The Price of Hannah Blake (31 page)

He pointed to the side. “There are some 50 feet of cleared space between the last trees and the wall. Beyond the trees, we will be in moonlight and if we are unlucky the sentry on the wall could glance down and give the alarm. Our plan would be undone. Yet, we must go over the wall, there.”

Edward Blake looked at the man with crossbow. “Wilson, can you take a man atop the wall, probably walking, while still in the cover of the woods?”

“I must see.”

“Let’s go,” said David, turning right. As they neared the edge of the woods, they saw bright white moonlight on the strip between the woods and wall. They stood well back in the shadows. No one would speak now, for any reason. They looked up at the wall, watching.

In less than a minute, the head and torso of a man appeared atop the wall; he was walking slowly; the barrel of a rifle showed above his shoulder. They could see the silhouette of his face clearly, black against a lighter sky. As though all understanding the next question, they turned to look up and down the wall. How far away was the next sentry? After a few minutes, they had seen none. If they were lucky, and if the duke had grow careless, there might be only one on this side. From the length of time the man they had seen had been out of sight, now, that might be true. He had had to walk far down the wall.

David caught the crossbowman’s eye and pointing at the top of the wall, then nodded. The man nodded, took the crossbow from his back and inserted a quarrel; then, he stooped and fell back. He briefly lay on his back, drawing back the bowstring with both hands while holding the bow with both feet. It was the old way of doing it, but it required no extra equipment and it was silent—no cranking.

The man stood up. The others stepped back, but David pointed to another man who carried a coil of rope over his shoulder from which dangled a grappling hook. David pointed to the wall, jabbed his finger at his neck in imitation of the crossbow quarrel striking, and then pointed to the rope. The man nodded; this man could cross the clearing, throw the grappling iron, and be up the wall in less than a minute—total. He then would check the inside for other sentries; if there was none, he would slide down the other side of the wall and open the small, thick door they could see in the wall.

Now everyone tensed. The silhouette of the guard had come back into view, moving slowly. Sometimes the head turned, as though looking around, but it was perfunctory. The duke’s domain had not been challenged—ever. All the risks seemed to be from within—of escape.

The silhouette loomed. The crossbow came up, steadied for what seemed agonizingly long, as they held their breath, then the string twanged. The silhouette halted, as though suddenly resting, then slowly tilted toward them and fell from the wall. Before the body hit the ground, the man with the rope was running. He stopped for an instant over the man, then turned and gave a thumbs up. Then, he leaned back, his arm swinging behind him, and flung the grappling hook. They heard a clunk on the top of the wall, not loud, and then a soft scraping. Again the tension. Then, the man on the ground was leaning back on the rope, heaving his weight against it. It held. He jumped, seizing it higher up, and swung forward till his feet pressed the wall. Then, he seemed to run up it. Just a few seconds later, he disappeared atop the wall. The rope was left dangling. If something went wrong, they might need it.

They were pressed against the wall on either side of the door when it swung open. David stepped forward, bent toward the man who had opened it. “Tell me.”

“The guardhouse door is closed, but they are in there. Five. Some noise from open windows above, laughing, talking, shouting. Perhaps when the performance is done, all guests stay here—for security?”

David shrugged. “No one in sight on the grounds?” The man shook his head. David gestured behind him and they filed in, but stayed close to the wall; on this side; the wall cast a shadow. They had had little time to plan, none to rehearse, none to consider what to do when things went badly. It had been easy, so far; too much luck.

They crowded close and David whispered, “Kill only when we have to. We take this first group, cuff them, and Wilson stays to guard, sound the alarm if reinforcements come. Fire a shot; by then, it won’t matter.”

He turned, bent low, and ran along the wall in the shadow to the side of the guardhouse. The others followed. Even from here, he could see in the window. Men at a table.

He bent low, ran beneath the window, and knelt at the door. He reached up and took the knob. It turned silently. He waved them ahead. When they were arrayed at the door, guns leveled, he flung it open, leaping in with his Webley drawn. He dodged aside and the others entered. The men at the table leaped up, protesting, glancing around wildly. “Damn!” one gasped.

The eight guns leveled on them. The guards raised their hands; but one, it seemed, felt the call of duty. His hand flashed down to his waistband. For one split second, as the man raised his revolver, David thought: we lose. We fire or he fires. But then the silver handle of a knife was sticking from the man’s shoulder. He cried out and the gun clattered to the floor. Sailors loved to throw their knives.

David slid a knapsack off his back and tossed it down. Wilson seized it and edged around behind the men. He started removing handcuffs from the knapsack—plenty of those available to David at the Yard. “My arm!” protested the wounded man. “Bandage it!” snapped Wilson to the guard beside the wounded man, “but be quick!” Then, three rifles pointed at one man and he quickly put his hands behind him. Wilson cuffed him and moved on; all stood cuffed in less than three minutes. Wilson took a rifle in one hand, a Webley in the other, and hissed, “Sit! As you were!” The men sat around the table. Wilson positioned himself in a chair opposite them and well back from the table, guns leveled.

David turned, locked the outside door, and, after a pause, also jammed a tilted chair under its handle. If guards from the outside came, they might have a key. The chair would give Wilson a few extra seconds.

David waved and Blake surged forward with the others, out of guardroom, along a corridor. David whispered, “First staircase. Third level. Second door on the left is the duke’s chamber.” Thank God for MacLeod; he wondered where the doctor was. Still safe? Locked as always in his small quarters? There would be no time to rescue him. That would have to depend on the prime minister and the first lord. The same with the safety of the other prisoners. He wished it weren’t so, but they had come for Hannah.

Almost at the third level, moving in total silence up the stairs, David motioned the others to wait. At the top of the stairs, he knelt and peered around the corner. Best to be low, below eye level.

And then their luck ran out. There were three guards, and one happened to be looking right at the doorway to the stairs. He shouted, “Hey! Stop there! Stop!” and David heard him run forward. He leaped down the stairs, taking two giant steps to the next landing. “Stop!” The man fired just as David leaped sideways and onto the next flight. The man fired again, but with no target, this time.

David heard the man shout, “Jamison! Get the duke out of there. Back to the library. Bolt the door! Stay with him!” Then he yelled, “Thompson! With me!”

As David turned down the next flight, the others were surging up. “Stay,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just feints to keep them there!” And he dashed past them.

On the floor above, the guard, Jamison, rapped on the duke’s door. Surely the man was in a panic? The shots…

But from within came an angry roar. “No disturbance! Not
now
!”

An image of the duke flashed through Jamison’s mind; the duke liked to take a woman still hanging. To seize her legs and lift them, spreading, and hold her over his sex. Then, placing himself, he would thrust, hard, jouncing her in her bonds, each thrust a brutal jerk of his hips, lifting the slender body, jolting it. The thought was involuntary, because Jamison had recognized that furious roar of the duke; but already he raised his hand again and hammered hard on the door.

“Damn, man!” came from inside.

The guard heard shots on the stairs, single, spaced shots, as of fire exchanged by wary opponents. He raised the butt of his gun and thudded it against the door.

It whipped open. The duke stood, holding up his trousers, face flushed red, eyes furious in the big, bearded face. The guard shouted, “We are attacked by armed men—on the stairs, your Grace! Just Thompson and O’Brien to hold them!”

The guard plunged past the duke into the room, yelling, “This way! Come, countess!” For just a moment, he glanced around. The slender, naked figure hung limply, legs swinging apart, head on chest. Her body seemed aflame with criss-crossed whip marks from high on her breasts down her body to her knees. Her chest kept heaving as she sobbed. Another girl, also naked, lay on the floor, glinting blood oozing from many stripes across her back, buttocks, legs.

Now, the guard had thrown open a door across the room, and stood holding it, shouting, “Now!” and waving his arm to hurry them. “Damn!” said the duke, fastening his trousers, but he came. The countess, completely naked, had been quicker. She was already pushing through the door past the guard. When they were through, the guard looked back. He had left the other door open. He took two steps toward it, but heard shots—now in the corridor. He stepped back, slammed the door, and bolted it.

David had raced down to the second level. He ran along it, looking for the other staircase he knew was there. Yet again, he blessed the observant MacLeod. Yes, just ahead!. He raced up the stairs and paused, cautiously looking around the corner. The corridor was empty, but, just as he leaped in, a guard appeared out of the other stairwell, 20 yards away.

Both men raised their guns, but David knelt, even as he fired, and a bullet whistled over his head. The Martini-Henry spoke three times, rapidly, and the guard pitched forward. David hesitated to see if the other would appear. He didn’t. David yelled, “I’m here, on the third level! All clear, here!”

He charged forward, rifle leveled, ready to slam his back against the wall and fire if the guard appeared. He almost reached the doorway to the stairwell, watching it intently, when he turned his head for a moment.

He looked directly into the duke’s quarters. It was a vast, blood-red, enclosing chamber of luxury, but all he saw was the pale, slender body dangling motionless from the ceiling—the arms, the slim torso, the long legs all stretched as though to reach the floor. He made an animal sound—a cry, a sob, a snarl of rage. He half-turned, as though to enter, but then leaped forward to the stairwell doorway and looked down. The single guard on the stairs whirled, turning his gun. David shot him. He did it as though casually, without concern. The man pitched down the stairs.

David yelled, “I found her! Here!” and heard the rush of feet on the stairs. He whirled and ran back, leaping through the door, across the room, and flung his arms around Hannah, lifting her. His voice was a sob, “Hannah! Hannah!” Was he too late?

Clutching her around the waist with one arm, he lifted her chin. She opened her eyes slowly, took a breath. For a moment, she looked at him as though confused. Then she asked, tentatively, “David?”

“Yes!” he said, “Yes!” His voice was breaking.

“How?” she asked, as though dazed. “Did you die?”

“No, no,” he was sobbing now, hugging her. “No, I just came too late. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

“Good God in dear, dear Heaven…” The words came slowly, one at a time, disbelieving. David turned. Edward Blake had started across the room, then stopped as though dealt a mighty slap. The others crowded behind him; at first they stared, then eyes began to turn away.

David’s glance fell on Miranda, and he cried out, “See to her!” In a moment, two men were kneeling beside her. He called, a sob still in his voice, “Give me a knife!”

Blake came forward, drawing his knife. For one instant, he looked at Hannah’s naked body, the fiery pattern of whip marks, and then he reached up and slashed, once, twice, and Hannah’s arms fell and David took her weight for a moment until he had scooped up her knees, hugging her to him, and walked toward the bed. With one vicious sweep, Blake, ahead of him, had thrown off the gown, the coat.

David gently put her down. Blake leaned over her, his face close to hers, but her eyes were closed. He said softly, “Hannah, it’s daddy. Can you hear me?” The eyes came open, looked at him, as though struggling to focus, and she smiled ever so slightly, nodding her head. Her eyes closed.

David looked around, alarmed. They had to leave, now! At any moment, there could be reinforcements, and they had no idea how many, or from where. He looked at Blake and said, “We have to get out fast, but…” He looked down. “How can she…?”

“Better than trapped here,” said Blake. Then, he said, grimly: “Where is the duke?”

No!” snapped David. But the walrus jerked his head at the door to the corridor and said, “Well, he didn’t come out that one.” He pointed at the other door. “So that one.”

“We save your daughter,” said David furiously. “Do want her to be recaptured?”

“Go,” said the walrus. “Take her, and go as fast as you can.” He turned to Blake, “This won’t take a minute.”

He went to the door. It was heavily paneled in some dark hardwood—walnut? He tried it. The knob turned, but it didn’t open. The huge body drew back, the face became ferocious, and he lunged at it. They heard a loud crack. The walrus backed again and lifted his foot. It hammered the door above the knob. They heard splintering and saw jagged white cracks in the black wood. He launched once more and the door flew off one hinge and hung open. Two of the men stood with rifles aimed at the opening, but no one was there.