Linnet looked at the windows—glass in wooden frames that slid down into the carriage’s sides and secured with a latch at the top.
Logan nodded. “I can’t see any holes in that.”
Deverell rose, opened the hatch in the carriage’s roof, and gave David his latest orders.
As Deverell resumed his seat, leaving the hatch open, the carriage slowed, then turned right onto the highway between Plymouth and Exeter.
“This is the road they’ll expect us to be on.” Logan peered out of the window, searching ahead. “The Black Cobra—Ferrar—is clever, and he’s had time to send his cultists to all the main ports on the south coast. We know he had men in Plymouth. He wouldn’t have missed Exeter.”
“And knowing you fled Plymouth in this direction but have yet to reach Exeter, they’ll be waiting.” Charles smiled in anticipation.
The carriage bowled on as a gray and mizzling dawn spread across the land.
“Heathens ahead, m’lord.” The words floated down through the open hatch. “Nine of the bastards with swords in their hands. I guess I’d better smile and look innocent.” The carriage slowed.
Deverell beckoned to Linnet. “Change places with me.”
She didn’t argue, just obliged.
Like Logan, Deverell angled back in the corner, gaze fixed through the window. They all had their crossbows in their hands. The coach rocked to a halt. Linnet shrugged off her cloak, reached her hand to the window latch. Saw the men slowly do the same.
“Now!” Deverell flipped his latch.
The sound of the four windows slamming down startled the approaching cultists, three on each side.
Logan’s and Deverell’s bows twanged. Two cultists fell.
Linnet angled her bow around, sighted a dun-colored tunic, a black scarf dangling over the shoulder; she pulled the trigger. Instantly drew back, raising the window as the carriage jerked, then surged.
She relatched the window, glanced out and saw two cultists who must have been standing by the horses sprawled on the ground.
Then they were past. Through.
“Four down.” Charles set his bow on the floor. “I wonder how many more we’ll meet?”
Minutes later they were passing the outer abodes of Exeter.
“They’re following, m’lords,” David called down. “Three of ‘em. But they’re hanging back, not looking to close the distance.”
“Let them follow.” Deverell looked at Logan. “I assume they’re unlikely to mount any attack in town?”
“That’s not their style, especially not if we’re traveling through. Hard to stop a carriage without anyone else noticing.” Logan settled back. “They tend to prefer more isolated surrounds, but not because they care about breaking any laws—to them the violence they employ is the only law that matters. They don’t care about witnesses, either, but while they’ll happily kill anyone who gets in their way, people getting in the way distracts and hampers them, and their master is very keen on success when it comes to the tasks he sets them.”
Charles nodded. “So they’re following, waiting for us to helpfully drive into the next little band of theirs further down the road.”
“In that, they’ll be disappointed,” Deverell said. “They’ll expect us to head directly east, out on the road to London—where else?” He raised a brow at Logan. “What are the odds that once we’re bowling along the London road, they’ll send one of their number forward to alert the next group?”
“That’s a certainty.”
“So when we turn north, they’ll have to send a second man back to alert the others of our change in direction.”
“So we’ll be left with one man.” Logan smiled. “And he won’t be able to leave us to alert anyone for fear of losing us altogether.”
“Which, I must remind you, we don’t actually want them to do.” Charles settled back. “The trick with a mission like this is to reduce their numbers as much as we can without risking being overwhelmed.”
“This is the center of town.” Deverell signaled to Linnet and changed places with her again, giving her the more comfortable position facing forward. “We’re now heading out and east, so let’s see if our predictions prove correct.” Still standing, Deverell spoke through the hatch, “David, keep to our planned route to Bridgwater, but take your time until the turnoff to Cullompton. Give them a chance to send a rider past us.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Deverell resumed his seat.
Sure enough, five minutes later, when the last cottages of Exeter fell behind, Charles pointed out of the window. “There he goes.”
They all looked and saw one of the cultists, rugged up in a frieze coat buttoned over a dun tunic, but with his distinctive head scarf flapping, urging his mount over the soggy field bordering the road. Eventually, he pulled ahead.
Minutes later David called down, “He’s away, m’lord. Round the next bend and out of sight. The Cullompton turn-off’s just ahead.”
“Take it,” Deverell ordered, “and drive on as fast as you safely can.”
The carriage slowed, then turned left into a narrower road that ran between high hedges. As soon as the carriage completed the turn, David whipped up his horses; they surged, then settled to a steady, mile-eating pace.
“Lots of argy-bargy going on between the two heathens still with us, m’lord. Seems like one of ‘em’s turning back.”
“Good.” Smiling, Deverell sat back. “On to Bridgwater as fast as you can.”
They rattled on through the morning, through wet mists that blurred the landscape. The damp chill reached deep. Linnet huddled in her cloak, glad she was in the carriage and not on horseback. They passed through Taunton without challenge, but their sole follower was still with them when they reached Bridgwater. David slowed his horses, then turned the carriage into the yard of the Monmouth Arms.
Deverell led the way in, bespoke a private parlor and the best luncheon the inn could provide. Linnet found herself bowed deferentially into the parlor by the innkeeper, then before she could swing her cloak from her shoulders, Logan lifted it away, then held a chair for her at the table.
Once she sat, the three men took their seats. Almost immediately the door opened; the innwife and a bevy of serving girls swept in, bearing covered platters and a huge tureen. With a flourish, the innwife set the tureen before Linnet. “Ma’am.”
With a bobbed curtsy, the innwife turned, shooed her girls out ahead of her, then went out and closed the door.
Linnet didn’t need to look at the three faces about the table to know that they, too, expected her to serve the soup. With only a slight twist to her lips, she did. The oxtail broth was delicious, as were the various roast meats and assorted vegetables and puddings provided as accompaniments.
Early in the proceedings, the innkeeper arrived with three mugs of ale for the men and a glass of ginger wine for Linnet. Once again, the innkeeper’s deferential “ma’am” niggled Linnet; despite the fact that she wore no ring, everyone, Logan included, was treating her as if she were his wife.
She felt a touch off-balance, and didn’t appreciate the feeling.
But she, Logan, Charles, and Deverell had more pressing concerns.
When only the platter of cheese and walnuts remained, Charles popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, gathered a handful of nuts, and pushed back from the table. “I’m going out to scout around.”
Deverell nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
From the door, Charles looked back at Logan. “Give us at least half an hour before you send the cavalry.”
Logan nodded, and then the pair were gone.
They returned twenty minutes later. Logan turned from the window as the door opened and Charles walked in, looking puzzled.
“They’re here.” Charles waited until Deverell came in and closed the door. “But for some ungodly reason they’re gathered, all eight of them, back down the road.”
Deverell halted by the table. He, too, was frowning. “Th
ey know we’re here—they’re keeping watch on the entrance to the inn’s yard.” He looked at Logan. “We checked ahead first, then circled all the way around before we found them. It looks like they’re intending to follow us rather than attack, even though there are eight of them.”
“I can’t see how they can attack from the rear, not in this sort of country, on this sort of road, and against a fast carriage and four.” Charles looked at Logan. “There’s something we’re missing here.”
After a moment, Logan said, “I think I know what.” He looked at Deverell. “Have you got that map?”
Reaching into his pocket, Deverell drew out a map, carefully unfolded the parchment, and laid it on the table. Linnet rose from the armchair to which she’d retreated and joined them. They all stood looking down at the map.
“We’re here”—Deverell pointed to a spot labeled Bridgwater—”currently on the road to Bristol. Our destination, Bath, is here.” He pointed to the town northeast of Bridgwater, and southeast of Bristol. “As the crow flies, it’s about thirty-five miles, fifty or more by road. Five hours’ drive, perhaps less. The reason we’ve come this way is that, from here, there are many different routes we can take to reach Bath.” He traced a number of them. “None of those routes is useful for mounting an attack from the rear—so why send eight men to follow us where one, or at most two, would do?”
“Because they think we’re going to Bristol, and they’re not just following us.” Logan pointed to Bristol, to their nor’northeast, then looked up, met the others’ eyes. “We know Ferrar sent his men to the south coast ports, those being the ones we, the couriers, were most likely to come through. But the three frigates that attacked the Esperance? Given no one believed any captain from the south coast would fail to recognize the Esperance and therefore know better than to attack it, especially when it was flying the naval ensign, I asked Linnet’s crew where they thought those ships hailed from. Their educated guess was from an east coast port. And if Ferrar sent men to the east coast ports, he would have sent men to Bristol, too.”
Charles grimaced. “It is one of the major trading ports.”
“So,” Deverell said, “it’s likely the group behind us have already sent someone to alert their colleagues in Bristol, and as we drive on, with the eight behind us, we’re going to run into a cult welcome up ahead.”
“And we’ll be trapped between”—Charles looked at Logan—”sixteen or more? Those are not odds I like.”
“Nor I,” Logan said, “but that’s how the cult operates. They smother opponents—overwhelming odds to ensure victory. Ferrar has no consideration for how many he loses, and many cultists have absorbed so much of the religious zeal Ferrar has fostered that they view death in the service of the Black Cobra as imparting some sort of glory.”
“In that case,” Deverell said, leaning on the table and studying the map, “we need to break up the group behind us, or step sideways out of their trap.”
“Or both,” Charles said. “The question is how.”
They evaluated the various roads they might take.
“The problem,” Logan said, “is that if we take any of these roads to Bath, in the carriage we’re going to be slower than a rider from the pack behind us seeing our direction, riding hell for leather to Bristol, meeting up with the welcome committee there, and redirecting them to Bath. They’ll be able to reach Bath, and even come southeast to meet us as we, drive in. We’ll be no better off, and might even be in worse, less frequented terrain.”
They all stared at the map. “That means,” Deverell eventually said, “that regardless of all else, the best route for us to take to Bath is the one that’s quickest from the moment we turn off the Bristol road.” He traced a route. “This one—we turn off at Upper Langford, then go via Blagdon, Compton Martin, Bishop Sutton and Chelwood to Marksbury, and so to Bath. For us, that’s the fastest way.”
Logan grimaced. “They’re still going to reach Bath well ahead of us.”
Linnet tapped a finger on the map. “Not if they don’t see which way we go.” She glanced up at the three men. When they all simply waited, she half smiled and looked down. “Here—just past this hamlet called Star. There’s a bend in the road, and then half a mile further on, Upper Langford and the turnoff we want. And while it’s difficult to stage an attack from the rear, we’re in front. We can attack them. And if we do, and cause sufficient panic and mayhem, just after Star and just before this bend, then we can be on and around the bend, down the road to Blagdon and out of sight, before they catch up enough to see us turn.”
Deverell was studying the map closely. “They’ll realize we’ve turned, but they won’t know to where. Just past that bend there are roads to Cheddar, Weston-Sur-Mare, Congresbury, as well as the one we want to take.”
“They’ll spend time casting about, trying to find which way we’ve gone.” Linnet looked at Logan. “It might not delay them long, but it will gain us some time, perhaps enough to beat them into Bath.”
Logan nodded. “That’s our best plan so far.”
Charles straightened. “The only alternative is to kill all those following us, and as they’re all on horseback, it’s too likely one of them at least will flee and ride on, so that’s not a viable option.”
Deverell nodded. “I vote for Linnet’s plan.”
“And me.” Logan nodded at her.
Charles grinned and swept her a bow. “Indeed. And I’ve got just the thing to ensure sufficient panic and mayhem to get away unseen.”
When their carriage rattled out of the Monmouth Arms yard, only Logan and Linnet were inside the vehicle. Charles and Deverell were stretched out on the roof, with two primed rifles each. Logan and Linnet each had one rifle and two pistols. The pistols were unlikely to have much chance of hitting any cultists, but the shots would add to the confusion.
David, who’d looked thoroughly thrilled when told the plan, took his time settling in his new team, galloping them along the straighter stretches, then reining them in, trotting through the small towns, before settling to a steady, but rapid, pace.
According to Charles, who reported via the open hatch, the changes in pace alone caused uncertainty in their pursuers’ ranks.
Not that they stopped pursuing.
Linnet had claimed the map. She continued consulting it as they swept on. Deverell, Charles, and Logan had agreed that the welcome party from Bristol would be waiting to ambush them along a particularly empty and desolate stretch between two villages. Luckily that stretch was at least three miles further on from where they planned to turn off.
The carriage slowed, and she looked out, saw a signpost. “That’s Sidcot.” She checked her map, then called to the two above. “Star’s about a half mile on.”
Setting aside the map, she undid the ties of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. She’d left her cutlass in the carriage when she’d gone into the inn, but had promptly buckled it on again as they’d left Bridgwater. Although their plan didn’t involve any face-to-face combat, she preferred to be prepared. Standing, she resettled the belt about her hips, then looked at the crate Charles had left on the opposite seat.
She studied the glass bottles wicked with rag that lay nestled, in crumpled paper inside the crate. “Do you think these will actually work?”
Logan glanced at the bottles. “I’ve seen far less professional incendiaries work brilliantly.”
“Star coming up.” David’s voice drifted down from above.
David followed the pattern he’d established when driving through smaller towns, slowing to bowl smoothly through, then whipping up his horses the moment the last cottages fell behind.
He drove on for several hundred yards, then abruptly slowed the carriage to a grinding halt.
The cultists, by then clear of the hamlet, at first came on at their accustomed gallop, then, realizing the carriage had halted, they slowed, confused … yet still closing the distance.
“Now!” Charles called, and both he and
Deverell opened fire.
On the heels of their first volley, Logan and Linnet swung open the carriage doors, and, one foot on the carriage’s steps, took aim and fired. They pulled back into the carriage as the second volley sounded from above.
Logan dropped the rifle he’d used, grabbed the tinderbox he’d left ready.
Linnet lifted one of the bottles from its packing and held it for him.
He lit the wick, seized the bottle, and passed it up through the hatch to waiting hands. Immediately lit a second and passed that up, too.
The carriage rocked as Charles and Deverell stood. Logan imagined them waiting, then the carriage swayed as they threw the small flame bombs.
“Go!”
David had the carriage rolling when Charles and Deverell dropped to the roof.
Just as the bombs hit.
Logan and Linnet hung out of the carriage windows, and saw a scene of carnage and confusion, of cultists lying on, the ground, some clutching wounds and wailing, of horses milling. The bombs had landed, as intended, just in front of the cultists. Flames had whooshed and flared—the pervading damp would soon have them out, but the show was enough to have the cultists’ mounts panicking, pulling free if they could and galloping away.
As the carriage started around the bend, the flames died and smoke rose in billowing waves, engulfing the cutlists, setting them coughing and choking.
The carriage rounded the bend, their horses racing on as David drove hard for their chosen road.
They reached it and turned off toward Bath.
The carriage rattled wildly along the lesser road, helpfully lined with high, unclipped hawthorn hedges. David slowed a trifle as they passed through another hamlet. Once they were bowling along again, Charles called down, “None of them got to the bend before we turned. We’ve lost them, at least for the moment.”