The Birth of Blue Satan (17 page)

It would not be easy. He would have no more than one chance.

If Tom could only be made to understand.

“You must do me a service, Tom. I want you to take Penny to the blacksmith at the crossroads—the one we’ve often used. Ask him why she keeps throwing her left hind shoe. Do not ride her since she is lame. Take a horse for yourself, and make sure to choose a good one. This is one errand I dare not trust to anyone else.”

As he had feared, Tom’s face took on a look of deep confusion. There was no blacksmith, and Penny was far from lame. Gideon could not name the exact spot he had in mind either or Sir Joshua, who knew the neighbourhood well, would suspect what he planned.

Fortunately, before Tom could speak, a light dawned in his eyes. He hooded them and bowed his assent.

Before Sir Joshua could prevent more words between them, Gideon added, “And take my sword. I shall have no need for it in gaol, and I would hate to think that a family treasure had ended up in this gentleman’s possession.”

The insult was intended to divert Sir Joshua’s certain protest. Otherwise, he might have stopped Gideon from passing the sword to Tom. But, not wishing to appear to covet Gideon’s belongings, he allowed Philippe and Tom to remove the belt from about his hip.

At a signal from Sir Joshua, the constables gave a jerk on the ropes binding Gideon’s wrists. He was shoved into the carriage, the door was closed, and with a jostling lurch they started from his home.

He would not believe that this would be his last moment to see it. Penny was his copper-coloured mare, got by Mr. Darley’s famous Arabian, and she could run like the very wind. He only hoped that Tom would think to take one of the faster horses for himself, instead of a groom’s plug. Gideon knew he had been cryptic. But Tom knew horses and he would understand the need for speed.

For a long moment Tom stood with the other servants in silence. Their lord had been dragged away like a common footpad, and the shock of it had left their mouths agape.

After a few minutes, Robert Shaw recalled the dignity of the house and started to urge the others inside. He paused before Tom, staring down at the sword in his hand.

Shaw started to take it, but Tom pulled it out of his way. “Shouldn’t you give that over?” Shaw asked. “It should be hung with the weapons in the hall until his lordship returns.”

“No,” Tom said. “He wants me to hold it for him.”

“Philippe would be a more proper person to take care of the master’s sword. He could clean it.”

“Not now.” Tom waited until Shaw had turned to go back into the house before giving the Frenchman a meaningful look. “Pack up some fresh shirts for my Lord St. Mars, and anything else he will need for a few nights’ stop. And send it to the stables. I’ll be leaving within the hour.” With that, he turned and hurried to the stables at some length behind the house.

It had taken him a while to catch his master’s drift, but as soon as he had dismissed his first thought—that his lord had taken leave of his senses—Tom had understood the message his words held. There had never been anything wrong with Penny’s shoes. She was spirited, young and fast, and Tom kept her hooves in perfect trim. If any fault could be ascribed to her it would be her flightiness, but from the first her nervous wildness had suited St. Mars to a tee.

Escape was what his young master meant. If he could overcome the guards, then he would need his fastest horse to flee. The crossroads he had spoken of must be the one between Sir Joshua’s estate and the old Roman road that went north towards Maidstone. The constables would have to take him through places where the woods would be thick on both sides. The first crossroads would be a perfect spot for an ambush, as a few travellers had discovered to their dismay. It should be possible to hide Penny, then wait for the magistrate’s coach on its way to the gaol.

And, if he failed, what gaol would that be? The nearest thing to a proper one in Maidstone was that ancient set of rooms called the Dungeons, the old prison, belonging to the Archbishop of Canterbury, built in the days when the Papists’ yoke had lain heavy on the people of that town. Master Gideon never belonged in a place like that.

Anxiety nearly robbed Tom of his breath. He had never in his life done anything to thwart the rules of his world. He had never handled a small sword. What he really could use was a brace of pistols to shoot over the constables’ heads. But guns were not permitted among the stable staff. Only the head gamekeeper had that privilege. Tom knew how to load a pistol, having worked briefly for the keeper as a lad, but he had never discharged one in his life.

Now he would have to save his master without the skill it would take to beat those men. He doubted his ability to do it. But he had already failed Master Gideon once. He must not fail him again.

He knew he was supposed to take one of Lord Hawkhurst’s finest steeds. Tom assuaged his guilt with the knowledge that Lord Hawkhurst would no longer be needing them. The horses would have to be exercised in any case.

He had finished saddling one of his lordship’s hunters—a large horse, but fast—when Philippe, himself, appeared in the stall door bearing a large portmanteau. Tom looked up in astonishment in time to see him tripping through the scattered straw and manure in a pair of soft, dark shoes.

“You’ve got his lordship’s things, then?” he asked.

With a distasteful glance at the corner of the stable, where a pile of muck waited to be carted to the garden, Philippe wrinkled up his nose. “But of course I have brought the things of
monsieur le comte
, although I was forced to imagine what sort of garments
monsieur
would need.”

Tom gave a snort as he lifted one of the horse’s hooves to check for stones. “I doubt he’ll be wanting any of your fancier togs.”

“Nevertheless, I have packed
monsieur
another wig, the brushes for the teeth and the hair, a set of small clothes, some shirts, his
surtout
—and these.” As he finished, Philippe pulled a medium leather case from the portmanteau.

Giving a careful glance about him, he opened it to reveal a pair of dueling pistols with silver filigree worked over the light burled wood.

Tom gave a cry of joy. “You thought of these?” Quickly he covered the three steps between himself and the Frenchman to take the leather case in his hands.

Philippe sniffed. “A
valet de chambre
with my talents always foresees his master’s needs.”

“Well—” as Tom stared down at the wished-for pistols, he struggled with his pride— “you did a fine job. Yes, you did.” He took out one of the guns and examined it for cleanliness. “Don’t suppose you happened to find some powder and shot?”

“But, of course. That was much more difficult,
entendu
, but nothing is too much for Philippe. I had only to look in my Lord Hawkhurst’s bedchamber. He kept his powder horn there.” Philippe gave an eloquent shrug. “It is, of course, regrettable that
monsieur le comte
did not have his pistol with him when he was killed. Otherwise,
Monseigneur
would have no need for them now.”

Tom nodded, too elated to let this reminder of the tragedy dampen his spirits. With two fast horses and a good set of pistols, he just might succeed.

He waited just north of the crossroads, where the lane was tightened into a narrow strip, where the undergrowth —in contravention of the statutes—had been allowed to encroach as a thicket. He sat in his saddle for what seemed like hours, till the sun dipped so low its light barely pierced the thick stand of leafless trees. Darkness was moving in, raising shadows of threatening shapes, and causing Tom to shiver in his skin. He could not be sure there were no brigands about, though his mind tended to dwell more on ghosts and goblins than on human threats. He had both of Lord Hawkhurst’s pistols loaded and primed, but from time to time he had to transfer them from one hand to the other in order to breathe some warmth into his cold fingers.

The hour grew so late, he had almost decided that Sir Joshua would keep Gideon at his manor overnight—either that or that the whole experience had been a nightmare. He prayed he would wake up to find himself in his bed over the stables at Rotherham Abbey, with both Gideon and his father safely asleep in theirs.

The sound of carriage wheels awoke him from this dream. He suddenly smelled the pungent odor of leaf mold and realized he must have dozed off. But now a vehicle was slowly making its way towards the main road.

It would be the one. Few other souls would travel this close on night. The highroads were notoriously unsafe, although this one—since it did not go into London—was relatively free of predatory men. Sir Joshua would hate to risk moving St. Mars during the day when he could not be certain that the Abbey’s tenants would not revolt. His arrest was sure to be unpopular.

As the carriage approached the crossroads, Tom pulled a scarf over his nose. Better for the coachman to believe he had a highwayman to contend with.

Tom urged his lordship’s horse to the edge of the thicket. The dark made it almost impossible for him to see, but he was able to recognize Sir Joshua’s low-slung vehicle lurching along by the light of its lantern, held aloft by a sleepy postilion. With a deep, bracing breath, Tom spurred his horse into a charge.

He crashed out of the bushes, feeling the scrape of thorns against his knees. The team of plugs that pulled Sir Joshua’s coach veered at once. They shied and whinnied to see the sudden figure rushing upon them. As the coachman struggled with the reins, a constable in front raised his blunderbuss to fire.

Tom pulled one of his triggers, praying to God he would never injure a man. He had aimed above the constable’s head, but with luck, his shot nicked the carriage and a splinter from it ricocheted behind the constable’s ear. The surprise made the man drop his gun.

The horses refused to be quieted. They neighed and plunged, tangling their legs in the straps. The motion unbalanced the two men riding on the coachman’s seat. Both held on for dear life.

“Stand and deliver!” Tom shouted, pointing his pistols at the men.

Still struggling for balance, they raised their hands in surrender as a series of muffled shouts and thumps erupted inside the coach. The constable began to explain they had no wealth on them, only a dangerous prisoner to deliver into Maidstone gaol, when the door of the coach burst open and Gideon jumped out.

His hands were still tied behind him, and his wig was gone. The tousling of his hair made Tom wonder if he hadn’t used his noggin for a battering ram. Gideon spied Tom immediately and ran to join him.

Leaning down, Tom breathed a sigh to find his master all in one piece. He had not wanted to shoot his way into the carriage, but he would have risked the gates of hell if Gideon had been trapped.

Hooking elbows with him, Tom pulled the lithe body up behind him.

“Can you hang on with your knees?” he asked, ready to run.

“You know I can,” came the low voice. “It was you who taught me.”

Gideon heard Tom’s satisfied grunt, before he spurred Beau and dived into the woods.

Exhilarated, Gideon managed to hold on by using his numbed hands to brace himself behind. The ropes burned his wrists, and both arms ached. The one that had been so recently wounded felt as if the blade were still in it. He would not forgive Sir Joshua the humiliation of these bonds. But for the moment, he inhaled victory.

Tom put only a few hundred yards between them and his captors before pulling to a stop. “Penny is here, my lord.”

Even as he spoke, Gideon heard her high-pitched greeting and caught a glimpse of her copper-coloured hide in the faint moonlight. He would have slid quickly off the back of Tom’s horse, if Tom had not grabbed his arm again to ease his descent.

When both were on the ground, Gideon said, “Loose me from these accursed bindings, Tom.”

“Willingly, my lord.”

With the help of the blade of his sword, which Tom had left on Penny’s saddle, Gideon’s hands were soon freed. He took a moment to shake the numbness from his fingers before belting the sword to his hips and urging Tom to mount again. Quickly, Tom threw him up into the saddle before climbing into his own.

“Where to, my lord?”

Gideon had spun Penny in a tight circle to keep her from flying homeward. “Not that way, my girl.” He softened his command with a pat upon her neck. “I wish I knew,” he said to Tom. “But for now, we should put as much distance between us and Sir Joshua’s men as we can.”

“Will they follow us?”

“They will try, but it will take them a while to unhitch those horses, and with Sir Joshua’s nags, they don’t stand a chance of catching us. Well done, Tom.”

With a glance at the moon for direction, Gideon pushed Penny through the woods until they came to another lane. Like most of Kent, this part was full of enclosures. They would have to use the roads. In the dark they could not set too fast a pace without risking a serious tumble. Gideon rode east towards the coast, then turned north at the next crossroads. After a while, he doubled backwards and urged the horses on faster. They had ridden for only a few minutes in this direction when Tom called out from behind him, “Pardon, my lord, but isn’t this the way to Maidstone?”

“It is,” Gideon replied. “But, if I am right, they will head for Deal, where my yacht is moored. They will expect us to flee to France. The last place they will think to find us is nearer the gaol.”

Tom grunted. Gideon could not be sure of his servant’s approval, but he pushed on, until the excitement that had carried him this far no longer could. He had been tried very hard that day, had eaten little, and still felt weakened by his convalescence. He pressed on, though, hoping to find an inn he had seen once while hunting this far away from home.

In another moment, he spotted a sign post pointing towards another highway some three miles off. Gideon slowed. He began to search for a little-used path just past it, among the trees. After slowing to a walk, he eventually found it, cutting through a dense area of the forest. It was hardly more than a drovers’ trail.