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“No, we shan’t. I want to kill him for what he’s done, and that scares me, Victoria. That scares the hell out of me. He is, after all, my brother, my damned twin. Well, Ligger will begin to spread the news of the passageway. That should enrage Damien. I shall board up our cluster of grapes over there. Then I must decide what to do.”
“All right.” She sighed. “It’s a mess.”
“Victoria, will you forgive me just one more time? I am sorry, you know. Kick me again if you wish, but forgive me.”
She didn’t say anything for a very long time. Rafael fidgeted, opened his mouth, then closed it.
Suddenly, Victoria drew back her fist and hit him in the belly. “I forgive you.”
He left her then, shaking his head and smiling, to return surreptitiously to the passage, and some thirty minutes later he found her speaking to Flash. “Let’s leave for Falmouth, say, in a half-hour? I’ll think of something, er, plausible, before we return.”
She cocked her head at his sudden change of plans. Something had happened, something he wasn’t going to tell her about. She saw Flash smiling widely, pleased to the tips of his boots that they were returning to the Seawitch.
Victoria forced a smile. “I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you, Victoria.” He caressed her cheek with his knuckles, then turned to Flash.
Victoria walked back to the Hall, furiously thinking. She would pry it out of him somehow.
Two afternoons later, Rafael sat on the uncomfortable scarred bench in the oak-beamed ale room of the Ostrich. The inn was older than anyone cared to remember, save for Pimberton, the landlord, who told stories of how King John had stopped at the Ostrich way back in 1215 on his way to Runnymede. No one had bothered to tell him that the Ostrich wasn’t exactly on the direct route to Runnymede.
Rafael was alone at the Ostrich in Carnon Downs. He’d left Victoria yesterday on the Seawitch in the care of Blick and Rollo. As for Flash, he’d been so excited to be back on board, he’d chattered like a magpie. Carnon Downs was just southeast of Truro, only two hours from Falmouth. He, of course, hadn’t told Victoria a thing, simply said he had some business to conduct, but she’d looked at him, that I-know-you’re-up-to-something look, shrugged, and taken Blick’s arm for a stroll on the deck.
As Rafael nursed his mug of ale, he heard Pimberton talking now about the Black Prince. “. . . Aye, you may wonder,” Pimberton was saying, rubbing his hands over the the that covered his immense stomach, “wonder indeed that the prince brought King John of France with him . . . and he was met by Edward III, right here, at the Ostrich . . . aye, in this very room. ’Twas in 1355, aye, indeed. History, sirs, that’s what we have here.”
Rafael grinned, then went very still when he heard the loud voice ca
lling out, “Pimmby, your best ale, if you please.”
Johnny Tregonnet had come, just as the note had said.
“Here you are, Master John,” said Pimberton, beaming at the young man whose father owned a vast part of Carnon Downs.
“Hello, Damien.”
“Glad you’re here early,” Rafael said, and indeed he was. Were Damien to arrive now, everything would be well and truly lost. “I’ve lots of business to conduct. How are you, Johnny?”
“I’m well as always. Why are you being so civil, Damien? You’ve never done much of anything for me except sneer.”
Rafael waved a negligent hand. “I’m feeling quite mellow, old fellow. Now, what is it you want?”
“Your brother. He knows about us. He threatened me at your ball. He wants to join our group or else he’ll do us all in. I sent a note to the Ram, but I haven’t heard a thing.”
“What did the Ram say when you told him about Rafael?”
Johnny stared at him. “You know there’s no one who knows who the Ram is. I left a message at the hidden box, you know, the one at the crossroads at Pellway. What’s wrong with you, Damien?”
“Ah,” said Rafael, and called out quickly, “Pimmby, more ale for my friend here.” Damnation, he thought, so none of the members knew the identity of the Ram. Well, at least something should happen soon, since Johnny had sent the man a message about him.
“Hey, just you wait a second,” Johnny shouted, shoving back his chair. “You ain’t Damien!”
“Very good, Johnny. I’m not. Ah, here’s our good innkeeper with your ale.” Johnny lurched toward him, and Rafael very smoothly threw a right into Johnny’s belly, following it with a left to his jaw. He slouched to the floor without a sound.
Mr. Pimberton, a mug of ale in hand, stared down at the unconscious man. “Goodness, Baron, shouldn’t ye—”
“Yes, I should,” said Rafael mildly. He took the mug of ale and poured it onto Johnny’s face.
“That should do it,” said Mr. Pimberton. “I’ll get me missis to clean him up.”
