“Yes, of course,” Manderville cuffed him gently. “Sorry, old fellow.” And he thought wearily, ‘We might have a chance—if only we can get rid of the juggernaut!’
16
A bitter wind had come up by the time Vespa approached the lake. The tree branches were tossing about and a few remaining leaves scattered down. On a distant hill a great castle loomed majestically against the flying clouds, the slate rooftops of a village clustering about it.
He rode fast, praying that he could bring this off and wondering if Paige, who was beginning to look quite pulled, would get through. Ever alert, his eyes searched for Monteil’s coach, but before he reached the lake he was surprised by two men astride dapple-grey horses who charged from a hollow, drew rein at the last possible instant, causing Bruine to shy nervously, and then pulled in on either side. It was the unlovely pair they had encountered before. They had probably hoped to unseat him, but he was a consummate horseman. He stroked the mare’s neck to quiet her, and watched them in a contemptuous silence.
“Mark you, Bertrand,” jeered the bushy-haired individual, looking as wolfish as ever. “Is he not the strong and silent soldier boy?”
His friend seemed to have acquired even more pimples. He giggled, and said, “He is—now, Étienne, but monsieur will have him chattering like a magpie in jig time.” He added tauntingly, “If he wishes to see his lady again.”
Vespa said, “Doubtless, Monsieur Monteil is accustomed to wait while you two exchange clever witticisms.”
Étienne laughed and brought his whip down hard across Bruine’s nose. The mare reared with a shrill neigh of fright and pain. Bertrand swung the grip of his horse pistol at Vespa’s head, smashing him into a blurred world of echoing voices and laughter.
In a remote fashion it dawned on him that they were moving again. The old head wound and the side of his jaw throbbed with pain. He slumped forward over Bruine’s mane as if barely able to stay in the saddle, while gradually his mind stopped spinning and confusion was replaced by rage.
They were slowing. The bushy creature—that would be Étienne—called in his nasal voice, “Wake up, Monsieur-the-so-dashing-Capitaine!”
Bertrand sniggered, “I’ll dash him!”
Vespa was ready. As a heavy riding whip flailed at him, he ducked, caught the thong and heaved. Bertrand uttered a surprised yelp and disappeared under his horse. Étienne cursed furiously and swung up a pistol. Vespa spurred Bruine straight at him so that he had to rein aside.
A harsh voice rang out: “Enough! Imbeciles! Did I not say that I wanted him unharmed?”
Imre Monteil’s luxurious coach waited beside a grove of trees. His Chinese coachman, arms folded across his massive chest, was at the heads of the leaders. On the box, a liveried guard held a musket aimed steadily at Vespa.
Watching frowningly from the open window of the coach, Monteil said, “My apologies, Captain. I had hoped we could deal as civilized gentlemen, but I see my men have been rough with you.”
Vespa said coldly, “Never send an animal to do a man’s work.”
Bertrand crawled to his feet, his narrow eyes glaring hatred.
Monteil shrugged. “You appear to have dealt with my ‘animals’—what is it you English say?—deedily? And now, Captain, you and I must deal together. Where is the waggon of your illustrious sire?”
So the Swiss knew Lord Kincraig was his father. Vespa countered, “I will tell you after Miss Jones and the boy are released and I have your word they will be allowed to leave.”
The Swiss called, “Ti Chiu!” and the Chinese coachman trundled to the far side of the carriage and swung open the door.
Vespa started around the coach, but the guard on the box shouted, “You will stay where you are, monsieur!”
Halting, Vespa said angrily, “If you think I’ll tell you anything until Miss Jones is beside me, you’re all about in your head, Monteil!”
The white hand resting on the window gestured.
Vespa heard a low growl of rage followed by running footsteps. He flung himself from the saddle in time to catch Consuela as she rushed into his arms. He held her close, and she half-sobbed, “Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack! They have hurt you! I did it again, didn’t I?”
“You’re safe,” he said huskily. “Just at the moment that’s all I care about.”
Ti Chiu came around the coach, limping slightly, and growling at Pierre as the boy ran past, sticking out his tongue with gleeful derision. The coachman made a snatch for him and Pierre squealed and hid behind Vespa. “I kicked him. Hard. And I am not sorry,” he declared, and keeping a wary eye on Ti Chiu, he went on: “And it was not Miss Consuela’s fault. She came to help me, Capitaine Jacques, because I was captured by some terrible menhirs. I am a brave boy, but I was very afraid, I will say it!”
“You were well justified.” Vespa gripped his shoulder comfortingly while slanting a glance at the Chinese. Stark horror was written on that usually inscrutable countenance. “And Miss Consuela was very brave to go to you.” He looked steadily into Consuela’s eyes. She managed a tremulous smile that wrung his heart and that faded as he added, “Because I know how very much she fears those megaliths.”
She had never said such a thing, but she sensed that this was not a joke, and answered cautiously, “You do not like me to be superstitious, but—”
Pierre interrupted excitedly, “Everyone knows they come to life at night! They wouldn’t let me go, and they made evil spells round and round us. That’s why these bad people caught us! But Miss—”
“Enough!” said Vespa. “Did these varmints hurt you, Consuela?”
She shook her head. “They wanted me to tell where Lord Kincraig left the waggon, but I didn’t know how to direct them properly, so they were angry and made all kinds of horrible threats.”
“Harsh words,” said Monteil with a sigh. “And when I have with much patience allowed you the friendly little talk. I find your conversation not entrancing. We will now drive on.”
It was exactly what Vespa had expected, but he protested indignantly that Monteil had promised to release Consuela in exchange for the location of the waggon. “You did not stipulate that I was to lead you there!”
“But you see,” explained Monteil with the thin smile that never seemed to reach his dull black eyes, “People are so sadly devious these days. You will surely not expect me to release the lady until I am sure you have kept your part of the bargain. Besides which,” his smile broadened “you are so much outnumbered, mon ami, and you must bear in mind that you have incurred the displeasure of my men. They would be pleased, I am sure, to help you understand my point of view.”
His two bullies expressed their willingness to make things clear to the Captain. They were so willing, in fact, that Vespa felt Consuela shiver. He said, “I think you have an exaggerated notion of the worth of that waggon. I’ll take you there, but then Miss Jones and the boy go free. It is agreed?”
Monteil nodded and purred blandly, “But by all means, Captain Vespa.”
* * *
The last time Vespa had ridden this road, Lord Kincraig had led the way and his own mind had been preoccupied with other matters. As a result, it was as much as he could do to recall the route, and he was relieved when the road narrowed as it wound through a ravine-like break in the hills, which he did remember. After that, for a while memory failed him, but he was again reprieved when they came to the river, crossing it at length over a tall-sided wooden bridge whose strange construction made it quite a landmark. And so he went along, feeling his way as it were, from one vaguely familiar spot to the next, until they came at length within sight of the broken gate leading to the abandoned farm.
Monteil had insisted that Consuela and Pierre return to the carriage, and Étienne and Bertrand rode on each side of Vespa. His nerves were taut as he rode onto the stony track and past the grove of sycamores. There was no shout, no sign. He sent up a fervent prayer that his plan would not fail; Paige had been right, it was so appallingly simple i
t could not really be termed a plan. If he could just get Consuela safely away … if he could just keep the waggon from falling into Monteil’s greedy paws … if only Manderville was in place … His father would never forgive— There was a dispute behind him. His heart leapt. He thought, ‘Aha!’
Monteil howled. “Vespa! Halt!”
The carriage had come to a stop. Ti Chiu was climbing down from the box. Through the open window Monteil raged at him. “You bovine idiot! What d’you think you’re about?”
His henchman strode back onto the lane and stood there, facing away from the farm, arms folded across his chest, massive, forbidding, immovable: for all the world like another menhir. His master’s commands were as if unheard; insults, curses and threats were completely disregarded.
Vespa called innocently, “Is this far enough, Monteil?”
“How do I know, curse you? I see no waggon!”
“You’ll find it further along this track. You’ll come to—”
“We will come nowhere without you lead the way! Guard! You drive on.”
“But—what about Ti Chiu?” enquired Vespa.
Monteil’s response made Consuela cover Pierre’s ears. One gathered that Ti Chiu refused to go any farther towards a farm that had been abandoned because of the menhirs who dwelt there. He was an ignorant dolt, an imbecile, and he could stand there like the block he was until they took him up after they’d found the waggon! “And it had better be here,” snarled Monteil.
Riding on, Vespa was cheered by the thought that the first step in his plan had succeeded. For the moment, at least, the greatest menace was out of commission.
When they stopped in the yard, Étienne ran into the barn. He came out a moment later to report that there was “no waggon, monsieur,” and leered hungrily at Vespa.
Monteil said softly, “I warned you, Captain!”
“And I warned you. The waggon is here. Let Miss Jones and Pierre down and I’ll show you.”
Bertrand picked at his unlovely countenance and said, “He make the big bluff, but I will beat the truth from—”
Monteil stepped down from the carriage. “You will keep the lady here, while our captain fulfils his part of the bargain. Étienne, you come with me.”
Consuela and Pierre left the coach and stood together, holding hands.
Tearing his eyes from his beloved, Vespa said, “This way.”
Monteil and the wolfish Étienne followed. When they reached the back of the farmhouse, Vespa paused, astonished. He’d not dreamed Paige could have done so much in such a short time, but the branch and the smashed wall had been moved aside, the waggon was out of the lean-to, and the pole connected once more.
Monteil exclaimed, “Sacré bleu! Kincraig he is crazy indeed! He leave his treasure of carpets standing here like this? Unguarded?”
Vespa gathered his wits. “As you know very well, my father was shot by your killer with the crossbow. We had to get help for him quickly.”
He was afraid the Swiss would realize his answer made little sense, but Monteil was too eager to inspect the waggon to analyze the remark and the reference to a killer with a crossbow disturbed him. “I have no such person in my employ,” he said, with an uneasy glance at the dismal farm and the distant menhir. “Open the door of this ugly cart.”
Praying, Vespa threw the doors wide.
A French cuirassier in all the glory of luxuriant whiskers, great steel helm and breastplate, a sabre in one hand and a musket in the other, leapt from the waggon, howling at the top of his lungs, “Traitors! Murderers! Thieves! Now I have you caught in my fist! I arrest you in the name of l’Empereur!”
There was a concerted gasp. Impressed by Manderville’s resourcefulness, Vespa whipped around, and his right jab sent the gawking Étienne into collision with his employer. Monteil thrust him away and they retreated at the gallop. From the corner of his eye Vespa saw another cuirassier hot after Bertrand, whose knees had a fine fast action. Although puzzled by the reinforcements, Vespa was not one to let opportunity pass by. He snatched the bugle that hung about Manderville’s neck and blew a fairly creditable ‘Advance at the double’ on the dented instrument. The retreat became a rout. Carriage, Swiss and Bertrand tore up the stony track, Étienne running weavingly after them, with the second cuirassier in hot pursuit.
Laughing, Vespa said, “Paige, when I asked you for a diversion, I never dreamed—” Turning to his friend, the blithe words died away.
The musket was still aimed at his heart. The cuirassier who held it so steadily was scarlet with wrath.
Whoever he was, he was not Paige Manderville.
“Whoops!” said Vespa.
“You have blow on my bugle!” the cuirassier roared, putting first things first. “You are not of La Belle France! You, I arrest as the English spy!”
“I apologize for your bugle, monsieur,” said Vespa politely. “But—who is this?”
Instinctively, the cuirassier turned his head. Into Manderville’s fist.
“Gad,” said Vespa, easing the Frenchman down. “What happened? And how on earth did you get the waggon out of—” Again, his sentence went unfinished.
The four cart-horses were being shepherded across the field by a solitary rider.
“Damn!” exclaimed Vespa, and snatched up the cuirassier’s musket.
“Easy, Captain, sir! Easy!” croaked Manderville, pushing the weapon aside. “I’ll own I’ve been tempted from time to time, but…”
For the first time Vespa had a clear view of the man on the black horse. Incensed, he curtailed his lusty swearing as Consuela ran to join them.
Her reaction was quite different. “It’s Toby!” she cried joyously. “Oh, how lovely! We are all together again!”
Vespa took her outstretched hand, his eyes softening, but he said, “Of all the bacon brains, Broderick! Trailing me all over Brittany! Why didn’t you identify yourself? I thought you were one of Monteil’s ugly crew. I’d have blown your head off if you came close enough!”
“Exactly why I kept at a safe distance, my tulip.” Grinning, Broderick dismounted, clapped Vespa on the back, and flushed shyly as Consuela hugged him.
“That’ll be enough of that,” said Vespa, pulling her to him. “I allowed it only because I am told you kept Imre Monteil off our heels for a while.”
“Then I’m entitled to another hug,” said Broderick. “I’ve found us a short-cut to the Lannions’ hedge-tavern.”
“Have you, by Jove! Jolly good, Toby. But there’s no time for more rewards. Our French friend here is probably part of a scouting party. The rest of his troop is liable to come calling at any moment! We must be least in sight, but vite!”
The men worked swiftly to pole-up the cart-horses. Consuela and Pierre bound the hapless cuirassier and he was dragged, barking out ferocious threats, into the house. Within five minutes the waggon of the Crazy Carpet Collector was speeding along under wind-whipped trees.
Broderick led the way, following a rutted track that he assured them would bring them onto the road leading to the hedge-tavern. Vespa rode Bruine, keeping close to the waggon, and Manderville drove, with Pierre and Consuela perched on the seat beside him. There was little talk, even the boy sensing their tension although nobody voiced the fears that were uppermost in all their minds: that the French military were much too close on their heels; and that Imre Monteil knew exactly where they would go.
Broderick’s ‘quickest route’ began to seem very much the long way round. The heavy waggon bumped and jolted over the uneven surface, and the wind became a near gale, blowing a cold drizzling rain into their faces, and sending branches and leaves flying.
They’d been travelling for half an hour when they turned west onto the road to the Lannion hedge-tavern. The river was running high now, the water roiling and full of debris. Vespa realized belatedly that the oddly constructed bridge was a comparatively flimsy wooden structure. If it could not bear the weight of the heavy waggon … He glanced uneasily at Manderville, and saw
apprehension on the handsome features. “Hold up!” he shouted.
Manderville pulled up the team.
Vespa sent Consuela and Pierre across the bridge on foot. Broderick and Manderville rode, and Vespa—over Manderville’s hoarse but indignant protests—drove the waggon. The carthorses trod onto the timbers and began to snort and toss their heads uneasily. The bridge creaked and it seemed to Vespa that it swayed. He thought, ‘Please God, we’re so close now!’ If the waggon crashed into that muddy boil of water below it would be the end of his father’s brave struggle and he would have failed his General. On the far bank he could see Consuela looking pale and frightened, watching him and clinging to Manderville’s arm. The bridge creaked even more menacingly. There was a sudden loud crack and the off wheeler neighed and pranced in the traces. Vespa’s heart jumped into his throat. A large carriage approaching from the west stopped, and pulled off to the side of the road. Rain sheeted down blindingly. ‘Nothing ventured,’ he thought and in desperation whipped up the horses. They plunged forward and the bridge definitely swayed, but then there were shouts of triumph, the wheels thudded onto solid ground, and he could breathe again.
Consuela flew to climb onto the waggon seat and hug him. “Wretched Englishman,” she half-sobbed. “As if anything was worth taking such a chance! I had rather see the stupid waggon swept away than have you go down with it!”
“To say truth, love, so would I,” he admitted, kissing her forehead. “But Wellington and England are desperately in need of my father’s ‘Spring Carpet!’”
He ordered Consuela and Pierre to travel inside so that they could keep dry, and then they were off again, this time with Manderville bringing up the rear. The afternoon was wearing on and the wind seemed ever stronger. After a while Manderville galloped to the front of the waggon, and tried to shout, but his voice was now quite gone. He gestured urgently to the east. Vespa leaned to the side and peered back. Far off he saw the glitter of light on metal.
Breastplates and helmets.
“Here comes the cavalry,” he muttered grimly, and cracked the whip over the heads of the team.
The Riddle of the Lost Lover Page 29
