“Send Ryde after me as soon as may be.”
Ottilia’s heart lurched as she saw the heavy pistol in his hand. “Pray don’t shoot anyone, Fan.”
“It is not my intention. But we will be few against many, and I need a deterrent.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Don’t be absurd! What is the use of an unloaded pistol?” Ottilia had no chance to respond to this, for the door to the back premises opened behind her and Ryde belted through.
“In good time,” Francis hailed him and headed out of the front door, throwing back a parting shot as he went. “Stay here, Ottilia!”
She watched him go, her heart thumping in her chest. Could he be in any real danger? How many were in the mob? What if they should turn violent towards those who sought to prevent them having their way? Francis could get in only one shot before they overwhelmed him. He would have no time to reload.
For several heart-stopping minutes, Ottilia stood frozen to the spot, regret teeming through her. Why had she insisted on coming here? If she should lose Francis, how could she ever live with herself? Bitterly she castigated herself for her selfishness. Never had it crossed her mind she could be sending her beloved into danger. She was little better than the murderer she sought.
Miss Beeleigh’s curt tone cut into her chaotic thoughts. “You’d best come and see this.”
Ottilia turned her head. “See what?”
Miss Beeleigh, who was standing in the doorway to the coffee room, jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
Hurrying across the hall, Ottilia felt heartily relieved to have suffered an interruption. As she struggled to pull herself out of her unaccustomed panic, it came to her belatedly that Miss Beeleigh had opted not, after all, to join the male element. Had she ever truly intended it, or was it mere bravado?
There was no time to decide, for as she entered the coffee room and looked out of the window in obedience to Miss Beeleigh’s encompassing gesture, she was obliged to confront the full horror of the situation.
“Oh, heavens above, they are setting up a stake!”
Chapter 14
Her husband’s injunction notwithstanding, Ottilia wasted no time in weighing the advisability of remaining in the Blue Pig. Her mind reeling with shock, she thrust through the hall again and wrenched open the heavy front door.
It had never crossed her mind that the villagers would truly go to these lengths. Had they taken leave of their senses? Her fear for Francis returned tenfold, but her feet raced across the cobbles in tune with the increasing rhythm of her pulse. Straining to see across the green, her darting glance took in a couple of men a little way off the Cock into the common land.
One had hold of a pole which had been set into the ground, while another, perched unsteadily upon a chair, pounded the top of it with a serviceable mallet. Coming from behind the tavern a gaggle of boys were running, burdened with armloads of faggots.
Ottilia became aware of Miss Beeleigh panting behind her and wasting precious breath on useless imprecations.
“Imbeciles! Who is that fool banging in the pole? Can’t see. Is it Will?”
The tapster? Ottilia was little acquainted with the man, except in his capacity as a beau fought over by the maids. It mattered little. Only one thing was in her mind. To call a halt to these proceedings before mob rule made it impossible to prevent a hideous miscarriage of justice.
As she came within hailing distance of the little group, Ottilia saw that several of those involved had ceased their labours to watch her approach. Which gave her a desperate hope they were not yet wholly given over to the loss of reason.
She shuddered to a stop, one hand at her stomach as she fought for breath. She did not lose sight of her own common sense. Useless to berate them.
“Who — is in charge — here?”
They looked at one another but were prevented from answering by Miss Beeleigh, who chose to do precisely what Ottilia was trying to avoid.
“Have you all run mad? Will, I thought it was you! Foolish fellow, what the deuce do you think you are doing?”
She was addressing the man in possession of the mallet, and the irate tone served only to put up the fellow’s back.
“Burning the witch, we be. Afore her does for someone else.”
“Is this Tisbury’s notion?” pursued Miss Beeleigh, striding up to the stake and laying hold of it. “There’s some excuse for the wretched man, but as for the rest of you —”
She got no further, for a furious Will leapt off his chair and pushed her violently away.
“You get off that, missus!”
Ottilia shot forward and grasped his arm, speaking with what calm she could muster. “Are you in charge?”
The tapster turned towards her, and Ottilia noted the red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks that told her the man was drink-sodden. But not so far gone that his pride could not be pricked.
“Aye. Master give me the office to make ready for to burn the witch.”
Ottilia kept a steady grip upon the fellow’s arm, ignoring the muttered oaths emanating from Miss Beeleigh, who was righting herself from a near fall.
“Do you understand, Will, that what you are doing is against the law? It is murder, and you may be hanged for it.”
This proved an unfortunate remark, for the tapster’s nostrils flared and he shook her off.
“Murder, aye. Bain’t yon witch done murder? First Duggleby and now the mistress. If’n Pilton bain’t arresting her, it be for the likes of us to finish her for good an’ all.”
“They are mad,” snapped Miss Beeleigh. “See here, Will —”
“Leave it, if you please,” said Ottilia so sharply that the other woman was startled enough to desist. She turned back to Will.
“You will not be permitted to do this. Tisbury and his mob will not get to Mrs. Dale.” She waved towards the bridge where a dozen or more persons were gathered in an unmoving knot. “They are already stopped, do you see?”
For a brief moment, as all heads turned towards the bridge, Ottilia dared to hope for a propitious outcome. And then Miss Beeleigh ruined all.
“Ha! You see, you craven bullies? Did you think you could ride roughshod over everyone? Fools! Madmen! How dare you? How dare you behave like this?”
With a sinking heart, Ottilia saw the frenzy return to the tapster’s eyes. Ignoring both women, he jumped up on his chair again, calling to the loitering boys.
“Bring they faggots! Hold the stake, Dick, whiles I bang it in more.”
Miss Beeleigh, red in the face and scowling, came up to Ottilia.
“No use! You’d best come away.”
By no means, but Ottilia did not waste her breath saying so. There must be help at hand, if one could only fasten upon the right person.
Thinking furiously, she looked beyond the immediate group, who had resumed their labours, the boys now starting to lay faggots around the base of the stake as Will hammered wildly with his mallet.
Spying a few stragglers standing in the road, apparently forming no part of the action, Ottilia ran her eyes across them and recognised Bessy, the maid from the Cock. She hurried across.
“Bessy! Where is Mr. Wagstaff?”
The girl looked both excited and scared. “Up to the doctor’s house, m’am. Said as how he were a-going to watch over the mistress while her be cut up.”
Ottilia turned back, looking for Miss Beeleigh. She was standing watching the action, hands on hips, making no further attempt to intervene.
“Miss Beeleigh!”
Her head turned, and she strolled across just as if there were nothing untoward occurring. “What is it, Lady Francis?”
“Pray go to Meldreth’s house and find Wagstaff.”
The woman’s brows rose. “What can he do?”
“He will not countenance this. Fetch him, if you please.”
Miss Beeleigh shrugged and began to move off. “If you wish it.”
“And hurry, I pray you!”
Thus adjured, t
he woman picked up her pace. As Ottilia turned to watch her go, she saw the vicar on the road at the far end of the green, haring down in the direction of the bridge. Trotting valiantly some way behind came Mr. Netherburn. Ottilia was tempted to call to him to come to her aid here, but she dared not stop any help arriving at the bridge where by far the bigger part of the trouble was situated.
The rumble of voices from there was growing, and Ottilia guessed they would need all the assistance they could get. She looked across but could not see Francis, nor his acolytes. One or two of the crowd appeared to have made it through, but as her eyes frantically searched towards Cassie’s cottage, she saw the burly form of Mrs. Dale’s servant Sam Hawes planted squarely ahead of the front door, awaiting them.
Breathing a faint sigh of hope, she looked around again for succour at her end of the proceedings and bethought her suddenly of Mr. Uddington.
Turning, she looked towards his establishment and saw him standing outside his shop door, watching. A flare of anger swept through her. Did he intend to do nothing to prevent this travesty? She raised her voice and waved.
“Mr. Uddington! Mr. Uddington!”
If he heard her, he made no sign, but continued to stand, his gaze fixed upon the growing pile of faggots about the improvised stake. Ottilia ran a little towards him and tried again.
“Mr. Uddington, will you not help me?”
His head turned, and sunlight glinted off his spectacles. But he did not raise his voice or a hand to acknowledge her. A horrid fear coursed through Ottilia. Had she read it wrong? Was it he, after all? Is this what he intended all along?
She began to feel desperate. Was there none here with enough humanity remaining to stop this madness? So be it. She must manage alone.
Turning, she crossed back towards the stake. As she did so, a voice suddenly called out behind her.
“Take care, m’am! They be after you! Run!”
She recognised the shrill tones of Bessy the maid and halted, looking warily about her. She could not see the tapster, but the rest of the group were standing about the stake, watching her. Too late, the hairs on her neck prickled, and she knew someone was behind her.
Before she could turn, a painful grip seized upon both her upper arms. Without thought, Ottilia struggled.
“Let me go! How dare you touch me? Let me go!”
“In league with the witch you be,” growled a voice in her ear. “Tisbury said.”
Numbing horror entered Ottilia’s chest as she recognised the maddened tones of Will the tapster. He was pushing her towards the stake.
“Tie her up!”
A curious sense of unreality overlaid Ottilia’s senses. This could not be happening. Somewhere underneath she was aware of stark terror coiled deep inside. But the present numbness made it possible to override it.
She made no further resistance and was vaguely astonished at the steady tone of her voice, which sounded to her own ears distorted and out of true.
“You cannot mean to do this. Do you not know who I am?”
“Witch’s ’complice, that’s who you be,” came the gruff response. “Tie her, I said.”
This to the little gathering ahead of them. In the periphery of her mind Ottilia knew the rest were hesitant, and a faint hope grew.
“Don’t do it,” she uttered in the same strange tone of spurious calm. “He is not himself. He does not mean it.”
She felt the outcome hanging in the balance for the space of several seconds. And then the gaggle of boys were grouping round her. Many hands seized her, muttering and chanting.
“Burn the witch. Burn the witch. ”
Ottilia felt she was dwelling in a dream. As if they played a macabre game, the boys dragged her through hastily shifted faggots to the pole. She had the oddest sensation of watching events unfold from outside herself, and she felt powerless to resist. Before she knew what had happened, her back was hard against the pole, her hands stretched behind it, and she could feel the cruel dig of ropes upon her wrists.
Her thoughts mirrored the sensation of floating, as if the world had slowed down around her.
How had she come to this? Francis would be so angry with her. Had he not told her to stay at the Blue Pig? She would have done better to obey him. How would she satisfactorily explain herself?
And then she caught the whiff of burning. Wonderingly she looked to see if they had indeed set fire to her. Her gaze cast vaguely about, and abruptly she saw it.
Will the tapster was coming from the direction of the Cock and Bottle, a flaming brand held high in his hand.
Reality swept over Ottilia in a wave, and the name engraved on her heart came screaming out of her lips.
The cry did not at first penetrate its meaning into the head of its intended recipient.
His pistol steady in his hand, Francis stood centre to the crowd, Pilton to one side, Ryde at the other. He was eye to eye with Tisbury, who was flanked by Farmer Staxton and others of whose identity Francis was unaware.
So far the barrier had held, reinforced by Pilton’s staff and Ryde’s rough, bare-handed disposal of those who had ventured to attempt a pass. At least two had been accounted for and were lying in the roadway nursing broken heads. Another was cooling off in the stream, Ryde having heaved him over the side of the bridge. They had lost only two, who slipped past while the defenders were occupied, and Francis was relying upon Sam Hawes to take care of those.
He had tried soft words, but they availed nothing with Tisbury, whose ale-ridden grief knew no bounds. Much of their success at holding the men at bay Francis attributed to the potations they had clearly been imbibing for some hours. “Francis!”
This time he heard it. His view of the green was necessarily restricted, but he had already noted the activity near the Cock without fully taking in its portent.
He looked across, and for a second or two his mind played him false. How in the world could they have the witch tied there when Cassie Dale was safely in her cottage?
“Francis!”
This time it hit him with the force of a bullet from his own gun. Tillie! They had Tillie!
The scene he had taken in but sparely now imprinted itself upon his inner vision. He could see the stake, the woman tied thereto, and the man with the flaring torch moving in.
Sheer instinct overrode every vestige of shrieking horror, giving way to such rage as he had never felt before, deadly and cold.
Without thought or feeling, he cocked his weapon and moved, and the barrel of his pistol set squarely in the centre of Tisbury’s forehead.
“Get out of my way.”
For an instant, Tisbury’s terror was reflected in his eyes. Then he swiftly backed off, knocking into the men behind.
In the spurious calm of an overlaid control, Francis saw every eye trained upon the gun. He paid no further heed but plowed through the crowd as they parted in haste before him.
As he reached the other side of the bridge, he saw Kinnerton arriving and threw him a brief nod. Then he took off, his heels flying over the grass, a single target in his eye, growing as he neared.
Tillie. His Tillie, fettered like a criminal.
She was quiet now, and Francis knew she waited for him, trusting in his strength. He willed his legs to run faster, instinctively holding his weapon high and tilted towards the heavens.
Within yards of the area, he squeezed the trigger, and the explosion shattered on the air.
Its effect was instantaneous. The entirety of the scene stilled, and Francis took it in as if it were a painting on a wall.
There was Tillie, staked and tied, surrounded by a group of youths and boys. To one side stood Will the tapster, from whose struggling hand the shopkeeper Uddington was wrenching the burning brand. A little way behind came a coterie of persons — Meldreth running, Wagstaff limping, and Miss Beeleigh bringing up the rear.
Reaching the scene, which sprang again to life, Francis pocketed his pistol as he heard the doctor’s thunderous voice.
“You villains! What are you about?”
But Francis had no words. Seizing a stout branch from the faggots, he set about any within reach, wielding this new weapon to excellent effect, indiscriminately beating all around the stake at heads and backs and legs even as his victims scrambled, yelping, to tunnel out of reach.
As the circle widened, he became aware of Ryde, similarly armed and doing excellent business on his own account. Without looking, he called out.
“Relieve me here, Meldreth!”
“With the greatest of pleasure,” snapped the doctor.
Francis stayed only to see the man pick up a useful weapon on his own account and take over the work, causing those who were not yet nursing bruises to retreat with alacrity.
Throwing away his stick, Francis went to Ottilia, where he discovered Miss Beeleigh already behind her, wrestling with the knots at her wrists.
His heart wrenched as he looked into Tillie’s white features and saw the pools of darkness in her normally clear gaze.
“I am with you, my darling,” he said swiftly and slid around behind.
Miss Beeleigh gave way as his fingers went directly to the knots. Cursing, he looked to find Ryde.
“Your pocketknife, man. Quickly!”
Without taking his eyes from the watching circle, his groom dived a hand into the recesses of his costume. Darting up, he handed over the instrument and danced back to the edge, inviting anyone who had a mind to come on and take his medicine.
None took up the offer, and Francis had a grim smile for Ryde’s black humour as he cut through the ropes holding Tillie prisoner.
Released, her knees buckled, but Francis was instantly there. He caught her and lifted her clear off the ground. “Thank God,” she whispered and sank into his hold. Francis carried her away towards the Blue Pig, the unchained rage now roaring in his chest.
Ottilia sipped at the liquid in the glass thrust unceremoniously into her hands by her irate spouse. The sensation of icy cold that had entered her limbs began to dissipate, but the quiver at her fingers threatened to upset the vessel at any moment.
Carefully she set it down on the coffee room table, uncomfortably aware of the raised voices in the hall beyond the closed door. From across the table she caught Mrs. Radlett’s anxious gaze.
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 59
