She
drew back on the heavy bolts even as the hammering on the other side continued.
When the sounds of her efforts penetrated, the noise outside ceased. She pulled
the door wide, stepped into the morning light, and closed the door gently
behind her.
Alex
was back on Bucephalus, looking much as he had done the first time she had seen
him when he had ridden to take possession of John Redfern's lands and property
and John Redfern's daughter. Behind him ranged six lines of cavalry with small
sword and musket. The man of horse who had been battening on the door with the
hilt of his sword stepped back as Ginny came out, and there was a moment of
utter silence.
Alex
looked at her, and the gray eyes, unflinching, met his. She had betrayed him,
he thought, asking the question with his eyes and reading the answer in hers.
She would have left him if the choice had been hers. Again he read the truth.
But he did not know why, knew only the sense of emptiness as faith and trust
crumbled. Yet she had saved his life. But then one would save the life of a dog
that one was fond of, after all. Deliberately, he dismounted and crossed the
gravel toward her, his booted feet scrunching on the tiny stones.
When
he reached her, Ginny said softly, "Your brothers and Edmund Verney are
within. Only they remain."
"And
you," he added.
She
nodded. "And I, but my presence is for the moment unimportant. I would ask
you, in the name of humanity, of pity, and of decency, for their lives."
When he said nothing, she knelt before him on the gravel. "In the name of
humanity, of pity, and of decency; in the name of the love that we shared,
spare their lives. What will be gained by further bloodshed?"
"They
would shed mine," he said.
"Must
that rob you of nobility?"
"Stand
up," he said. Ginny rose to her feet. "I owe you two lives, Virginia
Courtney," Alex said. "My nephew's and now mine own. I will give you
my brothers' lives for those two." He stopped, and the silence hung heavy
between them. He knew now why she had come to Grantly Manor; she had come for
Edmund Verney's sake. "You would have left with your cousin?" She
made no reply, but as before her eyes told him the truth. Alex felt used and
shriveled like a sere leaf. "I will have your life in exchange for your
cousin's," he said, his eyes holding hers in the intense quiet as fifty
men watched a play, the dialogue of which they could only guess at.
The
bright head bowed in acknowledgment and acceptance. It was inevitable, a
bargain decreed by fate. They were in some way possessed by each other, and she
had always belonged to him and always would. But there was one thing more she
had to have. "And safe passage also," she said. "Not to fight in
this war again, but home to their wives and children for your brothers, to the
coast for Edmund. Otherwise, their lives alone would be a valueless gift."
"Very
well." Alex spoke with slow deliberation. "But it is the last time
you will ever range yourself with those who stand against me. Whatever I decide
to do with your life that I have bought this day, you will remember always the
bargain you struck, and where your loyalty now lies."
"I
will remember."
"Then
find me parchment and a pen that I may write the orders for safe passage."
Leaving
him standing before the door, Ginny went into the kitchen where she had earlier
seen a bunch of goose pens, an inkpot, and a sand caster. She could find no
parchment until opening a drawer of the dresser, she discovered a bundle of
receipts written on but one side of the vellum. She took her findings into the
hall, laid them on a square oak table, and sharpened the quill with a knife
before going to the door again. "It is ready for you."
Alex
stepped into the dim light of the hall, and for a few minutes the only sound
was the scratching of the quill on parchment. He dusted the ink with the sand
caster and handed her the documents, one eyebrow raised as he waited for her
approval. When she had finished reading, he said, "You may tell them that
they have twenty minutes to leave this place. They must go out through the back
as I do not wish to see them, and I do not wish my men to. After twenty
minutes, the house will be searched."
Ginny
nodded and went upstairs. The three men still stood in the gallery, and it was
clear from their bearing that they awaited capture. She handed them the
documents. "He will have the house searched in twenty minutes; you must be
gone through the back way by then."
"We
are to accept the mercy of that — ?"
"Yes,"
Ginny interrupted Joe fiercely. "You will accept it for Joan's sake and
for little Joe who, three weeks ago, lay at death's door. Your wife is
desperate for your strength. Has she not borne enough that you would throw your
life away for some footling stiff-necked notions of pride?"
"You
have seen my wife?" Joe stared at her.
"Aye,
and nursed your son sick of the typhus." She glared at him. "Go, for
God's sake. No one is asking for gratitude or apology, for anything except that
you take what has been given you and make good use of it." She looked then
at Edmund, who held his own paper between his hands. "I would ask for
forgiveness, my friend, if I believed there was anything to forgive. But I have
remained true to king and country. What is between Alex Marshall and myself has
nothing to do with this war, although the war touches us at all points."
"What
will you do now?" Edmund asked. "You have foiled the general's plans.
Will he grant you safe passage also?"
Ginny
shook her head. She would not tell Edmund of the bargain. "I remain with
him, Edmund. I do not know what he intends, but it is my destiny, and I am
content to have it so."
"That
is not like you." Edmund frowned. "To yield control in that
way."
It was
not, but she found that she had meant it when she had said she was content to
have it so. She had made enough agonizing decisions in the last weeks that the
thought of having all such matters decided for her brought only relief. Maybe
Alex would take her life in the literal sense, as a rebel spy in his camp.
Maybe he would leave her behind, a prisoner in Nottingham Castle, maybe . . .
But there was no point speculating. He would do what he would do.
"Then
it is farewell." Edmund held out his hand. "We will not meet
again."
"No,
I do not suppose we shall." She took his hand, and her heart wept at this
cold, estranged good-bye. "God go with you, Edmund."
"And
with you, Cousin." He let go of her hand and walked to the door, then
suddenly spun round with a cry of sorrow. "Damnation, Ginny! I do not care
whose mistress you are. You have always been true, and I do not believe you
could ever be otherwise." He held out his arms, and she ran into them.
They clung together as Kit and Joe quietly left the gallery.
Then
Ginny drew back with a little sob. "You must go, Edmund. The twenty
minutes must be almost passed, and Alex will not delay longer." With a
supreme effort, she managed a tiny smile as she stood on tiptoe and kissed the
corner of his mouth. "This war
will
end, love. Who knows what
twists and turns fate will deal us? While we have life and health, there is
always hope that one day we will find each other again."
"Aye."
He agreed with her because there was too much pain in denial, pressed her hands
one last time, and left.
Ginny
remained in the gallery for a few minutes until she was sure her tears were
swallowed, then went downstairs, out into the sunshine where her arrival was
the signal for the troopers to move into the house. At a signal from the
general, she went to stand beside him. He said not a word to her, and Ginny
could feel no warmth in him. His expression was stern, the eyes hard, and he
held himself straight beside her so that not even his sleeve would brush her
arm.
Chapter
22
This
time, Alex bound her hands behind her back, and she walked, as she had once
refused to do, at his stirrup, the troop of horse keeping to the pace that she
set. This time, Ginny was not conscious of a sense of humiliation. She was a
rebel spy, she knew it, they all knew it, and all, even her friends, avoided
her eye, avoided even looking at the figure trudging steadily along beside Bucephalus.
Of necessity, she kept her eyes on the ground, side-stepping ruts and stones
that could trip her easily in the unbalanced state caused by her bound hands.
No one spoke.
Diccon
seethed with anger whenever he glanced at the general, so grim and implacable,
staring rigidly ahead as if he did not even notice Ginny on the ground beside
him. It did not matter to Diccon what she had done; he knew that there had to
have been insuperable reasons for it, and that the general should treat her
like any common prisoner filled the lieutenant's soul with rage. She had been
walking now for two hours, and the sun was getting high; yet a quiet dignity
radiated from the silent figure, and Diccon, although he had long ago accepted
that she was unattainable, ached with the love that could only find expression
in service.
Alex
was not indifferent, although nothing showed on his face. He was in a torment
of doubt and indecision. She had betrayed him, had deserted him, would have
left him for Edmund Verney. But
was
that the true picture? He had also
always known how deep ran her affection—no, love—for her cousin. And now he
knew that it ran so deep that it transcended the love or loyalty she had for
him.
But should that wound him as sharply as it did? He had always known that
she could serve her own cause at the expense of his as and when she could. Had
she not simply served both her cousin and her cause? Somehow, she had found out
about Grantly Manor. Could he blame her for doing what she had a. ways said she
would when she had the chance? He would blame himself for relaxing his guard.
Naively, he had thought that danger was now insignificant, that with her
physicking and the love she bore him, she had other things to think of. She had
played him for a fool, that was for sure. But it would never happen again. Not
now that he had her life and exclusive loyalty, given to him in exchange for
her cousin's safety. But God damn it! He would have that life and loyalty given
to him freely, not as part of any bargain, when he did not know, could not
tell, whether she considered her cousin's life dearly bought.
Ginny
continued to put one foot in front of the other doggedly, refusing to remember
that she had not slept the previous night because the thought brought a wash of
fatigue with the knowledge that exhaustion was both justifiable and inevitable.
But her boots seemed weighted with lead, and her pace slackened. As she fell
back, Alex slowed his horse, and the rest were forced to do the same to avoid
overtaking the general and his prisoner. Her foot caught against a mud-ridged
cart track, and she stumbled, unable to use her hands for protection or
balance, onto her knees.
Diccon,
heedless of his commander, flung himself from his mount. "Ginny, are you
hurt?" He helped her upright. "You must ride my horse. I will
walk."
"You
will do no such thing, Lieutenant" Alex pronounced coldly. Diccon swung
round, mutiny on his lips and in his eyes, and met the cool gaze that held his
until, against his will, his eyes dropped. Alex nodded slowly. "Now you
may untie her wrists."
Diccon
made no attempt to struggle with the knot but pulled his knife from his belt
and cut through it. Ginny murmured her thanks, shaking out her arms to relieve
the knot between her shoulder blades. "Come." Alex stretched down his
hand. "Diccon, help her up."
Ginny
put her hand in Alex's, felt his fingers close tight and firm around hers, put
her foot into Diccon's palm, and went up as he tossed her. She settled onto the
saddle as she had done in the past, except that this time, because of her
britches, she could ride astride and did not lean against Alex, and the arm
that came around her to hold the reins was no cradle into which she could slip.
Instead, she held herself upright, as if she rode alone.
No
longer hampered by the need to keep to a walking pace, the cavalcade increased
its speed, and they reached Nottingham within the hour. Ginny was set down at
the inn; Diccon instructed to remain with her until further orders. Alex and
his troop went on to the castle where he would presumably make some report of
the night and morning's activities to Governor Newton. How much of the truth
would he tell, Ginny wondered. Not enough to incriminate her, presumably, or
else why was she left here and not taken in ignominy to the castle? She was too
tired to ask questions of herself or of anyone and, with a word of excuse to
Diccon, went to the chamber she had occupied the previous day. Her belongings
were still there, the bed unslept in, nothing disturbed. It was as if she had
never left it, and perhaps no one here knew that she had. Perhaps, if she went
to bed and fell asleep, she would wake and the whole wretched business would
vanish into the land of nightmares where it belonged. . . .
An
hour later, Alex came into the chamber. He had had a thoroughly unpleasant
session with Governor Newton when he had been obliged to admit failure of the
enterprise of which he had had such high hopes. While admitting failure, he had
also been forced to keep the real truth from the gloating governor, since
disclosing Ginny's part in the fiasco would be tantamount to branding her a
spy, and he would be hard pressed to find adequate reason for saving her from
justice. His pride and his dignity had both been pricked raw by the encounter.
His trusting love had received a staggering blow that left him confused and
bewildered. He had wasted half a day on a futile exercise; he and the members
of the troop had had a sleepless night; and now the cause of all this trouble
and grief was sleeping like a baby, one bare round arm thrown over the
coverlet, the lustrous chestnut hair spread thickly upon the pillow, the sable
eyelashes forming half-moons on her pale cheeks.