Had We Never Loved (34 page)

“I doubt it. If I get the pin from that hound, I'll have to ride like fury to reach the Abbey in time.” He cradled her face in his hands. “Whatever happens—I love you more than I ever dreamed possible. Will you believe that, lovely one?”

“Yes, but…” Her hands flew around his neck. Trembling, she said, “Tio I got a un-brave feeling all over! What will you do if—if you can't get it back?”

He smiled down at her, then kissed her again and, with his lips against hers, whispered, “Love you forever.”

CHAPTER XIII

Swinging into Falcon's saddle, Glendenning glanced once at the cottage and the candlelit window against which was the silhouette of a small and very still lady. Then, he turned to Morris, already mounted and waiting.

“I mean to ride hard, Jamie. It is already nigh ten o'clock. You're quite sure…?”

“We've at least five and forty miles to go,” said Morris. “I'm ready, Tio.”

“Are you? Any pistols in your saddle holster?”

“Aye.” There was a note of surprise in the word. “D'ye think—”

“I think they wanted me to find Michael, and then go haring off to Portsmouth. With luck, they won't be expecting us at Dover, but there's no denying they're a dangerous crew, so be ready for an ambush. God speed!”

They were away at a canter, and the race had begun. Skirting the dark mass of the forest they rode ever south and east through the blustery night. The rain ceased, then came down again, harder than before, the wind driving it so that the drops stung their faces. They passed few travellers; an occasional Portsmouth Machine rumbled by with a rapid pounding of sixteen hooves, a spray of mud, a shout from the coachman; sometimes another rider would loom up, flash past, and disappear into the darkness again. Once, both horses neighed and shied in fright as a stray cow appeared in the middle of the lane, and Glendenning, his thoughts on the outcome of this venture, was almost thrown.

After that, he tried not to dwell on the what-might-have-been, or on the terrible what-might-be. But Amy's sweet face persistently crept into his mind. A score of images rose up: her vibrant joy in the early mornings; her intense concentration as she tended his hurts, or sewed his torn shirt, or sliced vegetables, or worked at her chairback. The mental picture of her ghostly rescue brought a sad smile to his mouth, so that Morris, catching a glimpse of him in the light from a church window, wondered. A moment later, the viscount's thoughts were on his parting from the earl, and it was as well the darkness hid his expression.

The darkness and the foul weather made it hard going, and periodically Glendenning slowed for the sake of the horses. The time lost chafed at his nerves, but with iron control he fought the panicked urge to gallop without pause. There was little talk between the two men, even when they slowed and conversation was possible. Morris could well imagine his friend's state of mind, but in his heart he feared that their desperate journey was doomed to failure and, being unable to find any sincere words of encouragement, he kept silent. He had slept soundly until quite late that morning, but the wind was a relentless enemy, the rain was cold, and as the miles slipped past, he began to tire. If Glendenning was weary, he gave no sign of it, and kept to a gruelling pace. Little wonder, thought Morris. He set his jaw and determined to say nothing that would slow them, but he was relieved when distant lights began to twinkle through the rain. Soon, they were thundering into the yard of a neat tavern. Glendenning's shout of “House—ho!” brought an ostler running, set three dogs to barking, and awoke a bright rectangle of lamplight against the night as the tavern door was swung open.

Dismounting, Morris instructed the ostler as to the care of their mounts, while Glendenning went inside to arrange for the hire of new ones.

He stepped into another world; a bright, warm, and cosy parlour. In response to his request, a maid scurried off to fetch coffee. The host came, beaming, and allowed as how it was a “nasty night.” Fortunately, he maintained a good stable and the viscount was able to obtain fresh and allegedly spirited hacks with no difficulty.

Morris arrived, and for the few minutes required for the horses to be saddled up, the two men adjourned to the glowing hearth and drank their coffee.

Morris peered at his friend anxiously. Gad, but Tio looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Glendenning saw that concerned stare, and said with a smile, “I'm a dour dog tonight. My apologies, Jamie. You cannot know how grateful I am that you ride with me.”

Morris grinned. “In a day or two we'll be laughing at all this, old fellow. Set a lamp under an earthenware pitcher, and the light can't shine through, y'know.”

It was as well, thought Glendenning, that Falcon hadn't heard that one! He said, “And you really think we'll find the light in this business, do you?”

“Certain of it,” said Morris bracingly. “In despite this miserable weather, we've covered nigh twenty miles already, and 'tis only half past eleven o'clock. Plenty of time, dear boy! We'll be in old Dover town hours before dawn!”

Half an hour later his optimism was severely shaken. The host's instructions on a route that would “lop a good ten mile” off their journey proved quite accurate. Unhappily, the persistent rain had transformed the “quiet stream” he described into a raging flood that had swept away the only bridge. Unable to find dry ground, and proceeding cautiously in the darkness, they found themselves struggling through ever more treacherous mud.

Seething with frustration, Glendenning halted. Sheet lightning on the horizon lit low-hanging clouds and briefly illumined a bleak and level landscape of low shrubs and long drooping grasses. “Hell and the devil!” he raged. “I think we've landed ourselves in Romney Marsh!”

Dismayed, Morris said, “Can we get out?”

“We
must
get out!”

Within a very few minutes, however, the horses were floundering in stirrup-deep water, cold as ice, and treacherous with trailing reeds. More by luck than good judgment, they eventually reached firmer ground, but the animals were still hock deep in mud, and the riders were soaked to the skin. Above the voice of the wind and the hissing rain, Morris discerned another sound, low but ominous. “Hold up, Tio,” he shouted.

Another glare of lightning showed the same bleak landscape, but Glendenning was appalled to catch a glimpse of tumbling waters ahead. If they'd stumbled into that fast-moving flood there'd have been no reaching Dover for either of them. “Thank God for your ears, Jamie!” He dismounted stiffly, unhappily reminded of every bruise he'd taken during the battle at Absalom's cellar. “We'll have to go by shank's mare,” he said, trying not to sound as despairing as he felt.

Morris' voice was almost too cheerful. “Is there another road, d'ye think, my pippin?”

“I know there's a road out of Rye that follows the coast for some distance before it cuts across the marsh to—Hythe, I think. But it's a devilish rough track and will take us miles out of our way. If we could but see the stars, I'd have some idea of where north lies and we could hope to come quickly out of this. As it is, we may well be turning due east, deeper into the marsh!” He bit his lip, and thought ‘God forbid!' but started off, treading with care and leading his mount. “Stay close, Jamie,” he called. “And pray!”

After what seemed hours of toil, he was very weary, chilled to the bone, his legs numbed, and he doubted they had progressed a mile, but when he'd been a hunted fugitive he had learned how much a man may endure and still keep trying, and he struggled on doggedly. There was little doubt now but that they were moving towards the coast. If only he'd not snatched at the innkeeper's suggestion of a short cut! He smiled wryly. He could call up half a hundred ‘if only's,' and good old Morris would likely have as many homilies to answer them.

Turning wearily, he peered into the driving rain. “How are you, Jamie?”

The answer came jerkily through chattering teeth. “Perfectly fit, d-dear boy!”

“Jove, what a Trojan you are! A fine bog I've led you into! If ever we—”

He tripped, and fell heavily, landing with bruising force on the hands he threw out to break his fall. His knee hit hard and painfully, and he swore as he pushed himself up. His knee had hit—
hard?
Holding his breath, not daring to hope, he groped about, then gave a triumphant shout. “Jamie! We've come to a road!” He clambered to his feet and hugged Morris exuberantly. “God be praised! We'll be able to ride again!”

“J-j-jolly g-good,” panted Morris.

Mounting up, Glendenning reined around. “We'll have to go slowly, else we're liable to miss the— Jamie?”

Morris was still hauling himself into the saddle. “Bit s-s-stiff, T-Tio,” he stammered. “Now—which way?”

It was a good question. The lightning was almost continuous, and by that heavenly glow they were able to catch frequent glimpses of the more level surface of the road, but there was not a sign of other travellers, and no least indication of where they were. They both decided to go in the direction the horses were now facing, and started off once more.

To ride without having to wade through mud and reeds was a vast improvement, but the wind was rising, buffeting so strongly at times that the horses were staggered. If this weather held, luck might be with them after all, for the ship would likely not leave the Tidal Basin until the wind dropped.

An indefinite time later, Morris gave a hoarse shout. A dim light glowed ahead. His heart leaping, Glendenning urged his mount to a fast trot. He could see the darker loom of a small house, and a lantern bobbing about. He rode up to a low wall, and gave a hail.

A startled exclamation, and the lantern swung toward him. Surprisingly, a woman's voice cried, “Bless me soul! Ye never come off the marsh, sir? I'd not a'thought man nor beast would venture that road on such a perishing night!”

Shivering convulsively, Glendenning nonetheless felt a soaring elation. They'd done it! Somehow, they'd made their way across the marshes to the outskirts of Hythe! “We're not here by choice, ma'am, I promise you,” he said. “But—we're here! That's the important thing. Can you direct me to the best road to Folkestone?”

“Folkestone? Why, sir, that do be beyond Hythe! And you and your friend all over mud and so—”

A colder hand than his own was clutching Glendenning's heart. Scarcely daring to ask, he interrupted, “Is this not Hythe, ma'am?”

“Bless yer—no, sir! This be my man's farm, and I'd be snug 'twixt the sheets if it hadn't been that some of they silly sheep got out of the pen. Hythe's 'way up in Romney Marsh!”

Glendenning's voice sounded far away in his own ears when he said, “I had thought we
were
in Romney Marsh.”

“Oh, poor gentleman! Ye're in
Denge
Marsh. But if ye keep on a few miles ye'll come to Rye, and—”

“Rye!” The viscount's shoulders slumped. Instead of riding to the northeast they were headed southwest! Once again they had travelled miles out of their way!

*   *   *

“Zur…?” The voice seemed to echo, but the hand that shook him was persistent.

Glendenning opened his eyes and peered stupidly at the square, bronzed face hanging over him.

“Ye said as Oi wuz to wake ye at four,” said the man in a broad Kentish accent. “And four it do be.”

The viscount's mind began to fit pieces together. The rain had ceased shortly after they'd left the farmhouse in Denge Marsh. Providentially, the high winds had blown the clouds away allowing a three-quarter moon to escape and light the soggy landscape, so that they'd been able to follow the road with less fear of stumbling into the mud again. Despite cold and fatigue, they'd plodded on doggedly and shortly before three o'clock had reached this small inn just south of Folkestone. To dismount had required a major effort, and the sleepy ostler's suggestion of a hot toddy and a soft feather bed had been well nigh irresistible. From Folkestone they could reach Dover in an hour, but Glendenning, grimly aware that he might then have to turn about and gallop for Windsor, knew also that although he'd enjoyed little sleep the previous night, and was bone weary, he dare not stop to rest. Poor Morris had been slumped against his mount's neck in a deep sleep, and had come down from the saddle in a rush when Glendenning tried to wake him. Deeply remorseful, he had only then recollected that two months earlier Morris had been sent home to recuperate from wounds suffered in the War of the Austrian Succession. It had been the deciding factor. He'd half-carried his exhausted friend into the warm parlour of the Black Sheep, and bespoken two rooms.

Now, he pushed back the blankets and asked if a horse was saddled.

“They'll be ready when ye gets down to the yard, zur. I bringed ye some hot water and a razor, and me old lady got most o' the mud off yer boots, but they're still something damp, surely.”

“My friend is unwell, I don't want him wakened.” Glendenning pulled his topboots on, and began to shave quickly with the none-too-sharp razor. “How is the weather? Shall any craft be able to set sail, d'ye think?”

The man pursed up his lips. “Wind be summat fierce, zur. Was ye meaning here? Or upalong to Dover?”

The razor arrested, Glendenning glanced at him. “Is there a difference?”

“Open sea hereabouts, zur. Dover do have the big Harbour and a'many shippings, and with the wind in this quarter … No, sur. Them as had to sail quick-loike 'smorning, put their ships into our cove early yestiday when weather started to blow up.”

“Do you say that there
will
be some sailings today, but that they'll be from here?”

“So Oi do rackon, zur. Less'n it blows up a full gale, loike.”