Читать книгу Moonrise - Ana Seymour - Страница 8

Sarah rode stiffly alongside Anthony. Their huge mounts had long since left behind the poor farm horse with Norah Thatcher clinging to its back.

“Is it far to the village?” Anthony shouted.

Sarah shook her head. All at once things seemed to be spinning out of control. Gentle Parson Hollander had been arrested. Anthony had insisted on accompanying her to the village, and she didn’t know what they would find when they got there. She hoped that Jack would have enough sense to stay out of sight, and that he had had time to enlist the parson’s help in making sure the villagers knew about the “Henry Partridge” deception. She was confident that they would cooperate with the ruse. There was little love for the king in the town with the taxes being increased regularly to finance the Dutch war. And Jack and Sarah had been treated kindly since arriving at their uncle’s after their father’s execution four years ago. Most of the residents of Wiggleston knew how protective Sarah had been of Jack over the years. She could count on their help, as long as Jack and the parson had had time to spread the word.

“Mistress Sarah, are you close to this village parson? You look distressed.” Anthony was watching her with a thoughtful look on his face that did not help Sarah’s unease.

“He’s been the family parson as long as I can remember.”

“He’s a Puritan, then?”

Sarah hesitated. King Charles had proven remarkably tolerant in allowing Puritans to freely practice the religion that had figured so prominently in the overthrow of his father. But Sarah could not let go of her mistrust. Her father had been killed for his beliefs, and she did not feel comfortable discussing such matters with a representative of the crown. “Parson Hollander is the most godly man I know,” she replied at last. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to think of him being put under arrest.”

Anthony noted the evasiveness as well as the vehemence of her reply and decided to keep his questions to himself. After their near embrace in the meadow, he was more determined than ever to take Mistress Sarah to his bed before he left Yorkshire. He was even prepared to overlook the fact that she obviously knew more about the goings-on in this area than she was willing to let on to him. His mission would be greatly simplified if this Parson Hollander was the moonlight bandit. They should know soon—he prided himself on having an instinct about such things. For the time being he would let Mistress Fairfax keep her secrets.

Wiggleston was nestled at the base of a series of limestone crags that led down to the sea. Unlike bustling Kingston-on-Hull to the north, the village’s coastline was too rocky to be a commercial port. Except for an occasional poor fishing coble, the Wiggleston coves were occupied only by gannets and razorbills that soared in and out with complete sovereignty. To the west of the village, the cliffs turned into gentle Yorkshire wolds and eventually stretched out as vast moors, which still had a purple cast even in their winter dryness.

Sarah usually loved the moment when the sea came into view as she rounded Bratswick Scar on the road into town. But today she barely glanced out at the water. Her mind was too busy with the complications of the current situation.

“The sheriff’s house and gaol is not far. I can make my way by myself from here,” she said to Anthony. “Why don’t you go on back to Leasworth and spend some more time with the horses?”

Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re upset. I’ll go with you and see what this is all about. Perhaps I can be of some help.”

Sarah gritted her teeth and gave a slight pull on Brigand’s reins to tell him to head around the big gritstone smithy and proceed along the neat row of brick cottages that made up the most prosperous part of town. At the end was the larger brick structure that housed the town gaol. A number of townsfolk were congregated in the village green just in front of it.

Sarah surveyed the crowd anxiously and let out a long breath when she saw no sign of Jack in the group. She stopped in front of an iron hitching post and jumped from Brigand’s back. Anthony was at her side almost at the same instant. He took her arm as they made their way through the crowd.

“Mistress Fairfax, thank goodness you’re here.” A reedy fellow with thinning hair pushed his way toward them.

Roger Spragg had been the town mayor for as long as anyone could remember, keeping his post by virtue of his untarnished record of absolute inaction. Sarah was surprised to see him so uncharacteristically agitated.

“What’s going on, Mr. Spragg?”

The mayor twisted his hands and smacked together the edges of his mouth, which seemed to be devoid of lips. “Perhaps we should send for your uncle, Mistress Fairfax. There’s king’s men in town and your...” He stopped and looked nervously over at Anthony. “Well, and now they’ve gone and arrested Parson Hollander.”

Sarah put a slender hand on the mayor’s sleeve to calm him down. She had the feeling he had been going to say something about Jack, which she couldn’t let happen. “I’ll go in and talk with Sheriff Jeffries, Mr. Spragg. Why don’t you tell these good people to go on about their business? They can’t be of any help here.”

Spragg gave a little whining sound. “I should go inside with you, Mistress Fairfax. These charges against the parson are outrageous.”

“I know.” Sarah bit back her impatience with the annoying little man. “I’m sure it’s all some kind of misunderstanding. But your duty now is to your townspeople.”

Spragg looked around at the gathering and nodded his head several times. “Perhaps you’re right, Mistress Fairfax. Duty comes first. I’ll try to calm these folks down.”

Sarah gave a forced smile and pushed her way past him. Anthony watched her with amusement. She wasn’t one to put up with foolishness, that much was obvious. He was looking forward to seeing how she handled the sheriff...and Oliver, if, as he suspected, his friend was behind this arrest.

In deference to the vocation of the prisoner, the questioning was taking place in the parlor of the sheriff’s roomy house. By far the fanciest home in the village, the floor had carpets instead of rush mats, and the furniture in the room they were entering was upholstered with tooled leather.

As Sarah and Anthony entered the arched doorway, the occupants of the room turned simultaneously. Anthony’s eyes skimmed over the stalwart figure of Oliver, who stood nearest them. He did not let even a flicker of his eye betray recognition. A large man was standing near the stone fireplace, bending over a clergyman who sat stiffly in a straight wooden chair.

Anthony almost laughed aloud when he saw him. This frail, gray-haired cleric was supposed to be the masked robber who rode like the wind and wielded a sword like a pirate?

“Sheriff Jeffries, what’s going on here?” Sarah’s voice carried none of the mellow tone Anthony had found so pleasing. He looked down at her in surprise.

The man by the fire straightened and then made a slight bow in their direction. He shifted his leather baldric to fit more comfortably over the bulge of his stomach. “We’ve had an accusation, Mistress Fairfax, against Parson Hollander. And I’m honor-bound to investigate.”

Sarah pulled her arm out of Anthony’s grasp and briskly crossed the room. “What kind of accusation?”

The sheriff nodded his head at Oliver. “Captain Kempthorne, here, says the parson’s been involved in clandestine activities.”

Sarah positioned herself behind the parson and looked fiercely at the sheriff. “That’s absurd,” she said.

“I daresay, Mistress Fairfax. But we have to check on Captain Kempthorne’s story.”

Sarah glared across the room at Oliver, who was leaning against a trestle table, his arms folded. “And just what is Captain Kempthorne’s story?”

Without straightening, Oliver gave a brief nod of introduction. “Oliver Kempthorne of his majesty’s guards, at your service, mistress. It appears that your parson has been involved in a series of robberies that have taken place in this district.”

“And on what do you base these preposterous charges, Captain Kempthorne?”

“My men have been charged with cleaning up the smuggling in these parts now that we’re at war again with the Dutch. Last week up in Hull we had a...er...discussion with a Dutch contrabandist we caught red-handed. The man swore he got the jewels he was carrying from your parson. When we searched the vestry over at the church, we found this.” Oliver reached casually into his doublet and pulled out a glittery necklace.

Sarah’s mouth went dry. She recognized the piece as one she had taken from the Bishop of Lackdale. She put her hands on the parson’s shoulders, as much to support herself as him. “There has to be some mistake,” she said, less forcibly than before.

Anthony was watching the proceedings with some dismay. Obviously, this tiny old man was not the robber. But it appeared that he was involved in the crimes. And Sarah was disconcerted and upset by his arrest. He hoped that didn’t mean that she was involved, too.

“Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “I’m Lord Anthony Rutledge. I’ve recently come from court and am, of course, interested in any matter involving the king’s business.” He addressed the words to Oliver, who nodded impassively, then crossed the room to offer his hand to the sheriff.

“Much obliged, uh, your honor, er, Lord Rutledge.” Jeffries gave the impression that two king’s men in one day was too much for him to handle.

Sarah turned her direct gaze on Anthony. “If you can do anything about this, I’d be very grateful. Obviously, there has been some kind of terrible mistake.”

Anthony looked around at the other occupants of the room. “Perhaps we should let the good father speak for himself.” He walked over to stand directly in front of the parson and Sarah. “Tell me, Father,” he said pleasantly. “Do you ride the roads at midnight, robbing innocent people of their fortunes at the point of a sword?”

The very absurdity of the statement hit everyone in the room. Parson Hollander looked as if he were having a good deal of difficulty maintaining a seat in the flimsy chair. It was inconceivable to think of him thundering down a lonely highway on a powerful stallion. He gave a gentle smile and shook his head. “No, my son.”

Anthony looked at Jeffries. “I think you’re going to have a hard time proving your case, Sheriff.”

Oliver pulled himself up slowly from his slouch against the table. “He may not be the highwayman, but he’s involved up to his holy little neck. Perhaps a few days in the gaol will loosen his tongue.”

Sarah’s cat eyes glinted like the tips of two drawn swords as she turned to Oliver, her hands on her hips. “How can you take the word of an admitted smuggler against this holy man?”

Anthony gave a half smile as he watched Oliver face Sarah’s fury with utter nonchalance. His friend gave a shrug and walked across the room to where a heavy manacle was draped over a bench. He picked up the chains and walked over to the prisoner. “Your hands, Parson,” he said calmly.

Sarah’s normally fair skin flushed dark red. She moved from behind the parson to plant herself in front of Oliver. “Don’t you dare put those things on him!”

Anthony was torn. He was curious to see if she would betray some knowledge of the crimes in her angry state. But at the same time he felt an inexplicable urge to protect her from becoming more involved. The latter won out as he went over to her and put his hand against the small of her back. “Let’s go, Sarah,” he said softly. “There’s nothing you can do here until the evidence has been examined more thoroughly.”

Sarah’s hands shook as she watched Kempthorne place the heavy manacles around Parson Hollander’s white, bony wrists. The cleric twisted to look at her with his serene smile. “Don’t worry about me, Sarah. You go on home and take care of yourself. You’re the one who’s important here.”

The emphasis in the parson’s words was odd, but they seemed to soothe Sarah for a moment. She stood stiffly as the sheriff, who had also winced at seeing the parson locked into chains, helped the old man out of his chair and led him toward the door.

“You won’t be there for long, Parson,” Sarah said, her voice firm again. “I’ll see to it.”

Parson Hollander gave one last smile before he turned and meekly followed the sheriff out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence after the two men left. Finally Anthony said, “Mistress Fairfax, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a moment with this gentleman. I may be able to get to the bottom of this matter.”

“If you’re going to talk about Parson Hollander, I’m staying right here.” Sarah shifted her feet slightly apart as if to root herself more firmly to the spot.

Anthony could see the amusement behind Oliver’s impassive expression. It was not often that a woman refused one of Anthony’s requests. He leaned down and spoke low in her ear. “I’ll tell you what we talk about later. I might be able to get more information out of him dealing—you know—man-to-man.”

Sarah looked from Oliver back to Anthony, then gave a curt nod and left the room with a haughty swish of her skirts.

Oliver resumed his resting place against the table. “I might have known, Anthony,” he drawled. “I can’t leave you alone for a week without you tangling yourself up with a she-lion.”

Anthony was still staring at the door. “Isn’t she astonishing? Who’d have thought it...out here in this backwash of civilization?”

Oliver barked a laugh. “You’re the astonishing one, my friend. If there’s a beauty within twenty shires, you’ll land at her doorstep.”

Anthony turned his gaze to his friend. “I’d wager there’s none in twenty shires to match her, perhaps in all of England.”

“Hell, Anthony, you’ve the look of a lovesick puppy dog. Who is she, anyway?”

“Old Fairfax’s niece. My hostess. Charles must not have known about her or he would have come on this mission himself.”

“You and the king make a fine pair. England can rot all around you as long as there’s a pretty face to watch.”

Anthony ignored the barb. “Tell me she’s not a beauty, Oliver.”

“Her features are fair enough, I guess, though I’d have been better able to judge if she hadn’t been eyeing me like a piece of meat she wanted to skewer.”

Anthony laughed. “You’re just upset because I got to her first. And because you’re the villain of the day, while I—” he gave a mock bow “—may yet prove to be her hero.”

“Aye. I forgot to thank you for all your bloody support in the interrogation just now.”

“Sorry, I figured I’d be better off not to take sides yet.”

“Not until you talk the beauteous Mistress Fairfax into your bed, you mean.”

“I can’t say the idea hadn’t crossed my mind.”

Oliver picked up a pewter mug from the table alongside him and heaved it at Anthony’s head. “It’s not your mind it crossed, you blackguard.”

Catching the mug easily with his left hand, Anthony scowled at his friend. “We’re not here to talk about Mistress Fairfax. What have you learned about the highwayman?”

Oliver crossed his burly arms. “The priest’s in it somewhere, I’m sure of that.”

“But he’s not the bandit.”

“No.”

Anthony began pacing the room. “I don’t like this. The town is obviously behind their parson. Why did you have to shackle the old man?”

“For effect. You don’t get information out of someone by treating him like a bloody prince.”

Anthony nodded. Oliver was right, of course, and it bothered Anthony to think that his own interest in Sarah was already fogging his judgment in this matter. “Well, if he doesn’t talk soon, we’ll have to move him to London. It will cause too much trouble to have him imprisoned here in his own town.”

“And it won’t help your relations with Mistress Fairfax any, either.”

Anthony disregarded his friend’s sarcasm. “Oliver, do you think the highwayman could be Fairfax himself?”

“General Fairfax?”

“We know the bandit is a swordsman. Looking around this village, I’d say there can’t be too many here with that particular skill.”

Oliver looked doubtful. “The general’s not a young man anymore. And somehow it doesn’t sound like his style. You don’t go from being a leader of thousands of men out on a battlefield to skulking around at night behind a mask.”

Anthony sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll do a little poking around at their manor house, just in case. In the meanwhile, have your men continue investigating, and keep after the parson. Maybe he’ll break down and give us the information we’re looking for. Just be sure you don’t kill the poor devil.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right poking around by yourself at the Fairfax manor?” Oliver asked with a perfectly straight face.

Anthony grimaced. It was the kind of double entendre humor that was rife at court, but somehow it sounded out of place out here in the fresh Yorkshire countryside. Especially when it concerned Sarah Fairfax. “Don’t be crude, Kempthorne.” Anthony decided it was time to go on the offensive. “Just because you’ve always preferred your horse to a fine lady.”

Oliver’s mistrust of women was well-known at court. During the exile years he had fallen so badly for a French countess that he had abandoned his friends for weeks. When he returned to their company, he informed them curtly that, unbeknownst to him, the countess had had a count, and she was not about to lose either the riches or the title he gave her merely for the sake of a fugitive Englishman with uncertain prospects. A few days later somebody had ventured to tease him about his lost countess. The tormentor had ended up with part of his ear sliced off. After that, no one said anything when Oliver refused to join their parties with the ladies.

“Horses are loyal,” Oliver said. “They’re happy with one master, and they do what they’re told.”

“Some women are loyal, too, my friend,” Anthony said gently. “And I haven’t given up on convincing Mistress Fairfax to do as I bid her.”

“You just may have met your match in this one, Rutledge. After all, her uncle was one of the men who defeated the most powerful king in the world. And your Mistress Fairfax looked none too docile to me.”

Anthony grinned. “It’s going to be an interesting challenge.”

Oliver straightened up with a snort and started out the door. “Go on back to your courting, Rutledge. I’ve work to do.”

* * *

Sarah was outside with several of the villagers who had refused to return to their homes. Her slight form dominated the group, though Anthony could not say if it was her bearing or the regal simplicity of her black velvet riding habit. Her expression was grave as he approached.

“What are they going to do to him?” she asked.

Anthony scanned the anxious faces in front of him. “He’s obviously not the masked rider they’re looking for. But there does seem to be some link with the stolen goods. If any of you know something more about the thief, you could help your Parson Hollander greatly by speaking to the authorities.”

There was utter silence. Anthony could not detect even a particle of guilt in their solemn expressions. He sighed. If the parson really was involved in the crimes, it meant that they were the work of more than a single miscreant. It might even mean that the whole village was involved. And the good people looking at him so earnestly at this moment knew exactly who the robber was.

Anthony looked back at Sarah with something like regret. He had the feeling that she, too, had the answers he sought. Who would hold the village’s respect enough to carry out such a conspiracy? Her uncle, surely, but as Oliver had said, he was not a very likely candidate. Perhaps it was the young suitor he had seen with Sarah earlier.

After several moments of silence, Mayor Spragg cleared his throat and said, “We don’t know anything about it, Lord Rutledge.” Several heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

Anthony turned to Sarah. “You’re all willing to let the parson molder away in prison?”

“It doesn’t appear that we have any choice,” she snapped.

“They ain’t going to hang the parson, are they, Mistress Sarah?” The tiny voice came from a boy of about ten years with a dirty cherub face and a thatch of thick brown hair.

Sarah took a step toward the child and knelt down to put an arm around his thin shoulders. “They won’t hang him, Benjamin. The parson’s no thief, and they’ll figure that out soon enough, I reckon.”

“He had chains on his hands.” The boy’s eyes were wide.

“It’s what they do to prisoners, Ben. But they’ll take the chains off when they set him free. Now, does your mother know you’re down here in the green?”

The boy looked down and shook his head.

“Then you’d best run along home so she won’t worry. You can’t help the parson any by staying here.”

She straightened and looked around at the group. “I guess there’s not much reason for any of us to stay. I’ll talk to my uncle and have him send word to his solicitor.”

Mayor Spragg seemed relieved to see the situation come to a temporary resolution. “Yes, indeed. As long as there are king’s men in town, we should all be safely back in our homes.”

After an encouraging push from Sarah, the boy, Benjamin, took off at a brisk run, and one by one the rest of the group dispersed until just Sarah and Anthony were left. Anthony had a puzzled look on his face.

“What did your mayor mean about being safely back in their homes? Surely the people of Wiggleston have nothing to fear from representatives of the king?”

Sarah gave a humorless laugh. “We never used to be afraid, but now that the king’s collectors have tripled the tax, people are wary. Most of them simply don’t have the funds to pay such amounts.”

“The tax has tripled?”

Sarah gave Anthony a look of exasperation. “You fine folk carry on with your parties and games in the palaces of London and think you are ruling the country, but you have no idea of what is really going on in the rest of England.”

Anthony looked around him. He could now see that many of the brick houses that had appeared so neat when he first rode into the village were in a ramshackle state of repair. “When were these new taxes imposed?”

“Months ago. They tell us that the king has run out of money to fight wars with the Dutch over slaving stations thousands of miles off in Africa and the New World. But what is that to us here in Yorkshire? We don’t have anything against the Dutch. We’ve traded with them for years.”

Anthony was silent. This mission was proving to be more educational than he had anticipated.

“I’m sorry to vent my feelings on you, Lord Rutledge. I realize that the arrest of Parson Hollander has nothing to do with you.”

He felt an uncharacteristic flush of guilt. “Perhaps we should be getting back to Leasworth. You said that you wanted to talk with your uncle.”

“Yes. I don’t want the parson to spend one hour more than necessary in that awful place.”

* * *

“Sarah, I can’t let you do this.” Jack’s normally smiling face was grim.

“I don’t have any other choice. I can’t let the parson stay in prison for something that I did. My only other alternative would be giving myself up to the tender mercies of King Charles’s justice. And you’ll remember, Jack, just how that ended up for our father.” Sarah was curled up like a kitten in the corner of a large sleeping couch. She looked to Jack like a girl of twelve. It was impossible to picture her mounted on a spirited stallion and brandishing a sword.

“I know you’re my big sister, but it’s time I took on some of my burdens as a man in this family. If it has to be done, I’m the one to do it.”

Sarah pushed herself up out of the deep cushions. Jack could almost see her hair stand on end as she glared at him. “Do you think I’ve kept you out of notice of the king these four years past just to let you give yourself up now? The king can extend Father’s death warrant to you with a snap of his fingers. And then what would I be left with?”

“That’s assuming I would be caught, sister dear. And though you may not have noticed, I now ride as well as you do, better perhaps.”

“I swear, Jack, if I have to get the servants to help me tie you to your bed, I’ll not let you do this thing. Uncle Thomas would agree with me. He’s always supported me in my attempts to keep you out of the king’s way.”

“Uncle Thomas doesn’t know that his niece is the moonlight bandit,” Jack reminded her sharply. “Besides, I thought you were going to get his solicitor to look at the case. Perhaps we won’t have to do anything at all.”

“Uncle Thomas has already sent word to Mr. Montague.”

“And...?”

Sarah’s head drooped. “He says he doesn’t hold out much hope when they caught the parson red-handed with some of the stolen jewels.”

Jack was silent for a moment, then said firmly, “Perhaps you are right that we’ll have to do something. But if there’s to be fighting involved, I’m the one who will be doing it.”

Sarah sank back into the cushions with a sigh. “My head hurts, Jack. It’s been a very long and unsettling day. Why don’t you go on back to your Mistress Thatcher and let me alone? We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Jack wasted no time on sympathy. “There’s nothing to talk about, Sarah. You’re not going to ride in single-handedly and break Parson Hollander out of the gaol. The whole idea’s crazy.”