The cauldron effect, p.35
The Cauldron Effect, page 35
Lady Flint finally broke her worried study of who might be following them to settle an irate gaze on Joan. “What’s the matter with you, girl?”
“I believe the cat frightens her,” Mary said.
“Well, that’s foolish. Atalie wouldn’t harm anyone unless my son expressly ordered her to, and he isn’t here to do that, is he?”
As assurances went, that fell abysmally short of comfort.
IN ORDER TO SEE IF anyone followed Miss Bryght and his mother, Hugh rode well back from their carriage. Though out of sight, he did not tarry so far behind that he would lose sight of his quarry.
Once they had left London proper, open countryside made it harder to ride discreetly. Since the Flint carriage garnered no great interest, he wondered if Benson could have been right. His mother’s presence might be the best protection for Miss Bryght.
Shortly after midday, having made good time, his mother’s party stopped near Spalding to change carriage horses. The no doubt weary travelers appeared to take the opportunity to go into the inn for a hot meal.
Hugh refrained from joining them. The less he must endure of his mother’s chatter the better. Assuming all went smoothly, by nightfall they might reach northern Lincolnshire, or even Doncaster in southern Yorkshire. They could meet then.
While his horse, Ilar, munched on lush spring grass, Hugh debated whipping up something to eat. Taking a page from magic-thrifty Benson, he instead walked over to a nearby farmhouse to purchase food.
The farmer, grateful at Hugh’s generous payment for a meager sandwich and beer, delayed his departure to talk about local gossip. By Hugh’s manner, the astute farmer may have guessed he dealt with a peer, because the talk quickly turned to the Corn Law being debated in parliament. Where the House of Lords sessions on the subject had left Hugh exhausted and thoroughly bored, the farmer’s perspective surprisingly spiked his interest.
Expecting the man to praise the lawmaker’s attempts to increase what he could charge for wheat, Hugh was instead inundated with stories from the man’s neighbors who were apparently worried the rising cost of produce would make feeding their pigs more expensive, which in turn might mean putting off buying things like clothes and shoes.
Hugh returned to the Great North Road his head abuzz with newly forming opinions on the proposed law. Leaning against an alder tree, he set to his meal of tangy ham sandwich and cool home-brewed ale. Surprisingly, it seemed more satisfying than anything he could have conjured.
All around him flowers abounded. The fenlands were abundant in waterways and lush fields filled with rows of corn and honeysuckle. Hugh viewed the growing vegetables and flowers with a changed perspective of how his actions in London affected everyone and everything outside London.
The view was in no manner similar to the rocky, scrub-filled and oft times dangerous moors of Flintshire in Wales that Hugh called home. Nevertheless, this quiet remoteness made him acutely homesick.
His thoughts and his gaze wandered toward the vehicle he followed. Far down the road was the inn where his mother had broken her travel.
He wondered about Miss Bryght’s impression of her journey. Did she appreciate the beauty and vastness of this wild land or was she already weary and restless to return to the sophistication of Town life? If the latter, convincing her to relinquish her quest might prove easier. A contrary part of him hoped she enjoyed the openness as much as he did.
He sent a mental call to his familiar who was probably finishing off a saucer of milk or meat scraps. The canny cat had a knack for enticing even the most hard-hearted cooks into parting with edible delicacies by using a few pitiful sounding “mews.”
Atalie, is all well with your companions?
I like her, came Atalie’s immediate response. She is wise.
My mother? Hugh couldn’t repress a mischievous smile.
You tease. The tall one. She does not scream.
At a cat. A tinge of jealousy nipped that Miss Bryght had taken to Atalie more than him. Last night, when the prince advised her that I was a warlock, she looked ready to not only scream but also run for the door as if pursued by the devil.
She did not, which goes to my point. The Wise One also does not care for Bastard. Atalie sounded smug. Shows sound judgment.
You, my dear one, are prejudiced toward dogs and Caden in particular. That clouds your judgment.
The silence suggested the gentle reprimand had offended Atalie. He allowed her a moment to digest his comment.
For a dog, he isn’t as bad as some, Atalie finally conceded.
Hugh smiled indulgently at that begrudged statement. This journey might prove a disappointment for Miss Bryght, but he and Atalie were finding it quite enlightening.
Keep an eye on my mother, he said. Find out why she insists on coming with us. She never does anything without an ulterior motive.
I will closely observe the Deserter.
Hugh cringed at Atalie’s nickname for his mother. Once, during a particularly low moment during his teen years, he had ranted to his familiar that as far as he was concerned, his mother had deserted him when he turned seven. Else she would have come to visit more often than never.
Ever since, Deserter was how Atalie referred to his maternal parent and nothing could persuade her to abandon the moniker. Deciding Atalie had evolved enough for one day, he let the insult pass. Luckily for both of them, only he could hear her.
His mother’s carriage left the inn soon enough and Hugh got back on their trail. The marshes, filled with herons and a profusion of geese, seemed like paradise.
Even the roadway appeared surprisingly well maintained with few ruts to circumvent. He’d heard construction projects were well underway all along the Great North Road and was impressed with what had so far been accomplished. It certainly made riding more enjoyable.
An hour after they left Peterborough, Hugh marveled at this entire journey being without incident. No broken carriage wheels, no detours and, though there was a great deal of vehicular and horse traffic on the busy road, none looked to be a warlock pursuing the Flint carriage.
Miss Bryght’s attacker could have gone after her brother. Hopefully the witch was capable of safeguarding Viscount Bryght.
Whatever the case, Hugh soon tired of his own company and looked forward to joining Miss Bryght this evening. With each village they passed, each lake they navigated around and each bridge they crossed, his anticipation mushroomed into extraordinary proportions.
He had gone to the Cunnington ball expecting the evening to be a complete waste of his time and instead had emerged animated by his conversation with Miss Bryght. Surely, he could tolerate his mother for an evening if it meant his reward would be bantering with Miss Bryght. She had a fine sense of humor, an intoxicating scent that seemed to envelop him every time he thought of her and a...
Trouble, Atalie’s call interrupted.
Hugh tensed. A glance ahead showed the carriage traveling at a fast trot. The surroundings were clear. No one nearby.
What’s wrong?
Someone follows. Atalie’s tone was anxious.
He signaled Ilar to go from trot to canter, rolling his movements to match the change in gait. He should be able to draw level in a few minutes. The road ahead seemed unusually empty. No other carriages or carts or riders in sight.
Suspicion spiked and he wiped his hand across his eyes. His prospect immediately shifted. He’d been mind-diddled and hadn’t even realized it.
Chapter 7
Peterborough, Cambridgeshire
“Look how that carriage forgoes refreshment in favor of speed,” Rex, a crow standing on the Running Pony Inn’s signpost, said to his friend Marie. “Nor do they stop to change horses. Everyone stops here to change horses.”
“They are indeed traveling at a fast clip.” Marie, the pony on the inn’s signpost, blinked her beautiful wide black eye with evident disapproval. “It’s the fault of all that road repair the villagers engage in. The Council should never have agreed to pay them. Before that, statute labor requiring road repair meant a road party. I loved the singing best. Now, no one sings. It’s all hammering and grunting and scraping stone on stone. If they did away with payment and returned to the days of drinking and partying and singing during required repair days, there would be more ruts and holes and this type of reckless driving would never happen.”
As if in testament to Marie’s complaints, the carriage sped along the newly re-built smooth surface outside the Running Pony Inn’s courtyard with hardly a wobble or quake. The stable lads who had come out to help appeared as miffed by the loss of custom as Marie was by the absence of worker singing. The men strode onto the road to watch the vehicle speed away.
Rex strolled over to stand on the signpost’s bulbous end. From there, he bent to look at his friend.
“Marie, you are missing the point,” Rex said with patience. “The road’s condition is entirely immaterial. The last inn was over ten miles back.”
Being of a stationary sort, Marie didn’t get around much, so Rex was happy to elucidate on logistics. “The next layover isn’t for another five miles. If those horses have been traveling at that speed for any length of time and continue to do so, they will be dead before they reach another inn.”
“It appears they are not the only ones in a rush.” Marie tilted her nose to the south.
A horseman on a welsh cob galloped up the road. Rex whistled in admiration. “Look at him go! He must travel all of twenty-four miles in an hour.”
Rex greatly admired speed and was well known for trailing racehorses simply to track their velocity. He could pick a winner within fifty yards.
The stable lads standing on the roadway discussing the carriage disappearing toward the horizon noticed the rider barreling toward them and scrambled out of the way. They shouted in alarm as the chestnut, its silver mane flying like a pennant, sped in a clatter of hoofs on stone along the magnificently paved road. The horse chased after the carriage.
The lads following the rider back onto the road were startled by another rider coming up behind, this time seated on a black.
They parted, their shouts changing from affront to awe. The stallion was fast gaining on the cob.
The call went out: “It’s a race!”
The younger lads ran after the riders cheering, while the older stable hands grabbed any spare horse handy and rode after them.
Rex, also affected by the impromptu contest, shouted a breathless, “Be back in a mo,” to Marie and flew off to gain an aerial perspective in order to gauge the winner.
HUGH SHOOK FREE FROM the mind spell and re-evaluated the situation. His mother’s carriage wasn’t a few minutes ride ahead but a good mile away. A man on a chestnut galloped among the trees, closer to Hugh’s mother and Miss Bryght than Hugh.
His pulse matched his mount’s gallop. How could he have allowed himself to fall prey to that old warlock trick? He was too far away to physically help but having expected trouble, Hugh was prepared.
Thanks to his recent restraint in using his magic, he was also well-rested and ready for battle. With Atalie as his touchstone, he reached for his spell. His spine tingled like a lightning rod before the magic flew like an arrow to strike the carriage. In a ball of light, his defense spell ignited.
Hugh sped like a demon after the brash warlock who dared chase his mother’s carriage. His spell did a fine job speeding the vehicle beyond the horses’ normal limitations. Sustaining that speed, however, could be a problem.
The carriage went by a small village inn. The shouts of stable hands were abruptly cut off as the warlock chased the carriage. In moments, Hugh, too, passed the inn where his mother had planned to change horses.
His enemy must have suspected the distance between him and Hugh closed because he abandoned pursuit his of the carriage and swerved into a nearby copse of trees. At least now his mother and Miss Bryght would have a clean getaway.
Hugh had no intention of deferring the problem to another day. He hadn’t been there when his father needed him; this villain wouldn’t get a chance to attack his remaining parent. One way or another, this fight would end now.
The clatter of carts and pounding of hoofs from behind momentarily distracted Hugh. He spared a brief over-the-shoulder glance and was surprised to find several villagers following – on foot, on horseback and on buggy, all shouting and waving. Were those encouragements or warnings? Hard to tell from this distance.
Ahead, the warlock disappeared into a sparsely wooded area. With murder in his heart, Hugh, hoping to lose his audience, urged Ilar to go faster. His stallion thundered across a newly harvested hay field and into the line of trees. Something flew close to his face. Feathers beat against his cheeks and a crow cawed so loud, it sounded as if it were inside his head.
Hugh ducked and swatted at it. When he glanced back, he realized he’d entered the woods and the bird was nowhere in sight. The other warlock’s familiar, trying to save his master? It hadn’t worked. Nothing will save you this time.
Though the trees were spread far enough apart to make riding easy, the area was marshy, where a horse could easily lose footing. Hugh focused on avoiding low hanging branches and protruding roots.
The cob ahead also slowed, zigzagging around the few trees and inlets, trying to lose Hugh with obstacles if not haste.
The technique worked as Hugh was forced to temper his pace. Willows, bog oaks, sedges, rushes and occasionally bog mosses surrounded him.
He reined in, noticing an eerie silence. Aside from his pounding heart and Ilar’s heavy breathing in the muggy, almost sweet earthy air, there were few sounds. Far away, water flowed. Close by, there were no birds, no scurrying animals, not even a wind disturbing the leaves. He no longer heard the cob’s hoof beats.
Did his enemy use the silence to hide? Or was this another magical ruse?
Hugh used every unveiling spell his mentor had taught him. None revealed anything other than tall trees and a river trickling nearby. Brush covered the ground and the wood’s oppressive silence settled around him, as did the realization that he had well and truly lost his prey.
With a resigned sigh, Hugh urged Ilar back the way he’d come. He’d better make sure the warlock hadn’t doubled-back. That fear sped his return and soon he reached the edge of the woods.
The villagers who’d followed him were there. They lined the clearing side of the forest, peering into the copse of trees. They, too, were silent – no more chatter or shouts. They stared at him with wide eyes and open mouths.
Foreboding settled on Hugh’s shoulders, setting the hairs on his neck into a tremble. Shaking off his unease, he rode closer and shouted, “Did you see in which direction the other horseman went?”
Several looked like they replied, but no sound penetrated past the line of trees.
“Speak up,” Hugh said. “Or point. Which way did the cob go?”
They chatted among themselves, some looked as if they argued, but none responded to Hugh. Soon, shaking their heads, all of them turned to stare at him.
“Idiots.” He rode closer.
The villagers who milled about the clearing, moved aside to allow him to ride out of the woods. Hugh signaled Ilar to do so. His mount snorted and tossed his head and stood still. Hugh nudged the horse’s sides to urge him forward. The stallion neighed and trod forward one step and then backed up for two.
Worry overrode annoyance. Hugh dismounted to lead the reluctant horse. Within two steps, he slammed into an unseen wall. Trying to dampen rising panic, he reasoned around the problem. If this was a warlock spell, it was well constructed but he might be able to break it. He held out his hands to sense its makeup.
He gained an impression of a pulsating flow, as if he stood underwater trying to understand the makeup of an ocean. Startled, he stepped back as fear washed over him. This was earth magic. Something Wyhcans had yet to learn how to affect, let alone master.
A horse’s hoof stomp drew his gaze past the unseen wall. Far behind the villagers, the cob pranced on the roadway. The warlock rider tipped his hat insolently at Hugh before he rode after the fleeing carriage.
Hugh’s fear blossomed into panic and spread like weeds. He thumped the invisible wall and screamed, “Let me out!”
The crowd stepped away though he obviously couldn’t touch them. A younger lad pointed to the right. Several moved aside to reveal a sign post he hadn’t noticed before. Hard to miss unless masked by a warlock mind spell. He still couldn’t read it as it was pointed at those coming toward the woods. The young lad ran over and swung it around.
The sign read:
MANDRU’S MARSH. ENTER AT YOUR PERIL.
The lad turned his back to Hugh and walked away.
“Don’t go!” Hugh shouted. “I need help.”
All his onlookers seemed compassionate but resigned. They returned to their horses and carts and headed back toward the village.
INSIDE THE CARRIAGE, Atalie screeched, leaped to the floor and frantically clawed at door.
Caden jumped out of her way, barking.
Mary pulled him back before he harmed the cat. “Silence.”
With a soft whine the dog sat.
“Something’s wrong.” Lady Flint aimed a narrow-eyed gaze at the frantic cat.
Mary was more concerned about their sudden increase in speed than the distraught feline. She’d been in several vehicles in her lifetime, once even in a racing carriage, but she’d never traveled this quickly. They flew across the road instead of trundling and bouncing along it.
Lady Flint pointed to curtains on the high back wall behind Mary. “Open those so we can see what’s happening.”
Joan, her feet lifted off the floor to avoid the cat, pulled the curtains aside. Behind them, a horseman followed. Far behind him, another rider raced toward them. Flint, Mary guessed. He’s too far away.
Suddenly, the nearest horseman changed directions and rode away, toward the woods. The one behind him slowed and then turned to follow. The carriage traveled so quickly, they soon lost sight of both riders.
