It did not take long for Ballard to rouse the duty officer, a Captain Campbell, who bustled out of the tent, his surprise at the summons clear. He took one look at the two officers’ bedraggled attire and shouted for an orderly to bring coffee.
‘Do you want a detachment?’ Campbell was brisk and to the point. Ballard had explained to him that they were going to arrest the spy who had dogged the campaign since the beginning.
‘No.’ Jack spoke for the first time. His voice was brittle.
‘As you wish.’ Campbell yawned, smothering his mouth with a meaty paw. ‘The first dispatch from the battle only arrived about an hour ago. You must have ridden hard.’
Jack said nothing. He reached for Knightly’s revolver and set about reloading it. His exhaustion was like a lead bar pressing down on his soul. It took an effort to open the pouch on his belt that contained the ammunition, his hands fumbling with the clasp. The cartridges were dry under his fingertips, kept safe against the deluge.
Campbell nodded at Jack’s reaction. He had been in the Crimea and he knew what it felt like after a hard-fought battle. He turned to face Ballard. ‘Do you want anything further from me?’
Ballard was looking at Jack, his face creased with concern. He was gambling his career on the events of the next hour. His only weapon was a battered and bloodied charlatan. For the first time, he had doubts.
‘No.’ Ballard spoke with finality. He turned and fixed Campbell with a grim smile. ‘We will deal with this ourselves.’
Sarah Draper sat at her writing table. She had risen early, long before dawn, unable to sleep any longer. She barely slept at all these days. Her nights were long, the charpoy she tried to rest in becoming a bed of thorns when she did lie down. So she wrote, passing the hours of darkness with only the hiss of a gas lamp for company, her paper and ink a solace against the loneliness that swamped her.
The words she wrote comforted her. They had become her release, her salvation. There was a joy in creating images with nothing more than words, the dry, scribbled lines taking on another life as she recorded her thoughts and feelings. When she wrote, she could forget her life, passing into another place, where the choices she had made meant nothing. There was just her and the words she chose. Nothing more.
She heard footsteps outside her tent. The heavy tread of army boots, scuffing the wooden boards she had arranged outside the tent’s flaps so that she would be spared from muck being traipsed into her abode. She heard the footsteps stop, the boots stomping loudly on the boards.
She felt a frisson of fear. She expected no one. She spent the nights alone now, no longer seeking to force away her loneliness by taking a lover to her bed. She shook off the feeling of dread, forcing the anxiety from her thoughts. She was in the heart of the British camp. She was safe.
The tent flap was thrown open. The rush of air was cold on her skin. She had time to stand and wrap her linen robe tight around her body before the intruder strode into the tent.
‘Hello, Sarah.’
Jack took a step forward, moving out of the shadows and into the meagre light cast by the solitary lamp. He heard her gasp of shock as she saw who had come to disturb her rest.
He took another step, and then another. He knew how he looked. How he smelt. He was dressed in the horror of the battlefield, the grime and the blood a visceral reminder of the violence of the fight. He had not taken the time to clean himself, wanting to confront Sarah with the stain of other men’s lives on his clothes; their blood on his hands. He wanted to shock her. To scare her. To somehow communicate just what she had done when she had intervened in the affairs of soldiers.
For Sarah Draper was the spy that Jack had come all this way to kill.
‘Why do it?’
Jack blurted out the question. He had spent hours thinking of what he would say when he confronted her. The long, miserable hours of the ride had given him plenty of time to imagine this moment, to taste what it would be like to denounce the woman whose bed he had shared. He had considered every emotion, but as she rose to face him, he felt nothing but the bitterness of betrayal.
The question hung in the air. Sarah turned her back on him and carefully placed the steel pen she still carried on top of the paper she had been working on. She leant forward and straightened the papers, leaving them in a neat stack with the pen positioned carefully as a paperweight to stop them being disturbed in the storm she knew was coming.
Her hands fell away from her robe and it opened round her, so that when she turned back to face Jack he would see the outline of the body that had once been the source of such pleasure. She looked into his eyes, searching for an escape.
Jack said nothing. He raised Knightly’s revolver. The weapon was covered with dirt, the heavy handle still stained with the blood of the Russian officer. He saw Sarah’s face appear over the tip of the barrel, her eyes filling the sight. Her hair was scraped back, tied behind her head so that he could see the whole of her face. She took his breath away, the simple symmetry of her features making her one of the most startlingly beautiful women he had ever seen.
He stared into her eyes, just as he had done so many times before. He saw the vitality, the spark of life they contained, the force that still captivated his soul. His finger curled around the trigger, taking up the slack. A single ounce of pressure and the gun would fire. Then the beautiful eyes would glaze over, the life force fading to nothingness before it was replaced by the blank, lifeless stare of death. He had seen it before. He had watched the flicker of life leave Knightly’s eyes, and now he would be the one who would end the same spark in Sarah’s.
He never saw her hand slip behind her back. He was lost in his thoughts, his mind in such turmoil that he didn’t notice her slim fingers slide into the drawer of her writing desk.
‘I’m sorry, Arthur.’ Sarah spoke for the first time.
The words meant nothing.
Jack could not know that she was apologising not for what she had done, but for what she was about to do.
The slim pistol only fired a single bullet. It was small, tiny enough to fit into a man’s pocket or a woman’s purse. It was an expensive object, crafted by the best gunsmith as a lady’s weapon of last defence.
Sarah Draper did not hesitate. She did not bother lifting the weapon, but instead fired it from her hip.
The bullet hit Jack before he was fully aware of what was happening. It spun him round, the force of the impact knocking him backwards. His own gun roared, his finger tightening on instinct. But he was already falling backwards, and the bullet went wild, blasting through the tent’s canvas roof.
The agony seared through him. He felt the rush of blood pouring from the wound. The bullet had taken him high on his right arm, searing through his flesh, filling his world with pain. He went down, his bloodied body hitting the floor with all the grace of a falling brick.
Sarah moved fast. She stepped past Jack, barely glancing at the man she had struck down, and threw back the tent flap thinking of nothing but escape.
A strong hand reached from out of the darkness and grabbed her arm, the fingers clawing into her flesh, stopping her headlong flight with a vice-like grip.
‘Going somewhere?’ Ballard pulled hard, dragging her back into the tent.
Sarah screamed. She shrieked a single word in the darkness, her anguish complete.
Ballard was in no mood to be gentle. He smothered her mouth with his free hand. Without mercy he twisted her arm behind her back and thrust her ahead of him into the tent. She struggled under his grip, trying to free herself, but Ballard was too strong. He pushed her backwards, sending her sprawling on to the charpoy.
She leapt to her feet, her hands twisted like claws, and went for Ballard’s face, her screech of rage like that of a wounded animal. She came at him fast, but he slapped her cheek, battering her back on to the camp bed.
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br /> ‘Stay there!’ He growled the words. His hand stung from the blow he had given her, but he would not hesitate to repeat it if she tried to escape.
Sarah lay sprawled on the charpoy. Her cheek was scarlet, the imprint of his hand clearly visible on her pale skin. Her robe was open, and Ballard saw the lithe body beneath.
He turned away, refusing to be drawn by the sight. He saw Jack trying to get to his feet, blood oozing from the wound just below his shoulder. His face was pale, drained by the agony of the bullet.
Ballard heard footsteps. He had time to turn to face the tent’s entrance just as it was thrown open and a man burst in. He carried a naked blade, the bared steel glinting in the light of the gas lamp.
Sarah had not screamed in terror. She had called for help.
Simon Montfort rushed into the tent, his weapon drawn. He had been summoned by Sarah’s dreadful scream and he came in fighting.
Ballard was no warrior. His hands fumbled clumsily for the sabre at his waist. He had never once drawn the weapon in anger, and now that danger loomed in front of him, he was terribly slow.
Montfort bellowed as he struck, giving Ballard no chance to defend himself. The blow speared through the major’s sparse flesh, the blade grating on the edge of a rib. Montfort recovered the sword immediately, his face contorted with the rage of battle as he prepared the next strike.
The commander of intelligence staggered to one side, his sabre undrawn, his hands clasping at the bloody tear in his side. The rapier came for him again as he stumbled away, but he was moving too fast and the sharpened steel only managed to gouge a deep crevice in the flesh of his upper arm. His balance failed him and he fell, sliding into the slick of blood already spilt across the tent’s floor.
Montfort was after him in a flash. Yet he held back the killing blow, giving his victim enough time to twist on the floor so that he lay on his back, his face lifting towards the man about to kill him.
Ballard looked up and saw Montfort looming over him. The younger man’s mouth twisted in a dreadful grimace as he prepared to thrust his sword into his opponent’s heart.
Montfort aimed the blow. His arm tensed and drew back as he gathered his strength for the killing strike. Ballard lifted his own arms, a final act of defiance as he saw his death reflected in the eyes of the man summoned to protect the spy. He watched the rapier coming for him, the tip aimed squarely at his heart, and he braced himself for the blow even as his mind recoiled from the thought that he was about to die.
But he had forgotten the charlatan.
Jack had dragged himself to his feet. The pain in his arm seared through his veins but he refused to stay down. He saw Montfort looming over Ballard in the moment before he attacked hard and fast. He hammered his talwar at Montfort’s rapier, driving the blade wide even as it reached for Ballard’s flesh.
‘Come on!’ Jack fanned the flames of his anger. He recovered his sword and attacked again. The blow missed but it drove Montfort backwards and Jack stepped into the space, putting himself between his foe and his fallen commander.
He cut his sword through the stale air, forcing the younger man into a desperate defence. He shouted again, his pain and anger released into one dreadful banshee wail as he flailed his sword at his latest enemy.
Sarah screamed as he went past her. He looked like a creature from a nightmare. Blood dripped from the wound to his arm, and he was coated in the grime and filth of the battlefield, the stains of combat covering his uniform. Yet worse was the look on his face. It was the look of a killer. The face of a man who had witnessed so much death that he lived in a world of ghosts and shadows. The man she had taken to her bed had returned, and he terrified her.
Montfort moved backwards. There was little room for manoeuvre and he could not retreat for long. Jack hammered blows forward, flowing through the impacts. He had killed so many men. Their faces flashed in his mind. He relived the moments when he had struck them down, when they realised they were about to die. He screamed as he fought, haunted by the memories, driven half mad by the legacy of the deaths he had caused.
He parried a half-hearted counter, twisting his wrist so that he deflected the rapier to one side. It gave him the opening he needed and he thrust his talwar forward, going for the killing stroke just as he had done so many times before.
But Montfort was young and fast, and Jack was hurting and slow. Montfort threw himself to one side, a final, despairing ploy to avoid the blade that reached for his flesh. Jack missed, his talwar hitting nothing but air. Montfort saw the opening and punched his sword’s guard into the wound to Jack’s arm.
The force of the merciless blow knocked Jack to the floor. His talwar fell from his hand, his arm losing all sensation, agony flaring across his vision. He cried out, the explosion of sound torn from his lips. He saw Montfort’s boots step forward, knowing the killing strike would follow.
‘No!’
Jack heard the cry but he did not know what it meant. He forced himself to move, levering himself to his feet, hearing his own sobs as the pain seared through him. His right arm was useless, so he snatched his talwar from the ground with his left hand, lifting it up in a pathetic attempt to be ready to fight.
But it was over.
Ballard had come to his aid. He had plunged his sabre deep into Montfort’s body, driving the steel in hard. Montfort’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. He staggered, staying on his feet even with Ballard’s blade buried in his flesh. Still he tried to fight, bringing his rapier round, his eyes flaring wide as he thrust it forward one last time.
Jack saw the blow coming. Ballard’s sabre was stuck fast, the naïve mistake trapping the blade, leaving him defenceless. Jack would not watch another man die from the same feckless error. He lashed out, flailing his talwar in a clumsy parry. The blow was awkward, but it swatted aside Montfort’s rapier, blocking the thrust that would have struck Ballard’s heart.
Jack staggered, the impact jarring his battered body. But he had done enough. He forced himself to stand straight so that he was face-to-face with Montfort. The younger man’s features were screwed tight against the agony. For a moment he stared into Jack’s eyes, his hatred naked and exposed. Jack met the stare, not flinching from the younger man’s gaze until it glazed over, death arriving fast to steal another life away.
Montfort fell silently. As his body slipped to the floor, Jack saw Ballard’s grim, bloodied face. It wore a look of horror, the closeness of death and the enormity of having killed a man for the first time only now registering in the man’s mind.
But Jack knew the fight was not yet over.
He turned, ignoring the pain in his arm. He dropped his talwar as he spied the fallen revolver. He bent to snatch it from the floor, cursing as the motion set off fresh waves of agony. But the familiarity of the weapon tethered him to who he was and why he was there.
He stood straight. His right arm hung useless from his side, the searing, torture of his wound denying him its use. So he held the revolver in his left hand, just as he did in battle.
He walked forward, stepping carefully towards the cause of so much pain. He remembered the sight of the shattered bodies on the battlefield. The pathetic, twisted remains of men who had died at the hands of the enemy; an enemy who had been forewarned of the army’s movements. He saw again the bloodied face of Knightly as he died, the dreadful terror in the boy’s eyes as he rushed towards the nothingness of oblivion.
He took another step, and then another. He tried to calculate how many deaths could be laid at the door of the woman who now cowered away from him. He was close to her. He could see her sobs of terror. He could smell her fear. She raised her hands, trying to ward him away, but he would not be denied.
He lifted the revolver. He felt nothing, his emotions scoured away from his soul. He had killed so many times before. One more death would barely be a bl
ot on his mind, one more stain amidst a thousand.
He aimed the gun, filling the simple sight with the face of a woman he had once kissed and caressed with lust and desire. The gun’s movement was still smooth and the chamber moved with greased precision to bring a fresh cartridge under the hammer. He felt the trigger beneath his forefinger, the metal cool against the heat of his flesh.
‘Stop!’
The order cut through the silence.
‘Do not shoot.’ The voice of authority wavered slightly as Ballard found the strength to get to his feet. ‘Jack Lark, I order you to hold your fire.’
It was the use of his own name that brought Jack up short. It resonated through his being, a tie to a past he barely remembered. The image of a young girl flashed into his mind. She was beautiful. A complex network of pins just about held her unruly curls in place. A few had escaped to whisper across her face. He savoured the image, his memory replaying her smile as she saw him watching her, her lips pursing as she blew the errant hairs away from her face. Yet the girl was dead, the vital spark of her life stolen away. Her eyes stared at him devoid of all life; the blank, sightless stare of death. The girl Jack had loved was dead and the memory of the grief surged through him.
The image fled and he looked at Sarah Draper. He pictured her face stricken with the same waxy pallor, the same lifeless eyes that would bore into his soul. He shuddered, the nightmare so real that he gasped. He lowered his weapon and closed his eyes against the vision, trying to blot the images from his mind.
Ballard stepped past him. He clasped his left hand against the sword cut to his side, the blood oozing past his fingers. Yet he gave no impression of caring about his wounds. He slipped on to the edge of the charpoy, sitting carefully, close to the woman he had come so far to denounce.
The Devil's Assassin (Jack Lark) Page 31
