Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 05] - Nanette (9 page)

His long arm slid under Harry's shoulders. The struggle to
move was wracking, and his best response was a gasped out, "Thank you.
I'm… Harry Allison… " which was all he could manage.

"Harry Allison." Diccon propped his uninvited guest against a
convenient tree and, having noted that the pale lips were tightly
compressed and the fists clenched, he crossed to the cart, returning in
a few minutes carrying a tin cup. "Took a real wisty rap you did, your
worship. But your head's not broke less'n I mistake it, and I seen
a'plenty in me time. Have a swig o'this."

The brandy was mellow and potent, the quality such that
Harry's eyes widened in surprise, but it also made him cough, the
resultant chaos in his head rendering him so sick and dizzy that
Diccon's words reached him as from a vast distance, and he lay very
still, listening.

"Stay low and keep your mouth shut," his host offered. "That's
what me mum told me when I was a little shaver, and that's about what I
does. Not much of a talker be I. A gentle, peaceable cove, what likes
quiet and a good book, and the backwaters o'life, as y'might say. So
you'd likely think that was I a'sitting here with Mr. Fox, minding of
me own business, and with me stew starting to smell fit to eat, nothing
could move me. But I found out something else during me travels,
milord, and that is that if trouble comes a'sniffing around, it's best
to go and take a look at
it
—'stead o'waiting
t'let it come slithering up to look at
you
when
you ain't nowise ready. So when I—"

"I am not," Harry frowned, vaguely irritated by this flow of
narrative, "a lord." He raised one hand as he interjected this crucial
statement, and Diccon was silent a moment while his shrewd eyes
fastened on that white hand with its slim, tapering fingers and
well-kept nails. "Well, that's a sad thing, I grant ye," he
commiserated. "But then neither is I, so there y'are. And here was I
when I heered that there shot—"

"Shot?" Harry clutched again at his brow while he strove
painfully to remember.

"Ar," nodded Diccon. "And up I creeps to the holler and sees
you come a'flying down the bank and a big cove riding off with two
horses, and—"

"Lace!" Starting up, aghast, Harry winced but, pushing away
Diccon's restraining hands, struggled to his knees. "That dirty…
bastard! He's taken my Lace!" He gained his feet and, reeling, was
steadied by a strong arm.

"Easy, Sir Harry," said Diccon, watching him narrowly. "If
your Lace be a showy little bay mare, he took her all right."

"Well don't stand here chatting about it, blast you!" cried
Harry furiously, gripping his head with one hand and pushing at Diccon
with the other. "Get after him! Dammit—
will
you
move!
Sergeant
!" And then, staggering, went to
his knees and groaned a febrile, "What in thunder am I saying? How long
ago, man ? Can you not follow and see where—"

Diccon allowed as how it had been a half-hour back and wasn't
no use t'go rushing off like some chawbacon, and that if Sir Harry
didn't lie down and stop jumping about like a flea in a skillet he'd do
hisself up proper. Since Harry was by this time beginning to feel the
benefit of the brandy, his response was, if thready, so lengthily
explicit that awe came into Diccon's eyes. He restored his guest to the
tree and waited until at last the distressed man ran out of breath and
groaned an anguished, "Damn, damn, damn! If he spoils her pretty mouth,
I'll…" His voice broke and Diccon nodded sympathetically. "Know how you
feels, sir. I'd be the same if 'twas Mr. Fox."

Harry leaned his pounding head back against the tree trunk and
surveyed his benefactor for a moment, thinking only of his pretty mare
and the affection they had shared these last two years. But the gloomy
contenance that was now bent over the savoury pot intrigued him, and he
asked at length, "Mr. Fox?"

A loud and hideous response shattered the silence of that
sylvan glade. Startled birds twittered, owls hooted in fright, and two
confused rabbits shot though the clearing and all but ran into the
fire. Throwing his hands over his ears, Harry stared in astonishment to
where the little donkey tossed his head about, that cacophonous blast
issuing from between his open jaws.

Diccon waved one arm toward the braying ass. "Meet my
friend—Mr. Fox."

The morning was brisk and cool. A slight breeze stirred the
yellow green of new leaves, and birds sang blithely to welcome the sun
which sprinkled an ever-changing dapple of light into the clearing and
awoke diamonds from the hurrying stream.

Sir Harry Redmond, late of Moire Grange and Hill Street, known
to most of the
haut ton
as a Top o' the Trees, a
proud member of the Four Horse Club, and an undisputed Corinthian,
knelt beside that chattering stream working carefully and with an
occasional muttered expletive, at the bandage about his brow. He had
already shaved, thanks to the loan of Diccon's razor and soap, and
washed himself to the waist in the icy water—a sight that had so
unnerved his host he'd withdrawn in horror. Now, with the smell of
frying bacon driving him to distraction, Harry could not seem to
succeed in freeing the bandage from the wound short of starting it to
bleed again. He was in the midst of a lusty burst of profanity when
something thudded into his back, sending him head first into the stream.

Howling his indignation as he emerged hurriedly from that
chill immersion, he glared up at a raucously amused Diccon and a
head-swinging Mr. Fox.

"Shoulda warned you," Diccon snorted. "He's got a rare sense
of humour."

"Does he, by God!" snarled Harry, shivering. "B-B-Blasted damn
ass!"

Mr. Fox laid his ears back, stretched forth his neck, and
fluttered his upper lip in an idiotic grimace that could only be a
laugh. Forced to a reluctant grin, Harry swore to even the score but
was then pleased to discover that his plunge had soaked the bandage
clear. Diccon, inspecting the gash, pronounced it closing nicely but
allowed as how Mr. Allison likely had "a right headache, s'morning."

"Not too bad," lied Harry between chattering teeth. "And I've
to thank you for being in no worse c-c-case. Gad, but that smells
delight—" and he stopped. Diccon was obviously not a rich man and he
himself now poverty stricken.

"Hungry, is ye?" asked Diccon sympathetically. "Come on, then."

Harry "came on" and, wrapping a blanket about himself, stood
by the fire trying not to notice the tin plate piled high with crispy
bacon, eggs cooked to perfection, and crusty bread, thick with fresh
butter.

"Well, sit down," said Diccon impatiently. " 'Fore it gets
cold.'"

Harry thanked him but said he was not in the least hungry and
seldom, in fact, ate breakfast. Diccon gave him a measuring look,
turned aside and, seating himself, took up another and even more
heavily laden plate. "Awful waste," he said sadly. "Doubt I can eat it
all. But—Mr. Fox won't consider hisself too flash to eat with the likes
of I."

Mr. Fox was doomed to disappointment. A short while later,
leaning blissfully against a tree, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand
and his headache much lessened, Harry allowed that there wasn't a
coffee house in Town to equal Diccon's cooking. "Never," he opined,
"have I tasted such food."

"Or not since Spain, eh?" murmured Diccon, sprawled lazily
nearby, the remains of his disreputable straw slanted over his eyes.

"Spain…" Harry gave a reminiscent grin. "We were lucky
sometimes, I grant you. But there were many days we ate only acorns—
if
we could find any! I remember—" He stopped, a frown puckering his
forehead. "How the deuce did you know I'd served in—"

"Talked a lot 'fore you woke up proper yestiddy," said Diccon.

A blast from the donkey shook the clearing. Harry winced and
held his head. "Good God! What does he want?"

"Breakfast." Diccon made no attempt to gratify this need,
however, and regarding his apparently exhausted benefactor, Harry
demanded, "Do you not feed him first?"

"Had to feed you," said Diccon indignantly. " 'Sides—he bites."

Harry, who had started to his feet, was given pause by those
words.

"Less'n you gives him something first," Diccon amended. "He's
allus grumpy first thing of a morning. Like some people."

"But he's been chewing on that bush ever since I woke up."'

"Ain't the same. Likes something of a more personal nature."
With a great and noble effort, Diccon reached over to pick up a folded
letter. "This'll do."

Harry snatched it away. "It will not! That's mine!" Diccon
slumped back but found the energy to sigh a few instructions as to oats
and tubs. Following these, Harry eventually approached the donkey
bearing a laden tub. Mr. Fox eyed him malevolently. Sure that Diccon
was watching with amused anticipation, Harry retrieved a fragment of
newspaper fluttering in a nearby bush. It seemed ridiculous, but he
proffered it with a few low-voiced remarks of rank flattery. Mr. Fox
appreciated both the approach and the news and, accepting the offices
of this promising newcomer with becoming grace, settled down to his
breakfast. Amused, Harry asked, "Why do you call him Mr. Fox?"

"Looks like him," said Diccon drowsily. " 'Specially when he's
got his hat on. And any man what looked like Charles James Fox and had
a pretty lady in keeping for years without wedding her was a worse
donkey than that'n!"

Harry laughed. "A moralist! Yet Charles Fox
did
eventually wed the lady, you know. And he was a very great man."

"Well," yawned Diccon, "my donkey's a very great donkey."

Harry turned a curious gaze on the tent. "Are you a tinker,
Mr. Diccon ?"

"Never mind the mister. And—tinker? Cor, bless you, sir—no! A
tinker's a victim o'folks' whims. Spends all his days hauling a lot of
stuff folks
might
want—but seldom does!
I'm
a trader. That is t'say, Mr. Fox and me is. When we comes to a place,
folks comes and sees what we got, and shows us what
they
got, and we trades. Sometimes we trades for tools and the like.
Sometimes it's just for lunch with say a tankard o'home brewed."

"Never mind the 'sir'…" Diccon raised his hat at this and,
peering upward, grinned broadly, and smiling in return, Harry next
regarded that solitary oar. "And—do you enjoy a good business, may I
ask?"

"Most times. Sometimes it's hard to part with what we get. I
traded a scythe once for some books o'them Greek philosyphers."

Harry returned to his tree, lowered himself cautiously, and
noted with a twinkle that this seemed a practical exchange.

"Was for that there farmer. He couldn't read. Terrible shock
for me, though."

"Were you not able to trade them ?"

"Started to
read
'em! Awful!" the
bartered straw stirred agitatedly. "I allus thought them Greeks was a
pure and high-minded lot. Cor! Such carryings on as I never dreamed of!
Fellas seem to've spent most o'their time seducing their mums, or their
sisters, or whacking off their dads'—" He paused, and uttered,
"Shocking!"

Harry, eyes alight with mirth, pointed out that the Greeks
were nonetheless noted for great thoughts. "Euripides, for example—"

"Ah—he's the one Mr. Fox liked. Easy to see why. He was a
'ristocrat. And just look at our nobility, would you! The way they
carry on is fair disgraceful! I heered as that there Lady Melbourne had
nine children, not no two of 'em having the same father, and," here he
lifted his straw the better to direct a righteously outraged glance at
his companion, "—and not a
one
by her own
husband!"

"Six," Harry corrected, his lips quivering betrayingly. Lady
Melbourne, the product of an earlier and lustier generation, had been
wont to address him as her 'darling boy". He had been devoted to her
for as long as he could remember and, knowing her lively sense of the
ridiculous, could appreciate her delight to learn of this conversation
between an itinerant trader and an impoverished ex-soldier in a lonely
Kentish wood.

Diccon replaced the hat and after a moment said sleepily, "I
'spect as ye'll be wanting 't'get back to your own people."

Harry was silent, watching Mr. Fox with troubled eyes. To go
back now must be to beg for help and generosity. And how willing they
would be—how eager to help. Bolster, bless his old yellow head, was so
very well breeched, as was Damon—or St. Clair, for that matter. They
would, in fact, be furious with him for not asking their assistance.
But the very thought made him cringe. He had no wife to consider, and
Mitch, thank God, was provided for—at least for the immediate future…

A loud snore interrupted his musings. He looked at the long,
sprawled shape of his somnolent host and wondered how Diccon ever
mustered the energy to be about his 'trading'. To share this
inactivity, at least for a little while, was most pleasant. Harry
settled back and contemplated swaying trees, rippling stream, the
contentedly grazing Mr. Fox, and the deepening blue of the sky. The sun
was getting warmer and he was dry now and felt surprisingly well
despite his head and sundry bruises and abrasions. He took up one of
the letters he'd found in the desk drawer and unfolded it idly. It was
addressed in a neat, copperplate hand to Sir Colin Redmond, Moire
Grange, Near Haslemere, Hants., and read:

Sir Colin:

Your testimony at yesterday's Enquiry left me both
baffled and distressed. It was very evident that you are concealing
something. I can only implore you to not be intimidated. My beloved
brother is dead, and with your help, it will be proven MURDER.

I beg you will reconsider, and shall await your
reply with the greatest anxiety.

Yours, etc., Annabelle Carlson