Had We Never Loved

by Patricia Veryan

  Glendenning looked at him levelly. “This is High Treason. I’ll not blame you an you stay clear.”

  “Blame me! I rate a medal for standing by you to this moment! And had your friend Gideon Rossiter seen fit to give me proper warning two months since, I’d not be sharing your bog.”

  Morris said indignantly, “Two months ago Ross didn’t even know there was such a thing as the League of Jewelled Men! How the deuce could he guess what it would come to?”

  “I doubt any of us can guess what it will come to. Especially you, Sir Gudgeon.” Falcon turned back to Glendenning. Despite all this grumbling, his eyes blazed and there was an air of barely suppressed excitement about him. “I suppose you expect me to ride with you?”

  “No. I would hope you could stay with my lady, but—”

  Perversely affronted, Falcon said with a black scowl, “I can out-shoot, out-fight, and out-think our military pea brain with my—”

  “Of all the puffed up, arrogant—” snorted Morris.

  “Love a duck,” exclaimed Amy. “And they say women talk! While you three nitter at each other, Major-Maybe is likely hopping onto his boat! I can look after meself and this poor boy. Go!”

  Falcon met Glendenning’s steady gaze and, comprehending why he had been chosen to stay, shrugged, and muttered sulkily that he hoped he would not be hanged for protecting a lady.

  “I’ll ride with you, Tio,” offered Morris. “You may count on me.”

  “Sir Launcelot,” said Falcon.

  Glendenning said, “There are no words to properly thank any of you. I swear upon my honour, you will not be implicated in my treasonable past.”

  “When a man is put to the question—” began Falcon, then he caught Amy’s eye and turned away. “Come and look at this, Morris!”

  Morris crossed to his side.

  Glendenning pulled Amy to her feet, and led her to the door, his arm tight around her. She clung to him, then lifted her face, and he kissed her hard. Removing sufficient funds to cover his expenses, he gave her his purse. “When you think my brother well enough, will you take him back to the inn, my darling? He’ll likely want to go home, but please keep him down here until I send for you both.”

  She looked frightened. “Bean’t ye coming back this way, then?”

  “I doubt it. If I get the pin from that hound, I’ll have to ride like fury to reach the Abbey in time.” He cradled her face in his hands. “Whatever happens—I love you more than I ever dreamed possible. Will you believe that, lovely one?”

  “Yes, but…” Her hands flew around his neck. Trembling, she said, “Tio I got a un-brave feeling all over! What will you do if—if you can’t get it back?”

  He smiled down at her, then kissed her again and, with his lips against hers, whispered, “Love you forever.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Swinging into Falcon’s saddle, Glendenning glanced once at the cottage and the candlelit window against which was the silhouette of a small and very still lady. Then, he turned to Morris, already mounted and waiting.

  “I mean to ride hard, Jamie. It is already nigh ten o’clock. You’re quite sure…?”

  “We’ve at least five and forty miles to go,” said Morris. “I’m ready, Tio.”

  “Are you? Any pistols in your saddle holster?”

  “Aye.” There was a note of surprise in the word. “D’ye think—”

  “I think they wanted me to find Michael, and then go haring off to Portsmouth. With luck, they won’t be expecting us at Dover, but there’s no denying they’re a dangerous crew, so be ready for an ambush. God speed!”

  They were away at a canter, and the race had begun. Skirting the dark mass of the forest they rode ever south and east through the blustery night. The rain ceased, then came down again, harder than before, the wind driving it so that the drops stung their faces. They passed few travellers; an occasional Portsmouth Machine rumbled by with a rapid pounding of sixteen hooves, a spray of mud, a shout from the coachman; sometimes another rider would loom up, flash past, and disappear into the darkness again. Once, both horses neighed and shied in fright as a stray cow appeared in the middle of the lane, and Glendenning, his thoughts on the outcome of this venture, was almost thrown.

  After that, he tried not to dwell on the what-might-have-been, or on the terrible what-might-be. But Amy’s sweet face persistently crept into his mind. A score of images rose up: her vibrant joy in the early mornings; her intense concentration as she tended his hurts, or sewed his torn shirt, or sliced vegetables, or worked at her chairback. The mental picture of her ghostly rescue brought a sad smile to his mouth, so that Morris, catching a glimpse of him in the light from a church window, wondered. A moment later, the viscount’s thoughts were on his parting from the earl, and it was as well the darkness hid his expression.

  The darkness and the foul weather made it hard going, and periodically Glendenning slowed for the sake of the horses. The time lost chafed at his nerves, but with iron control he fought the panicked urge to gallop without pause. There was little talk between the two men, even when they slowed and conversation was possible. Morris could well imagine his friend’s state of mind, but in his heart he feared that their desperate journey was doomed to failure and, being unable to find any sincere words of encouragement, he kept silent. He had slept soundly until quite late that morning, but the wind was a relentless enemy, the rain was cold, and as the miles slipped past, he began to tire. If Glendenning was weary, he gave no sign of it, and kept to a gruelling pace. Little wonder, thought Morris. He set his jaw and determined to say nothing that would slow them, but he was relieved when distant lights began to twinkle through the rain. Soon, they were thundering into the yard of a neat tavern. Glendenning’s shout of “House—ho!” brought an ostler running, set three dogs to barking, and awoke a bright rectangle of lamplight against the night as the tavern door was swung open.

  Dismounting, Morris instructed the ostler as to the care of their mounts, while Glendenning went inside to arrange for the hire of new ones.

  He stepped into another world; a bright, warm, and cosy parlour. In response to his request, a maid scurried off to fetch coffee. The host came, beaming, and allowed as how it was a “nasty night.” Fortunately, he maintained a good stable and the viscount was able to obtain fresh and allegedly spirited hacks with no difficulty.

  Morris arrived, and for the few minutes required for the horses to be saddled up, the two men adjourned to the glowing hearth and drank their coffee.

  Morris peered at his friend anxiously. Gad, but Tio looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  Glendenning saw that concerned stare, and said with a smile, “I’m a dour dog tonight. My apologies, Jamie. You cannot know how grateful I am that you ride with me.”

  Morris grinned. “In a day or two we’ll be laughing at all this, old fellow. Set a lamp under an earthenware pitcher, and the light can’t shine through, y’know.”

  It was as well, thought Glendenning, that Falcon hadn’t heard that one! He said, “And you really think we’ll find the light in this business, do you?”

  “Certain of it,” said Morris bracingly. “In despite this miserable weather, we’ve covered nigh twenty miles already, and ’tis only half past eleven o’clock. Plenty of time, dear boy! We’ll be in old Dover town hours before dawn!”

  Half an hour later his optimism was severely shaken. The host’s instructions on a route that would “lop a good ten mile” off their journey proved quite accurate. Unhappily, the persistent rain had transformed the “quiet stream” he described into a raging flood that had swept away the only bridge. Unable to find dry ground, and proceeding cautiously in the darkness, they found themselves struggling through ever more treacherous mud.

  Seething with frustration, Glendenning halted. Sheet lightning on the horizon lit low-hanging clouds and briefly illumined a bleak and level landscape of low shrubs and long drooping grasses. “Hell and the devil!” he raged. “I think we’
ve landed ourselves in Romney Marsh!”

  Dismayed, Morris said, “Can we get out?”

  “We must get out!”

  Within a very few minutes, however, the horses were floundering in stirrup-deep water, cold as ice, and treacherous with trailing reeds. More by luck than good judgment, they eventually reached firmer ground, but the animals were still hock deep in mud, and the riders were soaked to the skin. Above the voice of the wind and the hissing rain, Morris discerned another sound, low but ominous. “Hold up, Tio,” he shouted.

  Another glare of lightning showed the same bleak landscape, but Glendenning was appalled to catch a glimpse of tumbling waters ahead. If they’d stumbled into that fast-moving flood there’d have been no reaching Dover for either of them. “Thank God for your ears, Jamie!” He dismounted stiffly, unhappily reminded of every bruise he’d taken during the battle at Absalom’s cellar. “We’ll have to go by shank’s mare,” he said, trying not to sound as despairing as he felt.

  Morris’ voice was almost too cheerful. “Is there another road, d’ye think, my pippin?”

  “I know there’s a road out of Rye that follows the coast for some distance before it cuts across the marsh to—Hythe, I think. But it’s a devilish rough track and will take us miles out of our way. If we could but see the stars, I’d have some idea of where north lies and we could hope to come quickly out of this. As it is, we may well be turning due east, deeper into the marsh!” He bit his lip, and thought ‘God forbid!’ but started off, treading with care and leading his mount. “Stay close, Jamie,” he called. “And pray!”

  After what seemed hours of toil, he was very weary, chilled to the bone, his legs numbed, and he doubted they had progressed a mile, but when he’d been a hunted fugitive he had learned how much a man may endure and still keep trying, and he struggled on doggedly. There was little doubt now but that they were moving towards the coast. If only he’d not snatched at the innkeeper’s suggestion of a short cut! He smiled wryly. He could call up half a hundred ‘if only’s,’ and good old Morris would likely have as many homilies to answer them.

  Turning wearily, he peered into the driving rain. “How are you, Jamie?”

  The answer came jerkily through chattering teeth. “Perfectly fit, d-dear boy!”

  “Jove, what a Trojan you are! A fine bog I’ve led you into! If ever we—”

  He tripped, and fell heavily, landing with bruising force on the hands he threw out to break his fall. His knee hit hard and painfully, and he swore as he pushed himself up. His knee had hit—hard? Holding his breath, not daring to hope, he groped about, then gave a triumphant shout. “Jamie! We’ve come to a road!” He clambered to his feet and hugged Morris exuberantly. “God be praised! We’ll be able to ride again!”

  “J-j-jolly g-good,” panted Morris.

  Mounting up, Glendenning reined around. “We’ll have to go slowly, else we’re liable to miss the— Jamie?”

  Morris was still hauling himself into the saddle. “Bit s-s-stiff, T-Tio,” he stammered. “Now—which way?”

  It was a good question. The lightning was almost continuous, and by that heavenly glow they were able to catch frequent glimpses of the more level surface of the road, but there was not a sign of other travellers, and no least indication of where they were. They both decided to go in the direction the horses were now facing, and started off once more.

  To ride without having to wade through mud and reeds was a vast improvement, but the wind was rising, buffeting so strongly at times that the horses were staggered. If this weather held, luck might be with them after all, for the ship would likely not leave the Tidal Basin until the wind dropped.

  An indefinite time later, Morris gave a hoarse shout. A dim light glowed ahead. His heart leaping, Glendenning urged his mount to a fast trot. He could see the darker loom of a small house, and a lantern bobbing about. He rode up to a low wall, and gave a hail.

  A startled exclamation, and the lantern swung toward him. Surprisingly, a woman’s voice cried, “Bless me soul! Ye never come off the marsh, sir? I’d not a’thought man nor beast would venture that road on such a perishing night!”

  Shivering convulsively, Glendenning nonetheless felt a soaring elation. They’d done it! Somehow, they’d made their way across the marshes to the outskirts of Hythe! “We’re not here by choice, ma’am, I promise you,” he said. “But—we’re here! That’s the important thing. Can you direct me to the best road to Folkestone?”

  “Folkestone? Why, sir, that do be beyond Hythe! And you and your friend all over mud and so—”

  A colder hand than his own was clutching Glendenning’s heart. Scarcely daring to ask, he interrupted, “Is this not Hythe, ma’am?”

  “Bless yer—no, sir! This be my man’s farm, and I’d be snug ’twixt the sheets if it hadn’t been that some of they silly sheep got out of the pen. Hythe’s ’way up in Romney Marsh!”

  Glendenning’s voice sounded far away in his own ears when he said, “I had thought we were in Romney Marsh.”

  “Oh, poor gentleman! Ye’re in Denge Marsh. But if ye keep on a few miles ye’ll come to Rye, and—”

  “Rye!” The viscount’s shoulders slumped. Instead of riding to the northeast they were headed southwest! Once again they had travelled miles out of their way!

  * * *

  “Zur…?” The voice seemed to echo, but the hand that shook him was persistent.

  Glendenning opened his eyes and peered stupidly at the square, bronzed face hanging over him.

  “Ye said as Oi wuz to wake ye at four,” said the man in a broad Kentish accent. “And four it do be.”

  The viscount’s mind began to fit pieces together. The rain had ceased shortly after they’d left the farmhouse in Denge Marsh. Providentially, the high winds had blown the clouds away allowing a three-quarter moon to escape and light the soggy landscape, so that they’d been able to follow the road with less fear of stumbling into the mud again. Despite cold and fatigue, they’d plodded on doggedly and shortly before three o’clock had reached this small inn just south of Folkestone. To dismount had required a major effort, and the sleepy ostler’s suggestion of a hot toddy and a soft feather bed had been well nigh irresistible. From Folkestone they could reach Dover in an hour, but Glendenning, grimly aware that he might then have to turn about and gallop for Windsor, knew also that although he’d enjoyed little sleep the previous night, and was bone weary, he dare not stop to rest. Poor Morris had been slumped against his mount’s neck in a deep sleep, and had come down from the saddle in a rush when Glendenning tried to wake him. Deeply remorseful, he had only then recollected that two months earlier Morris had been sent home to recuperate from wounds suffered in the War of the Austrian Succession. It had been the deciding factor. He’d half-carried his exhausted friend into the warm parlour of the Black Sheep, and bespoken two rooms.

  Now, he pushed back the blankets and asked if a horse was saddled.

  “They’ll be ready when ye gets down to the yard, zur. I bringed ye some hot water and a razor, and me old lady got most o’ the mud off yer boots, but they’re still something damp, surely.”

  “My friend is unwell, I don’t want him wakened.” Glendenning pulled his topboots on, and began to shave quickly with the none-too-sharp razor. “How is the weather? Shall any craft be able to set sail, d’ye think?”

  The man pursed up his lips. “Wind be summat fierce, zur. Was ye meaning here? Or upalong to Dover?”

  The razor arrested, Glendenning glanced at him. “Is there a difference?”

  “Open sea hereabouts, zur. Dover do have the big Harbour and a’many shippings, and with the wind in this quarter … No, sur. Them as had to sail quick-loike ’smorning, put their ships into our cove early yestiday when weather started to blow up.”

  “Do you say that there will be some sailings today, but that they’ll be from here?”

  “So Oi do rackon, zur. Less’n it blows up a full gale, loike.”

  Glendenning sent him off with
an order for coffee and toast. His coat and cloak had, to an extent, been dried by the fire, but his wig would have benefitted from comb and tongs and his tricorne looked sadly wilted. Untroubled by such minor concerns, he hurried downstairs. The enticing smells of coffee and burning logs hung on the air. Lamps were glowing in the parlour, and a fire was already licking up the chimney. He went to the low latticed casements and peered into a blustery darkness with just a finger of lighter grey outlining the eastern horizon. Leaning on the sill, he wondered if it was possible that their disastrous journey had actually been a godsend: if they had all unknowingly come to the very spot at which Trethaway might be forced to embark. Such luck seemed unlikely but, by Jupiter, he’d make damned sure of it before he rode one mile toward Dover!

  The rattle of china brought him around from the window. “Blast!” he exclaimed.

  Morris sat by the fire, mug in one hand, and a thick slice of toast in the other. He turned to the viscount with a pale face but a bright smile, and waved the toast. “Help yourself, old sportsman.”

  Glendenning said quietly, “I’m a sorry dolt, Morris. I’d selfishly forgot you’re still recuperating. If you had but spoken up last night—”

  “Spoken up about what? We’re here, are we not?” Morris sneezed, and coffee splashed. Setting the mug aside, he reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Plenty of time, too,” he wheezed, taking up his mug again. “Doubt there’ll be any sailings ’til the wind drops.”

  “Not from Dover, at all events.” Glendenning gulped some coffee and bit into the savoury buttered toast. “But the host tells me that some vessels have put into a cove near here, so as to be able to sail with the morning tide.”

  Morris stared at him. “Have they, by Jove! Then—perhaps…?”

  “Exactly so.” Another swallow of coffee and he started to the door, toast in hand. “I’ll come back as soon as I learn—”

  Morris jumped up. “Be damned if I don’t think you’re trying to turn me off,” he said indignantly. “Well, you won’t do it, and so I tell you!”