Beloved Enemy, page 37
“I would ask you to believe that, despite that, I remain loyal to the king,” she said painfully. “Why else would I come here?”
Edmund muttered something incomprehensible and turned away, back to the window. “They are reforming,” he told them. “But their muskets are trained on every corner of the house. Do we take the cellar route?”
“What route?” Ginny asked and then shriveled as she saw denial on every face. She was one with the traitor outside, not to be trusted although she had come to them in good faith, and if they had left with the others as she had begged them to do, they would all now be safe.
“Not I,” Kit said. “I’ll not skulk from a rat, creeping through passages to flee across the fields.”
The morning quiet was suddenly shattered by a tremendous pounding from below. Someone was hammering on the oak front door, hammering with the vigor of an invader who would have entrance despite all opposition. Ginny moved to the door of the gallery. “Where are you going?” Edmund rasped.
Ginny shrugged as if nothing mattered any longer. “You will do what you feel you must. I will do the same.” She went slowly down the shallow flight of stairs, her hand running over the smooth cherrywood of the banister, feeling its shape and texture as an irrelevancy, yet as if its solid reality were all the grounding she had in a world where friends became enemies, where lovers who had accepted a form of enmity as inescapable now faced the smirch of personal betrayal and desertion.
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 Twenty-one
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 always 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.
“Wake up, Ginny!” He shook her naked shoulder roughly, and when she moaned and rolled over, burrowing into the pillow, he yanked the covers off her, shutting his mind to the sight of her curled body, so soft, tender, and inviting. Ginny clung stubbornly to the black depths of unconsciousness until something cold and wet scrubbed roughly across her face and she came to, shuddering at this brutal awakening, washed by the nausea that came from being torn so abruptly from the depths of her first sleep. Bemused, she looked up into the furious face hanging over her, and, caught off guard in her weakened state, tears of self-pity filled her eyes.
Hurt and frustration were the coals that fed the fiercely glowing brazier of his anger, and Alex did not want to see the tears. “How dare you go to sleep!” he blazed. “I have already wasted half a day because of you. Because of you, fifty men have gone without sleep to no purpose and can look forward to none until this night.” He pulled her off the bed as he spoke. “We leave here in five minutes, and if you must ride like Lady Godiva, then so be it!” With that, he stormed out of the chamber, slamming the door in his wake.
Ginny, her hands trembling and heart beating fast with the shock of her rude awakening, struggled to put on her clothes again. She could not think clearly, was aware only of how wretchedly unwell she felt, how even her skin seemed to ache. She stumbled downstairs, still fastening the buttons on her shirt, petrified of what might happen if she did not appear by the decreed five minutes.
Jed passed her on the stairs in too much of a hurry to greet her. He entered the chamber she had just left, emerging in a few seconds with her baggage roll. Outside, Alex, astride Bucephalus, waited and fumed. Jen, saddled, stood patiently. Ginny mounted without assistance, and Jed, having swung himself up onto his cob, stowed Ginny’s baggage behind him, and the three of them rode back to the castle where the division stood ready to move out.
The next few days were sheer misery for everyone. The general was almost unapproachable, setting a furious pace that raised blisters on the feet and frayed tempers. They never made camp properly because they stopped too late at night for anyone to have the energy, and, besides, the general decided they could not afford the time involved in striking it the following morning. So they slept in barns and outhouses, or under the stars, eating without the comfort of fire so they all grew heartily sick of stale biscuit, cold bacon, pickled herrings, and whatever other supplies they carried that required no cooking.
Ginny felt filthier than she could ever remember. There seemed little point in putting fresh linen on a dirty body, and since the opportunity never arose for washing either clothes or herself, she gave up all attempts to keep herself respectably tidy and slept in the clothes she had ridden in all day, assuming that she smelled no worse than anyone else and probably was the only person to notice anyway.
Alex spoke to her only to give her an order or bellow because she was in the way. Since this was the only way he communicated with anyone these days, Ginny could not feel singled out, but her unhappiness increased hourly. She knew that she was responsible for Alex’s mood and, therefore, responsible for everyone else’s misery. Once or twice, she attempted to broach the subject, but he always cut her off with mortifying impatience and walked away. She began to wonder whether the bargain they had struck could possibly be affording Alex any satisfaction. He certainly did not appear to be any happier than anyone else, but perhaps he was deriving some twisted pleasure from punishing her with this icy indifference and the unusually careless disregard for the well-being of others that he must know upset her.
