Chapter 53
Sir Walter St Martin wondered if he would be permitted to keep his knighthood or whether he should ask for a French title.
Marquis St Martin sounded wrong. It did nothing to improve his mood.
Sitting on the back of the covered army wagon, he anxiously watched the road as it fell out of the light of their lanterns.
It was a coastal thoroughfare, broad enough for two coaches to pass each other, but the army wagon was heavier and slower, so it followed behind his son’s coach.
For the moment Walter was glad for the separation.
George’s confidence had edged towards insolence in recent weeks.
He did not share his eldest son’s confidence in the plan.
It was already off target from his perspective, thrown into disorder by the appearance of Oliver and the Elliot sisters.
They should have had several days before anyone suspected their involvement; more than enough time to be on the Continent and clear of British law.
But beyond that, he felt the sting of the reproach that had been in the eyes of his youngest son.
He had never been close to Oliver, and he had known well enough that this betrayal of nation would never be forgiven.
But to experience that firsthand was something he had not anticipated.
They might now be safely secured in the cellar, but that cold final look from his son followed them along the road.
He only hoped he could outrun it once they were at sea.
The mercenary beside him wasn’t anxious, merely bored and looking forward to his payday.
The idle man toyed with a bayonet in his hand, taken earlier in the night from a young army man.
There had been two guards not on Sir Walter’s payroll and an army clerk as an official.
They would be found floating in a river the next day at the earliest, too late to stop them.
St Martin and son had sunk far these past months.
His only hope was the fortune that was to be their reward. Until then all he could do was wait.
‘Do you hear hooves?’ Sir Walter asked his companion.
‘Of course I do. We’re on a coach.’
As a knight of the kingdom, Sir Walter was not used to such insubordination, but then he supposed that title would not be with him long. Or perhaps with anyone.
‘Not us, you fool. Behind us.’ Sir Walter peered into the night, but could make out no sign. Their lanterns only lit so far, not designed for broadcasting.
But he could hear it. He was sure he could hear it.
The longer he looked, the more sure he was that he could make out something. A dark shape that wove slightly from side to side. A shape getting closer. Or was it simply his imagination, his nerves on edge and his mind playing tricks on him as he stared into the abyss?
‘I think you’re right,’ the mercenary said, leaning forward.
The confirmation did nothing to ease Sir Walter’s tension.
He saw it now. A small coach. A phaeton perhaps, black fabric flapping in the wind, a single dark horse drawing it forward.
It had no lights. Madness on a night like this. The distant light cast from the rear of the army coach could offer no more than a guide point, revealing nothing of the road. The driver would be all but blind.
And yet he was sure it was coming closer.
He drew his pistol and fired into the darkness, immediately regretting it.
At this range there was no chance of hitting anything, and reloading on a moving coach would be no easy feat.
How far was it to the headland? It couldn’t be more than half an hour now.
Who could have followed them? What rider would be out in the dark like this?
It made no sense. Yet again the plan was coming unravelled.
The mercenary beside him was of sterner disposition and had greater experience with coaches and crime. He lifted his rifle, but did not fire blindly, instead waiting for a clearer shot. No matter how brave the driver was, boldness would not stop a bullet.
Sir Walter strained his eyes as the dark coach drew closer still. Fluttering cloth seemed to billow around it like smoke in the night. Like sails on land. It was unearthly.
Beside him the mercenary lifted his rifle to his shoulder once more, watching closely. The nearer the coach came, the better he could make out the detail. A single horse. A strange, stripped-down frame. A tall driver and a short messenger side by side, dressed in black.
It was only shapes. But shapes were all he needed.
He gripped the barrel, bracing himself, feeling the shake of the coach and readying the shot. He pulled the trigger and the driver twitched as the bullet hit home.
Then continued as if nothing had happened.
Sir Walter and the mercenary exchanged glances; equally confused.
Suddenly their shadowy pursuer swerved, slowing as it left the road.
From a different angle they could make out the shape better, the odd dark sails and lantern light pouring from a narrow shutter, downwards behind the vehicle.
Why on earth would you light the undercarriage behind your vehicle? asked a voice in the man’s head.
‘To follow!’ he gasped.
He swept his eyes back to the main road where two horse-drawn coaches were now bearing down on them.
‘We’re under attack!’ screamed Sir Walter. He began trying to load his pistol, but he was panicked and the coach speed made it near impossible.
The mercenary beside him was more clear-headed, but the task of reloading his rifle was no easy one.
He glanced up at the coaches, now close enough to make out vague shapes and faces, though their lanterns were aimed forward, flashing in his vision.
One coach he was unfamiliar with; either driver or messenger.
On the other sat Captain James Dashwood and Lucy Elliot.
Dashwood he understood. The man had vexed him for months.
That he should return at this critical moment was frustrating but almost inevitable.
But Lucy? The girl to whom he had given jam?
‘Capsicums,’ he corrected himself quietly, followed by, ‘It doesn’t matter!’ very loud.
Things were falling apart. Lucy Elliot wasn’t meant to be here. It meant she had escaped. If that was true, then others might already be on their trail.
Beside him the mercenary finished reloading his rifle. This time he wasn’t going to waste a shot at the coaches. He began to take aim at the closest horse to him.
A crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder.
The mercenary winced, but didn’t fire, immediately turning to the woman in the long coat seated in the messenger position. Gritting his teeth, he raised the rifle towards her, ready to strike her down before she could reload.
Had he the time, he might have admired the technical prowess of Elsa Reinhardt, and wished that he himself had a weapon that could reload so quickly.
But he did not have time. What he did have was a second crossbow bolt in his throat. He tumbled off the side of the army wagon, rolling into a ditch as the two coaches sped past him.
‘Go faster!’ Sir Walter yelled at the driver. He had abandoned trying to load his pistol, finding such complex fine action impossible.
To his very slight relief the wagon driver seemed to heed his command, speeding up enough that the gap between them and their pursuers seemed to widen.
He didn’t care whether it was the driver urging them on or the reduction of one body’s weight.
All that mattered was that they were finally gaining ground.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they would escape after all.
There was a thump. He heard metal hitting wood, but not a bullet.
Not a crossbow bolt either. It sounded too heavy.
Sir Walter looked at the thick metal bar and followed it up the rope, back to the chasing coach.
It took several seconds for him to process what had happened.
It was a harpoon. His coach had been harpooned.
Sir Walter St Martin lost what remained of his mind.