The Tyrant (40 page)

“And I am your
mother
! And—oh! You have involved
Jeffery
! And—and our
guests
in this ghastly business! Are you run quite
mad
?”

He did not reply but moved quickly to grasp Lascelles's arm as that unhappy individual made for the door. “Sit down and behave yourself,” he ordered gruffly, thrusting him back into the chair.

Sinclair said in a clear, firm voice, “You mistake it, Mrs. Carruthers. I involved Meredith. He did not involve me.”

Lucille stared at him miserably.

Lady Martha fixed her grandson with a cool stare. “Are you in sympathy with the Stuarts, Sinclair?”

He hesitated. “Say rather, I help where I can. And I mean to help Lascelles, or Lockwood, in any way possible, ma'am.”

She nodded, accepting that.

“As do I,” said Jeffery.

Lucille wailed and dissolved into sobs. “They are just boys, and—and have no understanding of the horror they br-bring down upon us all. But—but
you
know, Meredith! How
could
you allow it?” She turned her anger on Lascelles. “Do you see what you have done? Why must you come here, and—”

Unspeakably wretched, Lascelles shrank, and pleaded, “Merry—for the love of heaven, let me—”

“Run headlong to sure death?” Carruthers said with stern implacability. “Mama, if you ask me to deliver Lance up to be hacked to pieces in front of a yowling mob, the answer is no!” The autocratic lift of his hand quieted her remonstrance. “My apologies, but talking will pay no toll. Lance, there is no question but that you are too weak to essay a wild ride, even were there no soldiers hunting you. We've about run out of time. I'm afraid it's tonight or never. Give me your blasted cipher and—”

“No!” His white face ravaged, but proud and determined still, Lance cried, “'Fore God, have I not endangered you sufficiently? And never mind that rubbish about my having given it you before, for I'd not sink so low. It is
my
responsibility.
My
risk.” He gave his friend a smile that spoke volumes. “Because you and your brother were so insanely loyal as to risk your necks for me, I am rested and clean and have eaten well. I have not the words to thank you—and the Ramsays, for what you have done. But—'tis enough. I shall do, now.”

“For about three miles—maybe,” observed Meredith.

Sinclair muttered, “Or three minutes!”

“Is that cipher as important as you believe,” said Meredith, “you'd as well destroy it now as try to deliver it yourself. You'd be taken within the hour.” He shook Lascelles's shoulder gently. “Lance—have some sense. You
know
how weak you are. You'd simply not get through a countryside swarming with dragoons.”

Lockwood muttered, “So I am to stand back and allow you to risk your life for a cause you despised. I thank you! I am not such a poltroon!”

Phoebe said, “Lieutenant, I honour you for your courage, but—is there perhaps someone who could come here for the cipher?”

“No!”
shrieked Lucille.

Lascelles stared at her, biting his lip in agonized indecision.

Meredith prompted coolly, “Well, Lance?”

“There is … perhaps. But—”

“I'll go and fetch him,” said Sinclair.

For the first time looking directly at Phoebe, Carruthers saw her blanch, but she said nothing. Almost imperceptibly, the hard line of his mouth softened.

Lucille flew up and ran to grip his hand. “Meredith, you
must
not let him go! Don't let him bring a Jacobite here! Do you
want
us all to die by the axe?”

Her fear was intense and perfectly legitimate. Appreciating that, Carruthers put his arm around her and said repentantly, “I am indeed sorry to cause you such anxiety, my dear, but we must pray that—”

She intervened with the fury of terror, “There is no need for prayers! Always you have vowed you love me, but
now,
when our lives are at stake, it becomes very clear that you would willingly sacrifice Jeffery and me for your traitorous friend, who has brought about his own downfall! And why you should—”

“Have done, ma'am!” Lady Martha had restrained herself for as long as she could, and now said explosively, “Your son is head of his house and has arrived at a decision. It is one that I personally applaud, for a man should stand by his friends.”

Moaning in despair, Lucille subsided into her handkerchief.

Carruthers slanted a grateful look at the old lady.

Lascelles stood and said humbly, “Ramsay—you have been so good. I—I wish to heaven I might ride in your stead. God go with you!”

Flushing, Sinclair gripped his frail hand. “Tell me to whom I must go.”

Lascelles bent to murmur in his ear.

Carruthers said, “You will wish to say your farewells to your ladies, Sin. I'll go and see about a mount for you.”

He went outside and made his way to Baker's quarters. The groom was still up and soon had Elbow Grease saddled. Sinclair ran into the barn booted and spurred, and Carruthers wished him luck, and asked softly, “Are you clear as to your route?”

“Aye. I know where the village lies.” Sinclair mounted up, exclaiming, “Jove, but I was surprised when Lascelles spoke the name of the man I'm to bring! I'd never have suspected that one!”

“At least,” said Carruthers whimsically, “should you be intercepted, you will have no difficulty inventing reasons for fetching him here.”

XVIII

When Carruthers returned to the Tudor wing the little group was still gathered in the butler's study. His mother sat drying her tears, Phoebe was folding a tablecloth, and Lady Martha was knotting a tight bandage she had bound about Jeffery's ankle. He stood as his brother entered, and said with a flourish, “
Voila!
I am restored! We have with us a physician
par excellence!
”

“Yes, and you will be the better for keeping off that foot, lad,” said Lady Martha. “It's a nasty sprain.”

Phoebe asked anxiously, “Is my brother away, Mr. Carruthers?”

“Yes, ma'am. Pray try not to be overset. He is up on one of my fastest horses, and if he keeps his wits about him will likely have little trouble.”

“What is he to say should he be stopped?”

Carruthers glanced at Lady Martha.

Rolling an unused strip of linen, she said, “Oho! So I'm the excuse, am I? What is it? Am I ill, or merely dead?”

He smiled. “Certainly not the latter, ma'am, but sufficiently ill to—”

The door clicked open. Rosalie Smith stood on the threshold, her hood fallen back, her cheeks bright from the blustering wind. Loathing the shameless hussy, Phoebe thought with a pang, ‘
Has
she to be so very pretty?'

Lucille said in dismay, “Whatever are you doing here at this hour, child? Oh, my heaven! Something else is wrong! And why not? The whole world has gone mad!”

The girl's hazel eyes had flashed to the fugitive. She said an anxious “Lance!” and started towards him.

Even more swiftly, Carruthers moved to intercept her. “He's asleep,” he said, taking her hand in a caressing way that brought a frown to Jeffery's face. “I fancied you safe home long since. Why are you come back?”

She glanced apprehensively at the others, and Meredith said, “Never worry, m'dear. Everyone here knows about our fugitive.”

“It is only,” said Rosalie, in her shy, cultured little voice, “that there are so many troopers come. They are everywhere, and Lance is so desperate to deliver his message, I was afraid he might try something silly.”

Carruthers drew up a chair for her. “Has that confounded Fotheringay been frightening you?”

“No.” She gave a mischievous smile. “He is gone away, thank goodness.”

“He is? Do you know where?”

Dimples peeped beside her mouth. “I do, because it was my wicked grandfather's doing.”

Fascinated by her every movement, by every inflection of her soft voice, Jeffery asked, “What has the old gentleman been about? More of his fables?”

“Yes, indeed. He is
such
a rascal! Only think, he has convinced the Colonel that a pure
et sans reproche
gentleman is in fact a go-between for the Jacobites, and that if he is watched, he will soon or late lead the way to the fugitive and those who shelter him.” She gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Oh, Merry, I wish you might have seen the Colonel's face as he rid out. So grimly determined! I wonder he did not withdraw all the troops and straight away go and arrest the poor creature.”

Jeffery chuckled. “What a trickster Joseph is.”

“And now a great celebrity at The Meredyth Arms, and cannot stop laughing about it, which is really very naughty of him, having directed suspicion to a man of the cloth!”

Carruthers was suddenly breathlessly still, and Lascelles, who had been lying back, watching Rosalie through half-closed eyes, jerked himself upright. “Who?” he cried, patently horrified.

She looked from one taut face to the other and said with an uncertain smile, “Don't worry—'tis the last gentleman could ever be involved.”

“Who?” demanded Meredith.

“Why, Father Charles Albritton, the new curate who—”

Groaning, Lascelles bowed his face into his hands.

Carruthers turned pale, stood and muttered, “Well, that's
properly
dished us!”

“What is it? Oh, what is it?” cried Lucille nervously.

Phoebe gasped, “N-never say it … it really
is
Mr. Albritton?”

Lucille let out a shriek. Lady Martha, very white, said threadily, “Then—my grandson rides to his death.…”

Struggling up, Lascelles said, “I'll go after him at once!”

“Noble of you,” Carruthers muttered cynically. “God forbid you should ride to
my
rescue in your present state!”

“Of course he cannot go!” Jeffery stood also. “Have a horse saddled, Merry. I'll take a short cut and—”

“No!” Lucille threw her arms around him. “You're hurt! And besides, it's too dangerous! Meredith will go!”

Phoebe was sick with fear for her brother, but she gave a gasp at this, and despite her own terror, Lady Martha pursed her lips disgustedly.

No less appalled, Jeffery said, “The deuce, Mama! You are forgetting that Merry has a wound and —”

“No, but—but he is so strong,” she babbled frantically. “And always he knows just what to do and—and rescues us from our little predicaments. He won't let us down, will you, Merry, dearest?”

His eyes empty, he answered, “I trust not, Mama. I'll go, of course.”

“Like hell!” Jeffery freed himself from his mother's clinging arms and said wrathfully, “Will you for once give me credit for having a
little
backbone? No, Mama! Be still, if you please!” Flushed, he snarled at his brother, “
Always,
it is you!
You
know what is best;
you
will provide;
you
will advise us! Well, now it's
my
turn! I've a slightly sprained ankle. You've a wound Linden has warned me is badly inflamed. Do you fancy I mean to sit here like—like a cowering weasel while—”

Lady Martha intervened sharply, “Do you stand here, arguing, neither of you will be in time to save my grandson!”

“Very true,” agreed Meredith, starting to the door. “But we're a poor lot. Sinclair has a good ten-minute lead over two cripples.”

“
I
am not crippled,” declared Phoebe. “And I can ride as fast as either of you!”

“Through countryside a'swarm with ragtag soldiery and bounty hunters? I think not, madam! Jeff—we'll ride together.” Ignoring his mother's heart-broken cry, Meredith turned to Rosalie. “Run to the stables, love, and find Henry Baker. Tell him to saddle Rogue and Mouser at once.” She flew, and he said to Lady Martha, “My man knows of this. Will you please go and ask him for dark cloaks and a brace of loaded pistols for my brother and me?” She went out at once, Phoebe accompanying her.

Jeffery limped over to his mother and took her into the hall, talking to her gently.

Lascelles, the picture of dejection, sat with his fair head downbent. Carruthers turned from watching Lucille walk away, and went to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “My poor idiot, do not look so distraught. It was not your intent to involve us. A poor thing friendship would be were we loyal only when times are good.” He smiled into the strained grey eyes that lifted to meet his own. “Now stop being a block, and give me your damned cipher.”

Lascelles froze, staring at him.

“You just ran out of choices,” Meredith pointed out. “We cannot bring Albritton here now, short of inviting Fotheringay along. Your only hope of delivering your message is to entrust it to me.”

Briefly, Lascelles struggled with conscience, then he sighed. “Yes. You've the right of it. But—dammitall, Merry, if anything happens to you—God! How shall I live with myself?”

“I sympathize,” said Carruthers drily. “Come
on,
man!”

Lascelles stood and unbuckled his swordbelt. The dark leather was overlaid here and there with strips of tooled pigskin, and from beneath one of the strips he pried a carefully folded scrap of parchment. Carruthers already knew the hiding place, but did not betray that knowledge. He had not read the cipher the first time he carried it, but now, when Lascelles handed it to him, he scanned it, and read,

III

Odd, how gently they come home,

Wooing peace once more.

Riding off they were not so.

Is it ever thus with war?

Frequently, it seems mankind