Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (5 page)

After he picked himself up, he had to admit that the Running
Away Sack with the chain mail inside was just too heavy. If he couldn't
carry it as far as the door, he prob'ly wouldn't be able to get it down
the stairs. He pondered the matter, but it was Friar Tuck who found the
obvious solution by suggesting with a roll-over and a stretch that he
wear the chain mail, and thus lighten the sack.

"That's a sp'endid idea," he said, beaming. " 'Sides, I'll
have to have some lightness left, so's to carry my spear!"

The suit of chain mail was not easy to put on, but after some
convulsive wriggles and a lot of puffing and blowing, he was ready at
last. He decided to wear the mighty helm also, and when he scanned
himself in the cheval-glass in Etta's bedchamber he looked so strong
and tall that his spirits picked up considerably.

Friar Tuck raced in and leapt onto the bed, being a Mad Beast.

"That's a good Mad Beast, Friar," acknowledged Arthur. "But
you can't be that today, 'cause if I'm goin' to be Sir Lancer Lot,
you'll have to be Sir G'waine." An idea dawned, awesome in its
nobility. "What we're goin' to do, Sir G'waine," he declared, "is leave
a legend 'hind us. We'll do a Deed of Shivery— like the knights of old
did.
Then
they'll 'member us! An' they'll be
sorry!"

Inspired, he found the coil of rope he had used to tie Etta to
the tree when she was captured by The Dragon. He made quite a number of
winds around the sack, and luckily he was getting better at knots. It
wasn't easy to lift the sack through the window without dropping it,
but at last he overcame that hurdle. Having lowered the sack most of
the way to the ground, he made his way downstairs and clanked across
the hall. Everyone, it appeared, was stone deaf.

He wasn't able to straighten out the once-tall fern where the
sack had landed, but he apologized to it politely, and with Friar Tuck
bounding after him, he set out on his quest, staggering a little, and
tripping over his lance occasionally, but forging onward.

The third time he had to rest he was quite tired, and dozed
off for a little while. He was surprised when he awoke and found that
the sun had fallen into the fog. He ate his bread and cheese and
watched Lanterns begin to blur as the fog rolled in. "Oh, Sir G'waine,"
he breathed, enraptured. "We're goin' to do the best Deed of Shivery
what ever was! They'll be
glad
to play with us
after this! Even Papa!"

"My love!" Mrs. Cordova had come in at the back door just as
the front door opened to admit her niece, and they met in the hall.
"Had you a nice time? Has Mr. Coville left? You should have invited him
to stay and dine with us, or at least have a few words with your
father."

"He's chatting with Papa now. But I think he is anxious to get
back to Downsdale Park."

"Bother, bother, bother!" Mrs. Cordova shook out the
voluminous black satin robe she carried and inspected it anxiously. "I
knew some of the spangles were coming loose! The poor boy must worry so
for his step-mama. Were you able to lighten his spirits?"

"There was little need. I think he conceals his feelings very
well, for we scarcely spoke of the lady. Where is—"

"Which does but prove how clever you are, Etta. You will make
someone a good wife. Ain't that so, Warrington?" she added as her
brother-in-law came in the front door.

"Oh, very true." Sir Lionel beamed at Marietta and slipped an
arm about her. "Clever puss! You have quite captivated young Coville.
He could not say enough good of you. Which is understandable, of
course. But you must try to keep him in the vicinity, child. He is
greatly admired in Town, you know, and if he were to go back, there's
no telling—he might forget you. And we cannot have that, now can we?"

Marietta pointed out gently, "You know, Papa, I have left my
salad days behind and I have no fortune to bring to a marriage. Perhaps
you should not refine too much on—"

"Pooh! Nonsense! You are the prettiest young lady in all
Sussex, and would grace the home of any gentleman. Besides, Sir Gavin
is rich as Croesus—or was it Midas? Well, no matter. Much the young
fellow needs dowries. He is properly smitten, I'm sure of it. With
luck, m'dear, you'll be Mrs. Blake Coville before the year is out!"

Envisioning a rosy future which included a fine London house
and the restoration of his servants, horses, and carriages, Sir Lionel
patted his daughter on the back, beamed at his sister-in-law, and went
down to his workshop humming blithely.

Watching her niece, Mrs. Cordova asked, "You do like Mr.
Coville, don't you, dear?"

"Yes, very much. Who could not?"

"Enough to marry him?"

For a moment Marietta did not answer. Then she said, "Do you
know, Aunty, I really don't believe I shall ever have to consider that
possibility. Now do pray tell me, where is Arthur?"

"Goodness, I don't know. With Fanny, I suppose. I shall have
to find some thread or I'll lose these spangles. I had quite forgot
that Mrs. Stroud had made an appointment with Madame Olympias this
afternoon." She giggled. "Luckily I got to the caravan before she did.
Do you think they suspect it is me, Etta?"

"No, I don't, for you keep it very dark and mysterious in your
caravan. Besides, between your robe and turban, and the funny accent
you use, to say nothing of all the paint you put on your face, I would
not know you!"

"Even so, I'm glad we put it about that the great Grecian
mystic likes to escape from London occasionally, and that we make a
little extra money by permitting her to keep a caravan on a corner of
our property. It is—not completely unbelievable, do you think?"

"I hope very much they go on believing that, Aunty," Marietta
said with a smile. "In view of the advice you give to people we would
be liable to have some very angry visitors if ever the truth came out!"

"But—Etta!" protested Mrs. Cordova, stung, "I really
am
a mystic! I only tell my clients what is revealed in the Mystical
Window Through Time. Or what it is best for them to believe. I do not
hurt or deceive anyone."

"No, dearest, of course you don't. You just bend the truth a
trifle. And you give them a good dramatic performance for their money,
which they very much enjoy. Now I really must go and find Arthur. I had
thought he'd be waiting for me."

"He must be with Fanny. Do you know where the child has got
to, Mrs. Hughes-Dering?"

Not waiting for Mrs. Hughes-Dering's 'reply,' Marietta went
down to the basement. Sir Lionel's workshop was incredibly cluttered
and a magical place for a small boy, and despite endless warnings not
to touch, there were temptations everywhere that proved irresistible to
a curious mind and a pair of astonishingly quick little hands. Arthur's
last visit to the workshop had ended in disaster. The memory of her
father's singed hair and eyebrows and his enraged howls that the child
would burn the house down caused Marietta to hasten, but her
apprehensions proved groundless. Fanny was there, fascinated by her
sire's new invention, an as yet unperfected device to remove fleas or
head lice. She told her sister gaily that Friar Tuck had taken a very
dim view of the invention when they'd attempted to test it on him. As
for Arthur, she supposed he was in his room.

Marietta's premonition that something was amiss communicated
itself to her aunt, and together they went upstairs. Once again, Arthur
was not to be found. The state of his room confirmed Marietta's fears.
"Only look at this mess!" she exclaimed. "His Running Away Sack is
gone, Aunty Dova! Poor little boy, I really let him down! And only look
how the fog is rolling in. I must go after him before it starts to get
dark!"

"Oh dear, oh dear!" moaned Mrs. Cordova, accompanying Marietta
to her bedchamber. "I shall have to tell your father, and he will fly
into a fit as he always does!"

"Then don't tell him just yet. With luck I may be able to find
Arthur and fetch him home before Papa misses him."

"You're never going outside wearing that? For pity's sake,
child! You will look a proper figure of fun."

Marietta agreed but put on the black cloak and the witch's hat
and told her aunt that Arthur might forgive her if they played at
goblin-catching en route home. "Besides, who will see me? We are the
only people living on the estate at the moment, and Sir Gavin and Mr.
Coville are halfway to Downsdale Park by this time."

"I will be so anxious! How shall you know which way to go?"

"Oh, I fancy he's off to Town again and he usually drops
things as he gets tired, which should give me a trail to follow. Would
you be a darling and take in the wash?"

Mrs. Cordova agreed to perform this task. She shook most of
the dust off the things she dropped and hid them at the bottom of the
pile, and after she had carried in the laundry basket she went in
search of a needle and thread so as to repair the robe of the Great
Grecian Mystic. She sat on the drawing room sofa beside her friend,
'Captain Miles Cameron,' and said comfortably, "Now do tell me, dear
boy, are you not glad the war is over at last… ?"

The tall man who slipped out of Lanterns' massive front door
remained in the arched recess for a minute or two, watchful and silent,
as one with the deepening shadows of the mist-shrouded afternoon. When
at last he emerged, his movements were smooth and catlike. He wore
riding boots, but there was no sound of jingling spurs, no rattle of a
pebble as he seemed almost to drift down the time-worn steps. He turned
aside from the bridge that had once been the drawbridge, and followed a
weedy sunken garden that encircled the house. In olden times this had
been the moat, but through the centuries the sea had eaten away the
cliffs and now the south end of the moat was gone and the sunken garden
was cut off by a low wall at the very brink of the cliff.

The tall man rested long, thin hands on the wall and looked
down at the rocks far below and the waves that swept in to swirl over
them, only to sink down and retreat again. The sea was quiet today. The
house was quiet, too. The doctors had said he needed quiet. Doctors!
But this time, at least, they'd managed to remove the musket ball from
his back; perhaps because he'd told them he'd not endure another series
of their excruciating efforts. He watched a seagull swoop over the
beach and wondered why it was not perched on a buoy or a post somewhere
with its fellows. A loner, he thought wryly, as he had been for most of
his life. By its very nature his occupation dictated that he have few
friends. As to enemies, Mac was right, he had more than enough of those!

The gull swooped low, and alighted some distance along the
wall. It moved its feet up and down, half turning to view the human
from the corner of a beady eye.

Amused, the man sketched a salute. "Good afternoon, sir. Or is
it madam? Jolly good of you to drop in. Allow me to introduce myself:
My name is Diccon. But perhaps you came to call upon Mr. Fox?"

The bird uttered a squawk and regarded him warily.

"No cause for alarm. You are perfectly welcome to share the
wall. What? Going already? I'll find you some bread if you'd care to
stay for tea."

Of whatever gender, the gull refused the invitation and with
an impressive spread of its wings departed, to be quickly swallowed up
by the thickening Channel fog.

Diccon's thoughts turned inward once more. It was a strange
road he followed through life. A road that had earned him more than his
share of hard knocks, and that seemed of late ever more solitary. But
nobody had forced it on him. He'd followed where his interests led,
and, whatever else, the years had certainly not been dull. And yet,
what had he to show for it all? At an age when most of the men he knew
were comfortably wed and had set up their nurseries, here he stood on a
chilly autumn afternoon, keeping company with an unsociable gull (not
even a bird of paradise!) and with his back reminding him that he'd do
better to go inside and light a fire. He heard a distant and familiar
summons and smiled faintly. There was always Mr. Fox, of course, to
scold him for moping about feeling sorry for himself. He pushed away
from the wall and stood straight. He'd go and see what—

He sensed rather than heard someone behind him. Had he been at
the top of his form he'd have been aware of an intruder a few seconds
earlier. The lapse cost him dearly. Before he could turn, something
smashed into his back bringing pain so savage and blinding, that it
forced an anguished cry from him. But because he lived with danger his
reaction was instant and efficient. He crouched and spun about, caught
a glimpse of a blurred but decidedly bizarre figure, waving plumes, and
a lance poised for another attack. Furious, he wrested the lance aside
with a force that sent his attacker spinning into the wall to slump
there, unmoving.

It had been a surprisingly easy victory, but, taking no
chances, Diccon held the lance poised and ready while he moved closer
to his assailant. His vision was clearing. He was bewildered to
discover that the 'lance' was a headless broomstick. With a horrified
gasp he viewed the still form of a small boy, a battered saucepan
topped with long plumes sagging on his head. A large ginger-and-white
cat sprang up onto the wall, froze as it encountered him, then went
tearing off.

"Aah! You monster!
You
hideous
brute!
What have you done?"

Turning unsteadily to meet this new attack, Diccon reeled. A
witch, complete with high-pointed hat and long black cloak was rushing
at him.
"Madre de Dios!"
he gasped, fearing that
his brain had become disordered.

The witch flew to kneel beside the boy. "Arthur!" she sobbed,
"Oh, my dearest! What did he do to you?" She lifted the pseudo-helmet
from the child's head, revealing a very small white face and closed
eyes. Smoothing back the tumbled dark curls, she turned like a tigress
on the man who dropped to one knee beside her. "Do not
dare
to touch him!" There was a note of hysteria in her voice and tears
poured down her cheeks as she clawed at his hands. "You've
killed
him! You murderous,
monstrous
man!"