Anthony Wilding

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Not ten minutes ago,” was the quavering answer.

  “And you were at hand when it befell?” cried Wilding, the scorn in his voice rising superior to his agitation and fears for Ruth. “You were at hand, and could neither prevent nor follow him?”

  “I’ll go with you now, if you’ll give chase,” whimpered Richard, feeling himself for once the craven that he was.

  “If?” echoed Wilding scornfully, and dragged him past the gate and up towards the house even as he spoke. “Is there room for a doubt of it? Have you horses, at least?”

  “To spare,” said Richard as they hurried on.

  They skirted the house and found the stable door open as Blake had left it. Old Jasper followed with a lamp which burned steadily, so calm was the air of that July night. In three minutes they had saddled a couple of nags; in five they were riding for the bridge and the road to Weston Zoyland.

  “It is a miracle you remained in Bridgwater,” said Richard as they rode. “How came you to be left behind?”

  “I had a task assigned to me in the town against the Duke’s return tomorrow,” Wilding explained, and he spoke almost mechanically, his mind full of – anguished by – thoughts of Ruth.

  “Against the Duke’s return?” cried Richard, first surprised and then thinking that Wilding spoke at random. “Against the Duke’s return?” he repeated.

  “That is what I said.”

  “But the Duke is marching to Gloucester.”

  “The Duke is marching by circuitous ways to Sedgemoor,” answered Wilding, never dreaming that at this time of day there could be the slightest imprudence in saying so much, indeed taking little heed of what he said, his mind obsessed by the other, to him, far weightier matter.

  “To Sedgemoor?” gasped Westmacott.

  “Aye – to take Feversham by surprise – to destroy King James’s soldiers in their beds. He should be near upon the attack by now. But there! Spur on and save your breath if we are to overtake Sir Rowland.”

  They pounded on through the night at a breakneck pace which they never slackened until, when within a quarter of a mile or so of Penzoy Pound, where the army was encamped and slumbering by now, they caught sight of the musketeers’ matches glowing in the dark ahead of them. An outpost barred their progress; but Richard had the watchword, and he spurred ahead shouting “Albemarle,” and the soldiers fell back and gave them passage. On they galloped, skirting Penzoy Pound and the army sleeping in utter unconsciousness of the fate that was creeping stealthily upon it out of the darkness and mists across the moors; they clattered on past Langmoor Stone and dashed straight into the village, Richard never drawing rein until he reached the door of the cottage where Feversham was lodged.

  They had come not only at a headlong pace, but in a headlong manner, without quite considering what awaited them at the end of their ride in addition to their object of finding Ruth. It was only now, as he drew rein before the lighted house and caught the sound of Blake’s raised voice pouring through an open window on the ground floor, that Richard fully realised what manner of rashness he was committing. He was too late to rescue Ruth from Blake. What more could he look to achieve? His hope had been that with Wilding’s help he might snatch her from Sir Rowland before the latter reached his destination. But now – to enter Feversham’s presence and in association with so notorious a rebel as Mr Wilding were a piece of folly of the heroic kind that Richard did not savour. Indeed, had it not been for Wilding’s masterful presence, it is more than odds he had turned tail, and ridden home again to bed.

  But Wilding, who had leapt nimbly to the ground, stood waiting for Richard to dismount, impatient now that from the sound of Sir Rowland’s voice he had assurance that Richard had proved an able guide. The young man got down, but might yet have hesitated had not Wilding caught him by the arm and whirled him up the steps through the open door, past the two soldiers who kept it, and who were too surprised to stay him, straight into the long, low-ceilinged chamber where Feversham, attended by a captain of horse, was listening to Blake’s angry narrative of that night’s failure.

  Mr Wilding’s entrance was decidedly sensational. He stepped quickly forward, and taking Blake, who was still talking, all unconscious of those behind him, by the collar of his coat, he interrupted him in the middle of an impassioned period, wrenched him backwards off his feet, and dashed him with a force almost incredible into a heap in a corner of the room. There for some moments the baronet lay half dazed by the shock of his fall.

  A long table, which seemed to divide the chamber in two, stood between Lord Feversham and his officer and Mr Wilding and Ruth – by whose side he had now come to stand in Blake’s room.

  There was an exclamation, half anger, half amazement, at Mr Wilding’s outrage upon Sir Rowland, and the captain of horse sprang forward. But Wilding raised his hand, his face so composed and calm that it was impossible to think him conceiving any violence, as indeed he protested at that moment.

  “Be assured, gentlemen,” he said, “that I have no further rudeness to offer any so that this lady is suffered to withdraw with me.” And he took in his own a hand that Ruth, amazed and unresisting, yielded up to him. That touch of his seemed to drive out her fears and to restore her confidence; the mortal terror in which she had been until his coming dropped from her now. She was no longer alone and abandoned to the vindictiveness of rude and violent men. She had beside her one in whom experience had taught her to have faith.

  Louis Duras, Marquis de Blanquefort, and Earl of Feversham, coughed with mock discreetness under cover of his hand. “Ahem!”

  He was a comely man with a long nose, good low-lidded eyes, a humorous mouth, and a weak chin; at a glance he looked what he was, a weak, good-natured sensualist. He was resplendent at the moment in a blue satin dressing-gown stiff with gold lace, for he had been interrupted by Blake’s arrival in the very act of putting himself to bed, and his head – divested of his wig – was bound up in a scarf of many colours.

  At his side, the red-coated captain, arrested by the General’s sardonic cough, stood, a red-faced, freckled boy, looking to his superior for orders.

  “I t’ink you ’ave ’urt Sare Rowland,” said Feversham composedly in his bad English. “Who are you, sare?”

  “This lady’s husband,” answered Wilding, whereupon the captain stared and Feversham’s brows went up in surprised amusement.

  “So-ho! T’at true?” quoth the latter in a tone suggesting that it explained everything to him. “T’is gif a differen’ colour to your story, Sare Rowlan’.” Then he added in a chuckle, “Ho, ho – l’amour!” and laughed outright.

  Blake, gathering together his wits and his limbs at the same time, made shift to rise.

  “What a plague does their relationship matter?” he began. He would have added more, but the Frenchman thought this question one that needed answering.

  “Parbleu! ” he swore, his amusement rising. “It seem to matter somet’ing.”

  “Damn me!” swore Blake, red in the face from pale that he had been. “Do you conceive that if I had run away with his wife for her own sake I had fetched her to you?” He lurched forward as he spoke, but kept his distance from Wilding, who stood between Ruth and him.

  Feversham bowed sardonically. “You are a such flatterer, Sare Rowlan’,” said he, laughter bubbling in his words.

  Blake looked his scorn of this trivial Frenchman, who, upon scenting what appeared to be the comedy of an outraged husband overtaking the man who had carried off his wife, forgot the serious business, a part of which Sir Rowland had already imparted to him. Captain Wentworth – a time-serving gentleman – smiled with this French general of a British army that he might win the great man’s favour.

  “I have told your lordship,” said Blake, froth on his lips, “that the twenty men I had from you, as well as Ensign Norris, are dead in Bridgwater, and that my plan to carry off King Monmouth has come to ruin, all because we were betrayed by this woman. It is now my further privilege to
point out to your lordship the man to whom she sold us.”

  Feversham misliked Sir Rowland’s arrogant tone, misliked his angry, scornful glance. His eyes narrowed, the laughter faded slowly from his face.

  “Yes, yes, I remember,” said he; “t’is lady, you have tole us, betray you. Ver’ well. But you have not tole us who betray you to t’is lady”; and he looked inquiringly at Blake.

  The baronet’s jaw dropped; his face lost some of its high colour. He was stunned by the question as the bird is stunned that flies headlong against a pane of glass. He had crashed into an obstruction so transparent that he had not seen it.

  “So!” said Feversham, and he stroked the cleft of his chin. “Captain Wentwort’, be so kind as to call t’e guard.” Wentworth moved to obey, but before he had gone round the table Blake had looked behind him and espied Richard shrinking by the door.

  “By Heaven!” he cried, “I can more than answer your lordship’s question.”

  Wentworth stopped, looking at Feversham.

  “Voyons,” said the General.

  “I can place you in possession of the man who has wrought our ruin. He is there,” and he pointed theatrically to Richard.

  Feversham looked at the limp figure in some bewilderment. Indeed, he was having a most bewildering evening – or morning, rather, for it was even then on the stroke of one o’clock. “An’ who are you, sare?” he asked.

  Richard came forward, nerving himself for what was to follow. It had just occurred to him that he held a card which should trump any trick of Sir Rowland’s vindictiveness and the prospect heartened and comforted him.

  “I am this lady’s brother, my lord,” he answered, and his voice was fairly steady.

  “Tiens! ” said Feversham, and, smiling, he turned to Wentworth.

  “Quite a family party, sir,” said the captain, smiling back.

  “Oh! mais tout-à-fait,” said the General, laughing outright, and then Wilding created a diversion by leading Ruth to a chair that stood at the far end of the table, and drawing it forward for her. “Ah, yes,” said Feversham airily, “let Madame sit.”

  “You are very good, sir,” said Ruth, her voice brave and calm.

  “But somewhat lacking in spontaneity,” Wilding criticised, which set Wentworth staring and the Frenchman scowling.

  “Shall I call the guard, my lord?” asked Wentworth crisply.

  “I t’ink yes,” said Feversham, and the captain gained the door, and spoke a word to one of the soldiers without.

  “But, my lord,” exclaimed Blake in a tone of protest, “I vow you are too ready to take this fellow’s word.”

  “He ’as spoke so few,” said Feversham.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “You ’af ’eard ’im say – t’e lady’s ’usband.”

  “Aye – but his name,” cried Blake, quivering with anger. “Do you know that it is Wilding?”

  The name certainly made an impression that might have flattered the man to whom it belonged. Feversham’s whole manner changed; the trivial air of persiflage that he had adopted hitherto was gone on the instant, and his brow grew dark.

  “T’at true?” he asked sharply. “Are you Mistaire Wildin’ – Mistaire Antoine Wildin’?”

  “Your lordship’s most devoted servant,” said Wilding suavely, and made a leg.

  Wentworth in the background paused in the act of reclosing the door to stare at this gentleman whose name Albemarle had rendered so excellently well known.

  “And you to dare come ’ere?” thundered Feversham, thoroughly roused by the other’s airy indifference. “You to dare come ’ere – into my ver’ presence?”

  Mr Wilding smiled conciliatingly. “I came for my wife, my lord,” he reminded him. “It grieves me to intrude upon your lordship at so late an hour, and indeed it was far from my intent. I had hoped to overtake Sir Rowland before he reached you.”

  “Nom de Dieu! ” swore Feversham. “Ho! A so great effrontery!” He swung round upon Blake again. “Sare Rowlan’,” he bade him angrily, “be so kind to tell me what ’appen in Breechwater – everyt’ing!”

  Blake, his face purple, seemed to struggle for breath and words. Mr Wilding answered for him.

  “Sir Rowland is so choleric, my lord,” he said in his pleasant, level voice, “that perhaps the tale would come more intelligibly from me. Believe me that he has served you to the best of his ability. Unfortunately for the success of your choice plan of murder, I had news of it at the eleventh hour, and with a party of musketeers I was able to surprise and destroy your cut-throats in Mr Newlington’s garden. You see, my lord, I was to have been one of the victims myself, and I resented the attentions that were intended me. I had no knowledge that Sir Rowland had contrived to escape, and, frankly, it is a thing I deplore more than I can say, for had that not happened much trouble might have been saved and your lordship’s rest had not been disturbed.”

  “But t’e woman?” cried Feversham impatiently. “How is she come into this galère?”

  “It was she who warned him,” Blake got out, “as already I have had the honour to inform your lordship.”

  “And your lordship cannot blame her for that,” said Wilding. “The lady is a most loyal subject of King James; but she is also, as you observe, a dutiful wife. I will add that it was her intention to warn me only when too late for interference. Sir Rowland, as it happened, was slow in…”

  “Silence!” blazed the Frenchman. “Now t’at I know who you are, t’at make a so great difference. Where is t’e guard, Wentwort’?”

  “I hear them,” answered the captain, and from the street came the tramp of their marching feet. Feversham turned again to Blake.

  “T’e affaire ’as ’appen’ so,” he said, between question and assertion, summing up the situation as he understood it. “T’is rogue,” and he pointed to Richard, “’ave betray your plan to ’is sister, who betray it to ’er ’usband, who save t’e Duc de Monmoot’. N’est-ce pas? ”

  “That is so,” said Blake, and Ruth scarcely thought it worth while to add that she had heard of the plot not only from her brother, but from Blake as well. After all, Blake’s attitude in the matter, his action in bringing her to Feversham for punishment, and to exculpate himself, must suffice to cause any such statement of hers to be lightly received by the General.

  She sat in an anguished silence, her eyes wide, her face pale, and waited for the end of this strange business. In her heart she did permit herself to think that it would be difficult to assemble a group of men less worthy of respect. Choleric and vindictive Blake, foolish Feversham, stupid Wentworth, and timid Richard – even Richard did not escape the unfavourable criticism they were undergoing in her subconscious mind. Only Wilding detached in that assembly – as he had detached in another that she remembered – and stood out in sharp relief a very man, calm, intrepid, self-possessed; and if she was afraid, she was more afraid for him than for herself. This was something that, perhaps, she scarcely realised just then; but she was to realise it soon.

  Feversham was speaking again, asking Blake a fresh question. “And who betray you to t’is rogue?”

  “To Westmacott?” cried Blake. “He was in the plot with me. He was left to guard the rear, to see that we were not taken by surprise, and he deserted his post. Had he not done that, there had been no disaster, in spite of Mr Wilding’s intervention.”

  Feversham’s brow was dark, his eyes glittered as they rested on the traitor.

  “T’at true, sare?” he asked him.

  “Not quite,” put in Mr Wilding. “Mr Westmacott, I think, was constrained away. He did not intend…”

  “Tais-toi! ” blazed Feversham. “Did I interrogate you? It is for Mistaire Westercott to answer.” He set a hand on the table and leaned forward towards Wilding, his face very malign. “You shall to answer for yourself, Mistaire Wildin’; I promise you you shall to answer for yourself.” He turned again to Richard. “Eh, bien? ” he snapped. “Will you speak?”

>   Richard came forward a step; he was certainly nervous and certainly pale; but neither as pale nor as nervous as from our knowledge of Richard we might have looked to see him at that moment.

  “It is in a measure true,” he said. “But what Mr Wilding has said is more exact. I was induced away. I did not dream any could know of the plan, or that my absence could cause this catastrophe.”

  “So you went, eh, vaurien? You t’ought t’at be to do your duty, eh? And it was you who tole your sistaire?”

  “I may have told her, but not before she had the tale already from Blake.”

  Feversham sneered and shrugged. “Natural you will not speak true. A traitor I ’ave observe’ is always liar.”

  Richard drew himself up; he seemed invested almost with a new dignity. “Your lordship is pleased to account me a traitor,” he inquired.

  “A dam’ traitor,” said his lordship, and at that moment the door opened, and a sergeant, with six men following him, stood at the salute upon the threshold. “A la bonne heure! ” his lordship hailed them. “Sergean’, you will arrest t’is rogue and t’is lady,” – he waved his hand from Richard to Ruth – “and you will take t’em to lock-up.” The sergeant advanced towards Richard, who drew a step away from him. Ruth rose to her feet in agitation. Mr Wilding interposed himself between her and the guard, his hand upon his sword.

  “My lord,” he cried, “do they teach no better courtesy in France?”

  Feversham scowled at him, smiling darkly. “I shall talk wit’ you soon, sare,” said he, his words a threat.

  “But, my lord…” began Richard. “I can make it very plain I am no traitor…”

  “In t’e mornin’,” said Feversham blandly, waving his hand, and the sergeant took Richard by the shoulder. But Richard twisted from his grasp.

  “In the morning will be too late,” he cried. “I have it in my power to render you such a service as you little dream of.”

  “Take ’im away,” said Feversham wearily.