The Deathly Portent (34 page)

“Take care, m’am! They be after you! Run!”

She recognised the shrill tones of Bessy the maid and halted, looking warily about her. She could not see the tapster, but the rest of the group were standing about the stake, watching her. Too late, the hairs on her neck prickled, and she knew someone was behind her.

Before she could turn, a painful grip seized upon both her upper arms. Without thought, Ottilia struggled.

“Let me go! How dare you touch me? Let me go!”

“In league with the witch you be,” growled a voice in her ear. “Tisbury said.”

Numbing horror entered Ottilia’s chest as she recognised the maddened tones of Will the tapster. He was pushing her towards the stake.

“Tie her up!”

A curious sense of unreality overlaid Ottilia’s senses. This could not be happening. Somewhere underneath she was aware of stark terror coiled deep inside. But the present numbness made it possible to override it.

She made no further resistance and was vaguely astonished at the steady tone of her voice, which sounded to her own ears distorted and out of true.

“You cannot mean to do this. Do you not know who I am?”

“Witch’s ’complice, that’s who you be,” came the gruff response. “Tie her, I said.”

This to the little gathering ahead of them. In the periphery of her mind Ottilia knew the rest were hesitant, and a faint hope grew.

“Don’t do it,” she uttered in the same strange tone of spurious calm. “He is not himself. He does not mean it.”

She felt the outcome hanging in the balance for the space of several seconds. And then the gaggle of boys were grouping round her. Many hands seized her, muttering and chanting.

“Burn the witch. Burn the witch.”

Ottilia felt she was dwelling in a dream. As if they played a macabre game, the boys dragged her through hastily shifted faggots to the pole. She had the oddest sensation of watching events unfold from outside herself, and she felt powerless to resist. Before she knew what had happened, her back was hard against the pole, her hands stretched behind it, and she could feel the cruel dig of ropes upon her wrists.

Her thoughts mirrored the sensation of floating, as if the world had slowed down around her.

How had she come to this? Francis would be so angry with her. Had he not told her to stay at the Blue Pig? She would have done better to obey him. How would she satisfactorily explain herself?

And then she caught the whiff of burning. Wonderingly she looked to see if they had indeed set fire to her. Her gaze cast vaguely about, and abruptly she saw it.

Will the tapster was coming from the direction of the Cock and Bottle, a flaming brand held high in his hand.

Reality swept over Ottilia in a wave, and the name engraved on her heart came screaming out of her lips.

T
he cry did not at first penetrate its meaning into the head of its intended recipient.

His pistol steady in his hand, Francis stood centre to the crowd, Pilton to one side, Ryde at the other. He was eye to eye with Tisbury, who was flanked by Farmer Staxton and others of whose identity Francis was unaware.

So far the barrier had held, reinforced by Pilton’s staff and Ryde’s rough, bare-handed disposal of those who had ventured to attempt a pass. At least two had been accounted for and were lying in the roadway nursing broken heads. Another was cooling off in the stream, Ryde having heaved him over the side of the bridge. They had lost only two, who slipped past while the defenders were occupied, and Francis was relying upon Sam Hawes to take care of those.

He had tried soft words, but they availed nothing with Tisbury, whose ale-ridden grief knew no bounds. Much of their success at holding the men at bay Francis attributed to the potations they had clearly been imbibing for some hours.

“Francis!”

This time he heard it. His view of the green was necessarily restricted, but he had already noted the activity near the Cock without fully taking in its portent.

He looked across, and for a second or two his mind played him false. How in the world could they have the witch tied there when Cassie Dale was safely in her cottage?

“Francis!”

This time it hit him with the force of a bullet from his own gun. Tillie! They had Tillie!

The scene he had taken in but sparely now imprinted itself upon his inner vision. He could see the stake, the woman tied thereto, and the man with the flaring torch moving in.

Sheer instinct overrode every vestige of shrieking horror, giving way to such rage as he had never felt before, deadly and cold.

Without thought or feeling, he cocked his weapon and moved, and the barrel of his pistol set squarely in the centre of Tisbury’s forehead.

“Get out of my way.”

For an instant, Tisbury’s terror was reflected in his eyes. Then he swiftly backed off, knocking into the men behind.

In the spurious calm of an overlaid control, Francis saw every eye trained upon the gun. He paid no further heed but plowed through the crowd as they parted in haste before him.

As he reached the other side of the bridge, he saw Kinnerton arriving and threw him a brief nod. Then he took off, his heels flying over the grass, a single target in his eye, growing as he neared.

Tillie. His Tillie, fettered like a criminal.

She was quiet now, and Francis knew she waited for him, trusting in his strength. He willed his legs to run faster, instinctively holding his weapon high and tilted towards the heavens.

Within yards of the area, he squeezed the trigger, and the explosion shattered on the air.

Its effect was instantaneous. The entirety of the scene stilled, and Francis took it in as if it were a painting on a wall.

There was Tillie, staked and tied, surrounded by a group of youths and boys. To one side stood Will the tapster, from whose struggling hand the shopkeeper Uddington was wrenching
the burning brand. A little way behind came a coterie of persons—Meldreth running, Wagstaff limping, and Miss Beeleigh bringing up the rear.

Reaching the scene, which sprang again to life, Francis pocketed his pistol as he heard the doctor’s thunderous voice.

“You villains! What are you about?”

But Francis had no words. Seizing a stout branch from the faggots, he set about any within reach, wielding this new weapon to excellent effect, indiscriminately beating all around the stake at heads and backs and legs even as his victims scrambled, yelping, to tunnel out of reach.

As the circle widened, he became aware of Ryde, similarly armed and doing excellent business on his own account. Without looking, he called out.

“Relieve me here, Meldreth!”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” snapped the doctor.

Francis stayed only to see the man pick up a useful weapon on his own account and take over the work, causing those who were not yet nursing bruises to retreat with alacrity.

Throwing away his stick, Francis went to Ottilia, where he discovered Miss Beeleigh already behind her, wrestling with the knots at her wrists.

His heart wrenched as he looked into Tillie’s white features and saw the pools of darkness in her normally clear gaze.

“I am with you, my darling,” he said swiftly and slid around behind.

Miss Beeleigh gave way as his fingers went directly to the knots. Cursing, he looked to find Ryde.

“Your pocketknife, man. Quickly!”

Without taking his eyes from the watching circle, his groom dived a hand into the recesses of his costume. Darting up, he handed over the instrument and danced back to the edge, inviting anyone who had a mind to come on and take his medicine.

None took up the offer, and Francis had a grim smile for
Ryde’s black humour as he cut through the ropes holding Tillie prisoner.

Released, her knees buckled, but Francis was instantly there. He caught her and lifted her clear off the ground.

“Thank God,” she whispered and sank into his hold.

Francis carried her away towards the Blue Pig, the unchained rage now roaring in his chest.

O
ttilia sipped at the liquid in the glass thrust unceremoniously into her hands by her irate spouse. The sensation of icy cold that had entered her limbs began to dissipate, but the quiver at her fingers threatened to upset the vessel at any moment.

Carefully she set it down on the coffee room table, uncomfortably aware of the raised voices in the hall beyond the closed door. From across the table she caught Mrs. Radlett’s anxious gaze.

“Are you a little recovered, Lady Francis?”

Ottilia’s lips felt stiff as she attempted a response. “I don’t yet know.”

The widow’s eye fell upon the glass. “You had best drink it all up. I should not care to have Lord Francis blame me if you don’t.”

A faint laugh escaped Ottilia. “He knows who to blame.”

Mrs. Radlett’s gaze widened. “Oh no, I am persuaded. If only you had seen his face as he carried you in here, Lady Francis. He feared for your life, you know.”

Ottilia sucked in a steadying breath. Francis had not yet rung a peal over her, but his brusqueness had warned her to expect one. Now that she was able to think a little more coherently, she could appreciate why he might do so, but a slight tinge of rebellion remained.

“I don’t believe my life was in any real danger. They would have stopped. Don’t you think they would have stopped?”

To her dismay, the widow slowly shook her head. “I wish I might think so.”

“But you don’t.”

A little disconcerted, Ottilia took up her glass again. She was childishly pleased to note the shaking had reduced. A few more sips of brandy served to clear her head a little, and her gaze wandered to the window.

A tiny shudder shook her as she saw the crowd still milling about in the place from which she had so lately been rescued. It had grown in number, and the reason was not far to seek.

“They have abandoned the bridge.”

Mrs. Radlett nodded with fervour. “Oh yes. I daresay the spectacle of Lord Francis laying about him proved of more immediate interest. I was outside the Blue Pig, you must know, though I dared not come across.”

Ottilia frowned at her. “What happened? After Francis brought me away, I mean.”

The widow’s eyes lit. “Oh, it was immensely dramatic. Doctor Meldreth, together with your husband’s groom and the vicar, threw the faggots far and wide. And Alethea uprooted the pole and—”

“Alethea?” Interrupting without apology, Ottilia gazed at the woman.

The golden ringlets bounced as Mrs. Radlett nodded again. “Yes, and she used it like a battering ram to thrust at the men who had come down from the bridge.”

“Miss Beeleigh uprooted the pole?”

“Oh yes. She is immensely strong,” averred the widow, not without a touch of pride. “The whole thing became quite chaotic, you must know. Mr. Wagstaff shouted at his son-in-law, and someone called upon Pilton to lock up the culprits. I do believe it was Mr. Uddington, now I think of it.”

“Are they locked up?”

“I cannot say, for Lord Francis asked me to remain here
with you, and I could see no more. Alethea will tell us the rest, I daresay.”

Before Ottilia had time to digest all this, the door opened and Francis came in, accompanied by Doctor Meldreth. Francis’s brown gaze, its wrath thankfully reduced, came directly to Ottilia and raked her face. Then it fell to the glass in her hand, and Francis frowned.

“I am doing my best,” Ottilia said, forestalling criticism.

Something flashed in his eyes, and the frown disappeared. His tone, as he spoke, was a deal less harsh than heretofore.

“I’ve asked Meldreth to look you over.”

Ottilia glanced at the doctor and summoned a smile. “I am not hurt, I assure you.”

The doctor returned the smile, but his manner became avuncular. “Nevertheless, it is as well to be certain. You may have suffered bruises.”

“I am sure I have not,” Ottilia said, steadfastly refusing to meet her husband’s eye.

There was sympathy in Meldreth’s look. “You were roughly used, ma’am.” His glance went to her hands. “Your wrists?”

He took the glass from her fingers and set it down. As he took one hand to examine it, Ottilia looked and was chagrined to find reddened weals. She had felt no pain, but the instant the doctor set a gentle touch to the spot, she winced and hissed in a breath.

Without thinking, she looked up at Francis and found him biting his lip, his gaze darkening with some unnamed emotion. Ottilia was obliged to hold her tongue on the words that begged to be uttered. She could not begin upon any defence in this company.

“I will send you a salve to put on the bruises, Lady Francis.” Meldreth laid down her hand and raised his brows. “But you have had a trying day, have you not? May I suggest you lie down upon your bed for a while?”

Ottilia balked. “Lie down upon my bed? Doctor Meldreth, I am not an invalid.”

He gave her a meaning look. “Shock may be delayed, as I am sure you know.”

“Yes, but—”

“Have no fear,” came from Francis in the determined tone she knew well. “I’ll see she does as you suggest.”

A mutinous feeling entered Ottilia’s breast, but she was only half aware of flashing a look of it at her spouse. He met it blandly, but she noted the stubborn tilt to his jaw.

“And perhaps a tisane of herbs,” Meldreth pursued, “to help you relax.”

Ottilia gave him a tight smile. “I am perfectly relaxed, I thank you, and I will drink coffee.”

“Coffee is a stimulant.”

Closing her lips firmly together, Ottilia refrained from any response. She was by now thoroughly irritated, not least because she was certain Francis would insist upon her carrying out Meldreth’s instructions to the letter.

Nor was she mistaken. The doctor made to take his departure within minutes, saying he must send to Lady Ferrensby and return to the task he had interrupted.

Ottilia realised he must be referring to the postmortem on Molly Tisbury.

“Have you found anything yet?”

He nodded. “The lung had indeed collapsed, which at least offers the hope the poor woman suffered only briefly.”

“And the weapon?”

“A small knife, easily concealed. I doubt Molly had a notion she’d been stabbed before her life was extinguished.”