Parfit Knight

The Parfit
Knight

Stella
Riley

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2012
Stella Riley

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Cover
Portrait

Gerard Cornelis
van Riebeeck

Mattheus
Verheyden 1770

The day was hot
and the sky a vast, uncharted ocean of blue. Beneath it only the
brook seemed awake while, quiescently tranquil and lulled by the
sun, the rest of the world spun languid dreams or was shrouded in
sleep. Curving down from the quiet post-road, the lane was a
dappled haven of hypnotically swaying foxgloves and the shimmering
air was disturbed by nothing but the whispering murmur of leaves
and the silver song of the water.

The child on
the bank rolled lazily over to gaze into the clear, bubbling
stream, so close that her shining fall of hair brushed its surface.
A dragonfly hovered nearby and she lay very still, smiling as if it
shared her joy in this very special day; for the dragonfly, the
full sum of its brief existence and, for the child, her very last
day in single figures.

Tomorrow she
would be ten years old; and that was exciting, of course –
birthdays always were – but it did seem that once you arrived in
double figures you stayed there for a very long time. Even
Great-Aunt Maria had not managed three yet and she was very old
indeed. The girl gave a tiny gurgle of laughter as she tried to
imagine herself with a skin like a wrinkled apple and a toothless
grin. Then she felt a twinge of conscience for surely it was not at
all funny for Aunty who had to be helped wherever she went and
could not even read her own letters any more. Not that she seemed
to mind it particularly – but perhaps that was something to do with
having had so many adventures on account of somebody Uncle George
disapprovingly called the ‘Old Pretender’; and that just went to
prove that Aunty hadn’t always been an old woman. A fact that was
as hard to believe as the other.

The sun beat
down on her back through the leaf-green taffeta of her gown and she
wondered idly where she had left her hat. She supposed that she
ought to go and look for it since its loss would make the third in
as many weeks and Mama would undoubtedly scold; but on such a
lovely day a hat seemed a matter of small importance and Mama never
scolded for long. She closed her eyes and, laying her cheek on her
arm, dabbled the fingers of her other hand in the cool water.

‘Rosie-rose is
a lazy doze! Come
on
, you sluggard – or are you going to lie
there all day?’

The taunting
call shattered the afternoon’s peace and the girl’s eyes flew open.
Then, without even glancing round, she closed them again and said,
‘Yes. Go away.’

There was a
mocking laugh and the next instant her hat sailed over her head to
land in the water with a splash.

‘Ugh!’ The girl
leapt up in a flurry of laughter and damp taffeta as her lost hat
floated serenely down-stream. ‘Just you wait, you beast! I’ll –
‘

‘Who’s
waiting?’ teased the boy as he vanished into the trees on the far
side of the lane. ‘If you want to catch me, you’ll have to
run.’

It was
unnecessary advice. Almost before the words were out, she had
snatched up her skirts in both hands and was racing across the
springy turf.

‘Faint-heart!
But I’ll catch you – see if I don’t!’

Weaving his way
into the heart of the copse, the boy heard her shout and, in the
same moment, became aware that a gradual crescendo of distant sound
was distant no longer. He stopped and swung round, struck by a
sudden premonition.

‘No, Rose –
wait!’

The girl
neither answered nor checked her pace but darted up the lane,
skirting the trees. It was silly of him, she decided, to think he
could fool her so easily; a coach and travelling fast – but on the
post-road, never this lane.

It was her last
conscious thought as the team of blood chestnuts swept round the
bend on top of her. There was a sensation of falling through aeons
of painful, swirling blackness … and then nothing.

Plunging wildly
back in the direction he had come, the boy emerged in time to see
the horses being dragged to an abrupt standstill while a man jumped
down from the inside of the still-moving chaise; and then his
horrified gaze took in the crumpled leaf-green form at the roadside
and he felt suddenly sick. His legs refused to obey him so that,
instead of running, he could only stumble across the intervening
space, dumbly terrified of what he would find.

The gentleman
from the chaise was before him. Heedless of silks and laces, he
knelt in the dust, one hand seeking the child’s pulse while his
eyes anxiously scanned her still, white face. Then he laid her
wrist gently down, the sun striking sparks from the emerald on his
finger and looked up at the equally white-faced youth beside
him.

‘Your
sister?’

The boy nodded,
his eyes fixed on the girl and his brain obsessed by the foolish
thought that there was no blood. She could almost have been asleep
except that she was so pale. She didn’t
look
hurt. It should
have made him feel better but somehow it didn’t.

‘It’s alright.’
The gentleman saw the question in the frightened blue eyes and
answered it. ‘She’s been very lucky, I think – but will be the
better for seeing a doctor.’

Blinking back
an unexpected rush of hot tears, the boy said baldly, ‘Are you sure
she’s not dead?’ And was ashamed of the tremor in his voice.

‘Quite sure.’
Younger than his powdered head made him appear, the gentleman
tactfully affected not to notice the tremor.

Behind them,
the coachman hovered, wringing his hands.

‘I tried to
swing over, sir,’ he said unhappily. ‘But there was no warning –
her being round the bend as she was. No one’d have stood a chance
of avoiding her; not at - - ‘ He stopped abruptly.

‘Not at that
pace,’ finished his master with a sort of grim placidity. ‘Yes,
Pierce. I know.’ He lifted the girl very carefully in his arms and
directed a briefly reassuring smile at her brother. ‘Which is
nearer – your home or the doctor’s house?’

‘The – the
doctor’s. It’s that way.’

But mere
directions, it seemed were not what the gentleman wanted and, young
though he was, he had the habit of command. Dazedly allowing him to
take charge, the boy found himself perched on the box beside the
coachman while his sister lay on the seat within and he did not
demur until they drew up outside the doctor’s house and he was told
to stay where he was.

‘I don’t want
to leave her,’ he said mutinously, preparing to descend.

‘No. I daresay
you don’t,’ agreed the gentleman with crisp amiability as he lifted
the girl out of the coach. ‘But your parents should be informed and
Pierce will need you to guide him. Pray convey my compliments to
your father and beg him to make use of my chaise.’

‘My uncle,’ the
boy corrected automatically. Then, ‘Sir, it’s all very well but - -
‘

Already
half-way to the door with his fragile burden, the gentleman turned
with a swiftly controlled loss of patience.

‘It’s not very
well if you persist in wasting time in pointless argument,’ he said
deliberately. ‘There is nothing you can do except that which I’ve
bidden you. Now go. And if your uncle requires my name, you may
tell him that it is Ballantyne. Dominic Ballantyne.’

He never yet
no vileyne ne sayde

In all his lyf
unto no maner wight

He was a
verray parfit gentil knight

Geoffrey
Chaucer

Although it
contrived to appear very much as usual, the gaming-room of White’s
wore a faint air of disapprobation. Beginning as no more than a
watchful glint in the eyes of some of the older members, it had
gradually deepened to something approaching scorn and finally found
expression in low-voiced murmurs of contempt.

‘The stakes are
up again. By God, I’d not have thought it of Amberley.’ Colonel
Harding stared balefully at the large table where a game of dice
was in progress.

‘Nor I,’
replied Mr Cardew, following his gaze. ‘But if a year in France has
taught him nothing but how to pluck a pigeon, then he’d best have
stayed there.’

Viscount
Ansford adjusted the position of his elaborate wig and gave an
irritating titter.

‘Perhapth my
lord thuffered ill-luck in Parith and theekth the meanth to mend
hith fortuneth.’

Not for the
first time, Jack Ingram wondered how it was that the decorative
Viscount never failed to construct sentences filled with the one
letter he was incapable of pronouncing. Annoyed, though not because
of the lisp, he allowed his eyes to dwell appreciatively on his
lordship’s blue-powdered head and said sweetly, ‘Utter
nonsense.’

Gripped by a
moment of horrid doubt, the Viscount was too stricken to reply.

‘Well, I hope
so,’ said Mr Cardew with blunt significance, ‘but you can’t deny
that it don’t look well. The play is devilish deep and Amberley has
been accepting the boy’s vowels for the last hour and more.’

Jack spared a
brief glance for the youthful person of Robert Dacre, observing his
flushed cheeks and the slight unsteadiness of the hand engaged in
writing yet another promissory note. His mouth tightened a little
and he turned back to Mr Cardew with a sardonic smile.

‘It has perhaps
escaped your notice that Mr Dacre’s presence at the table is solely
due to his own rather heated insistence,’ he said evenly. ‘Amberley
didn’t invite him.’

The Colonel
snorted. ‘No – but he’s damned quick to take advantage. The boy’s
little more than twenty – still green. And Amberley knows it!’

A look of
distaste crossed Mr Ingram’s pleasant face as he rose unhurriedly
from his seat and shook out the full skirts of his brocaded
coat.

‘He also knows
– as do we all – that this isn’t young Dacre’s first season. He’s
been on the town a full two years and is therefore old enough to
know better.’ He sketched a slight bow. ‘Your servant,
gentlemen.’

Viscount
Ansford watched him go with a distinct feeling of resentment.

‘No fineth,’ he
said peevishly. ‘Doubtleth he and Amberley are prodigiouthly
well-thuited.’

Apparently
oblivious to the comment and feelings of animosity that his play
was arousing in the conservative breasts of his fellow-members, the
most noble Marquis of Amberley pushed a fresh pile of guineas to
the stock already in front of him and called serenely for the next
bet.

To the casual
observer, he appeared much like any other gentleman in the room; a
trifle more modish, perhaps – but in one so recently returned from
Paris that was easily explained. No London tailor had fashioned
that exquisitely-cut coat of moss-green velvet extravagantly laced
with gold or designed the elegant floral vest that lay beneath it;
and the folds of snowy lace that adorned both throat and wrist were
the finest Mechlin.

Yet the quiet
air of distinction that clung to the Marquis had little to do with
his apparel. It was, perhaps, most obvious in his rejection of wig
or powder, rouge and patches. Instead, he wore his own hair neatly
but simply tied back in long ribands of black, against which it
gleamed pale as silver-gilt in the candlelight; and, innocent of
cosmetics, his face was lightly but undeniably tanned – as were the
well-shaped tapering hands, half-hidden beneath their foaming
ruffles. And there were other differences for the discerning eye
and ear accustomed to fashionable boredom – for no cynicism
shadowed the grey-green eyes and no languid drawl marked the
pleasant tones. Indeed, both eye and voice held more than a hint of
lurking amusement and the firm-lipped mouth as much humour as
resolution.