"You clockwork confection, you." Her bite, going lower, brought a yelp from me. "Tick-tock, mmm." Her hands busied themselves at my clothing. "Let's just see if we can find the key to wind you up."
"Madam – good God-" I gasped for air. Somewhere far off, voices were shouting. "Don't… most improper-"
"Just a moment – what-" She suddenly reared back, pushing herself away from me. She gazed down at me, her eyes wide. "What's the meaning of this? You're not clockwork at all!"
I caught enough breath to speak. "No… no, I'm not…"
"You're flesh and blood!" she shouted angrily. "You're no Paganinicon!"
I pulled my shirt. together. "I'm afraid not, madam." The back of my head bumped against the wall as I pushed myself away on my elbows. "I'm sorry…"
"That bastard." Mrs Wroth's face darkened, her eyes narrowing to slits. "He told me…"
"Pardon?" I was relieved that her attention had turned elsewhere. "Who's that?"
"Sir Charles," she muttered. "My husband. I'll pay him out for this. He informed me that there would be a clockwork replica of Paganini here tonight. An exact duplicate, in every detail." She gnawed furiously at one of her fingernails.
"Well… I'm afraid I can't play the violin." I looked past her to the door; the shouting sounded louder.
"To hell with the bloody violin. It was the other thing I was interested in. That blackguard…"
"'Other thing?'" I inquired.
She glared at me, as if I were the general representative of the gender that included her perfidious husband. "You know very well what I'm talking about. The great Paganini… he has a reputation for virtuosity in more areas than just music. He's cut a swath through the rich and titled ladies of every country in Europe. Some of them – my friends, ha! Bitches – have told me what it was like. Those eyes… those piercing eyes…" Her own drifted away in contemplation of this romantic vision, then swung viciously back. "And what do I find here? You!"
I shrank back from her fury. "There… has been a misunderstanding," I allowed.
She snorted in disgust and stood up from the bed. Straightening her bodice, she marched out of the room.
After I had managed what repairs I could to my own clothing, I went to the door and looked out. There was no sign of her in the hallway, but the sounds of pitched battles were frighteningly closer. The Godly Army had apparently managed to penetrate Lord Bendray's defences, and the struggle had climbed relentlessly up through the Hall's storeys.
Crossing to the head of the stairs, I looked downover the rail. A mistake on my part; no sooner had I done this, than one of the combatants, face sweating, spotted me above. "There it is!" he cried, pointing me out to his cohort. "The devilish machine itself! Blasphemous parody of God's creation!" Thus inspired, they renewed their attack. They mounted the stairs, flailing about with fist and stick, only slightly impeded by Lord Bendray's rapidly flagging household staff. "Destroy the mocking puppet!" cried their leader.
I stood frozen in horror for a moment, then darted back to the room. There was no bolt on the inside of the door; if there had been, it would not have provided security for long against the furious tide rising towards me. I ran to the window.
In the darkness, the horses milled about, their riders engaged in the battle inside the Hall. I crawled up on to the sill and grasped the ancient vine growing up the stones. The shouts rang in the corridor as I clambered out into the chill air.
No sooner had I descended but a few feet, scraping my knuckles and shins against the wall, than my weight began to pull the vine loose from its moorings. With a sound of ripping cloth, the vine dangled me as though I were a fish on a line. Desperately, I scrambled to get my bootsoles a purchase on the rough wall, but to no avail. The vine pulled free along its entire length, dropping me stone-like to the ground.
My fall was impeded sufficiently by the foliage to save my spine from shattering when I landed on my back. The stars whirled overhead as I struggled to regain the breath that had been knocked from my chest. Still gasping, I managed to wobble upright.
The shouts came from above me now. I looked up and saw faces in the window from which I had made my exit; they scanned the grounds for any sign of me.
Panic overcame any further thought of strategy. Trailing the vines that had become wrapped about my limbs, I ran towards the darkest limits of the Hall's gardens, the castellated walls and the sheltering marshes beyond. I tumbled headlong when the vine reached its full length, the other end of it still being rooted to the ground at the foot of the building. Tearing myself free, I picked myself up and renewed my flight.
10
Years of neglect had taken their toll on the wall circling Lord Bendray's estate. I easily found footholds where stones and mortar had crumbled away, and had soon gained the top. Breathless from running through the dark gardens, I looked back towards the Hall, and was gladdened to see that Lord Bendray's household staff had summoned their strength for a counter-attack against the forces of the Godly Army. Across the wide porticoes of the house, the battle raged anew, torchlight gleaming on the clashing weapons. The shouting voices and clang of metal against metal drifted through the night air to me; for the moment at least, my pursuers had their hands full with more pressing business.
All was dark on the other side of the wall; I could not even discern the ground at its base. At some distance, across the marshy fields that I had observed from the carriage, a few yellow lights glinted feebly through the intervening mist. That must be the village of Dampford, I decided. It was just as well that I could not make out the narrow ribbon of the road leading from the gates of Bendray Hall to the village; doubtless I would be less subject to detection, as I sought the villagers' aid, if I struck out across the countryside.
I leapt down from the top of the wall and, in an instant, regretted it. A pool of water, choked with reeds, had collected against the stones; the mud splashed up to my chest before I found any solid footing underneath: Chilled to the marrow, I struggled forward through the ooze sucking at my boots, grasping handfuls of the rank foliage for leverage. I at last crawled shivering up on to ground that, if still soggy and yielding to my hands and knees, at least afforded some security against drowning.
Spitting out a mouthful of the thick water, I stood up to reconnoitre my position. Several yards away, the black expanse of the wall hid the battle raging in and around Bendray Hall. Looking about, I feared for a moment that I had lost the direction in which the village lay. Then I spotted a plume of smoke blotting out a thin wedge of stars, and at its base a faint glow of lanternlight through a crossed window frame. I set out for this promise of safety.
By the time I reached the village, I was even more thoroughly drenched, having blundered into a good half dozen of the rivulets and stagnant ponds that had lain in my path. One such had been a stream of current sufficient to pull me off my feet and send me thrashing for several yards until I managed to grab the bankside weeds for anchor; a family of water rats, bright eyes glittering, had stared at me before retreating into their nest. Thus, dripping mud and oozy vegetation from every limb, I at last staggered into the central open space of Dampford.
The plume of smoke I had spied earlier arose from the largest of the squatty buildings. I assumed it to be the village inn, or what passed for one; through its open doorway I could hear voices in mingled conversation – a dialect so thick, combining the mangled syllables I had heard in Wetwick, with the heavy guttural "r" of the countryside, that I could not make out the words from only a few feet away – and barking laughter, all to the clink of tankards against wooden tables.