Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  He thought, ‘Could I not?’ And said with the sneer she so disliked, “I cannot afford friends, ma’am. And if ’tis because of your friends that you are involved in this particular mess, you’d be better off without ’em.”

  Briefly, she was silent. Then, she said slowly, “’Tis because of Francis.”

  “Your brother? Ah! He was a reb, then?”

  She did not answer, but regarded him with unwonted gravity.

  “Gad,” he exclaimed. “What a clod! Forgive. Vraiment, I never said it!”

  She smiled faintly. “Are you French, Roly?”

  “My mother was. Do I speak the language often? Deplorable habit.”

  “I find it not at all deplorable; and you seldom speak it, but when you do, your accent is sans reproche. She was beautiful, no?”

  The hard look in the dark eyes eased. He said in a low voice quite different from his customary drawl, “She was exquisite.”

  “And you loved her very much. Then that would explain it.”

  “What would it explain?”

  “Why, that you are always so very gallant to ladies.”

  Mathieson thought of Penelope Montgomery. He looked away quickly, and because guilt was an unfamiliar emotion, squirmed uneasily in the saddle, and spurred with unaccustomed force.

  Rumpelstiltskin gave a surprised snort, reared, and was off like a thunderbolt, charging up and over the brow of the hill even as Fiona, also surprised, brought the mare to a gallop.

  Vaguely, Mathieson had been aware of a distant turmoil. He was aghast however, to find himself plunging full tilt into an angry crowd, sending people scattering right and left. “What—the devil!” he cried, belatedly trying to quiet the nervously rearing stallion.

  “Don’t ye go for to interfere now, drat ’ee!” shouted a fierce little old man in smock and gaiters, brandishing a walking cane threateningly.

  “Nay, we doan’t need no furriners stickin’ of their noses into our business,” cried a burly villager.

  Mathieson saw then the ducking stool at the side of the pond, and the wretched woman who sagged, half-drowned, against the iron band that held her in that cruel instrument of torment.

  “Get ye gone!” shrilled a fat woman, shaking her apron at him.

  Several men seized the see-saw-like beam to which the sturdy wooden chair was attached and began to tilt it so that “stool” and victim sank into the pond.

  The old woman screamed piteously for mercy but none was given and her head came ever closer to the murky water.

  “Now, see here,” began Mathieson, indignantly, as the crowd reformed about him.

  Another thunder of hooves and they scattered once more as Fiona rode towards them. “How splendid of you,” she said, turning a look of glowing admiration upon Mathieson. “I wondered what you heard to send you away at such a rate.”

  She was at it again! “I did not—” he began.

  “Stop,” she cried furiously, riding into the throng. “Pull her up at once!”

  The villagers were in an angry mood and showed no inclination to stop, continuing to force their sobbing victim down until the dark waters closed over her head, while they shouted defiance at the girl.

  ‘This,’ thought Mathieson, ‘could be ugly.’ He guided Rumpelstiltskin forward. With loud cursing and desperate scramblings the crowd retreated before the big horse.

  “Miss Bradford!” shouted Mathieson. “We must get—”

  “She do be a witch!” A burly villager who wore a wig that made Mathieson shudder tugged at the pole and the stool surfaced, water streaming from it, the woman choking frenziedly. “Ye doesn’t hold wi’ witches, does ye, me fine gent?”

  “Fiona,” said Mathieson, eyeing the old creature uneasily. “We would do well to—”

  “Yes, and we will,” she declared, her voice ringing with zeal. “How dare you so abuse the poor soul?” She slid from the saddle, and ran to release the bar which confined the hapless victim. “Come, ma’am, and—”

  Momentarily awed by such high-handedness, the crowd had fallen silent. Now, the fat woman shrilled, “Oo be she to come a’telling of us what us mayn’t do? That old hag overlooked me prize sow, and the whole litter was stillborn! Ducking’s too good fer the likes o’ Jane Shadwell! Don’t ye listen to these fancy folk wi’ their long noses! Jane be possessed, I tell ye, and must be ducked till the evil spirits leave her!”

  Roaring endorsement for these proper sentiments, the crowd surged forward.

  There is a well-known maxim that a man would do better to stand alone against the might of a Roman legion than to face a crowd of enraged British rustics. Well aware of this, Mathieson dismounted in a leap, and took Fiona’s arm. “Dear Mite, really we cannot—”

  “I agree,” she said grimly, and jabbed her little gold-handled knife at the burly man who grabbed for the failing woman she supported. The burly one yowled and swung up a clenched fist. “Ye stabbed me! Ye danged little bitch!”

  Mathieson froze and his lips tightened into a thin line. One hand whipped Fiona aside; with the other he struck hard and true. The deplorable wig sailed from the head of the burly man, and drifted into the pond after him.

  As Mathieson had foreseen, this action failed to please the mob. Shouts of rage were augmented by the sudden appearance of cudgels. Stones began to fly.

  “Ye Gods and little fishes!” He dragged Fiona behind him, and whistled shrilly. A rock struck home above his eye and sent him reeling back, but already a ringing neigh was transcending the howls of the villagers. The crowd split before a chestnut fury that reared and bucked and spun, hooves flailing, big teeth bared and snapping busily. Shouts became shrieks. Men and women ran for their lives.

  “Here … Rump!” wheezed Mathieson. Snorting, the stallion danced to his side. Mathieson seized Fiona and threw her into the saddle. “Go!”

  She grabbed the reins but sent Rumpelstiltskin spinning again. “No! Not without her!”

  The old woman had sunk to her hands and knees and was coughing and spluttering helplessly. With a groan of revulsion, Mathieson lifted her. Despite the fact that she was tall, she was skin and bone and weighed very little, and it required no great effort to hoist her up behind Fiona. The crowd, thwarted and ugly, was re-forming. He slapped Rump on the flank, and the big horse was away, ignoring Fiona’s desperate efforts to halt him.

  Mathieson made a dash for the bay mare, but the villagers, normally gentle and peace-loving, were inflamed now by the mindless violence of the mob and surged in to cut off that way of escape. “Blast!” he muttered, and crouched, the dagger whipping into his left hand, the sword into his right. Momentarily, the glitter of cold steel gave pause to the villagers but only momentarily, for they were many and he but one. The burly man dragged himself from the pond and brought a good-sized stone with him. He heaved it with power and accuracy and as their target staggered, the others were encouraged and the hail of rocks began in earnest. Mathieson threw up one arm to protect his head and gave a gasp as a well-aimed missile smashed home against his wrist. The dagger fell from his numbed hand and his arm dropped helplessly. The angry crowd sent up a roar of delight as another rock drove him to his knees.

  Their enraged, hate-filled faces began to blur before his eyes. He thought dimly, ‘Dammitall, this is what I get for abandoning my principles …’

  The shot was deafening. Swaying dizzily forward to the support of his right hand, Mathieson heard the clear, girlish voice as from a distance.

  “You are behaving like skulking cowards, instead of honourable Englishmen! The first one brave enough to throw a rock at that most gallant gentleman will be shot. In the tummy, I think, though I cannot be sure, for my aim is not very good and I might accidentally shoot the person standing next to him. Captain Mathieson—be so good as to mount up, for I want my dinner.”

  It required a considerable effort, but somehow he reclaimed his dagger and was on his feet, still clutching his sword and weaving towards the bay mare whose reins Fiona held wit
h the same little hand that was locked on the stallion’s mane. He wondered in a vague fashion how she had managed to control Rump … How she could have fired one of the damn great pistols he always kept loaded in the holsters of his saddle. Then he had dragged himself up, and they were away.

  8

  Mrs. Shadwell guided them to a belt of woodland edged by a hurrying stream; a quiet lonely spot where they felt safe in halting for repairs. Mathieson meekly obeyed instructions to sit on the bank, and Fiona knelt beside him and washed the blood from his face. “’Twas the bravest thing I ever saw,” she declared, gently dabbing his handkerchief at the cut on his temple and regarding him glowingly.

  He felt properly battered, his head hurt miserably again, and he deserved it all for having behaved like a prize fool. He knew a strong impulse to disillusion the Tiny Mite, and would have done so, save that he could not seem to muster the effort just at the moment.

  “Aye, ‘twere brave all right,” agreed Mrs. Shadwell in a soft country accent.

  She looked halfway human, he thought, now that she had wrung out her skirts and tidied her greying hair. A tall woman with an odd dignity and dark piercing eyes that seemed to skewer right through a fellow. Come to think on it, be damned if she didn’t look just like a witch! He drew back uneasily as she pounced at him, but fear was replaced by embarrassment when she seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.

  “No, no!” he said, striving, horrified, to reclaim his hand. “You must not!”

  “Ye saved Oi, zur,” she said intensely.

  “You thank the wrong person, madam. Had this lady not been with me I promise you I’d have ridden away and left you to your fate, so do not be—”

  A slow smile softened her stern features. “That ye would not, sir, though the ending might’ve been different. And Oi do indeed thank your pretty lady. Oi done nothing wrong, mistress! Oi bean’t no witch, Oi do swear it!”

  “Of course you’re not.” Fiona smiled kindly at her. “If you had been, you could have saved yourself.”

  “Mebbe so. But ’cepting fer ye good folks, Oi’d be drownded dead this minute and fer nothing worse than knowing how to heal wi’ herbs and roots, and having no roof over me poor old head.”

  ‘Hmmnn,’ thought Mathieson cynically, and reached for his purse.

  Mrs. Shadwell muttered, “Oi could teach they fools a thing or two …” Her head flung upward and she said with a proud gesture, “No, sir! Oi be enough in yer debt! Put up yer gold. Oi doesn’t know how to thank ye, but—mebbe Oi can tell ye summat o’ what lies ahead.” She turned Mathieson’s reluctant hand and scanned the palm frowningly.

  “Oh my,” whispered Fiona, awed. “Can you tell fortunes, then?”

  “Not fortunes, mistress. The past. The future—sometimes … Ah!” she glanced up at Mathieson and said sympathetically, “Ye has known much o’ grief, young sir. And have a hard road afore ye. But there be joy—ah, great joy, for a little while. Then—” She stopped speaking, staring down at his hand with breath held in check, then drew back from him, her eyes very wide. A moment longer she remained thus, then jumped up. “Oi must go, ’fore they comes arter me. They brung dogs last time. Oi hates dogs, Oi do!”

  “Wait!” cried Fiona. “You did not finish! What—”

  “Nay. Oi cannot! But—” Staring at Mathieson, she cried, “Ye’ve a good heart, lady. Doan’t ye give it to one as will—break it!” She turned then, and limped quickly toward the trees.

  Fiona knelt up. “But—where will you go? Will you be safe? Perhaps you should come with us!”

  ‘Good God!’ thought Mathieson.

  Mrs. Shadwell stopped at the edge of the woods and turned to face them again. “The Folk be hereabouts. Oi’ll be safe wi’ me own, never worrit.” She raised her arm as if in benediction. “God bless ye both—poor childers.” And she was gone, vanished into the quiet shadows of the trees.

  “What a strange woman,” murmured Fiona. “I wonder whatever she meant.” She turned to Mathieson and surprised a grim look. “Have you really ‘known much of grief,’ Roly?”

  “Only,” he said drily, “since I met you, Little Mite!”

  “I most certainly would never have done so mad a thing!” declared Mathieson indignantly, as they rode slowly towards the encampment. “Rump bolted, is all, and I would have beaten a strategic retreat had you not come up with me. Gad! When I think of how you embroiled me with that horrid crowd of yokels, I wonder I did not turn snow white! What with your cats and your old witches, my girl, I—”

  Fiona gave a low trill of laughter. “Oh, Roly! Why will you never admit how splendid you are? I vow, to listen to you, one might fancy you the greatest villain of the century!”

  “I try,” he said modestly. “You, on the other hand, are a true heroine, albeit a vexatious one. How a’God’s name you were able to manage Rump and your mare and that da-dashed great pistol of mine, is quite beyond me.”

  “’Twas near quite beyond me,” she admitted with a droll shrug. “Which is why I dropped one.”

  “What?” He groaned. “Not my beautiful Les la Roche?”

  “Oh, I am so sorry! But—when it went off, it jumped right out of my hand!” Brightening, she added, “Still, you were able to retrieve your pretty dagger, and at least I did not drop the other pistol! Besides, I expect we could go back and—”

  “Saints forfend! And I should be flogged for an ingrate! Child, do you not know what you risked? You were mad to come back even for my glorious carcass.”

  “How could I do otherwise when you charged so gallantly to rescue that poor woman. Only think of what—”

  “Don’t,” suggested Mathieson. “The entire episode is best forgot. Gad, but I’m starved! I believe I can smell our dinner.”

  “Yes. There is the camp, thank goodness. And only look! Picayune is coming to meet—What on earth is that in her mouth …?”

  The small cat approached with great strides over tufts of grass, a white, shapeless object firmly grasped between her jaws. She stopped abruptly, tossed her prize into the air, then sprang to seize and shake it, whiskers bristling.

  “Devil take that revolting animal,” cried Mathieson, outraged. “She’s been into my crumpets! I told you they’d not be safe! Well for you to laugh, madam! If you was to ask me, that cat is what those blasted rustics should have flung into the pond!”

  Mathieson was the hero of the hour at dinner that evening, which irked him until he noted how much it infuriated Freemon Torrey. His spirits picked up as they sat gathered around the fires, but he was disgusted to find the crumpets as light as any bricks, and from boastfully claiming to have played the major role in their manufacture, he immediately denied any involvement whatsoever. There was much amusement at this, but Torrey observed contemptuously that anything Miss Fiona cooked could only be perfection.

  There was singing when the meal was done. The evening air held the briskness of autumn, but the fires warmed the heart as well as the feet, and listening pleasurably to the clear voices of the ladies threading among the deeper tones of the men, Mathieson experienced a contentment he’d not known since his army days. His bruises and his battered head ached, however, and after a while he slipped quietly away. In the red caravan he shared with Heywood and Alec he took off his coat and boots but lay on his bunk without undressing and promptly dozed off.

  Waking in the night, he was cold and pulled the covers over him. By the time that was accomplished he was not only wide awake, but could not seem to find a comfortable position. He was unused to sleeplessness, but the several matters that preyed on his mind would not give him any peace. He spent an hour tossing and turning, by which time he was so irritated with this pointless behaviour that he abandoned all attempts at sleep. Climbing down from the upper bunk to which he’d fallen heir, he forgot the protruding nail on the support post and swore heartily as he gave his finger a deep scratch. He was just sufficiently irritable to contemplate waking Thad or Alec and badgering them into conversation, but there
was no sign of either. Grumbling, he pulled on his boots—having first shaken them out to guard against feline occupation—and went into the silvery darkness.

  A full moon hovered above the trees and a soft night wind stirred the meadow grasses. Rump was easy to find in the rope paddock. Mathieson whistled softly and the big stallion woke up and came trotting over to nuzzle him affectionately. He took the rope loop from the fencepost and the stallion thumped through. Mathieson stroked the warm sleek neck and they walked together, the horse patiently watchful, the man with hands thrust into his pockets and head down.

  “Do you suppose we have lost Rob MacTavish, Rump?” he murmured thoughtfully. The stallion snorted, and tossed his head. Mathieson said, “You may be right, but I rather think not. Unless I mistake it, we are even now en route to rendezvous with the gentleman.” He smiled cynically. “That will be a jolly reunion, eh? Perchance the reb will lead us to a real pot of gold.” He thought with a touch of weariness, ‘And an end to my battles.’

  From the moment that at the age of nine he had disgraced and bitterly humiliated his father at the hunt, his life seemed to have been a continuing series of battles, among which the brief Parisian interludes with Maman shone like bright oases. ‘Cher Maman …’ And, Gad—how maudlin he grew! Impatient with himself, he said, “Stuff! I’ve had my loves, you know that, Rump. And friends, too!” The stallion whickered an apparent agreement, but Mathieson was startled by his own words. Friends? What need had he of friends? Much he wanted them!

  He kicked at a root, then stared moodily across the moonlit meadow. The piquant face of the Tiny Mite crept into his mind’s eye, and he smiled faintly. Rumpelstiltskin nudged him and he strolled on again, muttering, “Zounds, now what maggot has got into my stupid head?”

  He seldom thought of women other than to consider how well this one pleased him, or how much that one cost him. Save for Penelope. Penelope, whom he had loved. And knocked down … He bit his lip and clenched his hands, bewildered by this unfamiliar depression of the spirits. Was it remorse that plagued him? Why in hell should he feel remorse? He was a dedicated villain. Always had been! Always would be! He would accept no other path, for he had learned very early in life that to the villains of this world went all the rewards, and to the heroes, the hard knocks. Certainly, he had struck Miss Penelope Montgomery. She’d not only had the poor taste to reject him, but had come at him with a poker during that damnable sword fight with Quentin Chandler. It had been her, or Chandler’s sword through him! And when Chandler had beaten him (fair and square, blast him!) he had taken the reb’s sword in his chest, which could well have finished him. To strike a woman under those circumstances was justifiable. ‘No, ma mère?’ But he shrank a little, knowing how his beloved mother would have viewed that deed. It had never troubled him before. Or—seldom. Why must it so haunt him now? Besides, it was becoming ever more apparent that he had not really loved Penelope …