Read Online The Shadow of Albion by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill - Free Book Online
Authors: Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill
Tags: Demonoid Upload 6
Ads: Link
world
knew: Extremism in the defense of Liberty is no vice. Wessex wished their
countrymen much joy of them.
As he listened, Wessex pulled out the whalebone stays that had given his coat its
fantastic shape, tossed them into the bushes, and shrugged himself back into a coat
of dull brown velvet that had only a faint acquaintance with fashion. The five gold
napoleons that were concealed in the heel of each slipper should be enough to see
him through to the inn on the Calais road where new clothes, identification papers,
and a fast horse awaited him – if the Jacks had not discovered the hideout already.
But deMorrissey – if the late M. Grillot could be believed – lay a prisoner in the
house beyond. It might be possible – just – to go in and extract him while the Red
Jacks were smashing the teacups in the parlor.
Without any pause for thought Wessex was running lightly toward the house. He
avoided the pools of light spilling from the open doors and windows of the function
rooms, and skirted the edge of the house until he reached the side door that led
down into the servant’s quarters beneath. One flat-footed thrust at the door gained
him entrance – along with Wessex’s fervent wish that he had been able to wear his
hunting boots upon this expedition, instead of dancing slippers – and then he was
within.
In the midst of such an entertainment as was taking place elsewhere, one would
expect the servants’ quarters to be filled with activity, but the kitchen in which
Wessex found himself was entirely deserted. An overturned bottle of wine, its lees
still dripping slowly into a scarlet puddle spreading on the wooden floor, gave mute
testimony to the abruptness of the evacuation. It seemed that what the Underground
had surmised was true: that if the Red Jacks had spies in every kitchen in France,
every kitchen in France also had advance word of the Jacquerie’s movements.
There was the thunder of proletarian boots upon the stairs. Swiftly Wessex
identified the green baize door that separated the world of service from the elegant
damask of Madame la Princesses drawing rooms. An immense oak dresser was the
nearest article of furniture; Wessex ran to it and shoved, the long muscles of his
elegant lean frame bunching with the sudden exertion.
There was a rattle of dishes as the massive piece began slowly to shift away from
the wall. The oak dresser slid slowly forward, and just as it did so the door to the
kitchen began to swing inward. With one last desperate heave Wessex thrust with all
his might, and the dresser teetered, tipped… and toppled gracefully backward into
the door with a musical breaking of glass. There was a roar of thwarted anger from
the other side of the door – to which Wessex responded, genially, in an even fouler
gutter argot.
Wessex smiled faintly as the faint sound of determined battery came distantly to
him through the barricaded door. Best to hope that the late M. Grillot was to be
believed regarding deMorrissey’s whereabouts, as Wessex had just sealed the
kitchen off from direct communication with the house above.
It seemed, however, that at least in that much Grillot had been truthful. His
Majesty’s Captain Avery Richard Harriman deMorrissey, most recently of Verdun,
lay facedown upon a pallet in the butler’s pantry, trussed like a prize Christmas fowl.
The disheveled state of the Captain’s borrowed clothes gave eloquent witness to the
difficulty of his capture, and when his eye fell upon Wessex his color deepened
alarmingly.
„I pray you, my good man,“ drawled Wessex in the most well-bred of Pall Mall
accents, „that when I release you, you will confine your martial ardor to our mutual
enemies. I am Wessex, and we were to meet this evening under slightly different
circumstances.“
„The King must be told!“ gasped deMorrissey as soon as the gag was removed
from his mouth.
knew: Extremism in the defense of Liberty is no vice. Wessex wished their
countrymen much joy of them.
As he listened, Wessex pulled out the whalebone stays that had given his coat its
fantastic shape, tossed them into the bushes, and shrugged himself back into a coat
of dull brown velvet that had only a faint acquaintance with fashion. The five gold
napoleons that were concealed in the heel of each slipper should be enough to see
him through to the inn on the Calais road where new clothes, identification papers,
and a fast horse awaited him – if the Jacks had not discovered the hideout already.
But deMorrissey – if the late M. Grillot could be believed – lay a prisoner in the
house beyond. It might be possible – just – to go in and extract him while the Red
Jacks were smashing the teacups in the parlor.
Without any pause for thought Wessex was running lightly toward the house. He
avoided the pools of light spilling from the open doors and windows of the function
rooms, and skirted the edge of the house until he reached the side door that led
down into the servant’s quarters beneath. One flat-footed thrust at the door gained
him entrance – along with Wessex’s fervent wish that he had been able to wear his
hunting boots upon this expedition, instead of dancing slippers – and then he was
within.
In the midst of such an entertainment as was taking place elsewhere, one would
expect the servants’ quarters to be filled with activity, but the kitchen in which
Wessex found himself was entirely deserted. An overturned bottle of wine, its lees
still dripping slowly into a scarlet puddle spreading on the wooden floor, gave mute
testimony to the abruptness of the evacuation. It seemed that what the Underground
had surmised was true: that if the Red Jacks had spies in every kitchen in France,
every kitchen in France also had advance word of the Jacquerie’s movements.
There was the thunder of proletarian boots upon the stairs. Swiftly Wessex
identified the green baize door that separated the world of service from the elegant
damask of Madame la Princesses drawing rooms. An immense oak dresser was the
nearest article of furniture; Wessex ran to it and shoved, the long muscles of his
elegant lean frame bunching with the sudden exertion.
There was a rattle of dishes as the massive piece began slowly to shift away from
the wall. The oak dresser slid slowly forward, and just as it did so the door to the
kitchen began to swing inward. With one last desperate heave Wessex thrust with all
his might, and the dresser teetered, tipped… and toppled gracefully backward into
the door with a musical breaking of glass. There was a roar of thwarted anger from
the other side of the door – to which Wessex responded, genially, in an even fouler
gutter argot.
Wessex smiled faintly as the faint sound of determined battery came distantly to
him through the barricaded door. Best to hope that the late M. Grillot was to be
believed regarding deMorrissey’s whereabouts, as Wessex had just sealed the
kitchen off from direct communication with the house above.
It seemed, however, that at least in that much Grillot had been truthful. His
Majesty’s Captain Avery Richard Harriman deMorrissey, most recently of Verdun,
lay facedown upon a pallet in the butler’s pantry, trussed like a prize Christmas fowl.
The disheveled state of the Captain’s borrowed clothes gave eloquent witness to the
difficulty of his capture, and when his eye fell upon Wessex his color deepened
alarmingly.
„I pray you, my good man,“ drawled Wessex in the most well-bred of Pall Mall
accents, „that when I release you, you will confine your martial ardor to our mutual
enemies. I am Wessex, and we were to meet this evening under slightly different
circumstances.“
„The King must be told!“ gasped deMorrissey as soon as the gag was removed
from his mouth.
Similar Books
