Chapter 14 #3
Pickett waited for the swell to die down, having to let the lighter get closer and closer.
This would make the shot easier, but Murray had only to take his gaze off the lighterman and the French ship to spot the unlikely sight of the nobleman’s barge among all these working ships.
Then he would surely notice the red-coated soldiers on board, and the one aiming at him.
They were close enough now for Elf to make out the name on the lighter. The Tilbury Troll. It seemed suitable for such a cumbersome craft.
Hurry, hurry! Elf silently beseeched Pickett, even though she knew the soldier had to wait for the boat to steady.
Then Murray did move, shifting to look back at the wharf.
As he turned back toward the lighterman and the French vessel, his gaze passed over Elf’s boat.
His mouth opened as if to shout something, but the thunder of Pickett’s musket silenced everything.
As the smoke cleared Elf saw the Scot sprawled back over the coffin containing his precious Stone of Scone.
The enormity of death froze her, but then she took in the Tilbury Troll gliding ever closer, the lighterman yelling, and Woodman asking—
“Yes!” she screamed. “Move! Move!”
Eight powerful oars thrust them out of the lighter’s way, but only just, so the blood-soaked rag doll that had so recently been a man passed only feet away.
Everyone on the boat stared at the corpse, and Elf thought perhaps even the soldiers weren’t hardened to such sights.
Suddenly she realized she had the command here.
She’d acted that way, giving orders, taking responsibility.
But she knew there was more to command than that.
She had to make this sit right for the men.
Wishing her hands would stop shaking, she said, “Well rowed, Woodham. Can you call to that lighterman to head back to Harrison’s Wharf?”
“Right, milady. But it’ll take him a while.”
“No matter so long as his cargo doesn’t end up on the French vessel.”
As the shouted exchange began, accompanied by some lively language from the distressed lighterman, Elf turned to the soldiers. “Well done, Private Pickett. A clean shot. You doubtless saved that poor lighterman’s life.”
She looked closely at him for the first time, realizing he couldn’t be more than twenty years old and was white with stress. At her words, however, he turned pink and bashful. “ ’Tweren’t nothing, milady.”
“On the contrary. It was very important, and you played your part.”
Woodham had finished conveying her instructions to the lighterman, so she turned back to him. “Take us back to the wharf, if you please.”
And she finally felt able to slump down on a seat. Unfortunately, the release of urgency allowed fears for Fort to surge in like a river flood.
On the wharf, a coach had arrived. A doctor? Or a means of taking someone to a doctor? They wouldn’t call a coach for a corpse, would they?
They probably would for the corpse of an earl.
Perhaps it hadn’t been Fort who had fallen.
She was sure it was.
Perhaps he’d just tripped and fallen.
Perhaps . . .
Perhaps . . .
She knew, with an instinct beyond human comprehension, that he had fallen, had been shot, and was seriously injured.
Surely she would know equally clearly if he were dead.
She remembered at Sappho’s house, with Fort bound and her brothers angry, she hadn’t been sure where her deepest allegiance lay. Now she knew.
Hands clenched together before her mouth, she prayed as she’d never prayed before. Prayed for his life and another chance to bring joy into his life.
Then she saw the concerned attention of the soldiers and hastily lowered her hands, striving to appear normal. She had to play another part—that of a Malloren, cool commander of death and destruction.
Bryght waited at the stairs, alone.
He wasn’t injured. She was relieved, of course, but not from her main concern.
She saw no sign of Fort or the soldiers who’d been with him. On the planks, red glinted in the sun.
Blood.
Heart racing, she leaped to her feet, desperate to be the first off the boat. As soon as the oarsmen had the vessel alongside she seized Bryght’s hand and scrambled up onto the wooden jetty.
“Well done!” he said.
“Fort?” she demanded.
He sobered. “Took the ball in the leg. I don’t think it’s life-threatening.”
All strength left Elf, and she collapsed into his arms, weeping for grief, for relief, and perhaps for sheer, bone-deep exhaustion.
She felt herself lifted and carried, but fell asleep before he found a means to take her home.
After two hours of explanation, questioning, and excuses, Rothgar emerged from the King’s Drawing Room through a side entrance and asked a footman for his brother. He found Cyn under guard in a small room on a lower floor, but lounging around in reasonable comfort, drinking ale.
At Rothgar’s entrance he raised his tankard. “How long do I keep my head?”
“Indefinitely, though His Majesty is still not entirely convinced. Congratulations on using your head to effect.”
Cyn laughed, surging to his feet. “It was the most damnable thing, Bey! The blasted machine was sitting there, right on that big gilt table in the Drawing Room. It appears it had come with a cunning message from you, and the king had demanded it be sent straight up. His equerry tried to put him off, but wasn’t about to forbid him to try the thing.
The only reason the king hadn’t already switched it on was that he’d sent for the queen to enjoy the treat! I got him out of there.”
“Admirable military verve.”
“Yes, well, with hindsight, I probably committed all kinds of lèse-majesté and, judging from his reaction, my chances of making major, never mind colonel, are decidedly dim.”
“Perhaps we should convince him of your worth. Where is the diabolical device?”
“In the room next door. I insisted they put it where I could keep an eye on it.”
Rothgar opened the door. The gaudy Chinese pagoda stood on a side table, its tiny figures frozen, waiting only the release of a catch to spring into lethal life.
“A pity, really,” he said. “It is most cleverly made.”
“Should we blow it up?”
“I gather it will blow itself up, given the opportunity. The trick will be to let it do so safely. Roll up your sleeves. We’re going to carry it.”
“We are?”
“Who else? It appears to have been carried up and down stairs without hazard. But in case, should we order others to take the risk?”
“ ’Struth. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were feeling penitent.”
“You think me beyond repentance?”
Cyn shook his head. “I think you’re in a damned funny mood. Very well. Let’s move the thing.”
It was not heavy, but it was cumbersome, especially when they wished to move it with great care. Eventually, however, they could put it down outside the castle, on the grass near the river. Cyn pulled out a handkerchief to wipe sweat off his face.
Rothgar, unruffled, then summoned servants to bring old mattresses and a musket, and sent a message to the king to invite him to watch the spectacle from a distant balcony, if it so pleased him.
“Why?” Cyn asked.
“Your military advancement, of course.”
As soon as the king and queen appeared and could see the pagoda, Rothgar supervised the servants as they piled the mattresses around the toy.
Then, moving everyone to a distance, he handed the musket to Cyn.
“I’m sure you’re more of a hand with these things than I am.
Try to get the ball through that gap we left. ”
Cyn carefully loaded the gun, then raised it, sighting down the barrel. With a click, he cocked it. His finger squeezed the trigger and with a boom and a burst of flame, the ball sped forward.
A moment later, a louder boom sent cloth and flock and pieces of gaudy metal flying in all directions.
“Damnation,” said Cyn, lowering the butt to rest on the ground. “Imagine that uncovered and in closed quarters.”
“Indeed,” said Rothgar, and turned to the balcony. But the king and queen had already disappeared.
As servants hurried forward to take the musket and clear up the mess, he said, “The question is, would a replica of that toy be a treasured gift or send the king stark, staring mad?”
Cyn collapsed into laughter.
When they returned to the castle, they found not just their coach waiting, but a messenger from the king requesting Lord Cynric’s immediate presence.
“Alas,” said Rothgar. “He has remembered to have you beheaded for lèse-majesté. Do you wish to take the coach and flee the country?”
For once, Cyn did look alarmed. “ ’Struth, Bey, what do you think he wants?”
“I suggest you go and find out. After all,” he added benignly, “you have always claimed to want to deal with life on your own.”