“More? Wasn’t that enough?”
“No.” He pushed the pistol into his belt. “Who’s Lucifer? I’ve not heard that name before. Larke we know, Marchenoir we know, but Lucifer? I tell you Lazen’s not safe till Lucifer is dead.”
She stared at him. She felt dazed. She felt sick. The shot still rang in her ears. She looked at the body and saw the gold hair at the base of Lord Culloden’s skull stained with blood, and suddenly she threw the flask away and ran to a corner of the yard.
She retched until she was empty. She crouched, half leaning on the wall, and her stomach heaved again and again and her breath came in great gasps. Each time she thought of the bloodstained golden hair she wanted to vomit again. The sun had glinted on the gold. She had seen his skin pink beneath each hair. The blood was bright and red and matted and flecked with bone and burned by flame and she threw up again as the memory persisted.
She had her eyes closed. She remembered the head jerk up as the bullet struck, the eyes astonished on her, and then the welling blood that had gleamed, swelled and run down his chin. She retched again.
She spat. She wiped her mouth. She wanted to cry. The waste of death appalled her, yet she had nodded to Skavadale. She had demanded it. She groaned.
She felt weak as she stood up. The buildings of the stable yard seemed to be turning. Horses stared from half open doors.
She had seen three men die yesterday and felt nothing like this. But this death she had ordered. The body lay curled as if asleep.
Skavadale crossed to her. His strong hands took her shoulders. “It’s all right, my Lady.”
She looked up into his slim, dark, vivid face. “I’m not used to this.”
He smiled. “I am. It’s my life.”
“That?” She frowned toward the body.
“Lord Paunceley pays me to kill Britain’s enemies.”
Her mouth tasted foul. “Do you enjoy it?”
His eyes flicked between hers. He smiled. “What I will enjoy, my Lady, is breeding the fastest horse in the world. But before that can happen, we have things to do.” His hands still gripped her shoulders as if he tried to pour his strength into her. “The first thing we do, my Lady, is take Lazen back from the bastards.”
She smiled at that, a small nervous smile. “Yes.”
“And then we go to France.”
She stared at him in shock. “France?”
“Because only if you go to France will the Fallen Ones gather. If you want peace, my Lady, you must help me kill Lucifer.”
She shook her head. “I can’t go to France.”
He smiled. “I want you to come to France, to Auxigny.”
“No.” The word came out almost as a sob. She had seen death, had seen its waste, had seen blood dark in bright hair. She would not go to the land that had embraced death like a lover. She shook her head. “No.”
He wiped her chin with his strong, warm fingers. “Yes, my Lady. Yes.”
She stared into his eyes. She saw the strength of him. “I can’t go to France.”
He smiled. “You are the last creature God made. You may do what you like. You can walk through blood and you will be safe.”
She shuddered. The first flies were dark on Lord Culloden’s neck. “I need some tea, Mr. Skavadale. I need a dish of tea.”
She came to Lazen at midday.
She came in fury.
She carried a riding crop. To her right was Christopher Skavadale, a sword at his side and a pistol in his belt. To her left was Simon Burroughs, a horse gun huge in his hands.
She ordered the body of Lord Culloden, like a challenge, to be thrown on the forecourt. He lay there, a gaudy corpse that denied Valentine Larke his mastery of the castle. The flies crawled on the plump face.
Men watched her from the windows. She ignored them.
She climbed the steps, walked into the pediment’s shadow, and went into the castle. She had come home. Her head was held high and her face was set like stone.
She looked at the footman who had opened the door. “Where’s Larke?”
“The Big Library, my Lady.” The man grinned with delight.
Her shoes were loud on the marble floor. She led her men to the door and flung it open.
The library table was covered with books and papers, the tally of the rents and harvest, the lists of Lazen’s property, the documents of the richest earldom in England; the records of the Little Kingdom.
Valentine Larke was standing. He had been given a few seconds warning of her coming. Six men were in the room with him, but not, she noticed, Sir Julius.
She walked toward Larke, skirting the table, ignoring his men, ignoring the huge Abel Girdlestone, ignoring the men whose faces were swollen from bee stings.
She stopped in front of Larke. He looked from her to the Gypsy, recognizing the man who carried his messages to France, and he tried to work out why this man should be here, with this woman, and then he saw Campion’s arm move, he flinched, but the crop sliced into his face, came back and struck him again.
Skavadale’s voice was casual. “Another step and you’re pig food.” He hefted the pistol in his left hand.
Abel Girdlestone, who had been moving toward Campion, froze. Simon Burroughs laughed.
Campion looked into Larke’s face. “Yesterday, Larke, you threatened to put me over your knee. Was it my ass you were going to tan?”
Larke said nothing.
Campion’s voice was cold. “Simon?”
“My Lady?”
“Bend him over!”
The huge coachman came forward. He grinned. He took Larke by his crinkly, glossy black hair and bent him over his knee. He plucked up the tails of the politician’s coat. “Like that, your Ladyship?”
“Like that. You are about to discover, Larke, that you have made a mistake.”
She thrashed him. She lashed him with the crop and her fury was in her arm and there was a joy in the punishment. Larke twisted, but he was helpless in the coachman’s grasp. He yelped with pain.
She tossed the crop onto the table. “Let him up.”
She waited until Larke was standing then pointed at the window. “My husband, Larke, is dead. What rights he had over this property died with him. You are not welcome, Larke. You have made an enemy. You have made an enemy of the house of Lazen. I would advise you to hide somewhere and pray we never find you. Out!”
There were tears in his eyes and a twist of fury on his face. He, who hated the aristocracy, had been humiliated by a mere girl and there was nothing he could do. Nothing! And then he remembered Lucifer’s words, that he should not be surprised at anything which happened at Lazen, and he gaped at the Gypsy and he thought that there was a chance of revenge after all! Revenge at Auxigny! He pointed a finger at Campion. “I will pay you for that!”
“Out!”
The door to the library opened and Skavadale turned, pistol rising, to see Uncle Achilles gaping at the scene. He blinked at the Gypsy, then saw the anger and pride on Campion’s face. “Campion?” His voice was incredulous.
“You’re blocking the door, uncle. These men are leaving.”
They went. They were cowed by her, terrified of her, and they huddled through the door and down the steps and stood uncertain, their belongings stranded within the house, and then the first men from the stables appeared, alerted by the grooms come back from Periton House. Larke saw them stoop to pick up stones, and suddenly he and Abel Girdlestone were leading a running retreat, past Culloden’s body, pelted by dung and stones and pursued down the drive by jeering servants.
Three more men were found in the house and sent running by the footmen. Campion strode the corridors, throwing open doors, leading a triumphant, joyful band of footmen and maids. Mrs. Hutchinson joined Uncle Achilles, hurrying behind the noisy throng. William Carline, hearing the news that spread like wildfire through the huge castle, found Campion in the Yellow Drawing Room.
He bowed to her, his face quivering with happiness. “My Lady.”
<
br /> “The flag will be lowered to the half for my brother, Mr. Carline.”
“Of course, my Lady.”
“And where is my cousin?”
He gestured toward the rooms that her father had occupied. She turned. “Simon? Mr. Skavadale? Come with me.”
She walked beneath the pictures of horses. She walked to her father’s rooms and pushed the doors open.
She saw the girl first. The London whore stood in the bedroom door frowning at the noise in the Castle.
The girl wore a dress that had belonged to Campion’s mother, an old fashioned, gorgeous dress of flounced scarlet taffeta and lace, one of the many dresses that her father could not bring himself to throw from her old dressing room. It was the dress she wore in his favorite portrait, and now the dress was tight on the painted whore.
About her neck were Campion’s mother’s jewels; the rubies that her father had given his bride on her wedding day, the diamonds that he had given her each year.
“Take that dress off!” Campion’s voice was cold and bitter. The girl backed away.
“Who in Christ’s name?” Julius, a robe hastily wrapped about him, came to the door, and Skavadale stepped past Campion, took him by the throat and pushed him backward. Julius fell on the bed, bounced back with his fist ready to punch, but Skavadale hit him first, hit him hard, and growled at him to stay still.
The girl looked to Julius, back to Campion.
“I said get that dress off!”
“But….”
“Off!”
The girl fumbled at the hooks, the laces. Campion’s anger was awesome. “And the jewels!”
The girl unclipped the necklace, took the bracelets from her wrists, the rings from her fingers and the diamonds from her ears.
“Get the dress off!”
Burroughs laughed. The girl wore nothing underneath, not even a petticoat. She stood naked.
Campion walked to the girl’s own clothes. She kicked them toward the naked whore and, as she did, a golden watch fell from the skirt pocket.
“Wait!”
There was silence. Campion felt in all the pockets. Slowly, on the table by the window, she made a small pile of treasures that the girl had stolen and hid in her clothes.
“Simon?”
“My Lady?”
“Open a window.”
He hurried to obey. Campion scooped all the clothes up, bundled them, and hurled them out onto the gravel of the forecourt. She turned to the white faced girl. “You leave this house as you are. That way I know you can steal nothing as you leave! Go!”
The girl shook her head, terrified.
“Go!”
She ran. Campion ignored the laughter outside. She turned and looked at her cousin who lay on the bed, his toothless mouth open. “Simon?”
“My Lady?”
“What premises are empty in Lazen?”
Burroughs frowned. “There’s the old stable house, my Lady. It’s not clean.”
“You will put the Earl of Lazen into the old stable house. He is not allowed into the Castle. He will not come into my presence.”
“Very good, my Lady.” Burroughs was grinning.
“With those exceptions,” she turned to the coachman, “he will be treated with the respect that his rank and his behavior merit.”
She looked out of the window to see the naked girl, pursued by mocking servants, snatching her clothes from the gravel and running ungainly past the dead body. “And Simon?”
“My Lady?”
She pointed to Culloden’s body. “Ask someone to bury that filth.”
She stalked from the room. She strode through the castle, throwing its windows open as if to scour it clean, and her anger was mixed with laughter as she remembered the joy of beating Valentine Larke with the crop. All London would know of that!
She ordered a bath drawn, ordered an astonished William Carline to prepare a bedroom for Mr. Skavadale in the Garden House, and watched as the belongings left by Larke’s men were taken to the smithy fire.
She laughed. She was a great lady and she had taken Lazen back.
She sat in the Long Gallery after dinner. It was a sweet, autumn evening, the shadows long in the valley, the swallows quick above the misting, silver lake. There was the smell of ripeness in the valley, of apples lined on racks, of leaves burning.
Uncle Achilles, a bruise on his forehead where he had been trampled by Girdlestone the day before, was alone with her. He had arranged it so, asking Skavadale to give him this time with her. The servants had brought Campion tea. Achilles had brandy and a cigar that he cut and lit.
He put his boots on the window seat and stared at the clouds which were delicate against the sky. “I owe you an apology. It seems I was wrong about Lord Culloden.”
“It seems everyone was wrong. My father, you, Scrimgeour, me.” She shrugged. She remembered Culloden pleading in the stable yard. “He was a weak man, uncle.”
“And now you’ve found yourself a strong one?” He smiled at her.
She did not want to talk about the Gypsy. She half suspected that Achilles had arranged to be alone with her, but she was in no mood to be lectured about her birth and responsibilities. She changed the subject. “I’m sorry about your Meissen. It was the best present and they broke it.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “There’s always more Meissen, dear Campion. I shall flood you with it. I’m sorry about the statue.”
She laughed. “You’re forgiven for that.”
Two swans flew over the castle, turned, their great wings touched pink by the setting sun and then, riding the air on spread feathers, they glided down to seethe onto the still water of the lake. Achilles watched them. “I think God made swans in one of his better moments.” He smiled at her. “Why were you never presented at court?”
The sudden question surprised her. “I never wanted to be.”
“Every other girl was!”
She laughed. She hated London, hated the court, and had never wished to line up with the other nubile daughters of the aristocracy to shuffle across the floor and curtsey to the King, all the while being ogled by the courtiers. “Father called it the Royal Fatstock Auction. He gave me a choice and I chose not to go. And I’ve not regretted it, uncle.”
“When were you last in London?”
She frowned. “Three years? Maybe four.”
He tutted. “You really should go into society, dear niece.”
She laughed. “I am a widow since this morning, uncle, and already you are trying to marry me to some lord.”
He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift toward the window. “How about the Prince of Wales?” She laughed and he frowned. “I’m serious!”
“Uncle!”
“I think I could bear having a niece as the Queen of England.”
“I’m sure the Queen of England could bear having you as an uncle, but it will not be me, I promise you that.”
“He’ll fall at your feet. Rumors of your beauty have reached London, you know.”
“You’re embarrassing me.” She sipped her tea. “I really can’t believe that you want to marry me off so quickly. You’ll forgive me if I say that your last suggestion did not turn out entirely happily?”
He shrugged. “I beat about the bushes, isn’t that what the English say?” He laughed at himself. “I merely suggest to you, dear niece, that you can marry the very highest in the land.”
She made a wry face at him. “As against the lowest?”
He shrugged. “Your words, my dear, not mine.”
“I am not thinking of marriage, uncle.” She said it tartly.
“No.” The smoke from his cigar wafted through the window. He sighed. “You’re in love, though. I can see it. I warned you against it, but you wouldn’t listen. You think that nothing matters in all creation but one other person, as if all this,” he waved his hand to encompass the whole planet, “was made as a shrine simply for two people.”
He had spoken with unnatural vehe
mence. She looked at him. “Is there anything wrong with being in love?”
He nodded. “I have known some of the great men of this world, my dear Campion. I have watched them plot and plan and calculate their every move, I have seen them tread the dangers of power with exquisite skill, I have admired them! And then I have seen them in love! No calculation, no plotting, no care, no plan, no wisdom, just a lust that tugs them like blind fools into misery. Why?” He frowned at her. “Why, when we are so clever, do we allow this one decision, this one most important decision, be governed by the same emotion that drives a boar onto a sow?”
She smiled, but her voice was cold. “Uncle, I don’t think I want to talk of love this night.”
“No.” He tapped ash into a bowl. “I didn’t think you would. So talk of something else. Talk of the Fallen Angels.” He said their name with pure scorn.
At dinner she and Skavadale had told Achilles of all that had happened, all that Culloden had said. Only one thing had she held back, and that with difficulty; the news that Toby still lived. She had wanted to shout that news from the rooftop, but Skavadale had been adamant. No one must know.
Achilles smiled. “The Fallen Angels! What a piquant name! It amuses me how grown men like such stupidities. The Illuminati! The Fallen Ones! Lucifer! Moloch! Belial!” He laughed. “How apt that they chose my father’s shrine! A place built by a madman for their lunacy. But have you thought that there might be a method in their madness?”
“Method?”
“They want you dead. What better place to kill you than in France?”
She stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Oh, but you do. No one, dear Campion, has ever said you were a fool, but are you as clever as you think? They trapped you before, didn’t they?” He blew another smoke ring and watched it drift away. “They trapped you. They arranged for a man to attack you and they sent you a Lord on horseback, a sword in his hand. What chance did you have? Every kitchenmaid dreams of such things! He rode straight into your life, all the doors magically opened by his seeming bravery!” He looked at her almost mockingly. “Have they done it again?”
“No, uncle.”
The Fallen Angels Page 31
