The flow of northward-bound traffic thinned and then ceased altogether. It was not a good sign. There may have been an accident, or a hold-up, or—worse—there might be a military search party ahead, perhaps made up of the ‘mountebanks’ who had annoyed the coachman. The road skirted a lake fringed with weeping willows and as they rounded the bend his forebodings were confirmed. Several carts, a waggon and a carriage were drawn up blocking the way and travellers were halted in both directions. Voices were raised in anger, and arms were being waved about. Some of those arms were clad in military uniforms. Vespa whistled softly between his teeth and looked about him. A lane led off at right angles to the road and he could see a cross and a small shrine some hundred yards distant. He could stop there, then go back the way he had come without making too obvious a change of direction.
He was turning Bruine onto the lane when a lady’s voice rang out over the deeper voices of the men. She was berating them in a mixture of French and Italian. Stunned, he thought, ‘Consuela?’ But that was impossible. It could not be!
“… are truly a bruttura! An imbecile! A great stupidita! Have I not say it these three times and more? Unfasten your ears, my good fool!”
Vespa moaned, “But it is, by God!” and, ignoring the indignant shouts of the people waiting to get through, he sent Bruine cantering forward.
Gaston de Coligny’s smaller coach was at the centre of the dispute. The coachman sat huddled over on the box, a figure of dejection. The door had been flung wide and a small but officious sergeant was arguing with Consuela, who stood on the step, facing him haughtily.
“Never mind about my ears, mademoiselle. You admit you are foreign. How do I know you are who you claim to be? No, it will not do! I must have proof of your identity! Since you have none, I’ve no choice but to detain you.”
Vespa’s mind raced. This sergeant was far from being a model of a French fighting man. He was sorely in need of a shave, his uniform was ill-fitting and much creased. Probably, a poor man and a conscript. And as such—corruptible. Vespa reached into his saddlebags and took out the bottle Jules had given him.
Consuela was in full cry. “Non dire cretinate! Have I not said I am the Lady Consuela of Ottavio? Have I not told you that my grand-mere is the Duchess of Ottavio, to whom I now return? Have I not get it through your so dense brain-box that my papers they are carried by my courier, Pietro, who has lost himself? Is it that you are quite pazzo? My grand-mere is well acquainted with your General Napoleon Bonaparte, and I promise she will be in touch with him about this disgraceful—”
The sergeant was unintimidated. “I will tell you this, Lady Consuela,” he bellowed, “that there is a large reward for the apprehension of foreign spies. Your deaf coachman he cannot vouch for your identity. You have no papers to show me, and nobody here has heard of you—or your alleged grand-mere! I know my duty, and I demand—”
Vespa’s blood ran cold and he spurred Bruine into a gallop, the crowd scattering before him. Two troopers in rather sorry-looking uniforms presented crossed bayonets to halt him.
He shouted, “Signorina! My Lady Consuela! Pietro have come! See, I have find the wine!”
Consuela’s head jerked towards him and her pretty mouth fell for an instant into an ‘O’ of surprise. She wore a long cloak and a hood protected her dark curls, and he thought her the loveliest sight he had ever beheld. His mind whirled with conjecture as to how she came to be here, and his heart was torn between the delight of seeing her again, and with fear for her. He did not have to try very hard to appear frantic, and improvised, “Mi perdoni? I am—er, chicchi-richi!” ‘Mi perdoni’ he knew meant ‘I beg your pardon.’ He was less sure of ‘chicchi-richi,’ but he’d heard Consuela say it, so thought himself safe, and there were no surprised comments or challenges of his proficiency in Italian.
Consuela’s eyes, which had sparkled with delight, now became very round, reflecting an emotion that startled him. He dismounted and bowed before her and, recovering her wits, she burst into a torrent of Italian, while belabouring him furiously with an umbrella.
This behaviour appeared to reassure the onlookers, and one of the soldiers said audibly, “She’s Italian, right enough! I’ve heard about their hot-tempered women!”
Ducking the flying umbrella, Vespa caught a glimpse of the coachman’s grinning face. Manderville! If they got out of this bog, he thought ragefully, he’d have a word or two with that harebrained varmint for putting Consuela at such terrible risk.
A few onlookers were grumbling about his chastisement, and the sergeant seized the umbrella, and bellowed, “Assez, signoriny or lady or whatever you are! Have done, I say!”
Turning in an exasperated fashion to the cringing Vespa, he demanded, “Who is—” His gaze shifted. “What is that you have there?”
“A purchase my lady desired me to make,” said Vespa. “It is for—”
“A likely story! There has been no tax paid on this, I think.” The sergeant seized the bottle and slid it into the pocket of his cloak. “It is my duty to impound it. You will tell me what the signoriny said.”
“My lady is most displeased with me I fear, sir,” moaned Vespa, massaging his battered arm. “I have not the very good Bretagne, but—”
“She says you have her papers,” snapped the sergeant. “You will now produce them!”
“Do so, you lazy, good-for-nothing blockhead,” screeched Consuela. “Do not dare to waste another minute of my time. Show this foolish man what he demands. Vite, vite! I shall then see that the duchess will write to his superior and to his General!”
The sergeant began to look uneasy. The crowd was losing patience; there were angry demands to be permitted to pass, and that he get done with this terrible-tempered foreign aristo lady. Vespa watched Consuela as if petrified with fear of her and stammered that he had been attacked and beaten on the road and all his papers stolen.
“What?” shrilled Consuela, swinging up the umbrella once more. “Imbecille! Dolt! You allowed them to take my papers?”
Dodging the flailing umbrella, Vespa mumbled that there had been five armed men, and he all alone. Sympathetic protests arose from the onlookers, and the sergeant threw up a restraining hand. “This fellow he is bruised, as any fool can see. One might think you would have more compassion for him, Signoriny. Voilà, qui est louche! And me I do not like things that look suspicious. Corporal! These people you will escort to that barn over there and guard them until I can spare the time to properly question them.”
Obedient to the corporal’s gestures, Manderville guided the chevalier’s coach and pair into the barn. Vespa, and the still protesting Consuela, escorted by stern troopers with fixed bayonets, were made to follow and the doors were swung shut.
* * *
“It wasn’t my fault, you bloodthirsty hedgebird!”
Outside, the corporal could be heard arguing with the angry farmer whose barn had been appropriated. Inside, Manderville threw up his coachman’s whip to hold Vespa at bay, and dodged around a hay bale.
Consuela hung onto Vespa’s coat-tails and cried, “Do not, Jack! Paige is right. It was that horrid female, and poor Paige—”
“‘Poor Paige’ is going to eat some hay!” Infuriated, Vespa sprang forward, wrenched the whip away and unleashed his lethal uppercut.
Consuela squeaked and beat at his back furiously. “Oh! How savage you are, Captain John Wansdyke Vespa! That you would attack the good friend who rescued me from—”
His eyes blazing, Vespa turned on her and said through his teeth, “Sit … down and … be quiet!”
Consuela blinked, backed away and sat on the carriage step.
Vespa bent over the fallen. “You swore to me that you would keep her safe! You know what she is! You swore you’d not let her run into danger!”
“I had … no choice,” moaned Manderville, feeling his jaw tenderly. “Damn you, Jack, you’ve cut my lip!”
“Why do you just lie there like a limp crêpe?” demanded Consuela, disgu
sted. “Why do you not jump up and strike the ingrate?”
“Because half Wellington’s army knows about Vespa’s right,” he answered without a trace of shame. “He’d just knock me down again. What I should do, of course, is call him out.”
“And what I should do is to cut your feeble heart out,” snarled Vespa. “Where the blazes did you think you were taking her?”
“Taking her?” The picture of outraged innocence, Manderville sat up, sneezed, and said stuffily, “The chevalier sent me after her when she went tearing off—”
Consuela ran to kneel beside him. “You have taken such a cold, my poor Paige. But what else could I do, after that horrid female called me ‘Captain Vespa’s woman—’”
“And said you were a trollop,” put in Manderville helpfully.
Taken aback, Vespa demanded, “Why on earth would a well bred and gracious lady like Madame Thérèse—”
“She forgot to be gracious and well-bred when she got wet,” said Consuela tartly.
Manderville grinned. “By Jove, but she did! Wet as a whale! But you’ll have to admit, Consuela, if you hadn’t giggled—”
“I tried to stop myself,” she said with a remorseful sigh. “But how could I help it with her standing there in half a gown, while the Mayor and the curé and all those other gentlemen gawked at her—er, limbs.”
Vespa gasped in horror, “Gawked—at—what? Oh, egad! Whatever did you do to the poor lady?”
“I did nothing,” snapped Consuela, scowling at him.
“It came on to rain, you see,” explained Manderville. “Madame Thérèse was wearing a charming woollen dress—”
“And—it shrank,” said Consuela.
“And—shrank,” wheezed Manderville.
“Up … and up…” squeaked Consuela, overcome.
For all the world like two naughty children they clung together at Vespa’s feet, laughing helplessly. Watching them, his wrath faded. He sat down on the hay bale. “All right, you two rascals. Tell me the whole.”
He could not restrain a chuckle when the tale was told and, knowing his lady’s mercurial temperament, he could understand her indignation.
“It’s too late to change now,” he said to Manderville. “But why—once you’d come up with her, did you not take her back to the château?”
Consuela said stubbornly, “Because I would not go! And besides, I was so worried about you, Jack.” She reached out and he pulled her to her feet. Touching his cheek anxiously, she said, “And I was right, do you see, Paige? Only look at his poor bruised face.”
Vespa hugged her tight. “Are you surprised, after beating me so mercilessly with that murderous umbrella?” She smiled and leaned to him. She was soft and yielding in his arms. Gazing down at her, he forgot all about danger and disgrace and jewelled carpets, until an angry shout outside brought him back to earth. Reluctantly, he put her from him, and said, “But it was well done, little meadowlark, and properly fooled our pompous sergeant, I think.”
“Then I am glad I was such a shrew. We have told you why I ran away, Jack. Now I want to hear what happened to you.”
He gave them a brief account of his journey. “They’re not amateurs,” he said, holding up the torn cape of his cloak. “This was skewered by a crossbow bolt.”
Consuela clung to his hand and said in a shaken voice, “Merciful heaven!”
Manderville’s brows went up. “There’s a bounty on spies. D’you think that’s what they’re after?”
“I do not. I think there are several interested groups. Monteil, we know about; the fellow on the black horse, who keeps his distance but is definitely tracking me; two men riding dapple-grey horses, who question travellers about Kincraig; and another three, two of whom are hirelings, and the third—the unkind Mr. Duncan Keith, who has instructed his man with the crossbow to shoot straight next time!”
“Jupiter! Your half-brother?”
“He apparently believes that to be so. Though what he stands to gain by my death, I’ve no notion.”
He went to the door and peered through a crack in the weather-beaten boards. The trooper stood guard, augmented by a farm-hand with a long-tined hay fork. He and Manderville could probably overpower the pair without much trouble, but then the hunt would be up, and Consuela deeply involved. “Monsieur Corporal,” he called. “My lady is anxious to be on her way. We must—”
“You must do as the sergeant orders,” interrupted the corporal harshly. “If you and your mistress are placed under arrest, you will be taken to the barracks at Rennes.”
“Confound it,” muttered Vespa. “I must get on!”
Consuela said remorsefully, “Were it not for me, you would slip away and find Lord Kincraig. Well, you go, Jack. Paige will take care of me, and—”
“And who’s to take care of Paige?” demanded Manderville. “If you mean to abandon us, Jack—”
“As if I would, you great gudgeon. Now tell me how you contrived to pass me by. You must have made excellent speed.”
“For one thing we had a pair of horses, and we didn’t have to lurk about and avoid roads, as you did.” Manderville chuckled. “Consuela was really splendid as the arrogant Italian grande dame, and had everyone bowing and scraping.”
“I believe that,” said Vespa, lifting her willing hand to his lips. “Thoroughly enjoyed your charade, did you not, my rascal? But how did you know where I was?”
“We knew you would most probably ride towards Rennes,” she replied, “so we went straight to the city and made enquiries for the Crazy Carpet Man. Every child in the area seems to know him. It was the children who told us he’d gone to St. Just, so we left the city on that road, guessing you’d follow the same path.”
Manderville put in, “Good thing you come up when you did. That confounded sergeant was within Ames-ace of flat-out arresting us.”
“Yes, and if he were under my command he’d be a private! He was so interested in the bottle I’d brought that he made no effort to verify my identity. What a blockhead!”
Consuela said with a saucy glance, “You should thank your stars that blockhead did not know any Italian, Captain Jack!”
“I thought you looked hilarious when I came up,” he said. “Doesn’t mi perdoni mean ‘beg pardon’ or something of the sort?”
“It means ‘will you forgive me?’—which was quite convenable. But when you said that you were chicchi-richi— Oh, my poor Jack! How I kept my countenance I do not know!”
Manderville asked curiously, “Why? What did he say?”
“Jack said he was—” she gave a choke of mirth “—he said he was ‘cock-a-doodle-doo!’”
Manderville howled, and Vespa clapped a hand over his eyes and groaned that he’d never live it down.
A familiar voice was raised. “If you are finished with your quarrelling, may I please have something to eat? I’m fairly starved.”
They all whipped around.
Standing beside the boot of the carriage, Pierre de Coligny watched them hopefully.
12
“Why should I not run away?” Pierre said with defiance, “Miss Consuela did. She knows what it is like there! Madame, who is not my Maman, hates her. As she hates me.”
“Your poor Papa will be frantic,” said Consuela, dispensing with insincere reassurances.
Vespa said, “And searching for you.”
Frowning, Manderville nodded. “And if he blames us, as he probably will, he’ll likely tell the authorities who we are and we’ll have every soldier and policeman in France after us!”
“I doubt that,” argued Vespa. “Too many people know we were his guests. De Coligny would incriminate himself. Consuela, you and Paige must take Pierre home.”
“No!” said Consuela, Manderville and Pierre, emphatically and in unison.
“You’ve got too many enemies,” Manderville declared.
Consuela pointed out, “You may need help. And how can Paige drive me back to the château, when we’ve told this silly sergeant I am
returning to Italy and my Grandmama?”
“In which case, you should be turning east,” said Vespa worriedly. “You are heading towards Spain, rather!”
“I wish you will all stop arguing and find me something to eat,” complained Pierre.
There arose a sudden flurry of shouts and activity outside. Manderville made a wild leap onto the box of the carriage and Consuela scrambled inside. Pierre ran for the barn door, and Vespa caught him just as it was thrown open.
The sergeant stamped inside and halted abruptly, staring at the boy. “Hello, hello, hello! What’s all this?”
“I am the farmer’s son,” lied Pierre. “And these bad people have kidnapped me.”
His accent gave him away. The sergeant said with a chuckle, “Oh, ho! You’ll not hoax me with such a tale, fierce one. Your talk is more of Paris than St. Just, and those clothes on your back were never worn by a poor Breton farmer’s brat.”
Vespa met his enquiring glance and said, “He is Lady Consuela’s nephew, sir, and she fetches him from his school in Paris to see his great-grandmama.” He added, low-voiced, “He’s a rare handful!”
“This I can see.” The sergeant’s gait was slightly erratic as he moved closer. “Well, he comes by it honestly, I’d say. Now—” he hiccupped, and then called, “Are you awake, Lady Signoriny? I’ll have the truth of it all, if—if you please.”
There was a strong aroma of brandy on his breath. Vespa gave a mental cheer. His little ploy with Jules’ bottle had born fruit. If the fellow was half-foxed, he’d be easier to outwit.
Consuela said, “Leonardo, what have you been telling the sergeant?”
“My name is not Leonardo!” Pierre scowled. “It is—”
“Come, that’s no way to talk to your aunt,” scolded the sergeant, wagging a finger under his chin.
“If you had but half a brain in your head—” began Pierre haughtily.
“Be still!” said Consuela, frowning at him. “You have my apologies, Sergeant. My nephew is rude.”
“He is young, madame.” The sergeant rocked on his heels and gave Pierre an indulgent smile. “I didn’t know you’d a boy with you. I’ve sons of my own. Four. And scamps, every one. Now, I feel sure we can come to a quick resolution of our problems. Tell me, young Leonar-ardo. What is the full and real name of this lady, and where do you live?”
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 21
