you instead in the
habit of escaping predicaments such as this? I gather you've had more
experience in these matters than I have."

"You refer to my little jaunt with Tristram Leith?" Devenish
grinned into the darkness. "What a jolly good adventure that was! I'll
say one thing for that rascally Frenchman, it was all conducted on a
far more gentlemanly plane than this! We'd interfered with his plans,
so he meant to kill us. But there was none of this shutting people up
in haunted dungeons and then shoving 'em off the top of a… a damned
great tower!"

There was a rather heavy silence, the imminence of that horror
daunting them both, if only for a moment.

Tyndale said coolly, "I wonder if it's dark yet."

"I suppose it must be. We've been in here at least an hour,
wouldn't you say?"

"At least. In which case they're liable to come for us at any
minute. Dev, we must
think
of something!"

"Simple. The instant they open the door, we'll toddle out and
lay about right and left. Likely they'll not expect it, and we'll grass
the lot!"

His optimism proved ill-founded, however. Another long hour
crawled by before the door swung open, revealing the pallid features
and sandy hair of the man Walter, standing well back, with a large
musket aimed unerringly at Tyndale, so that Devenish's well-planned
charge was brought up short.

'That's a good lad," sneered Walter.

"You do not dare shoot," said Devenish, his eyes flashing to
the grim faces of the three who watched.

"Oh, we wouldn't shoot
you
, sir," Fritch
admitted, a sly leer illuminating his narrow features. He nodded to
Tyndale. "But if you try anything,
he
gets
snuffed. You're going to shoot him anyway, so it could just as well be
now."

This information, intended to terrify the helpless victims,
was ill-judged. With a shout of triumph, Devenish sprang directly in
front of the musket. "Go on, Craig!" he howled.

Tyndale needed no urging. He experienced a brief sense of awe
that his cousin should have the pluck to throw himself against that
yawning muzzle, then he sailed into action. Simultaneously, Devenish
sent a right hurtling at Walter's jaw. His was a slender fist, even
when clenched, but his slim grace had deceived men before this. When in
Town, he had seen a good deal of the interior of Gentleman Jackson's
Boxing Saloon and, while he was not muscular, he was tough and wiry and
had proven an apt pupil. Besides that, he was both angered and in the
grip of the exhilaration that always seized him when action or danger
beckoned. Thus, Mr. Fritch was amazed to see his cohort reel backward
to bring up with a crash against the far wall of the corridor. His
surprise was brief. Craig had height, reach, and solid power to
complement his cousin's steel. An uppercut to the point of Mr. Fritch's
very pointed chin sent him first to the tips of his toes, and then
diving to join the crumpled Walter. Recovering from their momentary
stupefaction, Messrs. Jethro and Shotten now plunged into the fray, and
the narrow hall, lighted only by the flickering flames of torches set
in iron brackets, was suddenly very busy indeed. Craig was jolted to
his knees when Shotten rammed a large fist under his ribs. spinning
triumphantly from his encounter with Walter, Devenish was too late to
block the left that Jethro smashed at him. Dazed and half blind, he
struck out instinctively and, howling, his nose streaming crimson,
Jethro staggered, colliding with Shotten, who had also turned his
attention to Devenish. Reprieved for an instant, Devenish fought away
dizziness and scooped up the fallen musket. The quarters were too close
to fire it without hitting Tyndale, so he swung it instead, and Jethro
went down. Tyndale, who had straggled to his feet, tapped Shotten on
the shoulder and, as the bully whirled to attack, drove home a jab that
dropped him like a sack of oats.

"Hah!" panted Devenish, bruised but exuberant.

"Come on!" cried the more practical Tyndale.

They ran for a door at the far end of that long, descending
corridor. The door burst open. A bearded man appeared; a voice shouted,
"
Ils se sont échappes! Alors! Alors
!"

"Whoops!" Swinging sharply about, Devenish panted, "Retreat,
coz! No—
ahead
of me! Hurry! They don't want a
bullet in
me
!"

Thus protected, they safely reached the stairs leading to the
kitchen quarters. Many feet pounded behind them. Never had Tyndale
mounted stairs with such desperate haste. But there must, he knew, be a
reargurd action, and as they reached the landing and sprinted for the
Great Hall, he gasped, "Dev. You run like hell when you—get outside.
I'll… hold the doors!"

"Noble," Devenish acknowledged breathlessly. "But pointless.
If either one of us… stays… he will be killed and— and the survivor
accused of his murder! It's—all or nothing, coz!"

It appeared perilously likely to be nothing, for as they
rounded the corner and headed across the Great Hall, voices could be
heard on the drivepath, and one, ominously close, howled, "Something's
wrong inside. Hurry!"

Tyndale swore.

"The back!" gasped Devenish, and once more they wheeled about.

They were too late. Already, their pursuers were between them
and the rear corridor. A pistol in Shotten's eager hand was pointing at
Tyndale. The explosion was shattering, but he missed his shot and the
ball thudded into the wall.

"Upstairs!" Tyndale shouted, leading the way in a mad dash for
the main stairs.

Fritch howled, "We've got 'em! There's no way out, and they're
goin' where we want 'em, lads!"

"Blat him! He's… right!" Tyndale panted as they toiled upward.

"We'll set fire… to… the blasted pile!" Devenish clutched his
leg painfully. "That'll attract half the… countryside."

They reached the first floor balcony ahead of their pursuers.
It was, thought Devenish, too close, besides which, his blasted leg was
becoming too much of a nuisance for him to climb any further.
Belatedly, he realized he still clutched the musket. "You—go on, coz!
I'll hold 'em while—you build… a bonfire." Not waiting for consent, he
swung around, musket levelled. "Platoon… halt!" he shouted. "Guided
tour… stops here!"

Behind him, Tyndale hesitated, but the fierce gallop had
halted before the wide mouth of the musket that waved gently to and
fro. "Go
on
, dash it all!" urged Devenish.

Tyndale plunged into the nearest bedchamber, which chanced to
be the one his cousin had occupied, and began dragging chairs, tables,
draperies, into a pile before the windows. Inspired, he wrenched down
the ghoulish portrait, propped it against the pile, and smashed the
still burning oil lamp at it.

A gout of fire exploded. Tyndale leapt back. The flames licked
upward, reaching hungrily for the draperies. They caught, and in a
trice the windows were edged with fire.

Smoke began to billow out, and Tyndale, coughing, ran back to
his cousin, still at bay on the balcony.

"He done it, damn him!" howled an enraged voice. "He's fired
the blasted place. If it reaches the stores… !"

Strong faces blanched. Murderous glares faded into unease. The
rear rank began to edge downwards. "Shoot! You perishin' fools—
shoot
!"
raved Shotten, brandishing his empty pistol.

The front door burst open. A new arrival ran in, shouting,
"There's a damn great bunch of riders coming!"

"Hurrah!" Devenish exulted.

The smugglers hesitated, exchanging scared glances. A thunder
of hooves could be heard outside. Simultaneously, a great billow of
smoke gushed onto the landing. It was the
coup de grace
.
As one man, the group on the stairs broke and ran. From the corner of
his eye Tyndale saw Shotten wrest a pistol from the newcomer and
turn—aiming. With a cry of warning, he leapt to push his cousin out of
the line of fire. The pistol shot cracked deafeningly, even above the
tumult. Tyndale staggered and clutched his shoulder. Devenish steadied
himself and fired, his shot sounding as an echo to the first, the twin
retorts almost simultaneous, and Shotten gave a howl, grabbed his arm
and reeled away, assisted by a comrade.

Tyndale swayed, missed his footing, and fell, tumbling limply
down the precipitous stairs even as the front door was flung wide.

General Drummond, Yolande behind him, rushed in. They halted,
and stood as though rooted to the spot. Yolande gave a small, shrill
scream. With an appalled groan, Devenish started to hurry to his
cousin, but Yolande was before him. She flew to sink down beside
Tyndale's sprawled form, another despairing cry escaping her as she saw
the blood that stained his shirt. Tearing his cravat aside, her
distraught gaze flashed up to Devenish and the still-smoking pistol in
his hand. "Murderous savage!" she sobbed, in fierce accusation. "
Had
you to try to kill him, then? Would
nothing
satisfy your vengeance, your insane jealousy, but his death?" And
bending to investigate the wound high on Tyndale's shoulder, she
pleaded brokenly, "My darling, my darling! Oh, my dearest beloved—do
not die! Please,
please
, do not die!"

Two steps above her, Devenish halted and groped blindly for
the banister rail. For years to come that scene would haunt him: Craig,
sprawled and silent, Yolande weeping over him; the General standing as
one dazed, while the grooms and stablehands from Steep Drummond crowded
noisily in behind him to gaze in awed condemnation at the dramatic
tableaux before them.

"It is not true," he thought numbly. "It
cannot
be true! She is
mine
. We are betrothed. She does
not love Craig. She
must not
love Craig!" But
Yolande's tears, her tender efforts to help the wounded man, and above
all else the bitter, accusing words that rang in his brain, left no
room for doubt. She
did
love Craig. That terrible
knowledge seared like a sword through him. Her love was forever lost.
The Colonial bastard had stolen her away, and in so doing had taken
every hope for the future, and all meaning in life…

Craig struggled feebly and came to one elbow. His eyes were
full of pain, and he must have struck his head in falling, for blood
was streaking down his face, but he held back Yolande's ministering
hand, his gaze fixed on his cousin. "Dev," he gasped faintly, "Dev—I
tried… not to love her, but… but I—I did not—I would… not…" And he
slumped down again, Yolande supporting his fall so that his head sank
into her lap. Her tears fell like bright diamonds onto his unresponsive
face. She lifted her head to glare up at Devenish and demand through
clenched teeth, "Are you satisfied now? Oh— may God forgive you! I
never shall!"

The General moved forward, breaking the spell that had held
them all still for what seemed like a long time, yet had actually been
only seconds. "Good God, man!" he breathed. "Have you entirely lost
your wits? I'd not thought to find something like this when the child
said there was trouble here!"

A door, distantly slammed, brought his head swinging around,
and jolted Devenish from his personal misery. "The smugglers!" he cried.

Montelongo staggered into the hall, saw Tyndale, and ran to
him weavingly.

The General brightened. If there were smugglers about, this
tragedy might not be so black as he had at first surmised. Smoke was
boiling out of one of the upper rooms. "Some of you men," he roared,
"get upstairs and put that fire out! Todd and Blake—stay with Miss
Yolande. The rest of you, come with me!"

'This way!" shouted Devenish. He sprinted to the kitchen hall
and the basement stairs and with whoops of excitement, the General and
his men followed. At top speed, they clattered down the stairs and
raced along the hall. The door to the store room in which the cousins
had been imprisoned was still open. The rear door stood wide, but as
Devenish ran through it, he slowed. A large cupboard just beyond the
door jutted crazily into the corridor, revealing a small aperture in
the wall behind it, and a glimpse of deep-cut steps leading downwards.

Holding up a flaming torch that he'd snatched from its
bracket, the General muttered, "Have a care, lad. They may be waiting!"

Devenish smiled without mirth. Much he cared! He stepped over
the low wainscot and onto the first step. The darkness was intense, the
light of the torch penetrating a very few feet ahead, but the steps
wound steadily down. They were slippery and treacherous, but he went on
with reckless haste, and as he went the smell of the sea came ever more
clearly to his nostrils. Had not Tyndale once made some remark about
the possibility of an entrance to the castle through a cave? His heart
began to hammer with anticipation.

The steps curved around a wall, and suddenly they were in an
enormous chamber, one side of which was formed by the living rock of
the cliff-face. Torches still burned in wall brackets, but of
Sanguinet's minions the only sign was the open door at the far side of
the room, a door of solid stone, so formed as to be invisible from
without once it was securely closed.

Coming up with Devenish at the foot of the steps, Drummond
exclaimed, "By God, but this is a fine haul! There's a deal more here
than brandy and perfumes and the like!"

And indeed, there were innumerable boxes, bales, and barrels
of every shape, row upon row of them, stored very neatly by their
various sizes.

"No wonder there were so many of them," muttered Devenish.