Forever in Your Embrace (69 page)

The sun concluded its languid journey across the welkin blue and, for a lengthy moment, seemed to pause above the distant line that marked the end of its passage, as if delighting in its own magnificence, much like an actor posturing grandly for his audience before making his nightly departure from the stage. Crimson rays flared outward from the western sky, piercing the thin, ragged clouds that mischievously sought to veil the fiery brilliance of that great and notable visage. Replete in its unyielding condescension, the daystar finally bowed its head of its own accord and sank slowly from sight, allowing the heavy curtains of dusk to close behind it. Only a soft, rosy aura remained to evidence its passing until that, too, dwindled beneath the trailing hem of an ebon cloak that scattered a myriad of glittering crystals in its wake.

The night-born darkness was what Tyrone’s troop had been waiting for to mask their advance up the hill. Avar, Grigori, and a small vanguard of soldiers had already ascended to the bluff to take captive there a pair of guards living in a hut and to secure the area so the company could move stealthily into place. On his earlier scouting expedition, Avar had clandestinely observed the lookouts long enough to become familiar with their routine. Whether by soft, reassuring whistles, which came at regular intervals, or by sharper signals that alerted the camp of approaching danger, the scout now had the knowledge to enable the detachment to continue a covert surveillance of the canyon over which they’d be keeping watch. Already Avar had employed a birdlike trill to placate the half-dozen or so stalwarts who normally kept vigil in the camp down below. Everything was in readiness for the soldiers’ advance.

It was of paramount importance that Tyrone and his company of soldiers gain the hilltop positions undetected. Only when they were well assured that Ladislaus was in the camp would they launch their attack. If an alarm sounded ere the rascal was securely caught in their trap, the chances of capturing him were nil. Tyrone was adamant that nothing go wrong. He had come too far to think of springing his trap before the fox was in the bag.

Thus, in preparation for their ascent, the horses’ hooves had been padded, the axles of the supply wagons and the gun carriages heavily greased, and the wooden wheels wrapped with leather strips to muffle every bit of noise possible. No word was to be spoken except in the faintest whisper. Having already stressed the need for caution, Tyrone swung astride the huge black and casually drew the reins through his lean fingers as his men followed his lead and mounted their steeds. He raised an arm and swept it forward, silently motioning for them to move up the incline.

Long before he had actually started planning the foray, Tyrone had determined that their primary goal would have to be the capture of Ladislaus and the more important members of his band. By stripping away their leadership, he hoped to hamper the remnant’s ability to regroup. Without Ladislaus, he could foresee the others being dispersed in a state of chaos or perhaps scattered by those prone to struggle for positions of control. If his planned assault proved successful, then the prisoners would be taken back to Moscow, where they’d be subsequently judged for their crimes. Whatever happened beyond that point wasn’t within Tyrone’s power to dictate. If found guilty, the thieves would either be held for eons behind dungeon walls or be escorted to the spot near the Lobnoe Mesto, where the city held public executions.

Many in positions of authority had intentionally been led to believe that Colonel Rycroft’s objective was of no great import. To guarantee that such would be the case, Tyrone had deliberately bypassed General Vanderhout and, with Grigori acting as his interpreter to ensure that he’d be clearly understood, had taken his petition directly to the field marshal, who had proven entirely receptive to the idea of ridding the countryside of Ladislaus’s army of bandits. Tyrone’s appeal for secrecy had influenced the man to keep the matter to himself while allowing contrary rumors to filter down to the other men in the division. Nearly the whole Russian army thought the English colonel was merely leading his men on another practice maneuver in an area far afield from whence they’d actually be going.

When Vincent Vanderhout finally became cognizant of the fact that he hadn’t been advised of Colonel Rycroft’s plans well in advance of the actual issuance of orders, he had ranted and raved as if his second-in-command had committed a treasonous crime. The general was even more aghast when he had discovered that the colonel had requisitioned a half-dozen small cannons affixed on their own ribauldequins and twice that number of artillerymen to man them. His bushy brows had shot up to lofty heights of unparalleled disbelief at this affront, for he was sure the younger man was now trying to undermine his command or, at the very least, hoping to reap honors rightfully due him. Taking great exception to the clandestine manner in which these supplies had been obtained by his second-in-command, Vanderhout became resolved to teach the Englishman a lesson. Gaining audience with the highest military authority within his immediate reach, he had vehemently demanded that another be chosen to lead the expedition, but he was informed that his request would have to be approved by the field marshal, who at the time was far too busy to see him.

Vanderhout had then sought to ease his growing frustration and vicious spite by harshly berating his wife for bedding down with a fool and by lambasting the tactics that her lover-colonel had devised for the campaign. By the time he had detailed every flaw he had imagined existed in Tyrone’s strategy, Aleta knew as much as any officer in the division and took great pains to keep that information to herself, thereby helping to secure the secrecy that Colonel Rycroft had both wanted and needed for the success of the foray.

The general’s disappointment had reached its zenith when his attempt to forestall the scheduled departure of Tyrone’s troops came up against a solid stone wall in the form of a direct mandate from the field marshal, whose missive had negated the possibility of anyone denying the colonel’s requests. Alas, the poor general could do little but fume in high-flying indignation as the colonel and a large company of men from his regiment rode out of Moscow in full view.

Having gotten wind of all the scuttlebutt, the townspeople were positive they knew every detail of the Englishman’s mission. Word had also trickled beyond the city, appeasing the curiosity of those who made it their business to be kept well apprised of the whereabouts of the tsar’s forces.

A day’s journey beyond the city, Tyrone had sent Avar to scout out the area ahead of them with a detachment of twelve Hussars commanded by Grigori. Four of these had served as vedettes who rode outpost fore and aft of the remaining eight during the day. In the evening, two of the twelve reported back to Tyrone and were replaced by that same number of men from the main company who then rode forward to join the advance guard. Ordered to capture any spies who would perchance report back to the thieves, Avar and his small body of men had kept a careful surveillance for offshoots of Ladislaus’s band in an attempt to avoid the possibility of the miscreants obtaining advance warnings of their approach. Thus the colonel and his troop had managed to arrive at the foot of the hill with no member of the outlaw band the wiser.

Tyrone carefully scanned the area encompassed by a tangle of woods on either side of them as he led his men up the hill by way of a longer trail that allowed the larger conveyances easier access. The moonlight provided enough illumination for their climb, but it also threatened to reveal their presence if some wayward sound attracted the curiosity of the thieves. When a sudden rattle of a falling kettle made a horse rear and whinny in fear, Tyrone was quick to react. Whirling his own steed about, he came alongside the lumbering wagon from whence the offense had occurred and sternly rebuked the young soldier who drove it.

“Dammit, Corporal!” he hissed. “Belay that racket ere you wake the dead! I told you to secure every last pot and kettle aboard this cook wagon. Did you need a nursemaid peering over your shoulder to remind you to get it done?”

“Izvinitye!” The young man jerked his shoulders briefly upward in an anxious shrug as he apologized and then struggled to find the English words that would adequately answer his commander. “I did, sir!”

“Obviously not well enough!”

“Something broke, I think.”

Tyrone jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Gavaritye! Get up the hill! You can make your excuses later.”

When the last wagon reached the summit without further incident, only then did Tyrone breathe a sigh of relief. Grigori and Avar were there to assist him in directing the men in setting up the camp. Though the whole company had been cautioned about the need for secrecy, it was once again impressed upon them that all would be lost if the thieves were alerted to their presence while they labored beneath the cover of darkness.

Whispered orders were given as supply wagons were unloaded and then pushed into narrow niches between towering firs whose boughs provided generous concealment. The horses were tied in similar protected sites close behind the encampment. Cannons were hauled into place and stealthily positioned among the firs buttressing the sharp drop-off forming the hillside, their sights directed outward toward their targets. Near the ribauldequins upon which they sat, leaden balls were stacked in generous mounds. The sod-roofed stone hovel that had once served the guards as living quarters would be utilized as a cook-house during the surveillance. Beyond its stone steps, no campfires would be permitted in any area where a glow could be detected from down below.

His company of men finally settled themselves to get some much-needed rest, allowing Tyrone to inspect the encampment. Accompanied by Grigori and Avar, he apprised himself of the advantages and faults of their hilltop position and discussed options for remedying the latter. Below him, the narrow basin was spotted here and there with campfires that dimly illumined the steep crags and rocky hills encompassing Ladislaus’s hideout. Protected by this impenetrable fortress of stone, the bastard prince and his followers had obviously enjoyed autonomy from the rest of the world for a number of years. The only paths by which a man could enter or leave were through the passes at both ends, each of which was well barricaded and continually patrolled by two armed lookouts. A third sentry watched from the bluff above each, a prime spot for viewing anyone traversing those narrow areas. The guards’ lofty positions made it virtually impossible for a foe to escape detection once he entered the gorge.

Tyrone had finalized his strategy with Avar’s earlier observations uppermost in his mind. Although the summit upon which they now camped had been reasonably accessible by the trail that he and his men had recently taken, his scout had forewarned him that descent into the ravine would require a perpendicular drop from the cliff, for which his men had routinely practiced by shimmying up and down ropes attached to the Kremlin wall. In preparation for the actual event, the ends of stout ropes would soon be attached to large trees edging the bluff and their coiled lengths left at the bases of the trunks, where they’d be wrapped in small tarps to protect them from the elements. Ropes frozen in unyielding ice would be of little use to them once the order to attack was given. This and other meticulous precautions were taken to expedite the soldiers’ advance into Ladislaus’s camp, a strategy the thief would hardly be expecting.

“Everything will be just the way you had anticipated, Colonel,” Grigori stated with a measure of excitement and pride imbuing his tone. “Once we utilize the cannons, the outlaws will be imprisoned down there. After our men take them captive, another gun blast or two will open the front pass to allow us to depart.”

“The plan seems simple enough to forestall the possibility of failure,” Tyrone mused aloud but continued in rueful reflection. “Still, I’ve seen the best of schemes fail for the most asinine reasons. As yet, we don’t have any idea if Ladislaus is even down there, or if he’ll soon return if he isn’t. We can only bide our time until we actually see him. I pray we won’t have to wait too long with winter nigh upon us.”

“I shall add my prayers to that petition, Colonel,” Grigori readily offered. “I have no liking for the frigid winds that will sweep over this hill.”

A cold, blustery morning followed the regiment’s nocturnal arrival to the summit. Crisp winds blew in plumes of snow that whisked into the cowls of widely flying cloaks and flapping tent doors and puckishly frosted fingers and noses. The ominous portent evidencing the fierceness of the winter ahead might not have been so difficult to bear had they spotted their quarry. Though Tyrone and his men carefully canvassed nearly every crevice and cranny they could view from their lofty perch, no one caught a glimpse of the lordling thief. Not even the powerfully built Petrov or the towering Goliath was sighted, leaving the soldiers little choice but to suffer through the anguish of waiting until the rascals came within their grasp.