Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 08] - Sanguinet's Crown (18 page)

"Half a dozen horses following. I hoped we'd lost 'em, but
they're coming up fast."

Mitchell gave the cuffs of his gauntlets a tug. "Forewarned,"
he said.

Diccon knew with an uneasy assessment of the odds that they
were all very tired, and it would be an uneven fight, for diLoretto,
however willing, was no swordsman. The smell of the sea tinged the air,
and the new moon, a faint sliver of palest gold in the sky, lit the
heavens just sufficiently to reveal a strange distant forest lifting
bare thin arms against the night. Masts. He said grimly, "They mean to
stop us before we take ship. Hasten!"

They drove home their spurs and were away in a burst of speed.
And, at once, from behind came an answering thunder of hooves in hot
pursuit.

The winding lane they followed was shut in on both sides by
hedgerows and was lonely and deserted at this hour, but two or three
miles ahead was the Mersey, and shipping knew no light or dark. There
would be loadings and offloadings, and too many men about for
Sanguinet's bullies to dare attack. It soon became evident, however,
that they would be overtaken long before they reached the estuary. The
hacks they'd found had been far from prime, but the best available;
their pursuers had evidently fared better. They were gaining steadily
so that soon the creak and jingle of harness could be heard in addition
to those relentlessly beating hooves. A shot rang out, then another,
the balls whistling unpleasantly close. To add to their woes, the moon
seemed to be brightening and there was water everywhere now, the light
reflecting from river, mere, and marshland. The lane straightened
ahead. Soon they would be in open country with not even the occasional
hedgerows to hinder the aim of their pursuers. "We'll be picked off
like clay pigeons," Mitchell thought grimly.

The river saved them, offering deep banks and a bridge that
spanned the hurrying waters. It was a narrow, humpbacked structure with
low sandstone walls; a place where three determined men might stand a
chance against many. Mitchell pointed urgently, and Diccon nodded.
"Right. It's there or a spot of their choosing, God forbid!"

They galloped hard until they reached the bridge, then drew up
sharply. The hacks reared and plunged. Mitchell dismounted in a smooth
leap. Diccon staggered but, recovering his balance, slapped his hat
under the noses of their scared horses so that the animals panicked and
ran back the way they had come.

The onrush of the men following was halted, confusion reigning
as the riderless hacks careened in amongst them. Mitchell raced up the
bridge a short way, drew his pistol and dropped to one knee in the
deeper shadow of the wall. Taking the opposite side, Diccon muttered,
"Damn! There are more than I'd thought! Make your shot count, friend.
With luck we'll get a couple of the bastards! Then it will be fists—or
knives"

Mitchell said belatedly, "Tonio? Where in the devil—"

There was no time for more. In a thundering charge, the
assassins came at them. Mitchell took careful aim. His ears rang to the
roar of Diccon's pistol, followed by a faint cry. A brilliant glare
dazzled him as another shot rang out. He held his own fire until five
dark figures were almost upon them. Even as he pulled the trigger
someone else fired. Mitchell heard an odd little grunt from Diccon.
Then they were engaged in hand-to-hand combat and it was too close for
any more shots, even if any of their assailants still had loaded
pistols.

The big man confronting Mitchell sent steel flashing at his
throat. He gripped the barrel of his pistol and flailed out with it,
sending the dagger spinning, but the attacker swung up his other fist
and Mitchell was staggered by a blow he was only partially able to
deflect. He struck out again with his impromptu club, felt it crunch
home, and the big man disappeared. The bridge became an eddying
maelstrom of desperate conflict; of thudding blows, harddrawn breaths,
hoarse curses, and the shift and sway of dim-seen forms battling in the
elemental need to kill or be killed. Driving home a solid right to the
jaw of one bully, Mitchell was barely in time to duck from a cudgel
that would have brained him had it landed. He slammed his pistol butt
under someone's ribs, and a cry was torn from an unseen throat. Again,
steel darted at him. He saw the gleam of it and leapt madly to the
side. A dark shape rushed him, a heavy blow dazed him, but he managed
to retain sufficient of his wits to kick out as someone blundered past.
His boot struck hard, and a diminishing wail was followed by a splash
and much noisy thrashing about. Dizzied and gasping for breath, he
clutched the wall. A bubbling scream rang out behind him, and someone
else went down. Peering about, wondering why no more attacks came, he
realized in dazed disbelief that, so quickly, it was all over.

"Diccon…?" he panted, gingerly investigating a throbbing
contusion on the side of his head.

"H-here," wheezed Diccon.

"Signor… Mish-hell…"

Responding at once to that woeful cry, Mitchell ran down the
bridge, vaulting over the sprawled forms of downed men, until he saw
the little Italian crumpled in the shadow of the wall.

"Tonio! Are you badly hurt?"

"I fall from… my stupid horse," wailed the valet. "Mama mia!
My dear little… head!"

"Rest for a minute." Some instinct warning him, Mitchell
turned back.

Diccon was sagging to his knees. Even as Mitchell raced to
him, he sank onto his face.

"Oh, gad!'' Kneeling beside that lax form, Mitchell turned him
gently. He could see the wetness of blood on the jacket and groped for
his handkerchief. "Let me—" Diccon's hand was staying him. From the
direction of the Mersey he could hear horses, coming fast.

Diccon whispered, "Notebook. You… promised. Smollet. Go!
Before—" The next word faded into a long sigh, and the tall man who had
devoted so many thankless years to his country lay very still.

Stunned, Mitchell stared down at him, then started to search
for a heartbeat, just in case. But the sharp ring of an ironshod hoof
against cobblestones was very close, and he dared wait no longer.
Groping frantically, he found at last the concealed pocket and
retrieved a small, battered, leather-bound book. He thrust it into his
boot and sprang to his feet.

Someone was behind him. The sharp edge of a dagger bit into
his throat just below his right ear. "Don't move," a man growled, "or—"
Mitchell sprang away, only to check as something rammed hard into his
back. A low, jeering voice urged, "Go on, me bucko. Hop abaht again,
why don'tcha? Up wi' yer mauleys."

Fuming, Mitchell raised both hands slightly, and stood
motionless.

There were three of them; the two who had caught him and who
were now very interested in Diccon's limp form, and another rider
coming up at a less rapid pace.

"By gorm! It's that there damned cove from Bow Street!"
exclaimed the larger of them, bending low. "So Slope got him!"

"Devil he did!" said Mitchell, his mind racing. "I got him."

"Liar!" The gun was jabbed savagely into his back again. "You
wasn't with Slope! You're a flash cull if ever I heard one."

"And sent from London," said Mitchell. "Slope was with
me
,
fellow! Not I with him. Had I not told him where Diccon would go, the
slowtop would have made mice feet of the whole."

The big man, kneeling beside Diccon, looked up."Search him,"
he said. "If he don't like it, brain him first."

Mitchell submitted, thankful that he'd obeyed Diccon's edict
and discarded anything that might have identified him.

"Nothing," said the man who'd rifled his pockets. "Whatever he
is, he's a downy cove."

The big man clambered to his feet and came over to stand
facing Mitchell. "Where's his book?" he demanded aggressively. "If the
Frenchy sent you, you know what I mean."

"I know. And I'm to give it to Claude. Not to you." He flung
himself aside as the ruffian came at him. The man behind him fired in
the same instant that Mitchell struck the pistol upward.

"Perce, you stupid damned dog's arse!" howled the big man.
''You near blowed
my
head orf!''

Perce began to stammer frantic excuses.

The last rider was walking his horse up the bridge. Mitchell,
praying his desperate ruse would succeed, said coldly, "Monseigneur
needs all the good men he can find." He turned to the unhappy Perce
and, cutting through his babbling, commanded, "You there, go down and
see if Slope is alive. And be quick about it unless you've a fancy for
the nubbing cheat!"

His brief acquaintanceship with a pickpocket paid dividends.
That a "flash cull" knew cant seemed to reassure these men. Grumbling,
but grateful for a chance to escape his companion's justifiable wrath,
Perce stuck the pistol in his belt and went off to inspect the
casualties.

The third man reined up. He was a thickset individual with a
deep growl of a voice. "That you, Billy?"

The big man acknowledged it was, and when the mounted man
asked, "Is it done?" he gestured towards Diccon. "The runner's done
fer, Beach."

"Is he! His royalty'll be pleased for once! You get his book?"

Billy jerked his shaggy head to Mitchell. "He did. He was with
Slope. Says he's from London."

Beach stared at Mitchell, and snapped his fingers. "Give it
here."

"Not likely," said Mitchell. Beach swore and started his horse
forward. "I've orders to hand it to Monseigneur and no one else," said
Mitchell. "Of course, if you mean to countermand my orders, Beach…"

The newcomer hesitated. "Damned Quality," he muttered.
''Wouldn't trust one so far as I could throw him.''

"Sanguinet would be pleased to hear that," Mitchell observed
jeeringly.

"I 'spect you
love
the Frenchy, eh?"
said Billy. "I 'spect—"

"Shut yer jaw," contributed Beach. "He's likely from the
Admiral. Just his stamp, he is." He spat contemptuously.

"Slope's done fer," called the small Perce.

''And so will we be if we stand here jawing much longer,''
said Mitchell boldly, wondering which admiral was involved in this ugly
plot.

There was a brief pause.

Billy said dubiously, "Wotcha think, Beach? This 'ere cove
wouldn't want to go if he wasn't in on it."

"Might," Beach argued, glowering at Mitchell. "If he was a
government spy. And Monseigneur wouldn't like
that
."

Billy chuckled. "I dunno. The Frenchy'd give him to Gerard.
He'd
have a jolly time getting the truth outta him.''

"What's your name, Mr. Flash Cove?" asked Beach roughly.

"Rivers," said Mitchell, grasping at the first thought that
offered.

"All right," Beach said. "Come on, then. It's your funeral if
you're lying."

''What about Fritch ?'' called Perce. ''He's alive, I think.
And these others might—"

Beach turned his horse impatiently. "Leave 'em be. They knew
the risks when they hired on. Bring up a couple of them nags. And
quick. There's a wagon coming."

In the cold light of dawn, Mitchell stepped onto the gangplank
of a sleek schooner tied up at the Birkenhead docks. Glancing inland,
he wondered if Tonio had been able to get help for Diccon, or if he
would send word to the gypsy, Daniel. At least in that way someone
would know what had happened. His attention turned to the men who
watched from the rail. A hard-faced lot. Rogues, by the look of them;
soldiers of fortune with not a
soupçon
of
patriotism, who would give him short shrift if he was unmasked, but
fortunately, containing among them not one familiar countenance. If he
survived this journey, his prospects were very slim. He had not met
Claude Sanguinet, but he had been to the great chateau in Dinan; he had
fought a duel with Guy Sanguinet—purely by accident, because he'd
mistaken the silly fellow for Claude—and Claude's lieutenant, Gerard,
had good cause to remember him.

He had started out with the simple, straightforward goal of
facing Claude Sanguinet across twenty yards of turf and doing his level
best to rid the world of the obscenity. And now look at the complicated
bumblebroth he'd got himself into. "I'm ripe for Bedlam, that's what it
is," he thought, his heart sinking. But Diccon's words echoed in his
ears, "I may rely on you?" and he went on up the gangplank.

Despite her apparent frailty, Charity was a good sailor, and
even when they encountered bad weather on the third day out, she did
not become unwell. To a degree she had been treated with consideration.
A woman was allotted to attend to her needs; her food was excellently
cooked and served, and for the most part she was spoken to with
civility. The servant, however, was a surly creature named Ella, and
Charity summoned her as seldom as was possible, fearing that with too
easy familiarity her true identity might soon be betrayed. A trunkful
of clothes had been placed in her cabin, and she lost no time in
selecting a long shawl and binding it daily about her middle. Since the
garments, having been obviously purchased for Rachel's more bountiful
figure, were slightly large on herself, the resultant extra fullness of
the skirts was a godsend, and all in all, she judged the effect
believable.

Her initial debilitating despair had eased somewhat. At least
during the hours of daylight she was able to stay relatively calm,
knowing that Claude was not on board and that so long as she was on
this voyage she was safe from him. Each night she knelt beside her bunk
and whispered fervent prayers for rescue, but when she lay staring
wide-eyed into the darkness she felt alone and small and afraid, and
the demons of imagination conjured up images so horrible that her trust
in a merciful providence would waver, and she would tremble and weep
until Little Patches ran up the bed and tried in her small way to be of
comfort.