A Dusk of Demons (11 page)

“But just because your mother thinks—”

Ralph stood up. “There's no point in discussing it. What's done is done. Do you think there's enough light still for me to show you a few tricks with that kite?”

I thought of the old man in the tent. “Landsmen are dogs, ready to snarl or wag tail as their masters bid them.” Masters, or mothers.

“No,” I said. “It's too dark.”

•  •  •

They were nice to me at dinner. Both Millicent and Rachel went out of their way to talk to me, and even the Mistress managed a smile or two. Nothing was said of the three faces missing from the table. Ralph excused himself early, but before going he suggested we ride out to Middlebrook Farm in the morning, to see if any more cows had gone down with milk fever. Then he went to kiss his mother good-night.

The villa seemed very empty, and I went early to my room. I kept thinking Paddy would burst in or Mother Ryan call me. I wondered where they had stopped for the night, and how they were.

I tried to look on the bright side. That everyone here was being nice was confirmation of the fact of my inheritance. Once that was properly secured, things would be different. As Master, I would have power—power perhaps to bring them back to the
islands. The Dark One might be the ruler of the universe, but his rulings, I was beginning to understand, were interpreted by ordinary human beings. They could make mistakes, and they could also be persuaded.

It wasn't something that could be done straightaway, of course. It would take time. Things needed to be done in order. It might be months before I could manage it, a year maybe.

“There have to be order and rules. . . .” Suddenly and shockingly, my line of thought disgusted me. I was thinking like Ralph—like a landsman.

•  •  •

I slept fitfully and was awake very early. No one was about as I took Hussar from his stall, saddled, and mounted him. A few birds were beginning to call from hedgerows as I reached the fork by the mill and headed north, toward Paddy and Mother Ryan and Antonia.

I was a bit light-headed, but much happier. Reaching a hand into my pocket I touched the knife. At least I had not been such a fool as to obey that particular instruction from Ralph. I set Hussar
to a canter, and something else metallic slapped against my chest. I felt inside my shirt and drew out the medallion. The symbol of my inheritance, Sheriff Wilson had said, to be kept with me always. But what was that inheritance worth, when it came attached to strings that could be pulled by Sheriff Wilson or General Pengelly—or by his wife?

Without Mother Ryan and Antonia—without Paddy—it was meaningless, a nothing. As I rode, I eased the chain over my head and held the medallion in my hand. Perhaps it had signified something to my father, but it had no value for me. Rising in the saddle, I drew back my arm and threw it as far as I could.

The day brightened, and I could see the surrounding country more clearly. To my right it was thickly wooded, but on the other side open fields stretched away. Men were already at work there; heads briefly lifted before bending again to labor. Any horseback rider must be gentry, and the ways of the gentry were beyond either their reckoning or their interest.

Not until the sun was above the trees did I see
anyone on the road itself: an approaching speck which gradually became a figure. The figure was on foot, which meant there was no cause for alarm. When the traveler turned off the road and headed into the fields, I guessed it was someone from an outlying village, perhaps taking breakfast to one of the laborers.

Yet there was no one working near, and the figure's movements seemed odd. Having distanced himself from the road, he was proceeding parallel to it. He—or she? I first saw it was a girl, and then recognized not the distant blur of features but a familiar spring in the walk. Paddy!

When I spurred toward her she began running further into the field. I called her name several times before she stopped. I slipped from the saddle, leaving reins dangling, and ran to hug her.

Interrupting one another, we exchanged explanations. She had sneaked off while the rest were asleep, not sure what she would do when she got to the villa but determined to get me away as she had done before. I simply said I'd decided to go after them. I didn't speak of Ralph, and she asked no questions.

I led Hussar back to the road and we both got up, with Paddy in the saddle and me perched awkwardly in front. With such a load we could look for no better than walking pace, but Paddy said the wagon's progress had been still slower. They would have spent time looking for her too, and might not yet have resumed their journey north. We should have no great difficulty in catching up with them.

I asked, “What will the guards say, when you turn up with me?”

She shrugged. “We'll tell them something.”

Her confidence was infectious, we were back together, and the morning was bright. And the guards were landsmen, used to doing as they were told. They'd been ordered to take a party north, and a fourth would make little difference.

The fields tailed away into barren land and scrub, empty of houses. On the other side, though, we spied habitation. They were screened by trees, which accounted for Paddy's not having seen them on her journey south, but in daylight the line of covered wagons was plainly visible. Smoke rose from campfires. I heard children's cries and a barking dog.

“Gypsies!” I whispered. Paddy nodded, urging Hussar to a slightly brisker pace. We did not appear to have been seen, and the voices soon faded, along with the smell of wood smoke. After a long stretch of road we were coming to a bend. I looked back, to make sure no one from the camp was following, and saw a cloud of dust in the distance.

Perhaps foolishly I had given no thought to being pursued. I was a guest, the General had said, and a guest is someone who can leave as and when he chooses. For that matter, what reason could there be for seeking to keep me against my will? It made no difference to the General who was Master of Old Isle. But I knew at once the cloud marked a troop of horse, and with equal certainty knew their mission was to capture the departing guest and take him back as a prisoner.

They were out of sight as we rounded the bend, but less than half a mile away. We scrambled off Hussar, and Paddy whacked his buttock. He whinnied in protest and galloped off. We took shelter in brush at the side of the road as Pengelly's men cantered past.

Paddy gripped my arm. “They'll double back when they find him riderless. Better run for it.”

It was hard and painful going. The ground rose to a ridge, then dipped toward an edge of woodland that promised better cover. That was where Paddy stumbled and fell. I helped her up and she said she was all right, but winced when she put her foot to the ground. Teeth gritted, she said, “Come
on!
They'll have caught him by now.”

But she was limping badly, and we were in heavy undergrowth. I went ahead, pushing aside branches to make it easier for her. With relief I saw open space before us.

It was not until I had broken through into the clearing that I noticed something else: a man standing directly in our path, with a gun in the crook of his arm.

H
E WAS SQUAT, NOT MUCH
taller than I was, but powerfully built: broad-chested, the arm that cradled the gun strongly muscled. He wore a leather jerkin over a coarse gray shirt whose sleeves were rolled high, and leather trousers and sandals. Arms and face were dark brown from exposure to sun, and wrinkled by age and weather. He had a wide, ugly face with dark, deep-set eyes and a splayed nose, and a scar ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. He had shaved, but not recently: A stubble of gray beard matched the loose strands that failed to cover his brown bald head.
His mouth opened in a gappy smile, but the teeth remaining were strong and white.

“Now then, me darlins,” he said in a gravelly voice. “What's wi' ye?”

Neither of us replied. So close to their camp, he must be a gypsy. A dirty lot, Ralph had said: thieves, maybe still infected with the Madness. According to the country people, they could lay spells. Steer clear of them, Ralph had warned.

There was also the gun. It wasn't like the guns Pengelly's soldiers carried; it seemed older, and was double-barreled. His right hand held it just beneath the trigger guard, and the barrels caught a flash of sunlight.

“It were pigeon I were after,” he went on, “but I had an eye to the road. What I seed there was two young 'uns riding the one pony, and early in the day to be so far from a sassenach dwelling. Then comes a dozen or more riders, goin' lickety-split. And now I finds the same two young 'uns runnin' hard through the brush.”

He fixed a half-closed eye on us. “What did ye do with the horse? Set him loose? He looked a beast
worth keeping, except they'd run ye down quick if ye stayed with him. Ye're in trouble, I'd say.”

“We're all right,” Paddy said. The calmness of her voice impressed me. “We don't need help, thank you.”

He made no immediate reply—in fact looked away, cocking his head as though listening. All I could hear was a blackbird, and the coo of a pigeon. He had said he'd come out after pigeon. “They've struck back,” he said, after a moment. “They're off the road and beating this way. Four of 'em, at least. Even without one of ye bein' lame, they'd ketch ye within a half hour. As it is, five minutes.”

He spoke with flat certainty. Paddy's eyes met mine. If we were caught, nothing too bad was likely to happen, but Paddy would certainly be sent on to join the others, and I would be kept at the villa, probably under guard. I wouldn't be given a second chance to walk away.

“Hearken,” the gypsy said.

Now I could hear it: distant feet, trampling through undergrowth. Paddy bit her lip and nodded.

“Can you hide us?” I asked.

He shook his ugly head. “Not here. Not nowhere in the woods. They'd be bound to hit on ye, sooner or later.”

I realized he had not actually offered the help Paddy had refused. Perhaps he had just been mocking us. Or getting us off guard while he considered the best way of handing us over? He might be counting on a reward.

“Nowhere in the woods,” he repeated. “But sassenachs won't come nigh our caravans. Feared of goin' mad, as I've heard.” He grinned widely. “Which are ye more feared of—the mad didikoy, or gettin' ketched?”

“We'll go with you,” Paddy said quickly.

“So be.” He listened again. “They're comin' on fast. I'll carry ye, missy, with your permission. You follow, boy, and see can ye outrun me.”

There was small chance of that. He picked up Paddy with his free arm and swung her easily over his shoulder, then set off in a loping run, breaking through brushes he could not easily skirt. I followed, marveling at the pace he set.

Dogs barked as we approached the camp, and
other gypsies looked at us but with no particular sign of interest. Children went on playing in the dust. There were six painted wagons, and he headed for one at the end, a little apart from the others. Its door was approached by wooden steps; he lowered Paddy and pushed us inside. Following, he closed the lower half of the door and leaned on it, gazing out.

It was dim inside the wagon and there was a variety of smells, not all pleasant. From outside came sounds of whistling, a howling dog, people talking. Later we heard more distant voices, calling one another. That went on for about ten minutes, but it was as long again before the gypsy turned to us.

“They're gone. I doubt they'll come back, but ye'd be wise not to venture abroad awhile yet. Ye can call me Mordecai. What am I to be naming ye?”

•  •  •

The wagons housed more than forty gypsies. The rest were crammed with adults and children (who slept in hammocks, slung from the roof at night and packed away each morning); only Mordecai had
a caravan to himself. I thought at first he might be the chief, but learned the real chief lived in a yellow-and-blue caravan, slightly bigger than the rest, along with his mother, his wife, their son,
his
wife, and four small children.

Mordecai asked if we were hungry, and when we admitted it left us to get food. Paddy took off her shoe and stocking and gingerly flexed her foot. I asked, “Is it bad?”

“Bad enough.” She grimaced. “And it's swelling.”

I thought of our situation: in the middle of nowhere, Paddy lame, and Hussar on the way back to his stable. I guessed Paddy's thoughts were running on similar lines. She said, in a depressed tone, “It was supposed to be a five-day journey north to the port, but from there boats sailed to Ireland almost every day. It won't be easy now to catch up with them.”

“The gypsies have horses. If we—”

“Stole a couple? Not a very nice way of paying him back for hiding us.” She added practically, “Anyway, they'd soon catch us, and what then?
Horses are probably the most precious things they own.” She put weight on her foot and winced. “I hope this doesn't lay me up for long.”

Mordecai returned, bringing plates heaped with bacon, eggs, and sausages. Also what looked like mushrooms, but darker in color and differently shaped. I left these till last, and saw him watching me.

“D'ye think they've gypsy poison in 'em?”

He took a fork, speared and ate one, smacking his lips. “What are they?” I asked. “Not mushrooms.”

“It bein' this time o' year, ye mean? There are more godsends in woods and meadows than sassenachs know. Morels come in spring and early summer, when the world's ripening.”

“They're delicious,” Paddy said. “Better than mushrooms.”

I tried them, and they were. Mordecai took away the plates and returned with battered mugs of a hot liquid whose taste was strange but refreshing.

“Now,” he said, scratching the stubble of his beard. “What's to be done wi' ye? It might be a help
to know what ye're about, and why the sassenachs were chasing ye, but a man's business is his own till such a time as he chooses to share it.”