Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (27 page)

 
          
 
"You have his eyes, sir." Her voice
was clear, her words carefully enunciated. "But that is all of him that
you have brought me."

 
          
 
"As to that I don't know. He was
dead "

 
          
 
"And
laid
in his
grave before you were born!" she ended for him. "
Aye,
that
was the way I saw it before ever he rode away. And that was the way
it was with him. But you have come back."

 
          
 
"Not to take his place or to stay!"
Fitz made that protest quickly. He felt smothered, trapped, as if a net were
falling, coil by coil, about his feet.

 
          
 
She put out a hand and caught his, drawing him
back to the fireplace. There she sat down on the settle, bringing him down
beside
her, keeping her eyes ever on his face, as if
striving to read in his features some answer to a question of her own.

 
          
 
"My mother was a Lovel, one of the
Egyptian folk which the ignorant called 'gypsies’ " she continued in a
voice which held none of the burr which softened her grandson's
. "
She chanced to please a Lyon, a younger son. They
were wed over the fire—by the rites of her people—though his would not
acknowledge her afterward. But my father had me well taught and I was maid to
the Countess after he died. The Lovel blood is strong in us, and with it comes
the gift of foreseeing—foreseeing for those we cherish. Just as I foresaw for
your father before he rode away. He was to sleep alone in foreign earth—that
was his portion. But I did not tell him that!"

 
          
 
She had kept a tight grip on Fitz's hand and
now she held it out palm upward in the glow of the small fire on the hearth.
Suddenly she clapped her own hand over his, squeezing the fingers together as
if she would hide what she had read.

 
          
 
"Blood.
Blood
and night, wind, storm, water—much water—and a strange flag to wave above you
in the end. You'll live to see your homeland again, my gorgio rye."

 
          
 
"I have no home," Fitz was impelled
to answer.

 
          
 
"No—not here.
And not where you have been before. There is no soil for your rooting, though
you have sought it ever, no soil. But guard yourself, there is blood.
And when night comes remember me, prala.
You will need what
I have to give.
Lyon
to
Lyon
in the end!"
She sighed and dropped his hand, then glanced to George who still lingered by
the door. To him she addressed some musical words in her strange tongue, and he
stiffened, looking over his shoulder as if he half expected to see something
dangerous behind him.

 
          
 
Fitz got to his feet. "May I come
again?"

 
          
 
"You will come again. In your need you
will come, and what you need to aid you will be waiting for you. Go with the
Peace of God, prala."

 
          
 
He sensed the dismissal and went out. George
had left before him, and he saw him in the lane leading to the garden. Fitz
turned back toward the Court.

 
          
 
"Blood and night," he repeated under
his breath, "wind and storm, water and a strange flag." Why—that
might mean escape. And maybe what she had given him was a veiled promise to see
him on his way. He would go back and find out, that was certain.

 
          
 
But danger came to
Starr Court
first, just as the long drowsy afternoon
faded into evening. Burnette and Fitz lingered in the same small breakfast room
where they had met that morning.
A single candelabra
stood on the table, its six candles blazing in a fury of melting wax. But
outside, the sun still painted red splotches on the pavement of the terrace.
The dinner had been an excellent one—the Earl's gout came to him honestly, by
the way of his kitchens as well as his wine cellars.

 
          
 
"A hand of
piquet?"
Burnette inquired, sipping delicately at his port.

 
          
 
"Amuse the beast, eh?" Fitz laughed.
"Do you deem me civilized enough to know one card from another?"

 
          
 
To his surprise Burnette took that remark
seriously, "I have somewhat revised my estimate of colonials since I met
you, Mr. Lyon."

 
          
 
"Yes. We are not all savages, you know.
The Carrolls of Maryland or General Washington would be at home in your best
society. We have our assemblies, our country dances—or did, until the war
broke. But 111 say yes to
cards "

 
          
 
They were interrupted by sounds from the long
hall without—voices raised in loud dispute. Burnette jumped to his feet and
made the door in what was almost wild enough to be termed a leap. He opened it
cautiously, an inch or two. His features seemed to sharpen, a thin line of
worry showed between his eyes. He glanced nervously from the door to Fitz. The
American came across the room.

 
          
 
“
What "

 
          
 
Burnette's only answer was a furious gesture
for silence.

 
          
 
"Liberty Hall, m'boys!
Trot out a round dozen of the best, Harper, and be quick about it! Tell you—the
best in m' grandfather's bins is the best!" The hoarse voice had volume,
husky and bumbling as it was. Fitz thought that its owner was already half
drunk.

 
          
 
"My cousin?"
His lips merely shaped the words, but Burnette gave a nod of assent.

 
          
 
Fitz tried to see into the hall, but his
companion clung to the crack and refused to give way.

 
          
 
Boot heels rang on the flooring outside, and
the door was wrenched open with such force that Burnette was nearly thrown
against the wall. So Fitz was left alone to face the man who entered.

 
          
 
Unconsciously he had been picturing to himself
a Viscount Farstarr who was a foppish, effeminate drunkard, a man, who, in
spite of the tales he had heard, was no great physical menace. But the man who
faced him now, swaying a little, was dangerous—as dangerous as a coiled snake.
His flushed face had the same cast as the old Earl's, but where the
grandfather's had shown a certain rough and selfish good humor, the grandson's
eyes were murderous.

 
          
 
They must have stood thus for a full minute,
oblivious of Burnette and the others who crowded through the door behind
Farstarr. And it was the Viscount who first broke the silence, the drunken
bumble almost gone from his snorting voice.

 
          
 
"Fortune," he kissed his fat,
none-too-clean finger tips, "lovely, lovely goddess, to smile on me at
last. You are the spy!"

 
          
 
Fitz folded his arms and leaned back against
the edge of the table.

 
          
 
"Am I?" he asked quietly.

 
          
 
"Damned spy!"
There were little flecks of white showing on the Viscount's thick lips. "You
may
come
it over the old man, but now you have me to
deal with," his voice trailed off into obscenity.

 
          
 
Then the American moved with more speed than
Farstarr had expected. The sound of his blow was like the crack of the rifle he
had used aboard the Retaliation, and the print of his fingers showed first
pallid and then crimson on that fat jowled cheek.

 
          
 
"No!" Burnette's voice went up the
scale, and he caught at Fitz's wrist too late.

 
          
 
But Farstarr was smiling, a triumphant smile.

 
          
 
"Yes," he said very softly,
"but it is yes, you toad-eating, quill-driving, mischief-maker. And I
shall not forget who I have to thank for this whole coil—be assured I shall
not. But as for you, you damned renegade, I'll attend to you first!"

 
          
 
Fitz had his anger under control. He managed
to bow, cool enough.

 
          
 
"At your
service "

 
          
 
"You're damned right, at my service! And
I say here and now! No time like the present for routing out a rat
who's
been nibbling at the corn bins."

 
          
 
"You're drunk," Fitz observed.

 
          
 
"I'm drunk, right enough, my poor fool.
But drunk or sober I'm a master of bare steel. And drunk or sober I've managed
to kill my man in the past. I've no need to exert myself for a
colonial "

 
          
 
Fitz pulled off his coat and waistcoat. He saw
Burnette against the wall, trembling fingers at his lips. For once the man of
law had been out-argued. Farstarr did not bother to shed more than his coat,
and he drew steel with a flourish. Fitz examined the sword which had been put
at his disposal by one of his cousin's companions. It was a fair enough blade.
But the Viscount did not give him long to appraise it; instead, he jerked his
head toward the hall.

 
          
 
"I'll grant you something of a run,"
he said. "And there is no need to spoil this carpet with your blood."

 
          
 
A dirty business, thought Fitz. He had no
desire to fight with a drunken man. But as he crossed steel and tested the
other's skill cautiously, he discovered that drink had not impaired either the
strength or the knowledge of his opponent. And in less than a full minute, Fitz
knew that he was fighting for his life against a master swordsman who used his
blade as an extension of a keen and devious mind.

 
          
 
The American was breathing heavily and giving
ground. But he managed to hold a defense against that deadly point. Crofts'
words rang in his mind, defense was his strongest point. Well, it would have to
be now.

 
          
 
Down the hall they fought, the ring of metal
against metal rising above their thick panting. The Viscount was fighting like
a machine, all steel wrist and arm. Fitz guessed that he was being played
with—that the other had not yet exerted all his skill.

 
          
 
Farstarr was trying to tire him, tire him
until his defense would falter. And then he would be cut to pieces at his
cousin's leisure. Such a dirty game would appeal to the man whose reputation he
had heard. There remained a single chance . . .

 
          
 
Fitz gave ground again deliberately. He
allowed his point to fall only a fraction of an inch, and paid for it with a
prick which drew blood to mark his shoulder. But that served. He thrust up—and
the French trick went through to its real conclusion—not to disarm, but to
wound. Farstarr's blade went wide.

 
          
 
It was a queer sensation, feeling his steel go
into flesh. Fitz found himself looking down at a man who coughed up gouts of
blood until he slipped forward onto his face and lay still.

 
          
 
"Murderer!
Bloody murderer!"

 
          
 
Half by instinct, Fitz dodged the blow and
jumped away before the candlestick could fall again. Farstarr's three
companions were edging toward him, two with drawn swords,
the
other with the heavy candlestick.