Chapter 17 Lieutenant Denny
LIEUTENANT DENNY
A farewell for the officers was planned for the last Friday of January. The officers’ wives had, rain permitting, chosen a pretty meadow near Meryton bordered by elm forest and the river that meandered through Hertfordshire.
Although I had no desire to encounter Mr. Wickham, I was determined to go. I was fond of several officers and wives, and Mr. Wickham could not cause trouble at a public event. Let him hide. I would not.
Or, I had thought I would not. The day dawned clear, but windy and rimed with a white frost, so I arrived at the meadow wrapped in four petticoats, a wool skirt, a jacket, a muff, two scarves, and a woolen hat over my cap.
Lieutenant Denny somehow recognized me under my bundle, and when we spoke, I discovered that Mr. Wickham did, in fact, hide.
“Wickham is off in the woods again,” Denny told me. “Shooting, perhaps. He is obsessive about his marksmanship. He said he might arrive late, but I do not expect him.”
His tone was displeased, almost angry. Distrustful.
“You do not sound disappointed,” I said.
“Pardon me.” He gave an apologetic smile. “I am distracted. Would you excuse me?”
I watched him walk away, then be intercepted by Kitty. I was certain I had not misunderstood.
Fires and coal braziers had been lit to warm tea and chocolate, and they became the center of huddled groups. I chatted with officers and wives, ending with Colonel Forster and his new wife, Harriet, who was only seventeen.
She was enthusiastic about their move to Brighton. “Oh, I shall so enjoy the society. Brighton is an event. It is very exciting!”
“I am glad,” I said, amused.
“And I know Lydia will adore it!”
“I beg your pardon?” I had no idea what she meant.
“She hasn’t told you? How droll! I’ve invited her to visit. I should be quite lost without Lydia to explore the shops.”
“How droll, indeed.” That explained my sister’s smug expression over dinner. She was clever not to mention it to me. Had she asked Papa already?
“Forgive my wife,” the colonel said, glowing with the affection of a new husband, and, in the annoying manner of men, glowing with warmth although he wore only his regimental uniform.
“She is determined that Brighton is a seaside adventure. I remind her that we are there because of the threat of French infiltration.”
“Is it a risk?” I asked. The last event attributed to French spies was closer to home, in Hertfordshire two months ago—the deaths of the Linfields’ draca and two mysterious men.
The colonel scratched the whiskers framing his chin. “Another spy was caught with incriminating materials. Yesterday, I ordered my men to be alert and to report anything unusual. Bonaparte remains determined to acquire draca.”
“I thought our attempt to use draca in war had failed?”
“How did you hear that?” The colonel appeared surprised.
I could not mention Mr. Darcy, who had told me while frustrated and on official business. So I said vaguely, “In the papers?” and the colonel seemed satisfied.
I spotted Lydia with Denny, and excused myself to pursue my droll and clever sister.
I slowed when I saw she was in an argument. Denny was speaking sharply, and I knew Lydia too well to mistake her waving hands and jutted chin.
She stalked off, layers of wool flapping.
It would be hopeless to discuss Brighton when she was already vexed, so I resumed walking to Denny.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he nodded.
“Lieutenant. Are you enjoying our sunshine?” That was unexpectedly witty as my teeth chattered.
He smiled, and we talked amiably. In fact, the day was warming, the frost melting in the sunny patches, and the wind had almost stilled.
Sour orange and bitter almond.
The scent was gone again as a gust flicked by.
“Did… Do you smell oranges?” I asked.
“I think there is flavored coffee. I have been smelling it all morning.”
“Really.” I looked around the meadow. For what, I was not sure. Draca, I suppose. But there was no reason to bring draca on a social outing, and the few married officers were not gentry, so they were not even bound.
But that was the wrong question—the odor had not been from live draca. It had been around the Lucases’ dead tunnelworm and the dead roseworm in Meryton.
One mystery of draca was their origin. People accepted that bound draca appeared overnight, fully grown. But from where? I had asked and received shrugs and guesses. From the woods. Dropped from passing wyverns, as if they were delivered by some modern air post.
Could there be a dead, feral draca nearby? The elm forest was one of the few ancient, unlogged stands in Hertfordshire, overgrown with holly and dogwood.
The air stilled, and the scent reappeared, astringent and biting.
Denny, his nostrils pinched, interrupted his own story. “I cannot imagine who would drink something like that.”
It was too pungent to be distant. I stepped back, and it diminished. “Forgive a question that seems improper, but might you have something on your person with that scent?”
He laughed and made a show of sniffing his sleeves, then twisted his neck to sniff at his shoulder. His face contorted. “Phew! Oof, yes!” He turned, trying to see his own back and looking like a dog chasing his own tail. “My sincere apologies. I must have brushed something…”
From the forest, a clattering sound was growing, like a military drummer banging sticks on a log at ferocious speed. Laughs and chatter faded as curious faces turned. Winter-bare branches jerked and swayed at the edge of the trees, perhaps thirty yards away.
A multi-legged, serpentine body, thick as a large man’s chest, poured out of the dark underbrush. It kept coming—as long as a horse, then twice that—segmented in greenish-brown chunks a foot long, each with a pair of jointed, insectile legs that moved in lightning, clicking sequence.
The front swarmed onto the grass, coiling like a giant earthworm that had sprouted dozens of legs.
Behind it, a loop of churning body climbed an elm trunk like a wave, surging higher while each pair of legs scrambled to push past, lopping branches and flaying bark, until the trunk splintered and fell.
Ladies screamed. A few people ran. The colonel shouted an order, lost as a dozen concerned voices rose.
The monster was into the open now, twisting as it explored the grass, more flexible than a snake. The body and legs had the glossy, armored appearance of shell.
“It is a foul crawler,” I said.
The size had defied recognition at first. Crawlers, like the one that stung Jane, were inches long. Large ones—five inches—were called cockatrice, or sometimes draca bane, for they were said to fight draca. There was another name from myth…
“A basilisk!” Denny shouted.
That was it.
The monster’s head reared up higher than mine. Pairs of jointed legs waved in the air. The head had four fleshy horns, like a slug. They hunted through the air as the creature twisted.
The head swung to face me. And stopped.
Oh no.
“Run!” I shouted, dropping my muff and grabbing Denny’s arm. We pounded across the grass, Denny supporting me while layers of petticoats caught my legs. It was like running through a forest of laundry.
Too soon, I had to stop, panting.
The monster arrived where we had stood and nuzzled the ground.
“It is after me, Denny,” I said.
“What? Why?”
Because I was intriguing to dangerous animals, draca or otherwise? I had no idea why.
“I just know,” I said.
“All right,” he said with the calm of a true officer. “Run to the coaches. I will distract it if it follows.”
He gave me a little push, and I ran until, gasping freezing air, I reached the frightened people clustered by the coaches. The horses were tethered and whinnying, too spooked to be handled. Lydia and Kitty were in the crowd, the only others from my family who came today.
The monster’s fleshy horns stroked and prodded the grass. Denny had run toward the river. He waved his arms and yelled, but the monster ignored him. I wondered if it could even hear.
The monster began to move, horns grazing the ground like a dog on a scent. The legs rose and fell in rhythmic waves. It followed the path Denny and I had run, then curved away from me, toward Denny.
I realized my mistake. It was not after me.
“Run!” I screamed.
Denny stopped waving so abruptly it was almost comic. I saw his courage become surprise, then concern. He sprinted away, but the monster’s churning legs blurred. It charged over the ground, fast as a horse. Sod and mud flew from the spear-sharp tips of its feet.
Like a dog pouncing on a mouse, the monster’s head reared high then pounded into the center of Denny’s fleeing back. He vanished under a writhing pile of chopping legs and armored shell.
Ladies screamed. People ran every direction. A handful of officers, led by Colonel Forster, ran at the beast. The colonel had a sword drawn, but no one else had weapons, the standard for dress uniform at society events.
I ran after them, convinced I was not in danger and terrified for Denny. Clothing flopping, I lagged far behind. But draca were said to fight crawlers. Even though our firedrake was a mile away, I thought—I shouted in my mind—help me!
The officers surrounded the beast, trying to penetrate the thicket of flashing legs. A man kicked and fell back, cursing, his trouser leg bloody. The colonel thrust with his sword, but the end skittered across the armor.
Yelling, the colonel pushed with both hands, and the sword point caught between two segments and sank in.
The monster’s head reared. A pair of olive-brown, serrated pincers two feet long opened and struck at the colonel.
He backed away, but like lightning, the monster turned on another man.
The pincers closed, catching the man’s calf.
The bloody tips emerged from opposite sides.
And still they closed, scissoring as the man screamed.
My view was blocked. The colonel’s strained face was inches from mine. He yelled, “Get away!” I nodded, and he turned back to the fight.