“I’faith! You may have the solution, sir. A mill wheel whirls, does it not? And the mill pond is a manner of pool.” If the men he was tracking were foreign, they might not know the English words associated with mills. It was worth a try.
“Where’s the nearest watermill? It won’t be far from Ralston Hill, where they’re expecting me to give myself up to them.”
“There’s an old fulling mill up by the crossroads, but it hasn’t been used for years.”
Anticipation shot up Robert’s spine. A crossroads! This could well be the traitors’ hideout.
In moments, he’d been shown on the map where to find the place. The issue now was how best to conduct a rescue. If he raised enough men to storm the place, there was always a risk that Chloe would be hurt during the fighting. Besides which, there were none of Walsingham’s men for miles as far as he was aware, and he’d no expectation of seeing Tilshead or Whiteley before they returned to the inn at three o’clock.
He’d have to go alone. He would plan his strategy after he’d had a good look at the place—and if he needed reinforcements, he’d return to the inn for them. He knew Hazelthwaite had joined in many a hue and cry and could swing a club with some ferocity.
Robert reached into his secret pocket and pulled out his dispatch, “Sir—I’m going to the mill to rescue Mistress Emmerson. I charge you to tell no one where I’m gone unless I fail to return by nightfall. This packet must not leave your sight until either Master Tilshead or Master Whiteley returns. Pass it to whoever reaches here first, with the strict injunction that he takes it to London with all speed. Tell my other associate that no one is to follow me to the mill before nightfall—the safe delivery of the dispatch takes precedence over the preservation of my sorry hide.”
The landlord provided him with the swiftest horse in the stables. As Robert mounted up, he reflected bitterly on the damage he’d inadvertently caused Chloe. Had he not pressed his attentions on her, and undoubtedly been seen doing so by one of the traitors, she would have remained safe.
Damn him for a fool! He should never have allowed himself to be distracted by her. Now, she was paying the price of his folly. He would never forgive himself if any harm came to her. And nor would Sir Mortimer Fowler.
Chapter Eighteen
Chloe blinked painfully at the glare beating on her face through the empty window, and wished there was some way of finding distraction. Her mind refused to relinquish the image of her driver’s haggard face, as their attackers beat and bullied him. She’d never witnessed such brutality before, and she still felt sick.
She must take stock of her situation and decide what to do. Currently, she was tied to a rickety chair in a bare room, with bonds that cut painfully into her flesh. Her kidnappers had subjected her to no further violence after the initial slap on the face she’d received for going to the driver’s rescue. Her jaw still ached from the impact, and she could taste blood. She’d neither screamed nor spoken since then, only glared balefully at the ruffians who’d imprisoned her in the old mill.
With—so she thought—great presence of mind, she’d pretended to faint when they tied her to the chair. She’d remained apparently insensible ever since, in hopes of learning what was to become of her. Why her abductors had taken her in the first place was a mystery. Surely, there was no value in her as a prisoner?
What she’d gathered thus far—judging by the distinctive accent of the most senior rogue—was that some of her captors were Spaniards. One of the foreigners had since departed, leaving her in the custody of two men.
“Are you sure? Where’s her ring?” The speaker, who had a definite Spanish accent, kept his voice to a whisper.
Chloe peeped through her eyelashes. Her two guards were hard to see in the gloom, but the Spaniard was of a slim build and appeared well-dressed. The other man looked rougher, and brawny to boot.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Mayhap she lost it,” growled the latter. “Or that felon from Southampton who told Harris about the courier stole it. Once a thief, always a thief, say I.”
“Harris’ note described only two on the cart. This is certainly the woman he meant. She arrived with Walsingham’s man, Mallory, and they took a room together. Where is Señor Harris? He should have returned by now.”
“Ask her,” the Englishman replied. “Or better still, let me question her.”
Chloe shivered at the lustful menace in his voice. Now all was clear. Weasel Face—or Master Harris, to give him his true name—hadn’t been working alone. One of his cronies had seen her and Robert together and thought them husband and wife. They knew Robert worked for Walsingham, and she was now to be used as a bargaining counter for the release of Harris.
It would take but a word to dash their hopes, but what would become of her if they knew the truth? Nay, it was safest to let them believe she was Robert’s wife—at least then they had reason to preserve her life—for the moment.
She must have stirred when the full horror of her situation struck her, for the Spaniard was instantly between her and the light. She gazed up at him blearily, then shrank back in apparent fright.
“Have no fear, Señora. We have no plans to harm you now. I warn you not to scream since no one can hear you. Any noise from you will make us angry.” He leaned closer. “Your husband—he loves you, yes?”
She nodded rapidly, doing her best to seem like a terrified and helpless female. If she could put them at their ease, she might be able to outwit her captors.
“Then you will not wait long. My man will bring him here for you.”
It was a relief when he moved away from her. She couldn’t believe how numb she felt. Mayhap she should imagine this was a nightmare from which she’d awaken—then she could view her predicament with detachment and devise some scheme. Only—nothing was coming to mind just now.
How much had changed in the few short days since she’d met Sir Robert Mallory! Escaping her dull life had been a disaster. Had she truly been bemoaning the boredom of existence with Aunt Philippa and Uncle Matthew? At least she’d been safe with them. Would marriage to Lord Brooke actually have been a fate worse than death?
She’d grown up a lot in the last few hours. Now, her life was at stake. If she escaped this adventure with her skin whole, she vowed never to complain again.
What of Robert? Perchance her captors wouldn’t find him. Mayhap, considering the circumstances of their parting, he’d have no inclination to save her anyway. He could just tell the traitors she was no wife of his, and that they could do what they liked. He had other, more important business to attend to.
Nay—surely he’d not abandon her? He owed her that much after the way he’d treated her.
But what if he did come and was killed trying to free her? How could she live with herself then, knowing the cruel things she’d said to him? Moaning softly, she let her head droop forward as if she’d fallen back into her swoon.
She heard the two men leave the room and climb down the ladder which led to the floor below. As soon as their footsteps died away, she raised her head again. Dust danced where they’d walked, and the breeze of their passing wafted the grey cobwebs festooning the massive rods of the milling mechanism.
She glanced around. There were probably many ways of escape—an old watermill was not the most secure building in which to keep a prisoner. There’d be hatchways and inspection shafts through which someone small could climb—Sim from the White Hart, mayhap? Would Robert have the presence of mind to bring Sim?
For the next hour or so, in dismal solitude, Chloe’s fervent prayers wavered between her desire for Robert to rescue her and her desperate hope that he would not risk his life for her sake. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that her abductors would not keep their word. Robert would come to negotiate her freedom—and then they would both be murdered.
Only, Robert would probably be tortured before they killed him.
Chapter Nineteen
When Robert finally rea
ched the crossroads, having kept off the highway as much as possible, the afternoon was drawing to its close. In the distance, he could hear the weary voices of the harvesters and the occasional clack of wheels as the full carts swayed back to the farmyards. The air was thick with flies, and his body itched uncomfortably, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat.
Anger kept him going. Each time he thought of that passionate but innocent woman in the foul traitors’ clutches, his stomach clenched in rage. Though it hurt that they hadn’t parted as friends, Chloe had said nothing to him that he didn’t deserve. She could have ranted and raved and threatened to destroy him—which was quite possibly in her power—but she had not. Which showed her to be levelheaded and forgiving—as well as stunning and enticing.
After the incident in the stable, he also admired her courage and power of recovery. Any other young woman would have gone to pieces with a gun pointed at her. But she’d kept her wits about her. Whoever won her heart would be truly blessed, and never in want of loving—or as much affection as a man could wish for.
Robert found himself envying the imagined gentleman. How very regrettable that he had spoiled his own chances.
He must put the shameful incident of that attempted seduction behind him. And forget that she’d refused his offer of marriage. What mattered now was to extricate them both from this mess in one piece—he would worry about the consequences later.
When the rhythmic trickling of the river reached his ears, he reined in and dismounted, then tethered the horse where it could drink and reach sweet grass. If the beast made any noise in his absence, it was unlikely to be heard over the roar of the millrace.
Sneaking up to the mill unnoticed would be hot, slow work. Stripping down to shirt and hose, Robert hid the rest of his clothing beneath a leafy bush of ground elder. Biting back his eagerness, he forced himself forward at a snail’s pace, unwilling to make any movement or sound out of keeping with the sleepy afternoon. It would not do to send up a flight of squawking rooks or clattering pigeons to give away his presence.
With infinite patience, he edged closer to the sound of gushing water, until the dark stems of goat willow in front of him were interrupted by a creamy mass of whitewashed brick and timber. This must be the abandoned fulling mill he sought.
The workings of watermills had not been considered an essential part of Robert’s training in espionage but, hopefully, he’d quickly understand the layout of the structure. As he crept nearer, he saw wooden steps leading up to a wide doorway. At their foot lounged a shadowy figure.
An arrow of hope shot through him. If there was a guard, then there must be something worth guarding—Chloe was here, for sure. He crouched low in the grass, taking stock of the situation. He ought to work his way around to the other side of the mill to come at the fellow from behind. But that would cut into whatever time remained to him. If he wasn’t at the rendezvous at five, Chloe’s life would be forfeit, and the plotters would make their escape. There had to be another way.
To his left, a roach leaped for a fly and disappeared with a resounding plop. That was a good plan—he could swim around, avoiding the path that led to the mill. He’d have to leave his sword behind, but taking to the water would buy him valuable minutes. Stowing his blade beneath a distinctive patch of briars, he removed his boots and nether hose and concealed those, too. Armed only with the knife in his belt, and his dagger between his teeth, he slipped into the water.
The noise of the millrace filled his ears. Water swirled around him as he bent low under the cover of the bank, fighting against the flow. Somewhere farther upstream, the ancient sluices controlling the water must be breaking up, or he would have struggled to make any headway against the frothing mass.
Up ahead was the great mill wheel, choked with weeds and debris swept down by the winter floods. It turned no longer but hung grey and dripping above him, an abandoned relic. The cascade poured over and around the wheel, its spokes and paddles bent and broken from the ceaseless onslaught. Shaking his head free of the spray, Robert clung to a nearby tree root and considered his options.
An opening above the shaft led from the mill wheel into the building—a maintenance hatch, mayhap. If he could squeeze through there, he might take some of the occupants by surprise.
He slipped and slid as he dragged himself up the wheel, his injured foot protesting at every step—but anger urged him on. Eventually, balanced precariously atop the wheel—and praying it wouldn’t shift—he tackled the little wooden door. This steadfastly refused to budge until he’d all but ruined the blade of his knife on it and eased it free. As soon as the hatch gave, he crawled through into the shadowy interior.
Pausing a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he shook the moisture from his hair and brushed it from his body. The fewer drips he left to mark his progress through the building, the better.
Gazing around, he found he was in a broad, plank-floored room, full of huge cogs and massive wooden fulling hammers. He could just about make out a flight of steps leading up from the floor below and another, little more than a ladder, leading to the story above.
If possible, he should dispatch the main guard first. That would aid either Tilshead or Whiteley, if they came after him. Choosing the door that he assumed led to the external stairway, Robert crept forward and opened it as silently as he could.
His assault took all the strength, cunning, and speed that he could muster. First, he incapacitated the door guard with a blow on the head from a loose wooden board. Seizing the fellow’s dag as he lay sprawled upon the steps, Robert put his dagger between his teeth like a tar boarding an enemy vessel and returned to the interior.
He could hear muffled voices above. With infinite patience, he stole softly up the steps. The next chamber held two men, one of whom had his back to Robert. The other let out a startled oath. Dispatching the nearer one with his dagger, Robert used him for a shield as the other rogue readied a knife to throw at him. The weapon never left the man’s hand—Robert flung himself at the fellow’s legs, knocking the breath from his lungs, and the blade from his grip.
But this opponent was stronger than he’d have liked. They wrestled in the dust, the other man blocking his blows with sinewy strength. Fortunately, the fellow didn’t seem aware of the gaping hatchway in the wall behind him. With grim determination, Robert drove his foe backward. Then he spun with his back to the hole and suddenly relaxed his body, falling to his knees. Caught off balance, his opponent wavered on the edge of the opening. It took no more than a rough shove to send the man crashing out and downward. A sickening thud marked his arrival on the ground beneath.
Heart pumping fit to burst, Robert pressed himself into the shadows beneath the steps and listened. Had the sounds of their combat been heard above the rushing of the water? Had any sound penetrated whatever place Chloe was captive in? If so, he must move fast to save her.
Except for the soft drip, drip of blood easing slowly from the stabbed man’s wound, there was no sound from the rest of the mill. However, there were at least two more conspirators to deal with—assuming the Weasel’s information was correct. Robert had been fortunate just now, but would his luck hold? If only he had two guns rather than just the one—he could shoot first and ask questions later.
Offering up a silent prayer, he began his slow progress up the steps. When he realized the next level was deserted, he hurled his knife across the floor to draw his remaining enemies out.
A man cursed on the floor above and shouted down something he couldn’t make out. Holding the dag readied by his ear, Robert waited, and eventually heard stealthy footfalls descending the steps. The stairway was so steep and narrow, it was only possible to come down it backward. Knowing he had to incapacitate as many enemies as possible to ensure Chloe’s safety, Robert fired as soon as he had a clear shot.
There was a great yell, and the heavy body collapsed down the steps. Robert’s shot was instantly followed by another from above—fired without skill,
as all it did was remove a chunk of plaster from the wall behind him.
He slipped silently underneath the steps, reached up as high as he could, and as soon as the man who’d fired the gun trod on the top step, he caught his foot. The fellow lost his balance and tumbled down on top of his fallen comrade.
Before he could regain his feet, Robert fell upon him, dagger in hand, but the rogue threw up a powerful arm to deflect the blow. The man’s gun went spinning across the floorboards, but he was up instantly, a narrow-bladed dagger in his hand. There was a second firearm tucked into his belt.
Robert glared at this new opponent, who was so quick on his feet and formidably armed. He was expensively dressed and sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His eyes were dark and his complexion swarthy. He gave Robert a mocking smile.
“Sir Robert Mallory. We meet at last.” The man’s accent had a Spanish lilt to it. He glanced at the body lying by the foot of the steps. “I see you are not averse to the destruction of your own countrymen. Mayhap if King Philip was to wait a little longer, all you English heretics would destroy one another and save us the trouble.”
“I didn’t come here to talk. Where’s Mistress Emmerson?” Robert’s fingers clenched on the handle of his dagger. He wasn’t happy about that second gun.
“The pretty lady? Oh, she’s quite well. And now I have two fine, fat pigeons for the making of bargains.” As he said this, Robert saw the man’s hand move toward his belt, and launched himself at the Spaniard’s feet.
The ball went wide, but the report of the gun elicited a shriek from above. Robert froze—Chloe! Before he could move, the Spaniard had slipped out of reach and spun around, tossing his dagger from hand to hand and grinning evilly.
Wasting no time, Robert closed with his foe but was too late to prevent a blow that sliced agonizingly across his upper arm. He gritted his teeth, white fury now raging within him. If he had to die to save Chloe, so be it, but he’d damned well take that swine Spaniard with him. He flung himself forward with a yell, but his bad foot caught on the uneven floor and he went down with a crash.
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 9
