by Andre Norton
15
A Pride of Lions
To arm for our country is never too late,
No fetters are yet on our feet,
Our hands are more free, and our hearts are as great
As the best in the enemy's fleet.
And look at the list of their navy, and think,
How many are left, to burn, capture and sink!
—the launching of the Independence
Starr Court after many years of rebuilding, additions, and a few subtractions of wings and ells, had changed from a castle to a gentleman's abode sometime during the stormy reign of Henry the Eighth. And, though subsequent Earls had made changes of their own, the general form thereafter remained the same. Fitz found it a little overwhelming. He had always considered Fairleigh's "great house" something of an architectural triumph. But Fairleigh could be placed within one courtyard wing of Starr and easily be forgotten.
Inigo Jones was remembered by the whole of a separate wing, and Wren had left his stamp on the latest section that had been added. One walked through the history of English building when one traversed these galleries and rooms, for there was even a small section of crooked wall deep in the wine cellar which was said to be Roman work. And certainly the defense tower dated back to the first lord of Starr, a certain Sire de Norville who followed his Duke William into Saxon England.
Two days after his arrival at the Court, Fitz was surprised when the valet who had been assigned to him brought him a complete new uniform, but one which was the duplicate of the uniform he had worn on the Retaliation. Since all of his other outer clothing had mysteriously disappeared, he had to wear it or remain in bed. And he put it on with the conviction that there was a trick intended.
He found Burnette in the breakfast room, and the man nodded to him over a cup of tea. Fitz pulled at the lapels of his new coat.
"An excellent fit. Very well contrived, is it not? His lordship is always well served by any tailor he cares to employ. It must remove a weight from your mind to assume again your proper plumage as an officer in the service of these 'states,' I believe one calls them. There is a nasty name applied to a man who wears the coat of his enemies. We did not think you deserved that. And it might be most disconcerting if anyone taxed you with such dissembling."
Fitz put down his cup. "So someone just might accuse his lordship with harboring a spy, should I continue to wear false colors while under his roof? That is most interesting. I thought that his influence was great enough to cover such a petty annoyance."
Burnette touched his napkin to his lips. Over the fine linen folds his eyes were very clear and bright.
"He has plenty of power—as you shall discover. But-"
"Pulling the wires of his puppets takes time? Now I can suggest a very easy way out of his lordship's dilemma, one which will require no labor at all. Suppose I simply vanish from Starr Court—then there will be no spy for anyone to be curious about."
Burnette shook his head. "Such a disappearance would work against his lordship, since interested parties might then say that you had been here and gone, after rest and refreshment. No, the Earl of Starr's grandson—who in the hot-headiness of youth has been misled into folly—must remain under restraint until a royal pardon for his silly venture into treason is obtained."
"Or until my loving cousin can make his spy tale popular with the authorities," amended Fitz cheerfully. "If Farstarr is not wool-witted that is just what he'll try to do. I'd do it if I stood in his shoes."
Burnette laid aside the crumpled napkin. "Your wits are certainly not wool," he remarked dryly. "That is just what Farstarr is attempting. He has been quicker at the business than his lordship thought he would be."
"A case of Mohawk against Seneca," Fitz commented. "May the best savage win. But I am not going to be involved in any family quarrel—especially if I am to be the bone they battle over. I have no desire to be the Earl of Starr and I never shall."
"Your father "
Fitz folded his napkin neatly. "Ah, yes, my father. Crutcherly showed me his portrait in the Gilt Gallery yesterday. Hugh Royance Lyon, aged sixteen. At sixteen I was manager of Fairleigh and out in the fields from dawn to dusk—our wheat crop was for the army. I had a hundred and ten blacks to supervise, and many a day I was in the saddle for five and six hours at a time. At night there were the accounts to do. I don't believe that Hugh Royance Lyon ever stumbled into bed at midnight too tired to sleep, knowing that he would have to be up again before dawn. And yet I do not envy him in the slightest!"
He rose and went to the long window looking out at the paved terrace which led, by a flight of stairs, down into a fanciful knot garden of clipped hedges and bushes. Beyond that he picked out the point of blue which was a lake.
Burnette pushed back his chair and now came to stand at the other side of the window.
"Farstarr is worthless," he said in a low voice. "His lordship is eaten with gout. Should it touch his heart he would die in the space of a finger snap. Then-then all this will go, unless there is some one to hold it together!"
He opened the tall casement of the window and stepped over the low sill onto the terrace. Fitz followed. The morning wind was clear and soft, bringing with it the scent of flowering shrubs and plants. And the glint of sun made the knot garden a gilded pattern, as perfect as if it were the result of needle art.
"Twenty villages and a market town," Burnette repeated almost to himself. "Several thousand souls owe all their living to Starr. I've seen other estates in litigation and no one ever gained—save the law. It would mean ruin for countless honest men if there is to be no Lyon at Starr!"
Fitz shook his head firmly. "I am not bred to the task, and I have no love for this land. You cannot appeal to a sense of duty which is already engaged elsewhere "
Burnette swung around. "You self-centered young fool! / love Starr and I have a duty "
"Which you will do your best to hold me to!"
"I shall do my best to put you in my lord's place when the proper time comes!" There was force in that answer, enough to chill Fitz a little. Why, the man was a fanatic, he could not be reasoned with on this subject.
Burnette went inside. Fitz stood alone. There was little hope of escape—he had tried just wandering off, but there had always appeared a brace of gardeners, footmen, or grooms before he could get far. But as long as he stayed within the boundary of the formal gardens and the rides, he was allowed to roam as he pleased. Now he started down the terrace stairs toward the lake.
Three black swans carried out peaceful naval maneuvers past the small ornamental bridge which led to an island graced with the most fanciful version of a summer house. Fitz marveled at all this beauty, well kept and polished, always ready to be viewed by a master who was almost never there. Farstarr had not been to the Court in years, Fitz had heard, and the old Earl was nigh bedridden with the gout and could never walk these garden paths.
Someone was over on the island, betrayed by whistling a gay dancing tune. As Fitz walked toward the bridge, a very young man came out of the summer house carrying a hammer and some lengths of wood, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and smears of dust on the knees of his breeches.
He was as tall as Fitz and his hair, brown and curly, was tied back with a thong. When he saw the American he stopped and touched his forehead half shyly.
"Good morning," Fitz leaned on the rail of the bridge.
"A fair day t' ye, sir." The lad surveyed him with frank curiosity, and Fitz smiled.
"You're one of the gardeners?"
The boy's head went up with some pride. "Third gardener, that be I, sir. George Hawtrey "
"And I'm Fitzhugh Lyon."
"Aye, sir. Be y' part redman, sir?" The question burst out of him. "Dadda did say once as how colonials lived right 'mong, sir "
Fitz laughed. "No, I'm no Indian. And who is Dadda?"
The boy's face showed a bright scarlet flush of distress. He dropped one of the boards and stooped to pick it up
.
"My dadda's dead, sir. I live with Granny Hawtrey. She was nurse t' Master Hugh a long time ago. M'dadda, he went wi' Master Hugh t' fight in th' wars. He came home—only he weren't much good after. He died o' th' shakin' sickness, ten years ago it were."
"Granny Hawtrey—my father's nurse!" Fitz straightened. "Does she live here?"
George nodded eagerly. "Aye, she has her cottage— m'lady left her that in her will—all proper. Granny lives snug, she does."
"I'd like to see her."
George's shyness was now all gone. "Oh, sir, she'd be that pleased! She's been a-talkin' a lot o' Master Hugh—she was his foster mother like."
So Fitz came to a small cottage set a little apart from the villagelike collection of tiny houses where the outdoor servants of the Court were quartered. And inside, in the dusk of the kitchen-living room, he found himself confronting a woman as tall as her grandson. She supported herself on a crutch, and her capped head was held to one side as she stumped forward. But her face was not the network of wrinkles he had expected it to be. Her skin was a firm and healthy brown, a fair setting for eyes as keen and all-seeing as Burnette's.
For a moment she stood and studied Fitz, and then she nodded as if pleased by what she saw.
"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 "<
br />
"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.
