Chapter 70: The Battle of Wargrave Cross
"Hardly a trifle, Tavington. But all the same, hand it over."
"Torrenham!"
Tavington turned, boots scraping on rough stone. In the harsh lantern light, he saw that the man he had so thoroughly humiliated in a duel two months before was now come back to haunt him. Only this time, Torrenham had a pistol in each hand, and Tavington was armed only with a decorative ivory box. Torrenham was coming down the narrow steps, smiling unpleasantly.
"What the devil!" John shouted indignantly. He was about to say something else, but swallowed the words.
Behind Lord Torrenham were three— no, four well armed men—one of them too well-dressed to be a mere hired thug. This gentleman was a tall, with a lean, scarred face. Tavington guessed from his alert expression that he someone who was not afraid of a fight. He vaguely recalled him as Torrenham's second at their duel—Catesby was the name, he thought. Of the henchman hanging back, two were short and shabby, and the third a great brute. We should have brought someone like him along to move the coffin, Tavington thought with grim humour.
He knew they were in serious trouble, but however desperate and bloodthirsty Torrenham and Catesby might be, they were not professionals. "It's quite bad enough you're a trespasser, Torrenham," he sneered, "You ought not to add 'thief' to your titles."
The man's lips twitched, but he was silent. Catesby ignored Tavington. "Don't waste time. Let's just get the box, Torrenham, and then we'll be off."
One of the men was bewildered. "But we can't just leave 'em here! You said we was—"
Tavington was now truly alarmed. He fingered the box in his hands uneasily. "I shall regard this with more respect in future, since it appears you are prepared to kill for it."
"You really don't know?" Torrenham was astonished. "You don't know what you have? By God, you're idiots. The moment I heard the gossip, I knew what your mother had! I no longer wonder why you had to marry a scrawny Colonial for her money. I shall put the contents to rather better use."
Beside Torrenham, his friend Catesby seemed bored. "Why are we talking? Kill them and get it over with. Our friends want to see the documents tonight."
John burst out, "Are you that Harmodius fellow, Torrenham? What a lot of rot!"
"Quiet!" Catesby snapped, waving his pistol meaningfully. "Enough of this. The horses are waiting." Very carefully, he took aim at Bordon. "Going to lead us in prayer, parson?" he jeered.
There was a smacking thud, and the hireling at the top of the stairs screamed in pain, twisting on the stairs toward them, his face wild and startled. Tavington looked up to see what had happened.
Behind the man stood the schoolmaster, Oliver Strakes, a knobbed blackthorn walking stick gripped in both hands. He had smashed the man across the back with it, knocking him off balance. Another blow, and the man flew forwards, off the stairs and twelve feet down on stone. There a high shriek, cut off by a terrible crackle of bones.
The smallest of the remaining men wailed, "He's killed him, the dirty whoreson! He's gone and killed Jukes!"
Strakes was already swinging at the ratlike little whiner, who stumbled, knocking Catesby down the steps. Catesby dropped his pistol, which skittered down stone and was lost in the shadows. Tavington, always looking for an advantage, grinned savagely.
"At them!" he shouted. Quick as thought, he used the weapon at hand, and threw the ivory box in Torrenham's face. Surprised, Torrenham jerked back and fired his pistols into the ceiling.Two shots roared out, one a split-second after the other. The noise was deafening in the small stone space. Stone chips and plaster dust rained down. His hands free, Tavington snatched at a pry bar and rushed at the enemy. "Get Catesby's pistol!" he shouted at Bordon, with a nod to the tall man, who was scrabbling on his knees after his fall. Bordon instantly dropped his lantern and plunged into the fight. Shadows swung crazily about, shifting, distorting, disorienting.
Another shot roared out. The big man's aim was wide, and wood cracked behind Tavington. Good God. He's hit Father's coffin, he realized, not looking behind him to see what had happened.. Strakes slammed the knob of his stick under the man's jaw. Beside Tavington, John grappled with Torrenham, cuffing him hard, slamming him back against the stone walls. The two men stumbled and went down.
A kick and a scream. Bordon had a boot in Catesby's face. The silent crypt had become a riot of confusion and violence.
Bordon's dropped lantern was knocked over and went out. Luckily there was nothing close at hand to burn. The only light was from the lantern sitting on the tomb by Sir Jack's opened coffin. Another gunshot, as Bordon fought Catesby for the pistol, and it discharged. Bordon's left arm was not much use in combat, but he made up for it with experience and craft. Without a firearm between them, Sir John and Torrenham's fight became a matter of fists and knees and anger. John was trying to use his greater size and weight to pin Torrenham, and the younger man was using every dirty trick to struggle free.
Tavington had made a rush past those two, the heavy iron bar in his hands. Strakes had been knocked back. Torrenham's hired brute was a huge man, with a dull, doughy face. A bruise was already purpling on his face from the head of the blackthorn cane, but he seemed unimpressed, and had pulled a long, crude-looking knife. Safely behind him was the remaining henchman, urging bigger men on to the fight, yapping like a cur.
"That's the way, Cludge! Rip him up!"
Tavington thrust with his pry bar as he ran up the steps and knocked the big man's arm aside. There was no time to stop, for the greatest threat was before him.
Only one unfired pistol remained. The rat-like little man had slithered to the top of the crypt steps. He looked frantically about, trying to decide which of the targets to fire upon. Tavington, thinking with the terrible clarity of battle, knew that the man had only the one shot, and then would be vulnerable. His dirty tricorn hat pointed this way and that, as the man wavered. Tavington and his pry bar were suddenly before him, and his eyes widened. His arm was up, and the pistol was aimed, point-blank, in Tavington's face. Tavington ducked quickly.
A shout from John, and he and Torrenham rocketed around the room, grabbing at each other's clothes. Torrenham was spun about and his arm knocked against the last lantern on the tomb. Instantly, the crypt was plunged into total blackness.
Yellow-white, sparks streaking like a shooting star, a gunblast flamed in the darkness. Tavington hesitated slightly, wondering if he had been shot. His ears rang painfully, and for a moment he was deaf. Then a cry on the steps nearest drew his attention. It had sounded like Strakes.
A squeal from above told him where the little man was.
"Cludge, let's go! Come on, mate! No good stopping here!"
"Staggle!" roared the big man, "Stick 'im!"
Fumbling in the darkness, Tavington tripped on the steps, and scraped his knuckles. Hissing in pain and annoyance, he groped his way up the steps. Anonymous bodies crashed into him from behind, as everyone tried to escape the crypt. A hard stick struck the wall with a sharp wooden crack. Tavington's hand brushed a moving leg, and he grabbed at it.
"Bastard!" growled a thick, coarse voice, trying to swat him away. Tavington knew it must be the big man, and was faintly surprised to hear human speech coming from someone who looked like a prize bull. Wary of knives, he yanked sharply toward himself, and pulled the man off balance.
Too far. A crushing weight fell on his right shoulder. Tavington grunted, and slide sideways, letting gravity do its work.
"Bloody hell!" John swore, close behind him. The big thug tumbled down the stairs like a boulder, slamming against the wall on one side, and then the all the way down. With two of their opponents out of the way, Tavington could see before him a rectangle of dark grey. The doorway was only slightly brighter than the rest of the surrounding. Tavington heard feet running away ahead of him, and knew it was the little man, running away. He might be going for help, or looking for a lantern, or looking for a hiding place where he could reload his pistol. Tavington only knew he must get out of this darkness himself.
He reached behind him. "John! Up here!"
"Will?"
The two of them clambered up the steps. John slipped on one and cursed fluently. A hand reached out, and Tavington was braced to fight.
"Sir John?"
"Strakes!"
The schoolmaster was on his knees. The little man must have literally run over him, escaping. Tavington helped him up. "Come on, we've got to have some light! Bordon, up here! Follow my voice!"
Torrenham was also desperately trying to escape. "Catesby! This way! Aaahh!" he screamed. "God! I'm stabbed! Catesby, help me!"
Tavington was through the door, panting. A wavering light by the open door at the back of the nave showed where their opponents had left their lanterns. "Quick, John! Get one of those lanterns, and look out for the little man—he must be loose somewhere!"
Strakes stumbled out and slouched against the pulpit, wincing and clutching at his shoulder.
"Are you wounded?"
"Yes—I don't think it is too bad, but it hurts like the very devil! Can we lock the villains in the crypt?"
"Not with Bordon still down there." He shouted, "Hurry, John!"
Feet were on the steps. Tavington readied himself. He could not strike until he saw who was there, fearing to hit Bordon. He could hear Catesby and Torrenham calling to each other. Torrenham seemed to be in a good deal of pain. There was no sound from Bordon.
Light bloomed in the church. John had unshaded the lanterns, and they shone out bravely. With one in each hand, he puffed back to them. Tavington hefted his pry bar, wishing he had worn his sword and pistols to the church. No matter. The pry bar was weapon enough, unless Torrenham or Catesby had found a pistol and had a chance to reload. Every second increased the chance of that.
They had seen the light. There was a rush from below, and Catesby was through the doorway, flying at Tavington. He, unfortunately, had thought to wear a sword, and Tavington parried it with his iron bar, sparks striking from metal against metal. Catesby renewed his attack and lunged.
Distantly, he heard John's bellow. "Strakes! Here--can you keep an eye on a lantern? I've got to help Will! There's a good fellow!"
"John! Get down there and find Bordon!" A horror had seized Tavington. He imagined his friend murdered down there in the dark, and all because Tavington had won the living for him. He backed away and Catesby lunged again. The doorway was clear. Tavington swung the bar, preventing Catesby from aiming a slash at John, who was back into the crypt in a moment.
-----
Staggle, feeling very small and overwhelmed by events, did not linger in the church. The gentlemen had told them this would be an easy job—just get rid of the men in the church cellar, and they could have whatever trifles were in dead men's pockets. All the gentlemen wanted was a fancy box and what was in it.
Should have been easy! Should have been easy!
Now his mates Cludge and Jukes were dead most likely, or worse than dead. A broken leg bone could be a toilsome slow way to go. Staggle huddled in the shrubbery, trying to reload his pistol in the chill night air, looking to see if the way was clear to the hidden place by the road where they had left his lordship's carriage. There was a house with lit windows not far away. Parson's house, he remembered. Further up the lane was the big house where the squire lived—that big fellow, Sir John, who had bashed his lordship about. His lordship had told him to watch out for the squire's black-haired brother, though. He was the real killer, and quick about it. Quick or not, he would have been dead as mutton if that other bastard hadn't crept on them from behind. "Dirty sneakin' coward," he muttered, feeling very much the victim of injustice. Those rich pickings would have kept him in style all the spring, and summer too.
But there were the horses. Staggle felt more cheerful, thinking about them. If his lordship and the other gentleman were done for, Staggle would have a nice lot of horses to sell at Colchester Market. He'd keep that one he liked, and have three to sell. He could unharness them, ride one, and put the others on a lead. It wasn't too far to Chelmsford for the night. And there were some bits of things in the carriage worth his while. That was a comfort, sure enough. The old coachman might make a fuss, but Staggle could see to him dead easy.
There were still noises of fighting in the church. Staggle considered going back and seeing if a bullet from his pistol could put things right. Cautiously, he crept out of the brush and hurried to the door of the church, feeling horribly exposed.
The squire's brother was fighting Mr. Catesby, pry bar against sword, and it was clear how that was going to go. Mr. Catesby looked winded, and the squire's brother was grinning like a very demon, playing with him. He smashed away another feint, and Mr. Catesby's sword snapped, the blade spinning off into the altar. Staggle darted away. No. His employers were done brown. There was nothing for it but to save himself. He ran up the lane, not wanting to waste time going back the slow, safe way they had come. He knew he did not want that grinning, black-haired devil looking for him.
The big house was all lit up like daylight. It was criminal, how the gentry could waste fine wax candles. He slipped out of the protection of the trees. There was a low wall at the back of the house. All Staggle had to do was stay low and follow it, and then get across the clear space to the woods on the other side, and go down the little hill to the stream and then beyond to the road. He had just started to make his way, crouched down, when there was a barking from the hall. The big door opened, and a voice called out, "What's out there, Rambler?"
More barking: a deep-voice baying. Staggle shuddered and sat on the ground, beginning to sweat in the cold. He should have known they would keep dogs. God help him! The dog was out now, and running, coming closer. Staggle gritted his teeth, and forced himself to get up and run.
"Here! Who are you, sneaking around in the dark?" a man shouted. "Ma'am! There's somebody out there back of the lawn!
The dog was running at him. Panicked, Staggle fired.
-----
Rambler had run to the rear door, pawing and whining. Young, waiting in a straight-backed chair by the door, wondered if he had smelled a rabbit. Surprisingly, Rambler began barking. He was a good dog, and not one to go making a noise in the house when there was no cause.
"What the matter with you, lad?" Young asked. "Come here and sit down by me!"
Rambler paid him no mind, and barked the more. Uneasily, Young thought about Sir John and the Colonel. They had gone out, just after dinner, and the ladies were worried. There was something afoot. He opened the door, wondering what Rambler might have sensed. Dogs could be clever beasts.
No sooner was the door open even a foot, then Rambler was out, baying at the darkness. Now rather alarmed, Young shouted, "What's out there, Rambler?
Rambler was running, flat out, over the brown winter grass toward the low wall. A shape was there, crouching low.
Young shouted a challenge, and in return, there was an answering gunshot. Young ducked back, shocked, and wished he had thought to carry the pistol Mrs. Tavington had given him months before.
The ladies had heard Rambler's barks, too. Jane paused in her pacing. They all listened as Young opened the door and let the dog out. They murmured questions and suppositions to each other, wondering what it could be.
The gunshot silenced the ladies' conversation. The drawing room was absolutely still for a long moment.
"Oh, my God!" Jane cried. "Something's happened! Something's wrong!" She ran out of the room, into the Great Hall. The stern plaster figures in the wall reliefs ignored her. Diana and Ceres were no help. Young was at the rear door, peering around the doorway. Out of sight, below the wall, a man screamed.
"Young!" she told him. "I am going out. After I am gone, lock all the doors, and look after the ladies in the drawing room—and the children. The children…" she repeated, not knowing what she should do. William must be in danger!
The other women were following her, in anxious conversation. Emily's theory was the most reassuring one.
"Perhaps the dog has spied a poacher in the woods…"
"I must go," Jane told them, not heeding their protests. "I must see if they need help!"
The servants were running to the door behind her, anxiously peering outside. Some, Jane knew, must be at the East Door, looking out that way. "Sam!" she called to the nearest footman. "Go to the servants' hall and see that everyone is safe. Lock up the door and don't let anyone in you do not know!"
The boy nodded and fled back through the house. Jane had only time to fling her cloak over her shoulders, when a heavy tread coming down the stairs made her look up.
"Now, ma'am," Moll said gravely, her musket in one hand, and Jane's pistol in another. "I've told you about going off half-cocked. You don't want to go running out in the middle of the night by yourself. Tom and I will walk on down there with you and see what's what. No need to hurry."
Tom said, "That we will, ma'am. Here, Mr. Dunner, lock the doors and see that the ladies are kept safe."
Dunner was close at hand, and was relieved that no one expected him to go out and face anonymous armed men in the dark. And it was certainly true that his place was in the house, protecting Lady Fanshawe. The wide-eyed maidservants whispered among themselves, and the ladies wrung their hands. Letty pleaded with Jane to stay safely with her, and Emily seemed grateful that Jane would go. Without remaining to argue, Jane and companions set out at a brisk walk down to the gate.
They could hear Rambler's growls and the man's agonized moans and curses before they saw either of them.
"Drop it, Rambler" Moll ordered, very sternly, and Rambler sheepishly released the chewed arm he had fast in his jaws. The man on the ground was bleeding badly, and no threat to anyone.
Jane stood over him, barking questions.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"We'd better have him bandaged up, ma'am," Moll advised, stooping over the fallen man, and trying to make out the extent of his wounds. "You're hurt pretty bad, stranger. You oughtn't to creep up on honest folks' houses in the dark!"
"Oh, God!" the man whimpered. "that damned hound has killed me!"
Young shouted back at the house. "I need some men down here! Peter! Nick! Get this man to the Hall and see to him!"
Menservants were running to help them. Jane agreed that Moll was right.
"Yes," she said, "see to his hurts, but be careful. No—I'll keep his pistol. Make certain he has no other weapons on him!" She thought a little longer, watching them hustle the man to safety. "Good dog, Rambler," she praised. "He was clearly up to some mischief."
"Well, that's plain," Moll agreed. "But he might have some friends. Maybe you should get on back to the Hall, ma'am."
"No," Jane protested. "If he has friends, they might be lying in wait for the Colonel and Sir John! We'll go to the church." She nodded to herself. "Yes, we'll go to the church, and see that they are warned."
Young protested. "I can do that myself, Madam. The Colonel would not like you to be in danger."
"No, he wouldn't, but I'm going all the same. Come, Rambler, we're going for a walk."
Moll and her husband exchanged weary looks over Jane's head, and closed ranks around her. Rambler trotted ahead, delighted at the prospect of an outing.
-----
This was no gentleman's duel. Tavington was impatient to get past Catesby's blade and put paid to his opponent.
"Put down your sword and surrender, Catesby, or I'll be forced to kill you."
"Go to hell!"
They circled, each watching the other. Tavington forced down his impatience, wanting above all things to know what was happening in the crypt.
Catesby tried a feint. It was an opening Tavington had been on the watch for. The bar smashed sideways, at just the right angle, and Catesby blade was in two pieces. Tavington ducked back as flying metal whirled overhead. He smashed again, knocking the ruined sword from Catesby's hand. He shot forward, sweeping the bar low, and tripped Catesby neatly. The man fell on his face. Tavington stood over him, the end of the bar against the back of Catesby's head.
"I am going to crack your skull like a rotten egg, you pathetic amateur," he purred. This was very satisfying, this last moment before he dispatched an enemy. He enjoyed it a little too long.
"It's all right, old fellow!" shouted John, coming up the steps. "We've got them, the buggers! Bordon's all right. He wanted to make sure Torrenham hadn't any other weapons on him. Well! Catesby! You are a sight! Will won't let you up unless you give your word of honour that you won't try anything!"
Tavington gave a long, exasperated sigh. John was really too good to be his brother. "Do you give your word?" he asked, hoping that Catesby would utter one word of defiance.
The answer was muffled and tense. "You have my word."
"Ha!" John laughed. "It's all right, then! Let him up, Will—let him up. Torrenham is badly hurt and he can help get him upstairs!"
Catesby rose warily, turning and looking Tavington in the eye. Tavington gazed back calmly, glad to see mortal fear there—hidden, but not so well hidden that Tavington could not recognize it. He smiled sweetly, and stood away, but kept his bar at the ready. He motioned to Catesby to precede him. "Go on."
Catesby paused, but then, seeing Torrenham lying in his blood on the crypt floor, hurried down the steps to his friend. "God! Torrenham! Here, let me bind up your wounds!" He tore off his own neckcloth. Bordon, out of Christian charity—and because it had, after all, been his own hand and his own boot knife that had stabbed the man-- loosened his own and gave it to Catesby. The leg was bleeding freely.
"I'll be lame for life," Torrenham groaned. "Bastards!"
"Forgive me for pointing this out," Bordon said mildly, "But it is you who planned to murder us. Surely you understand that we feel we were under no obligation to fall in with your plans."
Tavington whispered to his friend, "A knife in your boot? I thought you had beaten your sword into a ploughshare, so to speak."
"A knife nearly made two of me, back in Carolina," Bordon murmured back calmly. "One doesn't forget that sort of thing. One ought never to take for granted that one is perfectly safe, even at home. Besides, knives are useful for all sorts of things."
Tavington made no reply, knowing that he deserved Bordon's rebuke. He had indeed imagined that nothing could touch him at Wargrave, which was foolish enough, considering the past few months. A lifetime's habits were hard to overcome. He would speak to his own bootmaker about a discreet sheath for a sharp knife, and never again neglect to carry a pocket pistol out of doors.
To the side of the staircase, one of the attackers was slumped half-sitting against the side of Sir Richard's tomb, his head split open when it had struck the pointed feet of the effigy. He was manifestly very dead. The big man was lying huddled ten feet from the foot of the stairs, not moving. Tavington prodded him with the toe of his boot, but there was no response. The crypt was a shambles. Tavington knew sourly that it would take hard labor to put it right. John saw it as well, and made his indignation known.
"I'll have you locked up and held for the Assizes," he declared. "Attempted murder—assault. I'll see that you don't escape trial! What the devil were you thinking--killing men in the dark!"
"I would have had everything." Torrenham said faintly, "Personal revenge--and political influence beyond belief."
"A sizeable fortune, too," Catesby muttered bitterly.
Torrenham smiled slightly, and then winced, " Don't dream of holding us for trial. I can only be tried by the House of Lords, and you'll soon see how little they esteem a country baronet! If you hold Catesby, I'll tell the world about how lured us here and slaughtered my servants! The whole matter of the documents in the box--and how you robbed your own father's grave for them--will be made public. You'll never hold me, and you'll never survive the scandal."
It was disturbingly true. No one would care a pin about the death of unknown thugs, but attempting to charge a peer of the realm and his friend of assault and theft when it was simply one gentleman's word against another's was an invitation to disaster."They have us, old fellow," John muttered to Tavington. "They may not be able to expose us, but neither can we expose them!"
"I think we should kill them," Tavington observed calmly. "I think we should just kill them now and bury them here in the crypt with their henchmen."
There was an awful pause.
John laughed uneasily. "You don't mean that, Will. Can't kill a man in cold blood. Not the thing!"
"They've threatened us and threatened our family. They would have shot us down in cold blood."
John was aghast. Bordon, very gently, spoke softly into the dim crypt. "No, we cannot kill them. Tavington—it could never be kept secret, so there is a sound prudential reason to leave them alive. We do not know who else knows they came here." He caught Tavington's eye, looking to see if his words were being understood. "Not only reason is against it, but also the law—the King's law and God's law, too." Seeing that this was taking effect, he said quickly to Catesby, "How did you come here?"
Catesby, really thinking it possible that he would die if he stayed here any longer, answered hurriedly. "We came in Torrenham's carriage. We left it—with our coachman--in some trees on the London Road, and walked here, following the stream."
"You're well informed about the lay of the land," Tavington hissed.
"Perhaps your faithful servants aren't quite so faithful," Catesby sneered.
Tavington considered this. How had Torrenham known they were at Wargrave? How did he even know that they had left London? Clearly someone in his household was in Torrenham's pay. Perhaps others had been. "Perhaps. There is another matter to settle."
Bordon looked up in alarm at Tavington's soft tones. He was still dangerous.
"There is the matter of my mother's murder. You still must answer for that, you puling coward." He stared down at Torrenham, studying his face.
Torrenham did not seem to understand him. He and Catesby exchanged uneasy, bewildered looks. Torrenham floundered, "What do you mean? Killed your mother? Are you mad?"
John was angry at his obtuseness. "You scoundrel! You set your creature, that woman Venable, to spy on us, and she murdered our mother in her bed!"
"I don't know what you're raving about. I don't know any woman named Venable. I fight my own battles, you bloated sot!"
"Not fighting very well, are you?" Tavington snarled, and gave his wounded leg a kick.
Torrenham screamed, and Catesby crouched, ready to fight. Bordon pulled Tavington away.
"If you didn't kill our mother, who did?" John asked furiously.
"Someone else who wanted the papers, I'd imagine," Catesby growled, putting himself protectively in front of his friend. "Who else do you know who really wanted them?"
John grimaced. Tavington was not satisfied. "Who is your informant in our household?"
There was no point in lying. "Your footman Peter Denny. He keeps us apprised of your movements and what conversations he can overhear."
Tavington scowled, planning his revenge. "You say that you did not kill our mother, yet you threatened our women!"
"They were just threats! I told Jukes to scare the ladies and tell them we knew where you lived! I have no idea what else the man did!" He frowned, and said solemnly, "I give you my word of honor that I had nothing to do with your mother's death. Murder a woman, indeed!"
"That's rather more in your line, Tavington," Catesby jeered.
"Shut your face, or I'll kill you," Tavington replied, with the suppressed calm of a steam hammer.
"Catesby!" Bordon asked, anxious to have these men out of his friend's hands. "Do you also swear you were not party to Lady Cecily's death?"
"Yes! I swear it! What utter rubbish! Everyone knows she was deathly ill. If she was murdered, why didn't you tell anyone? Or was there someone you suspected?" he asked, eyes gleaming. "Someone whose power could not be called to account?"
"Don't provoke him, you fool!" Bordon hissed urgently. From the depths of his right coat pocket he produced a Bible. "Put your hand on the book and swear."
Catesby slapped his hand angrily on the Bible and declared loudly, "I, Roger Catesby, swear I was not party to the death of Lady Cecily Tavington, and I further swear that I have no idea who was culpable. Now, are you satisfied?"
"Not satisfied at all, but with no evidence—" John said helplessly. "We'll have to let them go. These dead fellows-- well, let's leave them here and deal with them in the morning. And our father—" he glanced involuntarily in the direction of the open coffin. "We can send a servant to fetch Torrenham's carriage."
Catesby, solicitous for his friend, helped him up the stairs slowly. Tavington glanced over the carnage. The dead men would keep until morning Tavington saw Strakes' blackthorn stick and retrieved it.
Strakes was still sitting by the pulpit, and smiled wryly when Tavington put the stick in his hand. "I thank you. I shall need it tonight more than usual. You are letting the gentlemen go? After what they did?"
John shrugged. "Catesby gave his word to fight no more, and Torrenham is hardly in any condition to make trouble. Bordon has his pistol, anyway." He whispered the rest of the story in Strakes' ear, as the men made their way down the center aisle of the church. Strakes nodded, and winced now and then with pain
"Damned lucky you came in when you did," John said.
"I saw the light in the church and wondered what was going on. Then I saw some men I did not know sneaking in. I thought it best to investigate."
"Damned lucky you did!" John repeated fervently.
Tavington set his pry bar by the church door, feeling it had served him well.
They stepped outside into the night air. Bordon closed the church door behind him. The earlier clouds had mostly blown away, leaving a sky full of stars. There were footsteps coming down the lane.
"Who is there?" Tavington challenged.
"William! Are you all right?"
To Tavington's amazement, there was Jane running toward him, followed by Rambler. Another shape had the unmistakable outline of the pregnant Moll, and the other was revealed to be Young.
Jane put her hands on his chest, looking up at him anxiously. "A man was creeping in the shrubbery by the lawn. He fired upon the house, but Rambler caught him."
"And you came out to look for me?" Tavington asked, horrified.
"Yes! " she replied stoutly. "Moll and Young and Rambler came with me."
"Is—the man alive?" Torrenham asked quietly.
Jane peered at the unknown speaker, and then recognized him by lantern light. "Yes," she answered coldly, not bothering with titles. "He is. What are these men doing here, William?"
"A hired henchman, who could give testimony," Bordon remarked. "That could be awkward for you, my lord, if you raised difficulties."
"These gentlemen," Tavington told Jane, "had a difference of opinion with us, but we won the debate, it seems. They will be leaving shortly. Our good Mr. Strakes clinched the arguments. Our guests will retrieve their carriage, and we shall go home."
Bordon said, "Stay! I should lock the church. It will not take a moment. What--"
The door crashed backwards, and the hulking, bloody form of Cludge exploded toward them, a huge knife in his hand. Bordon stumbled and was down. Tavington rushed the man, longing for his iron bar. Torrenham was trampled in Cludge's assault and screamed in pain. Catesby frantically tried to drag his friend out of harm's way. Strakes tried to confront the huge man, and was bowled over. Cludge lunged for the smallest figure in the starlight, and grabbed Jane.
It was so sudden that Jane had only time to utter a quick, high shriek—shrill as a starling, cut off as the man's hands groped for a better purchase, clutching her against his huge body. In one dirty paw he gripped a long knife, which he waved in front of him.
"Let me go or I'll rip her up! Get back!" bellowed the voice above her head, a heavy, unfamiliar voice, with an accent Jane could barely understand. Jane saw William's eyes widen with horror. Rambler growled and crouched to spring.
"You call off your dog or I'll kill her!"
Jane squeaked as the knife waved in front of her face. Young snatched at Rambler's collar and hauled him back with an effort.
Cludge shouted at Moll, "You! Woman! With the musket! You put that down or I'll spill her guts, I will!" Moll scowled and carefully set the musket on the ground.
"That's right!"
Jane was being dragged backwards, toward the blackness of the woods. Her heels caught on a root, and she lost a shoe. Jane looked back and saw everyone's eyes fixed on her. She fumbled in her pocket for his pistol. She could hardly move her right arm--
Sir John shouted, "Torrenham! Tell the brute to let her go, confound you!"
"Cludge!" Torrenham called. "Stop it!"
"Fuck off, your lordship! Couldn't be bothered to see if I were dead or alive! You stay back or I'll cut the wench's head off—I'll carve out her eyes—I'll—Aaargh!"
Jane had the pistol in her hand, and bent her elbow. The barrel was pressed against the underside of the unshaven jaw and the trigger was pulled. The roar and shock made her go limp. Quite suddenly, she was crushed convulsively against her stinking attacker, and then she was dropped. She fell to her knees, shaking, and heard horrible gurgling noises behind her.
"Stay down, ma'am!" Moll shouted. Jane threw herself flat on the ground as the musket blast roared over her. She lay there, unable to move, and heard the sound of body collapsing behind her.
"Jane!" It was William, boots on the dirt lane, sweeping her up, holding her fast. Jane felt she could not breathe.
"I shot him!"
"Yes! Well done, my dear!"
"I shot him! Is he—dead?"
"If he isn't, he soon will be," William told her, smiling. He was smiling! It seemed shocking and heartless, but William was William, always.
Moll was stalking up, hand to Jane's face, looking her over. "Not hurt are you? Good work, ma'am. Let's have a look at this feller." Moll was joined by Sir John and Bordon, and hesitantly by Catesby, peering at the dead man. Rambler trotted up, sniffing at the body. Jane glanced and flinched away. It was luckily too dark to see much, but she knew that the face was not right any more. The jaw was replaced by blood and shreds of flesh. Jane shuddered and hid her face on her husband's chest. She had shot a man. Perhaps not killed him—but he would certainly have died later. Jane felt a pang of misery and guilt. She had been so bold about her pistol. She had shot someone now, and she wished it had never happened. Bordon gave her a kind, understanding look, and she answered it with a sad smile.
"Well done, my dear Mrs. Tavington!" Sir John told her, patting her on the back. "Terrible business, but just what he deserved. Oh, here is your shoe, my dear! And you, Mrs. Young! You are a treasure, indeed. Catesby, I'll trouble you to help me lug the body to the church. We shall leave it there until tomorrow."
Tavington issued his own orders. "Young, there's a carriage in that copse off the London road. Is that right, Torrenham? Young, find that coachman and get him here right away! His master wishes to leave." The butler set off at a run, taking the short route past the Hall. Mrs. Young," Tavington said, addressing her formally in front of the others, to show his respect, "I would like you to return to the Hall and tell everyone that we are safe." Meaningfully, he added, "Say nothing about Lord Torrenham and his friend."
Moll gave the disarmed gentlemen a hard look, but nodded.
"If you would be so good, Mrs. Young," Bordon put in, "Stop at the vicarage first, and tell my wife that I shall be safely home very soon."
Moll smiled at them all, and gave them a bob. "That I will! Come on now, Rambler, let's go see Mrs. Bordon. I reckon the little 'uns are in bed, but when we get on home I'll give you a—" Her voice faded, as she murmured affectionately to the dog, padding along beside her.
It took some time for the carriage to arrive. The gory body of Cludge was manhandled into the church and the door locked on the death inside. Catesby put his coat over Torrenham, and the two men huddled dismally together on the church steps. Strakes himself sank wearily against a big oak tree near the churchyard.
Torrenham's voice, thin and strained, rose in the night air. "I still say you're idiots. You'll never be able to prosecute me. If you do, I'll raise the issue of the documents and what is contained in them. There's a fortune there, and even better—a chance to publicly discredit the rotten heart of the Crown." He hissed in pain, and Catesby cast him a worried look.
"I don't want to hear that sort of talk!" John protested.
"Too bad!" Catesby snorted, looking at them in contempt. "You'll sing a different tune when you read them. Or perhaps," he sneered, "it would be better if you do not. Go on living in your Fool's Paradise of Good King George. Be his faithful lapdogs, if it pleases you. Monarchy is dead—it just doesn't know it yet. I won't rest until the whole world knows."
"Oh, go to the devil!" Tavington snapped. "In America I hanged traitors like you—and worse!"
Catesby smirked. "And we all know what a success that was!"
Tavington took a threatening step, but Jane caught him by the arm and shook her head. All the desire to fight was quite drained from her, as she imagined the chinless body in the church. Tavington turned his back on his enemies, waiting to be rid of them. He wrapped his arms around Jane, warming her. At last they heard the sound of pounding hooves, and Bordon waved a lantern.
The bewildered coachman reined in, and Young jumped down. He helped Catesby ease Torrenham into the carriage. Blood smeared the seats and door, shining wetly in the darkness.
"Go back up to the house, Young, and see about something to eat for us. There's a good fellow." Young nodded smartly and jogged away. Sir John turned to the men in the carriage. "As for you-- get off my property," he said grimly. "You! Coachman! The most direct route is back through the village. Don't stop until you're well away! Torrenham! Catesby! You'd do well to hide your faces for shame!"
"And stay out of our lives," Tavington added. "Whatever harm you might do to us, we can do to you tenfold. And just remember that you'd be hard put to have us at law either, without a treason trial for yourselves! I wouldn't trouble myself with that, though. You may know where we live," he snarled, "but we know where you do as well—and your mother and sisters!"
"Don't!" Jane whispered. "Oh, don't!"
"No, don't, old fellow, we're not the sort to threaten women," John declared. "You're a fool, Torrenham. I can't say I wish you'd die, but I'm not going to regret it if you do. And you, Catesby—I'd advise you to disappear."
Still full of rage, Tavington eyed him and added, "I'd very much advise you to disappear. The army is always in need officers in the West Indies regiments, you know."
"As if I'd soil myself, fighting for 'King and Country,'" Catesby shot back. "I'll leave that to butchers like you. I know what you did in the Carolinas—"
Tavington shouted, and slapped the nearest horse. "Get them out of here before I kill the lot of you!"
The coachman instantly whipped up the horses, and the chaise and four was off with a rumble, moving quickly out of the sight, and then a little later, out of hearing. There was a collective sigh of relief.
"We should have killed them," Tavington grumbled.
"Impossible to keep secret, my dear Tavington," Bordon soothed him. "Sir John, as the local justice of the peace, can deal easily enough with the dead men and Mrs. Tavington's wretched prisoner. We have the papers, and Torrenham is unable to harm us."
"For now," Tavington conditioned. He considered the situation. It was unpleasant, knowing that there were living men who had planned to kill him. It was possible they might cross paths again someday. He shrugged. John and Bordon had prevented him from eliminating the threat tonight--but with any luck, Torrenham's wound would mortify and he would die...
"We should get the documents to Sir Edward Claypoole tomorrow," John said. "Why don't we ride to London and get rid of them?"
"Not before you know what it is them, I hope!" Jane remarked tartly. "It's the least you deserve! Oh, dear! Mr. Strakes! You are bleeding! Come, we must get him to the Hall!"
"I am quite all right, Mrs. Tavington," Strakes observed, sitting with his back to the big oak, half asleep. "I shall go home and have a rest—"
"Not until that wound is seen to," Bordon told him, very decidedly. "Come, my dear fellow. Here, Sir John, help me get him to his feet. Lean on me, Strakes."
Tavington and Jane were left behind, looking at each other.
"My dear Jane—" Tavington bit back the angry words on the tips of tongue. "I love you dearly, but you are the most reckless woman I ever knew."
Jane paused, ready to fight back, and found herself utterly disarmed by his words. She stopped and stared, her heart nearly bursting with joy.
"Really?"
"Yes, really! I never saw anything like you! You come charging in like a callow ensign—"
"No." She was looking up at him. Her eyes shone with the faint reflected light of the lantern in his hand. "You said you loved me dearly. Do you really?"
Sir John goggled, and then walked on, grinning. The smallest, most perfectly satisfied smile played over Bordon's lips.
Tavington looked down at Jane. She was completely unaware of the blood on her cheek and the carnage about her. Women are all the same, he thought—and then thought again. No—Jane is not like anyone else. Have I really never told her that I love her? Do I love her?"
Her arms were about his neck, and her lips on his, warm and willing and everything a lover's should be.
I suppose I do. Who would have imagined it?
"Yes. Of course I do. How could you doubt it?"
"You never told me you loved me before."
"You've never told me you loved me at all! Do you?"
"Very much!"
"Well then, that's settled," Tavington said, kissing her temple as they walked. "Let's go home--and to bed!"
"I just wish I hadn't had to shoot that man," Jane whispered.
"Mrs. Tavington is certainly a fearless creature!" Strakes observed quietly to Sir John. "I had heard she fought highwaymen last year."
"Well—that's a long story…" John replied, and the three of them talked quietly on their way to the Hall. Tavington and Jane followed more slowly, their arms around each other. They reached the front of the house. Inside, vague shapes pressed against the windows of the Great Hall, trying to see who was approaching. John raised a shout.
"Hello the Hall! Come on out! It's quite safe!
The door opened nearly instantly, spilling light out on the paved walkway. John laughed as Emily sped to him and threw her arms around him. He gave her a hearty squeeze and a kiss, caring nothing for the witnesses.
"There, there, my dear," he assured her. "I'm quite all right. Some friends came along, and the villains are dispatched."
They were met like conquering heroes. After all, Tavington considered, we are.
Next—The Hollow Crown
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