“I must apologize for the tardiness of our meeting. I can only plead the press of other business and a lack of cooperation from the weather.”
The hollow, whispering voice replied with equal forthrightness. “Welcome to Saxton Hall.” The gloved hand indicated a chair near his own. “Will you join us here by the fire?”
As Nigel Talbot accepted the proffered seat, his eyes settled on Erienne and warmed considerably, having such a wealth of beauty to feast upon. “ ’Tis good to see you again, Lady Saxton. I trust you’ve been well.”
“Very well, thank you.” She nodded stiffly as she returned the greeting.
Talbot’s gaze lingered overlong on the soft swell of her bosom displayed above her gown, and when he finally remembered himself and looked to the lord of the manor, he found that one facing him in the stilted silence of the room. Though the leather visage remained void of any human expression, he had the distinct impression that he had just foolishly trespassed where he should not have. It caused him to wonder how the Yankee could manage to escort the lady about the countryside when her husband seemed so possessive of her.
“I have brought some records of the rents I collected in your absence,” he stated, bringing forth the ledger. “Of course, you must understand that there have been expenses we’ve had to deduct, and they amount to a goodly sum. We’ve had to elect some officers for the protection of your lands and properties. The scavengers would have torn this place apart stone by stone, and then, too, there are not many folk who fancy having traitors in their midst.”
The masked head snapped up, and the rasping voice sounded sharp as Lord Saxton questioned, “Traitors? What do you mean?”
“Why, everyone knows your father sold his favors to Scotland. He married that old chieftain’s daughter…” Talbot waved his hand as he tried to recall. “What was her name? ’Twas so long ago, I fear I’ve forgotten.”
“Seton,” Lord Saxton answered bluntly. “Mary Seton.”
Nigel Talbot’s jaw sagged slightly in surprise. “Seton? You mean the same as Christopher Seton?”
“Aye.” The master of the house inclined his head. “The same. Kin by blood, they are.”
“Are?” Nigel caught the significance of the word. “You mean your mother is still alive?” He closed his mouth as the other nodded and tried to recollect his thinking, murmuring distantly, “I’m sorry, I thought the lady was dead.”
Lord Saxton leaned on his sturdy cane, commanding the other’s attention with his awesome appearance. “Though the miscreants sought to find and kill us all, we managed to escape. My mother lives.”
Talbot frowned slightly. “And the sons? What of them?”
Erienne’s interest perked, heightened by the singular word, sons. She had been under the impression there was only the one son, and now, once again, she was aware of how little her husband had told her of his family. He seemed most secretive about it, as if reluctant to share with her that part of his life. Though she continued to sit quietly through the exchange, she hung to every word of their discussion, hoping to glean some knowledge that she might otherwise not hear.
Lord Saxton answered the inquiry as he turned aside. “They escaped with her.”
“I must assume you are the oldest since you are the titled lord,” Talbot replied. “But what of the younger? Does he still live?”
The shadowed eyes flicked over the man. “I believe him to be in fine health. You will have the opportunity of meeting him face to face at a later date.”
Nigel Talbot managed a nod. “Of course, I would enjoy that.”
Lord Saxton waved a gloved hand to the ledger. “We were talking about the rents you collected. If that is your accounting of them, I shall look it over at my leisure.”
Talbot seemed reluctant to hand it over. “There are some expenses I should explain.”
“No doubt I’ll have many questions to ask after I study your figures,” his host responded. “My steward has kept his own accounting of the sum the tenants said were paid. ’Twill be interesting to see how well the two compare. ’Tis not often that a royal decree is handed down giving authority for one lord to collect rents for another. If you still have the dispatches issuing that directive, I should like to inspect the various seals and signatures. My steward has been unable to find a record of such a writ, and ’twill be helpful if he had the names of those who issued it.” Lord Saxton reached out a hand expectantly. “The ledger please.”
Erienne observed Lord Talbot’s struggle for control in the tensing muscles in his face. The man was obviously incensed, but his host left no options open to him. His nostrils were pinched, his mouth downturned as he grudgingly handed over the book.
“I shall take into account that there were moneys expended in the protection of my lands,” Lord Saxton stated as he set the book aside on the table. “And if I have any questions, you will be the first I ask. In the meantime, I shall send my man to fetch the dispatches…”
“I’ve…they’ve been misplaced.” Nigel Talbot’s face reddened as he struggled for an explanation. “After such a long time, you can hardly expect me to remember where they are.”
“I am a patient man,” Lord Saxton assured him almost pleasantly, despite the roughness of his voice. “Would a fortnight be enough time for you to find them?”
Talbot stammered a reply. “I’m…not sure.”
“A month then? We’ll say a month and see what comes of it. I’ll send my steward around about this time next month. That should be more than enough time.” The gloved hand clasped the other’s arm almost in a gesture of familiarity as Lord Saxton led the flamboyant man to the door. “ ’Twill take some time to look over the accounts, but I wish to assure you that our home is open to visitors whenever you and your charming daughter wish an outing. ’Twas good of you to answer my summons, and you may expect that I will be very thorough when estimating what your value has been toward these lands. I’m at your disposal whenever you wish an audience…except, of course, this Friday. I shall be going to Carlisle to attend some business.”
Lord Talbot was so enraged by the man’s audacity, he dared no comment. In the hall he gathered his outer garments and left with a stiff nod of farewell. Smiling behind the mask, Lord Saxton stood at the window and watched the carriage depart. He could almost feel pity for anyone living under Talbot’s roof, for surely the days ahead would not be pleasant for them.
“Stuart?”
He turned as he heard the questioning tone in his wife’s voice and the rhythmic tap of her heels as she came toward him. “Aye, my love?”
The expression on her face showed bemusement. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a younger brother?”
He took her hand into his. “ ’Twould frighten you, my love, if you knew all the secrets of the Saxtons. For now, the less you know, the better.”
“Then you are hiding something from me,” she pressed.
“In time, madam, you will learn all there is to know about me and my family. Until then, I beg you to trust me.”
“ ’Tis a dangerous game you play with Lord Talbot,” she warned. “You make me afraid when you deliberately taunt the man.”
Laughter wheezed from the mask. “I’m merely offering him a little meat to chew. ’Tis the best way I know to determine whether he’s really a lamb or a wolf under all that fancy fleece.”
Erienne smiled ruefully. “He does look a bit overdressed.”
Lord Saxton leaned both hands on his cane, and his voice came in a sibilant whisper. “Aye, madam, and though the act would not prove as delightful as undressing you, I intend to strip the man bare.”
Chapter Seventeen
ON that following Friday, Lord Saxton’s personal landau pulled up in front of a rather nondescript town house in Carlisle. The darkly garbed figure stepped down and half turned as he spoke to Bundy, who remainded in the driver’s seat.
“I shall be here several hours. Return for me near dusk.” He thrust a finger into his waistcoat pocket and toss
ed up a couple of gold coins. “Here, have yourself an ale or two and take your ease, but mind you don’t spend too much in any one place.”
Bundy grinned back. “Do ye expect an accounting, milord?”
His lordship responded with a low, amused grunt. “See that it’s well spent, Bundy.”
“Aye, that I will, milord.”
Lord Saxton turned and made his way to the door of the town house, there to rap boldly upon its planks, while Bundy slapped the reins and guided the four-in-hand through the narrow streets, keeping them at a prancing trot that made bystanders turn and stare. He knew precisely where he was going and did not slacken the display of the magnificent steeds until he reached the first of the waterfront taverns. By the time he scrambled down from the high seat, he had gathered a worthy audience The coat of arms on the carriage door attracted nearly as much attention as the team, and when a tankard of good, cool ale made its way from the tavern into his hand by way of a generous soul, Bundy carefully explained that both team and carriage belonged to the lord of Saxton Hall, who was at that very moment attending to some important business a few streets away. There was little enough to be said about his lordship, except that he would be returning to the manse come eveningfall. He allowed those who would to admire the animals before making his departure with the two gold coins still secure in his purse.
Minding well his master’s words, Bundy passed on to the next inn, the next pub, the next tavern, where with almost boring repetition the carriage and team always drew notice, and he was put to pains to explain them. At each place he was the recipient of an offering of an ale or two, and with an alacrity that betrayed his thirst, he showed his appreciation for the gifts and his delight to boast of his master’s fine steeds.
It was almost a relief when the appointed hour finally drew nigh, and the afternoon of tippling and sippling was broken off. He returned to the simple town house and was admiring the gold coins when the front door opened and the crippled one appeared.
“This one didn’t even cost ye a mite, milord,” Bundy said, chuckling. He displayed the gleaming coins and made as if to toss them down, but a gloved hand raised to halt him.
“The next ones will be on me.”
Bundy smiled and pocketed the pair. “Thank ye kindly, milord.”
When Lord Saxton stood ready to mount, he glanced back toward the town house. A drapery on a higher floor was drawn aside, and the dainty kerchief of a woman could be seen waving good-bye. He raised his own hand briefly, then climbed inside, pulling the door shut behind him. A moment later his cane rapped sharply on the carriage roof, and Bundy clucked to the horses, setting them into their high-stepping action.
They left Carlisle and a few miles down the road wandered through the small village of Wrae. Once clear of the town, Bundy roused the team to a swifter gait, and by the time full night was upon them, they were several miles into their journey home.
The road wound through the broken foothills and down into the narrow coastal plains that would return them back to Saxton Hall. The black shapes of great oaks were pillared with stately grace on either side of the ancient road. Rock walls bordered small farms where a dim candle or a lantern marked a cottage, and here and there they rattled over the hand-hewn slabs that Roman legions had laid.
The hours waned, and across the velvet expanse of the bejeweled night sky the coy half moon played tag with chasing clouds. The lamps of the carriage cast dancing shadows on either side, and at times it seemed that they were pursued by a strange, elusive flock. They swept by a denser copse of trees some distance down the road, and with their passing, another noise joined the rumble of the wheels, a sound of many hooves. Nervously Bundy glanced back over his shoulders and saw behind them a group of dark-clad horsemen leaving the copse. He rapped the butt of his whip sharply on the roof of the coach, then cracked the long tail of it over the backs of the team, urging them into a pace that far exceeded the showy trot. Though comfortable, the landau was light and built for speed, and the four beasts that drew it were powerful in their stride. Each animal knew its place and was well matched to the ability of the others. They stretched out, and the following horsemen were hard pressed even to maintain their distance. A few wild shots were fired, falling well short of their mark, and then the pursuers settled down to the chase, frenziedly whipping their horses to a greater effort.
Horsemen will argue for years to come the merits of a man on a horse or in a cart behind, but here the race was well laid out, and the four straining beasts in their gleaming leather harnesses set a wicked pace indeed. Those behind were bent on reaching the conveyance and bringing it to a halt. But always the landau remained just out of their reach.
A sweeping curve that would take the quarry out of sight appeared in the road ahead of them, and the huntsmen raced the faster, not wishing to give the prey time to turn aside and hide. They thundered around the bend, and for a moment broke their stride, confused. The carriage still raced in the distance, but in its wake a single man stood high in the stirrups with a hooded cloak flaring wide in the night breeze. His horse gleamed moonstone black, and its long mane and tail flew like ebon gonfalons in the wind. Their puzzlement was replaced with a grinding determination to see this one ridden down, and they had no mind to swerve as they spurred their mounts on. The apparition raised an arm, and at its end a great bore of a pistol stared back at them. A flash, a roar, and with a half-screaming grunt, one of the charging pack was flung from his saddle and fell crashing to the ground. The other arm of the ghostly one raised, and it, too, bore a weapon. Another flash, another roar, and another one crumpled and, after a pace or two, slid quietly from his steed to roll beneath the following hooves.
The single rider jammed the pistols into the saddle holsters, and with a keening cry, lifted high a wickedly shining saber. He set spur to the stallion he rode and charged headlong into their midst, sending the flock scattering in wild flight as he whipped the saber back and forth among them. Before the highwaymen gathered their wits, another fell, slashed fatally from shoulder to hip. The blade flashed again in the moonlight and hid itself momentarily in the chest of another.
The brigands could not face this specter from the night. Their minds were full of terrifying memories of an exploding cave, burning tents from which they had fled, and of that same black, glistening steed rearing high and echoing his master’s cry with a piercing whinny. Their low-bred mounts pitched and balked as the stallion whirled in their midst, snorting and lashing out with flashing hooves. A man screamed as the thirsty, blood-reddened blade laid open his arm to the bone. The reins dropped from his numbed hand, and his horse took flight, bouncing and leaping across the rock-strewn sod until it crashed into a low stone wall. Upended in its terror, the steed spilled its rider onto the rocks. Then the ravaging banshee spurred his demon steed at the three who were as yet untouched, but they spun their mounts about and fled, lest his vengeance take them too.
Behind the rock wall, the wounded man cowered and tried to crawl away as the ghostly form rode toward him. The man sobbed for pity, and the night rider halted his mount for a moment, contemplating the miserable coward. Like a bird alighting from flight, the nighthawk came to ground, his cloak spreading wide and then settling around him in the manner of folding wings. He leaned down, his face still hidden in the long, cowled hood, and seized the neck of the man’s shirt. The garment was ripped clear in a single stroke, and to the wounded one’s bemusement, the other bound his arm and stanched the bleeding, tying the bandage tight. The specter stood back and, drawing the saber, rested its tip in the turf.
“Ye may live.” The voice was harsh and full of anger. “A sorry plight for a niggardly coward as yerself, but that will also depend on what ye tell me in the next few moments.”
The highwayman glanced about in roweling trepidation. The carriage had halted a distance down the road, but the driver appeared loath to come back and held his distance warily.
“You have a camp?” the night rider demanded.
>
“Aye, a small one.” The man’s voice quavered as he answered. At any moment the blade might lift and flash, taking his life from him as it had Timmy Sears’. “ ’Ere’s no more big ones now. We’re all over now, an’ only the captain knows where the supplies are kept. And the booty, too,” he eagerly volunteered. “They won’t let us ’ave any ’til ye’re caught, they said.” His information spent, he huddled close against the rocks, awaiting the probability of his fate.
“If ye’re of a mind, ye might hie yerself back to yer captain,” the eerie voice sneered, “but I’ve heard the price of failure for yer kind is more often death. I will give ye life. If ye spend it cheaply, ’tis yer account. My advice would be to catch a horse and see yerself well into the South of England and hope yer captain’s spies do not find ye out.”
The man trembled and shrank, squeezing his eyelids shut and bobbing his head while a small, squeaking sound issued from his throat. When he opened his eyes again, he was alone. Even the carriage was gone. A saddled horse grazed nearby, and he needed no second prompting. What the demon rider said was true. ’Twas whispered well among his companions that those who failed the captain’s bidding were never found to have a second chance.
A Rose in Winter Page 42
