Immediately after lunch, when the crowd in the common room had grown dense with muscle, he stood and thumped an empty tankard on the bar. When he had everyone’s attention, he stated in a voice that carried through the room, “All those who want to fight the heathens gather in the side yard now. Weapons training will commence in five minutes.”
While the gaggle of men filed eagerly out of the door, he gathered Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “Knives—all sorts, but use the most basic moves. Once we see what they’re like, we’ll split them into groups.”
The others—all ex-army—nodded, and followed him out into the yard.
They put their recruits through their paces, much to the amusement of the crowd that gathered to watch and exclaim.
In short order, the activity turned into an event, with performers and an appreciative audience, many of whom were female. Initially the murmurs, giggles, and sly glances irritated Gareth, but then, passing before a knot of girls, he heard, “I must rush home and tell Hilda about this.”
After that, he watched the crowd more closely, and saw that girls were constantly coming and going. They couldn’t stay for long because they were expected home—but once at home, they would talk.
He couldn’t ask for a more certain way of spreading the news about the cultists. Once he realized that, he forgot about the crowd, and concentrated on drilling his inexperienced but enthusiastic troops.
The day ended with a flurry of ice and no cultists anywhere. Seated with the others in the common room, while they finished their dinner and Bister, Jimmy and Mullins entertained the table with tales of the new recruits and their varied skills, Gareth let the talk wash over him, and mentally ran through his preparations again.
The scroll holder—the item the cultists most wanted—was as safe as it could be. On the intial stages of their journey, Arnia had carried it, but in Alexandria, once he’d taken Watson’s measure, he’d spoken with him. Watson was steady, loyal and dependable, with a deep streak of integrity. He was also the oldest of their group, the least likely to be involved in physical heroics. From Alexandria on, Watson had carried the scroll holder—exactly where, even Gareth didn’t know.
If anything adverse were to happen to their party, Watson would take whatever survivors there were and make for England. He had money and letters of introduction and instructions from Gareth—and he had the scroll holder. No matter what, the scroll holder would reach England.
Gareth had also given Arnia money and letters of introduction. If the cult succeeded in breaking up their party, she would take Dorcas and head for England. Together, the women would manage, and the cult would ignore two women of lower caste.
The rest of them were potential targets. The cult would come for him and Emily, then, when they didn’t find the scroll holder, would go for Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. They might even consider Jimmy.
He was deep into trying to think like a cult commander, when Emily’s hand closed about his wrist and pulled him back to the present. Raising his eyes, he met hers.
She studied his face, her own expression serious. After a moment of searching his eyes, she murmured, “They’ll be plotting and planning, too, won’t they? Gathering their forces and organizing?”
The others, hearing her question, fell silent and waited for his reply. He glanced around the table, then returned his gaze to Emily’s face and nodded. “Even though Ferrar isn’t here—at least I think it highly unlikely he will be—there’ll be a commander of sorts in charge.”
He looked at the others, let his gaze rest on Bister and Jimmy. “In whatever’s coming, we shouldn’t imagine we’ll be facing any poorly disciplined group. The commander will almost certainly have brought assassins and some of the better-trained guards with him.”
His gaze moving to Mooktu and Mullins, he went on, “As for numbers, Ferrar would know that the easiest way to block our access to England would be to control the Channel ports. We’ve already heard there were watchers posted here, and Ferrar would have sent contingents of cultists to every port.”
“Now they know we’re here, they’ll draw those others in, have them join the group here.” Mullins made it a statement.
Gareth hesitated, then said, “I don’t know what route the other three couriers are taking, but unless one of the others is near—and I don’t think that’s likely—then yes, I imagine that when the fight comes, we’ll be facing a goodly number, not just ten or even twenty.”
Dorcas shivered and gathered her shawl closer.
Gareth seized the moment to marshal his words, then quietly went on, “We need to remember my orders.” In deference to all they’d been through together, he used the royal “we.” “I’m supposed to do all I can to engage and remove as many cultists as possible, especially here—and while I don’t know enough to appreciate why, we can trust absolutely that Wolverstone’s orders are sound.”
He met Bister’s eyes. “Which is why our ragtag recruits are a godsend. We need to do all we can to whip them into reasonable shape, to prepare them to engage and defeat the cultists.”
“One idea that occurs to me,” Mooktu said, “is that the cultists fight with blades only, all close quarters, hand-to-hand. Yet many of our recruits are sailors and farm workers—many have abilities with implements that strike from a greater distance.”
Mullins was nodding. “Like staffs, pitchforks, and the like—and slingshots, too.” He looked at Gareth. “Perhaps we should encourage them to work with those.”
“From what I saw, not many have any experience with swords.” Gareth considered, then nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll see what skills they do have, and work with those.”
Once again he glanced around the table. “Of one thing we can be absolutely sure. The Black Cobra will have given orders that we are to be stopped. Here, in Boulogne. So the cult will come for us, and they’ll come in force. For the cultists and their commander here, this will be their last stand.”
Huddled in his cloak, Uncle slowly turned, surveying the large chamber in the light of the lanterns two of his followers held high. Then he smiled. “This will do nicely.”
Looking at the young cultist who had come running to tell him of the tumbledown mansion hidden amid overgrown gardens not far from the town, Uncle raised his hand in blessing. “You have done well, my son.”
He looked inquringly as other cultists filed into the room.
One bowed. “We have searched, Excellency, but there is no one here. It is abandoned.”
“And big enough and sound enough for our headquarters?”
“It seems very appropriate, Uncle.”
“Excellent. Make arrangements to move all our baggage here, and summon all our fighters. This will henceforth be our headquarters.”
The men bowed.
Swift footsteps in the corridor outside had them all looking to the door.
Akbar appeared. He paused, taking in the ornate chamber—a drawing room, Uncle thought it would be called—then strode in. Pulling off his gloves, he met Uncle’s gaze, then bowed curtly.
“The men watching the inn report that the major has commenced drilling locals in the yard.”
Uncle frowned. “These are soldiers—militia?”
“No. Sailors, farmers—young men mostly, only a few older.”
Uncle’s expression turned contemptuous. “Lower orders.” He waved dismissively. “They are no threat to us. It is not in the nature of peasants to rise up against their betters.”
“But—”
“Doubtless the major thinks to distract us—to pretend he has large numbers of fighters. He does not.” Uncle met Akbar’s gaze, quietly stated, “He will not succeed in distracting us from the path we are destined to follow. That the Black Cobra has ordered us to follow.”
Akbar had no choice but to swallow his protest. Stiffly, he inclined his head and stepped back.
Uncle turned to the others. “Go and collect all that we need to make this place into suitable quarters. You must also find for me all
the implements I will require to properly punish the major’s woman and, later, the major himself.” A slow smile of vindictive anticipation spread across Uncle’s face. Quietly, he crooned, “Do you know what I need?”
The cultists bowed low. The one in charge replied, “Yes, Uncle. We will fetch all the tools necessary.”
“Good.” Smile still in place, Uncle turned away.
Akbar waited for an instant, then curtly bowed to Uncle’s back, turned on his heel and left the room.
In the corridor outside, his own second was waiting. As he strode down the corridor, the man fell in at his shoulder. “Well—what did he say? Are we to act to discourage these locals from joining with the major?”
His expression stony, Akbar shook his head. “No.” After a moment, he added, “Old men and their delusions. They will bring us down yet.”
The night passed without incident, and the day following continued quiet.
Too quiet for Gareth’s liking.
The rain and hail had ceased, but the wind still blew at storm force. Luckily, the inn yard was protected by the surrounding buildings. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, he, Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister worked with their volunteers, improvising both for weapons and techniques, and drilling them to instill basic levels of command.
By late afternoon, however, many were asking when the fight would be. When no definite answer was forthcoming, it became progressively more difficult to hold their troops’ attention.
By evening, when he wandered through the common room, Gareth overheard too many comments on “the mad ideas of the English” to doubt that the excitement generated by the promised fight against the “heathens” was dissipating.
Resuming his seat beside Emily at their table, he caught his fellow trainers’ eyes. “Whoever’s commanding the cult this time is using his brains. There’s been no sighting of a cultist since we arrived. The locals are starting to believe they don’t really exist—that they’ve moved on, or were from the first a figment of our imaginations.”
Mullins nodded glumly. “I’ll wager that tomorrow we’ll have less than half our numbers today.”
Bister grimaced. “Nothing much we can do until the axe falls, is there?”
Gareth shook his head. “All we can do is hope that, when the attack comes, we’ll have a reasonable enough force to hold off the first wave, so the doubters have time to come running.”
Watson suggested they find a nearby bell, or something similar they could use as a summons.
While the others discussed that, Gareth leaned closer to Emily. Laying a hand over one of hers, he caught her eye when she looked his way. “You mustn’t forget that from the first—in Aden—the cult had you in their sights. They must know of your role in getting the letter to us—you are a target as much as I am.”
She raised her brows. “But I’m not the one carrying the scroll holder. If this is their last chance of stopping it from reaching England, then they’ll be focused on that, not”—she waved her other hand—“side issues.”
He held her gaze. “They won’t see you as a side issue. Taking hostages is a common ploy for them.” He hesitated, then went on, “And I suspect they know that I’ll give anything to save you.”
She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”
They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.
While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him—the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.
Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.
In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons—the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”
Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.
“Tomorrow, we will triumph—we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place—into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”
Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action—from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze—Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”
Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”
12th December, 1822
Morning
My room at the Perrots’ auberge
Dear Diary,
I do not know how it is that quietness and calmness and nothing happening can feel so threatening. But so it is. There is a sense of some great disaster hanging over us, just waiting to crash down on our heads.
But if the locals are right, we have only this last day to weather. The captain who agreed to take us to Dover spoke with Gareth last night, and confirmed he expects to be able to put out of the harbor tomorrow. If so, we will be away, and no matter that there may be cultists waiting in England, just being home will buoy us all.
Meanwhile I will spend the day as I have the last two, seeking ways to support Gareth’s efforts. Even if it transpires that we do not need our ragtag army, putting all possible defenses in place just in case is unquestionably wise. The right decision for an experienced commander, and Gareth is nothing if not that. Even if all I do is provide encouragement, that is nevertheless a contribution.
I cannot recall feeling so personally committed to someone else’s goal as I do with Gareth’s mission. It is as if his goal is somehow now mine—as if my love for him demands I embrace every aspect of his life, even this. While ferrying MacFarlane’s letter to Bombay gave me an interest in seeing justice done, my commitment to seeing the scroll holder to the right hands in England is now predominantly driven by a need to help Gareth succeed, rather than to appease my own feelings.
Love, I am learning, has broad repercussions.
Gareth—loving me—is concerned for my safety, yet his concern is nothing to the concern I feel for him. I know what sort of man, what sort of soldier, he is. No less than MacFarlane, he will lead his troops into battle, at their head even be they a ragtag rabble of sailors and farmhands armed with pitchforks and rakes.
If any attack comes here in Boulogne, Gareth will meet it face-to-face.
Love, I am learning, can result in fear. I have far more reason to fear for him than he has to fear for me.
E.
The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.
He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.
As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group—ten youthful lads plus Jimmy—into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.
After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.
He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.
She glanced over
the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”
“It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”
“Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”
Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.
When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”
Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.
Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers—mostly old men and young girls—lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.
Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.
The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like—and almost walked into a man.
With an “Oh!” she looked up.
Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.
The man on her left—black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin—leered as he pressed close—and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”
She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife—with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.
Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man—unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others—glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.