The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

Flickering torches cast eerie shadows and caused the darkness to huddle in the corners. Lydia shivered. Atmospheric. The perfect place for the heroine from one of Mrs Radcliffe’s horrid novels. Lydia was determined that she would neither scream nor faint.

  From behind a pile of rocks three figures emerged. Their tattered clothing and dark skin made it clear they were the escaped slaves. Making no attempt to play the dandy, Harting stepped forward and extended his hand.

  The runaways eyed it for a moment, then Sophie’s brother stepped forward and grasped it. “I am Emmanuel; this is Louis and Jean.”

  “Marcus Harting.”

  “The treasure you seek is this way,” Sophie gestured stiffly.

  Holding his torch aloft, Anthony took the lead. Anticipation made him salivate and he swallowed. A centipede skittered across the floor before the light and his lips twisted in revulsion. At the back of the chamber the cave narrowed to form a tapering hall. This passage extended some thirty feet before the cave abruptly widened again.

  There, tucked back against the rock wall so that it did not become visible until he cleared the passage, sat an enormous crate. Several of the boards had been pried away, revealing the throne. After all the time they had spent searching, the suddenness of its appearance left him speechless.

  Wonderment swept through him as the first beam of torchlight illuminated the gold of the throne. Years of grit coated the gold and enamel now, but it still glowed in the firelight. A singly inlaid peacock was visible. Detailed with infinite delicacy and haughty with the assurance of the beautiful, it looked almost real in the wavering light.

  He stepped forward and caressed one of the columns. “I can understand how they were all seduced by this. It is beautiful.”

  “And deadly,” said Miss Garrett tartly.

  “Hmm?” Anthony shook himself as if from a dream. “Yes, you’re right. This thing has caused the death of too many men.”

  Anthony turned to Sophie. “I cannot express how much you have helped us. We might never have found the throne without your help.”

  The girl nodded gravely. “I must go back before I’m missed.”

  Miss Garrett clasped the girl’s hand and whispered something in her ear. When she stepped away tears stood out on the girl’s cheeks. She turned to her brother and embraced him.

  “Be safe.” The words were little more than a whisper, but the cave had grown silent with all eyes on the emotional parting.

  Emmanuel bent his head until it rested on top of his sister’s. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he did naught to check them. He smoothed her hair and then cupped her face in his hands as if trying to imprint her features on his memory. “I will find a way to come back for you.” His voice cracked.

  The girl squeezed his hands in hers, then turned and fled.

  Anthony turned away. It seemed shameful to gawk at the man’s anguish as if it were no more than a Punch and Judy pantomime. As he turned he caught sight of Harting. For an instant it appeared that tears sheened his eyes. Anthony blinked and stepped closer, but the agent turned away as if studying the crate encasing the throne. A moment later Harting turned back. No hint of sensibility lingered on his features. Instead he wore a nonchalant—even bored—expression, as if impatient to be on the move.

  Anthony shook his head. This was not the time to worry about Harting and his foibles. He put the men to work repairing the crate, and cutting and smoothing good-sized branches from nearby trees.

  It took more than three hours before they could attempt to move the throne. There wasn’t room to negotiate the ox cart into the cave and get the throne atop it, so they looped ropes around the crate, and formed two teams of men to haul it.

  The cut and trimmed branches were laid before the throne to make a rolling path. Miss Garrett ran back and forth, collecting the branches already traversed and repositioning them in front of the throne so it could continue its slow progress. Anthony and the other men bent their backs to hauling the throne.

  The thing must have weighed more than a ton. Anthony strained with all his might. When finally they wrested the crate from the maw of the mountain, he collapsed on the ground, grimy, exhausted and panting.

  The other men followed suit. Miss Garrett passed among them with a skin full of water. Anthony drank deeply, the lukewarm liquid wondrously welcome to his parched throat.

  As the men prepared to raise the throne to the cart, Lydia was shunted to the fringes of the group, her offers of assistance brushed away.

  With great care they lowered the throne to its side. The ropes were repositioned, and Lord Danbury handed the ends of the rope to a sailor, who scaled an overhanging tree like a monkey. The man looped the line over the sturdiest branch and fed the rest through a complicated series of block and tackle that his Lordship had included in their stores. Lydia had considered its weight many times, and wondered at its purpose. Now it was more than proving its worth.

  In teams, the men hauled on the ropes until the throne began to rise from the ground. One of the oxen shied and Lydia rushed to help Harting gentle the beasts backward, until the cart was in place.

  She held her breath as the men lowered the throne.

  An ominous creaking issued from the ox cart.

  Her mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool.

  Lord Danbury grimaced.

  The cart held.

  A whoop of satisfaction hailed the completion of the manoeuvre. Danbury turned to her and clasped her hands in his. He raised them to his lips but then blinked and dropped them as if she’d burnt him.

  Unsure of how to respond, she rubbed her palms on her skirt.

  Now they only had to get the throne off the mountain and onto the ship. Even to Lydia the thought held more mockery than good cheer. The effort required would be tremendous—almost overwhelming. How had the Centaur’s crew managed to get the throne all the way up to the cave in the first place?

  “We will show you a path. It is not far.” Emmanuel’s deep-throated French silenced everyone near. A reminder that the enemy could be all too close.

  The seamen lashed the throne to the cart to make it as steady as possible. Emmanuel walked before the cart, scouting out the easiest path by which to take the throne. Several sailors armed with long knives followed, hacking at the branches and overhanging vines to clear a way for the cart. Lydia and Lord Danbury walked on either side of the ox cart guiding the animals. Finally, Harting, armed with a pistol and musket, brought up the rear of the procession, keeping an eye out for attack.

  The day took on a gruesome monotony. In the roughest areas they stopped altogether. Everyone in the party helped to flatten the undergrowth, move rocks, and uproot bushes. The three-mile trek loomed large.

  By noon they had gone less than three quarters of a mile. Lord Danbury halted the grinding progress so they could eat and rest for a few minutes.

  Lydia sat gratefully, far more interested in the water she clutched than the bread and cheese. She gestured up the hill at the swathe of trampled ground they had left behind them. “At least we’re subtle.”

  The gentlemen’s eyes followed her gesture.

  “We’ll have to hope they don’t stumble on our path,” Danbury shrugged.

  “Or if they do, that they won’t understand its significance,” Harting added.

  “’Course they gon’ find that trail and they gon’ follow it straight to us. ’Cause they not worryin’ with this great… monster.” Emmanuel aimed a kick at the wheel of the cart.

  “Careful, my friend. You wouldn’t want it to land on your foot,” Danbury said.

  A faint crack sounded. Every eye turned towards the mountain.

  “What was that?” asked Lord Danbury.

  “It sounded like gunfire,” said Harting.

  “Nah, it was this cart, about to give up the ghost,” chimed in one of the sailors.

  “Let’s go,” said Danbury. Uneasiness showed in his eyes and in his quick, jerky movements as he shouldered his gear.

/>   Lydia sprang up and shouldered her knapsack.

  Emmanuel pointed downhill to the northeast. “We should come to a path soon. We’ll be able to go faster. But it’s steep in places. We gon’ have to help the oxen by pulling back on the cart, or they be overtaken and crushed.”

  It took nearly an hour to reach the promised path.

  Lydia surveyed the rutted track. At least the greenery did not press so closely. She swiped away trickling perspiration with her handkerchief. The ox she walked next to flicked its tail, smacking her in the back of the head. With her walking stick she tapped the ox’s haunch.

  Birds chattered about them, screeching at the interlopers for disturbing their midday nap. Even next to the noisome ox, she occasionally caught the scent of an exotic blossom. A slip of a waterfall trickled down the side of the mountain, tempting her beyond bearing. Again Lydia lagged behind a little. What harm could it do to get a cool drink and wash her face?

  “’Allo!”

  Lydia jumped back from the splashing water. Stumbling over her own feet, she sat down hard on the dirt path. The men raised their weapons, each swinging about to face the sound.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lydia offered up a sigh of relief as Danielle Long came into view, hurrying down the trail.

  “Wait for me,” the Frenchwoman called, waving at them. Having captured their attention, Danielle’s progress slowed.

  Lydia tapped her foot. After a long moment, she turned back to the water. At least she could take advantage of the delay to wash her face and neck. It would be heaven to remove her boots and let the cool water splash over her feet. She settled for cupping her hands and gathering a refreshing draught.

  Breathless, Danielle rushed up to Lord Danbury’s side, clasping his hands in hers. Lydia narrowed her eyes. She really did not care for that woman.

  “You ’ave made good progress,” Danielle said when she could speak. “Better than I would ’ave thought.” A flood of words washed away her habitual sullen silence. “Is that the throne? It must be très grand. The crate is huge. It is heavy, no? What will you do if it rains?”

  Danielle directed the hail of questions at Lord Danbury. While he was trying to decide which of her ridiculous questions to answer, Lydia interjected a query of her own. “Where is Mr Long?”

  Danielle glanced at Lydia and sniffed. “He shows the captain how to get around the island. He sends me back to help and tell you that your ship is coming.”

  “But how did you find us?”

  “Will they be able to rendezvous tomorrow morning?” Danbury asked at the same moment.

  The Frenchwoman ignored Lydia in favour of his Lordship. “Oui. Yes. I think so—Mahe is a small island.”

  The young woman’s colour was high. Her eyes shone bright with some emotion, and she fluttered her hands as she spoke. Lydia shot a glance at the gentlemen. Neither seemed to have marked the change in her manner. Perhaps it was due to Jeremiah’s absence. No doubt she felt freer without his presence. Whatever the reason, she was chattering like a magpie.

  Danbury gave a nod to the crew and the trek resumed.

  The hours ground away tediously. It seemed they were making no progress at all. Surely, Lydia had been staring at the same clump of ferns for nearly an hour.

  Danielle had affixed herself to Lord Danbury’s side. She trotted along merrily, as if there were no threat hanging over them and it weren’t hotter than Hades. Lydia heartily wished Danielle would revert to her tight-lipped demeanour.

  Danielle shrieked. Lost in reverie, Lydia jumped as if she had been scalded. Danbury pitched forward, thudding against the side of the ox he guided. His head struck the side of the cart and he slid to the ground beneath the oncoming wheels of the vehicle. Lydia yelped. She grabbed her ox’s ear, tugging hard. Startled by the commotion, the oxen stopped in confusion.

  Danbury had just enough time to roll away from the advancing wheels. Heart thudding in her chest, Lydia rushed around the animals to make sure he was not harmed. She found him sitting up and rubbing his head. She dropped to his side. Danielle stood apart, wringing her hands.

  “Monsieur, I am so sorry. You are all right? You might ’ave been crushed. Please, you ’ave not hurt?” Agitation thickened her French accent and shortened her grasp on English syntax. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” she moaned pitifully.

  The others clustered near, all exclamations and questions.

  “I am fine, Mrs Long. No harm done.” Lord Danbury stood and held out his arms to demonstrate his unscathed condition.

  “Dieu merci.” Danielle sat on the ground with a thump. “I… I trip, I fall.” She gestured helplessly.

  “Mrs Long stumbled and fell into me. Unfortunately it was just as I was stepping over that boulder, and I was off balance,” Lord Danbury said. “As I said, no harm’s been done—” He bent down at Danielle’s side. “Are you quite well, Mrs Long?”

  Danielle lowered her eyes. “It is nothing—only my ankle. It will be fine. I will be more careful.” She made as if to stand, but collapsed back to the ground with a squeak.

  Lydia knelt to examine the injured ankle. Danielle groaned as she probed the area gently. Lydia bit the inside of her lip, but forbore to roll her eyes. Kindness, she reminded herself. Her father had always taught that—longsuffering, gentleness, love.

  “It’s not broken. Nor is there any swelling I can discern. Perhaps it’s sprained.” Lydia retrieved some rolled bandages from the medicine chest and bound the ankle tightly.

  “Now we’ll see if you can walk on it.” She took Danielle’s hand to help her to her feet.

  Mr Harting supported her other arm. She tentatively put weight on her injured limb. When she did not swoon, someone produced a sturdy branch for her to use as a cane, and with its aid Danielle hobbled a few steps.

  The excitement over, everyone fell back in line and they resumed the journey. The pace lagged even slower to accommodate the injured woman. Danielle did not resume her place by Danbury. Instead she straggled behind, until coming abreast of Harting. Judging from the woman’s breathless flutter of exclamations at the tragic thing that had nearly happened, she seemed to have overcome any consternation she may have felt. It proved the opening salvo in another bombardment of words.

  Lydia looked back to see Harting politely inclined towards the young woman. Her hand rested on his arm as he assisted her along the path. Despite his apparent attendance to her chatter, Lydia saw the quick movements of his eyes and the frequent turning of his head. He remained vigilant for any sign of threat from the French. Sighing, Lydia returned her attention to her own footing. The last thing they needed was further delay.

  Lord Danbury didn’t call an end to the day’s exertions until darkness had edged in close enough to touch. They had reached the base of the mountain. The worst of the terrain lay behind them. Emmanuel reckoned they had another half a mile to go.

  From their impatient movements and short tempers Lydia guessed that Danbury and Harting would have liked to press on. But common sense prevailed. The cloak of night made further travel with the throne madness. An unseen hole or rock could send the cart over, and the throne with it. The danger was too great to chance, so the men hurried about the routine of setting up camp for one last night.

  Rather than erecting a separate tent for Danielle, Lydia offered to share hers. They prepared for bed in silence, a marked contrast to Danielle’s talkativeness throughout the day.

  The heat and humidity were oppressive. No stray breeze penetrated the jungle at the base of the mountain. Restless and perspiring, Lydia woke in the middle of the night. She tried to go back to sleep, but the thick, motionless air defeated her. In silence she picked up her boots, settling down outside the tent to put them on. This done, she straightened and sought out the guards so they would not be startled into shooting her later if they came upon her unexpectedly.

  She had spoken to two of the guard and was looking for the third, Anthony’s valet, James, when she heard a rustling nearby. Instant
ly alert, she stopped and called out softly to the darkness. “James?” She waited in vain for a response. Cautiously she crept towards the noise. “James, is that you?”

  Again she heard no response. Heart in her throat, Lydia stole towards the rustling. Stooping to pick up a heavy branch, she continued to advance. A low moan caught her ear, sending a shiver up her spine. The darkness hung as thick and heavy as a curtain, hiding the source of the sound from her view. Mustering her courage, Lydia called again in the sternest voice she could manage.

  “Who is it? Show yourself!”

  The underbrush rustled again, and she caught sight of a figure on the ground. Another moan came from the dark mound, and then a raspy whisper.

  “Miss… help me.”

  Lydia dropped her club and ran to the speaker. “Sophie? Sophie, what’s wrong?” She knelt in the brush beside the slave girl.

  The girl rasped something unintelligible. A slight nod of her head directed Lydia’s attention to her side, which she clutched tightly.

  Lydia gasped at the dark, sticky smear down the girl’s dress. Blood, and quite a lot of it. Sophie’s head lolled back. Lydia pulled her up.

  “Let’s get you to some light so I can look at this wound.”

  She half carried Sophie to the campfire. In obvious agony, the girl moved haltingly. Lydia tried to be gentle, but Sophie was insensible when they collapsed together near the fire. Fetching a cup of water, Lydia lifted it to Sophie’s dry lips. Somewhat revived, the girl spoke feebly.

  “Miss, de French is comin’. I saw dem talkin’.” Her words trailed off in a wince as Lydia gently probed her wound.

  Lydia glanced up from her examination. “Who did you see?”

  “Madame Long and a Frenchman. They don’ know I’m close by. Miss, I think she kill Mister Jeremiah.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Lydia rocked back on her heels. Her lungs felt like a broken bellows, unable to inflate properly.

  Gasping and grimacing, Sophie continued. “I’s taking laundry to the waterfall. An’ I hear. She tell him ’bout the plan to move the ship.”