A Crowning Mercy 02 Fallen Angels

by Bernard Cornwall

  The other two horsemen were riding to help the first, but the first man was already dead, his blood in the leaf mould, his belly opened, his body dragging from one stirrup so that his guts trailed in the dead leaves.

  He had kept his promise. He had come back. She laughed with the joy of it and she saw his face, thin and bright-eyed, lit with the relish of battle.

  Lord Culloden was pushing through the coppice, Campion forgotten, as the second man swung his sword in a great blow at the Gypsy, but the black horse turned at the last moment, taking the man's target away, and Skavadale's sword, back in his right hand, butchered down to the man's skull.

  A pistol banged, the noise clattering pigeons up from the trees, filling the wood with alarm.

  Two men were dead, the third threw away his pistol that had missed and drew his sword. He had never seen a swordsman so fast or a horseman so good. To run was to invite the Gypsy's blade in his back, to go forward was to meet death, and he did neither. He sat still and parried the first lunge so that the swords rang in the wood like a struck anvil and then the man screamed because the blade had twisted beneath his guard and was rising to his throat.

  Skavadale did not wait to watch the man die. He turned, letting his horse's motion razor the steel through the man's neck and Campion put a hand to her mouth as she saw the blood fountain up, bright against the turning leaves. She was shaking.

  He wore black breeches, black boots and a black shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, his tattooed eagles flecked with blood. He turned from the last death and plucked the reins of Lord Culloden's horse, drawing it away from the coppice and from its owner who stood now at the coppice's edge. Skavadale leaned over, took Culloden's pistol from its saddle-holster, aimed, and fired.

  The shot echoed through the wood.

  The bullet churned leaves in front of Larke's men who ran towards the coppice. It checked them. They had seen three men die in the time it took to draw a breath, and none wished to join the dead who lay sprawled on the leaves. The first man, his horse panicked, bumped and jolted as his corpse was dragged through the undergrowth.

  Skavadale turned back.

  She felt her breath catch in her. His face was so strong, so implacable, the eyes harder than stone. His sword point dripped blood as it dipped towards Lord Culloden's face. She thought the Gypsy was going to kill the cavalry officer, but Skavadale smiled. His stained sword point was within an inch of Culloden's eyes. 'Remember me, my Lord? The Prince de Gitan?' The sword came forward, forcing Culloden to step back. He made no effort to raise his own sword.

  The Gypsy forced him back another step. 'Drop your sword, my Lord. Then mount.'

  Culloden, terrified of this man who had killed with such speed and skill, obeyed. The men on the hill, a hundred yards away, watched, but dared not come forward.

  'My Lady?'

  'Mr Skavadale?' Her voice was weak.

  He smiled, a smile of joyous welcome, of a secret shared. 'I owe you an apology, my Lady.'

  'An apology?' She had dropped the makeshift club.

  Christopher Skavadale glanced at Culloden who was mounting his horse. He looked back to Campion. 'I should have been here yesterday, but Rom magic doesn't control the Channel's winds. Can I suggest you come with me?'

  She scrambled out of the coppice. Hirondelle waited for her and Campion, modesty gone to the wind, climbed astride the saddle. Her legs were bared by the torn dress.

  Culloden was shaking with fear.

  Skavadale, his bloody sword still drawn, glanced once more at the men on the hill, then backed his horse until it was behind Lord Culloden. 'Give me your hands, my Lord.'

  Culloden frowned. I've given up my sword!'

  Skavadale smiled. 'I'll tear out your spine if you don't give me your hands.'

  There was no fight in Lord Culloden. Meekly he put his hands behind his back and Campion saw him wince as the Gypsy tied them. The men up the hill fired a single pistol shot, the bullet ripping at leaves overhead and frightening the birds once more. Skavadale looked with disdain at the men, then smiled at Campion. 'Now we can go.'

  She glanced down as they rode away. The last man to die lay with his head half severed, just like the man on the Milett's End road. She almost gagged. Flies crawled on the blood and gaping flesh, and then Hirondelle stretched her legs and she rode behind the Gypsy out of the wood. He had come back. Amidst the stench of blood and the ring of steel he had come back. She laughed aloud. He had come back.

  No one pursued them. Skavadale led Culloden's horse by its reins, Campion followed, and they rode westwards until Lazen was out of sight and then the Gypsy turned south. He smiled at her and spoke in French. 'I didn't expect you to run for the hills!'

  'Expect me?'

  'I was in the house!' He glanced at Lord Culloden. The Gypsy's drawn, blood-matted sword had mesmerized his Lordship. Skavadale looked at her bared thighs and smiled. 'It seems a pity, my Lady, but perhaps you should take this.' He pulled a cloak from the straps of his saddle and tossed it to her. 'You'll have fresh clothes at Periton House.'

  'Periton House?' She was spreading the cloak like a blanket over her legs.

  He grinned. 'I took the liberty of sending some of your servants to Periton House. You don't mind?'

  'Mind?' She seemed to be in a daze. One moment she had been hunted through an autumn wood, the next she was riding across a water meadow with the Gypsy. Skavadale smiled.

  'I don't think you can go back to the Castle yet.'

  'No.' That much seemed obvious.

  'So there's some bedding, food and servants at the other house. You'll be comfortable enough.' He laughed and urged his horse into a canter.

  Campion followed. He was arranging her life and somehow, though she was more than capable of arranging it herself, it felt good to be looked after. She laughed again. He had come back.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  That night the Gypsy sat on the floor of Periton's half finished kitchen and cut a sponge into squares three inches thick. Campion, wearing a dress of blue linen beneath a black cloak, watched him. Edna, her maid, had brought the clothes. She had brought news of the Castle, too. It was, she said, all confusion. The new Earl gave orders, Valentine Larke gave orders, and no one knew what was happening. 'They're foul, my Lady. Talk to us like dirt!'

  A dozen servants, led by Simon Burroughs, had left Lazen. They guarded Periton House this night, including the empty tack room where Lord Culloden had been locked for the night.

  Edna sat in the kitchen with Campion. The smell of damp plaster was made worse by the smell of lard that Skavadale had melted in a huge pot on the fire. He was busy with the sponge, slicing it with his knife, but he obstinately refused to explain why he did it.

  He spoke in French with Campion. He said he had come to Lazen because he feared for her, that he had cause to fear for her.

  'Cause?'

  He cut the last piece of sponge into halves, then took a ball of twine. 'You had a portrait painted once. You wore a cream dress and held flowers?'

  'Yes.' She frowned at the seeming irrelevancy.

  'Where is it?' His blue eyes shone in the candlelight.

  She shrugged. 'I gave it to Lord Culloden.'

  He had cut a length of twine and was tying it about one of the lumps of sponge, compressing the sponge until it resembled an odd, string tied ball less than an inch in diameter. 'I carried that portrait, my Lady, from England to France. I had orders to give it to Bertrand Marchenoir.'

  She stared at him. She wondered if she had heard correctly. 'You did what?'

  He started on the second lump of sponge with another length of twine. 'I'm Marchenoir's messenger. I can't read his letters because they're in code. But Marchenoir did say one thing to me.' He grunted as he tied the lump tight.

  'What?'

  'How much he'd like to be the one who killed you.' He looked up at her with a quick, apologetic grin. 'He didn't merely say kill, but I'll spare you the rest.'

  She was appall
ed. Edna, who spoke no French, watched her mistress's face. Campion's voice was low. 'Kill?'

  'So he said.' Skavadale was tying the next lump. 'It seems, my Lady, that your house has enemies. They killed Toby's bride and they want to kill you.' He spoke mildly, as though they chatted about the weather or the prospects of harvest. He began compressing the next scrap of sponge into a tight ball. 'Why would your husband be in league with Marchenoir?'

  She shook her head. She had thought earlier that Lord Culloden had leagued himself with Julius just to evade her father's will, yet Skavadale's casual sounding words hinted at a stranger, darker, more terrible cause. Nothing made sense. Her thoughts flitted as uselessly as the moths that flirted with the candles in the kitchen.

  Christopher Skavadale tossed another finished ball onto his small pile. 'Mystery after mystery, my Lady!' He smiled at her. 'So tomorrow morning I'll squeeze some answers from Lord Culloden. I think that what he tells us will give Lazen back to Toby.'

  She was silent for a few seconds. 'You don't know?'

  The sob in her voice at last made him stop his strange activity. He frowned at her. 'Don't know what?'

  'About Toby?' He shook his head and she had to swallow to make her voice clear. 'They killed him.' Who did?'

  The French!' She gestured helplessly. 'They found his burned body. They cut his head off.'

  Skavadale laughed.

  She stared at him in shock. 'Didn't you hear me?'

  He started on the next square of sponge. 'They cut his head off?' He laughed again.

  'Mr Skavadale?' Her voice was cold.

  His oddly light eyes looked at her. He smiled. 'Why do you think he's called Le Revenant? The creature come back from the dead?'

  She said nothing. She sensed what he was saying, but the news was too good to believe, and somehow his studied attitude of carelessness made the news even harder to accept.

  He smiled. 'You mustn't tell anyone. Don't even thank God in your prayers.'

  'He's alive?'

  He smiled at her. 'The French found a body with Toby's clothes and Toby's sword. We burned the head so they wouldn't see that the man didn't have red hair.' He grinned. 'We had to take a chance with the rest of him, if you understand me. What I'm telling you, my Lady, is that your brother is alive. He's well. But no one must know.' He raised his voice as she started to smile. 'No one! We don't know who your enemies are. They may have spies in your own household! No one must know! You don't even tell Lord Paunceley! You don't tell anyone! You don't tell her,' he nodded at Edna who was bemused by the sudden urgency in his voice, 'you don't tell your uncle, you don't tell the lawyers, you tell no one! Everyone must believe Julius is the new Earl, everyone! Only three people know Toby's alive. He knows, I know, and now you know.'

  'He's alive?'

  'He's alive.' He took another piece of sponge and twine. 'Lazen's been under siege for months. It seemed the only way to get your enemies to show themselves was to give them what they wanted; Toby's death.' His eyes met hers again. 'Swear to me you tell no one.'

  She nodded. 'I swear.' The news was coursing through her in waves of disbelief followed by inane joy. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to hug this man who had teased her with the news. 'Is it true?'

  He smiled at her. 'It's true. I promise you.'

  'He's alive?'

  He laughed. He was tying the last ball of sponge. 'My Lady. Your enemies are laying a trap for you. Your brother and I are laying a trap for them. They think he is dead. They must go on thinking that he is dead. But Le Revenant is alive.'

  Her incredulity turned to belief and, not caring what Edna thought, Campion put her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek. 'Thank you.'

  Edna stared open eyed. The Castle had gone mad. A wedding, a chase, an invasion by brutal, loud men, and now this!

  Skavadale laughed. He touched her cheek in a quick, gentle gesture. 'It's Rom magic, my Lady. We bring the dead to life.'

  She laughed. 'And that?' She gestured at the tightly bound sponge balls. 'More Rom magic?'

  'More Rom magic' He tied the balls to a heavy, iron fork and took them to the slow bubbling pot of lard. He put another log on the fire, swung the pot-crane towards him, then dropped the sponges into the boiling fat. He pushed the crane back over the flames.

  'That pot, my Lady, will give us all the answers.'

  She laughed. She had woken this morning dreading the day, and now she sat in an unfurnished house and felt that she had joy enough to fill Lazen's valley. 'What is it? Tell me!'

  'Just sponge balls.' He laughed. 'We boil them for twenty minutes, take them out, let them cool, and that's it!'

  'That's what?'

  'Rom magic' He smiled. He was beautiful, she thought, a man of such sudden, striking handsomeness that she wanted to hold him and never let him go. He laughed at her. 'Then we wait for the dawn, my Lady.'

  He would say no more. He looked at Edna whose face was shadowed with tiredness and he lit a candle for her and told her to take her mistress to the blankets that were laid on a bedroom floor. 'Sleep, ladies. You have a busy day tomorrow.'

  Campion smiled. 'I won't sleep tonight.'

  'You will. You'll be safe.' He took her hand, put it to his lips, and his kiss was warm on her skin. He gave her a secret, mischievous smile that seemed to promise wonder. 'Goodnight, dear lady.'

  She went upstairs with Edna and, to her surprise, while the greasy balls of fat-soaked sponge cooled in the night, and while the Little Kingdom waited for the morning and for the magic of the Rom, she slept.

  Chapter 18

  The first desperate scream woke Edna. The maid, terrified, clutched Campion beneath the blankets. 'My Lady! My Lady!'

  Campion held her. Both girls listened, wide-eyed, as the scream came again. 'Dear God!' Campion scrambled out of the warm shared bed. 'Stay there!'

  She pulled a dress over her petticoat, pushed her feet into shoes, and plucked the cloak from their makeshift bed. She ran down the uncarpeted stairs and out into the back court.

  Simon Burroughs, Lazen's huge coachman, stood guard at the entrance to the stable yard. He had orders, he said, to let no one inside except for her. 'Giving him a rare time, my Lady!' He said it cheerfully as, in the dawn's damp chill, he opened the gate for her.

  'Give it to me! Give it to me!' Lord Culloden was screaming. His eyes were wide, bright with tears, and his hair was untied, hanging lank beside his unshaven cheeks. 'Give it to me! For the love of Christ! Give it to me!'

  She stopped, astonished.

  His legs were hobbled with rope, his wrists tied, his breeches stained with vomit. He turned as she came into the yard and, ludicrously, he fell to his knees and raised his hands like a beggar. 'Make him give it to me, my Lady! Make him give it to me!'

  His gorgeous uniform hung open. He shook.

  Behind him, sitting on the mounting block, Skavadale smiled. He had a long coachman's whip in his right hand. 'Good morning, my Lady!' His voice was cheerful.

  'What have you done to him?'

  'Make him give it to me!' Culloden shuffled forward on his knees. 'My Lady! Please, my Lady!' The tears dripped from his cheeks to his torn stock. There was vomit on his waistcoat.

  Campion stepped round him. Her voice was shocked. 'What does he want?'

  'This,' Skavadale lifted a tin flask.

  'What is it?' She was frowning. It was not easy to see a man so humbled and broken, even this man who yesterday had tried to strip her naked and hunt her through Lazen's woods.

  Skavadale smiled and offered her the tin flask. She took it and felt a liquid sloshing inside.

  'What is it?'

  'It's an old Rom trick, my Lady.' He glanced at Lord Culloden who stared beseechingly at the flask in Campion's hands. 'What does a farmer do with a pig that dies of a mysterious disease?'

  She frowned at the seemingly irrelevant question. 'Buries it, of course.' A pig that died of disease was a mass of poisons. No sensible man ever used such a carcass for
food.

  Skavadale glanced at the kneeling, crying Lord Culloden, then stooped and picked up the one remaining sponge ball. He smiled at Campion. 'Supposing you're a hungry gypsy. You make these balls as I did last night. You soak them in hot lard, then let them cool. And when the fat has hardened, my Lady, you cut the string away.' She saw the marks where the twine had bound the sponge. 'The cold fat holds the sponge tight, my Lady, and you feed a half dozen to a pig. They'll eat anything. That one,' and he jerked his head scornfully at Culloden, 'threw up the first four but I said I'd ram them down his gullet with a sword if he didn't keep them down.' He tossed the sponge ball in his hand. 'So the pig eats them, my Lady, and the cold fat holds the sponge together, but what happens when it reaches the pig's stomach?' He turned from her to a bucket of water that was on the mounting block. Steam rose from the surface. Skavadale dropped the ball of sponge into the pail.

  Campion stared into the water.

  White tendrils drifted and faded from the larded sponge. A scum appeared on the water and the sponge began to open as the fat left it. The cold lard held the sponge compressed, but as the lard melted, so the sponge welled back to its full size. Skavadale laughed.

  'The stomach's a fine warm place, my Lady, and the sponge expands and blocks the intestines. You can't digest sponge. It just stays there and nothing gets past it. The pig dies. It's not a nice death. And we gypsies say that we'll take the diseased carcass off the farmer's hands. We save him the bother of burying it. He thinks we're fools who'll poison ourselves, but instead we eat well for a fortnight.' He laughed and pointed at Lord Culloden. 'You've got a week to live, my Lord! You'll die with your belly bloated and your guts in agony!'

  Culloden struggled to his feet and hobbled towards them. 'Give it to me!' he screamed.

  Campion was frowning. She held the flask up. 'So what's this?'

  'It dissolves sponge, my Lady. It hurts, but he'll live.' He looked scornfully at the broken cavalry officer. 'All he has to do is tell you what he's just told me. All of it. Then you can decide whether you want him to live. If you do, give him the flask. If not?' He shrugged.