Akbar had no choice but to swallow his protest. Stiffly, he inclined his head and stepped back.
Uncle turned to the others. “Go and collect all that we need to make this place into suitable quarters. You must also find for me all the implements I will require to properly punish the major’s woman and, later, the major himself.” A slow smile of vindictive anticipation spread across Uncle’s face. Quietly, he crooned, “Do you know what I need?”
The cultists bowed low. The one in charge replied, “Yes, Uncle. We will fetch all the tools necessary.”
“Good.” Smile still in place, Uncle turned away.
Akbar waited for an instant, then curtly bowed to Uncle’s back, turned on his heel and left the room.
In the corridor outside, his own second was waiting. As he strode down the corridor, the man fell in at his shoulder. “Well-what did he say? Are we to act to discourage these locals from joining with the major?”
His expression stony, Akbar shook his head. “No.” After a moment, he added, “Old men and their delusions. They will bring us down yet.”
The night passed without incident, and the day following continued quiet.
Too quiet for Gareth’s liking.
The rain and hail had ceased, but the wind still blew at storm force. Luckily, the inn yard was protected by the surrounding buildings. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, he, Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister worked with their volunteers, improvising both for weapons and techniques, and drilling them to instill basic levels of command.
By late afternoon, however, many were asking when the fight would be. When no definite answer was forthcoming, it became progressively more difficult to hold their troops’ attention.
By evening, when he wandered through the common room, Gareth overheard too many comments on “the mad ideas of the English” to doubt that the excitement generated by the promised fight against the “heathens” was dissipating.
Resuming his seat beside Emily at their table, he caught his fellow trainers’ eyes. “Whoever’s commanding the cult this time is using his brains. There’s been no sighting of a cultist since we arrived. The locals are starting to believe they don’t really exist-that they’ve moved on, or were from the first a figment of our imaginations.”
Mullins nodded glumly. “I’ll wager that tomorrow we’ll have less than half our numbers today.”
Bister grimaced. “Nothing much we can do until the axe falls, is there?”
Gareth shook his head. “All we can do is hope that, when the attack comes, we’ll have a reasonable enough force to hold off the first wave, so the doubters have time to come running.”
Watson suggested they find a nearby bell, or something similar they could use as a summons.
While the others discussed that, Gareth leaned closer to Emily. Laying a hand over one of hers, he caught her eye when she looked his way. “You mustn’t forget that from the first-in Aden-the cult had you in their sights. They must know of your role in getting the letter to us-you are a target as much as I am.”
She raised her brows. “But I’m not the one carrying the scroll holder. If this is their last chance of stopping it from reaching England, then they’ll be focused on that, not”-she waved her other hand-“side issues.”
He held her gaze. “They won’t see you as a side issue. Taking hostages is a common ploy for them.” He hesitated, then went on, “And I suspect they know that I’ll give anything to save you.”
She turned her hand and gripped his. She searched his eyes, then inclined her head. “I’ll take care.”
They both looked down the table as Dorcas spoke up, pointing out that there had to be a church nearby with a big bell.
While Dorcas and Arnia volunteered to find the priest and recruit him and his bell, Gareth tried to relax, tried to bury the realization of how much Emily meant to him-the insidious knowledge of how very vulnerable he was over her.
Fear for himself was something he’d learned to live with. Fear for her…was something else again.
In the kitchen of the deserted chateau, where his combined troops had gathered for the evening meal, at the head of the main table, Uncle rose to his feet. He waited for all heads to turn his way, for silence to fall. Then he raised his arms and smiled. “My sons-the time has come. Tomorrow will be our day.”
Eagerness glowed on all the faces. Anticipation had reached fever pitch. Uncle could almost taste it.
“Tomorrow, we will triumph-we will act decisively to draw the major and his people into our net. We will draw them here, to this place-into a trap.” He glanced at Akbar, seated to his left. “You, Akbar, will take five others and set a watch on the lane leading here, close to the town. When the major and his followers pass, you will send word to us here.”
Akbar, of course, understood that he was being deliberately distanced from the action-from all chance of glory. He held Uncle’s gaze-Uncle could see in his dark eyes the battle between the impulse to protest and the knowledge that this was a trial of his obedience. Caution won. Impassively, Akbar bowed his head. “As you wish, Uncle.”
Uncle smiled. He turned to the rest of his troops. “Listen well, and I will tell you how we will capture our pigeons.”
12th December, 1822
Morning
My room at the Perrots’ auberge
Dear Diary,
I do not know how it is that quietness and calmness and nothing happening can feel so threatening. But so it is. There is a sense of some great disaster hanging over us, just waiting to crash down on our heads.
But if the locals are right, we have only this last day to weather. The captain who agreed to take us to Dover spoke with Gareth last night, and confirmed he expects to be able to put out of the harbor tomorrow. If so, we will be away, and no matter that there may be cultists waiting in England, just being home will buoy us all.
Meanwhile I will spend the day as I have the last two, seeking ways to support Gareth’s efforts. Even if it transpires that we do not need our ragtag army, putting all possible defenses in place just in case is unquestionably wise. The right decision for an experienced commander, and Gareth is nothing if not that. Even if all I do is provide encouragement, that is nevertheless a contribution.
I cannot recall feeling so personally committed to someone else’s goal as I do with Gareth’s mission. It is as if his goal is somehow now mine-as if my love for him demands I embrace every aspect of his life, even this. While ferrying MacFarlane’s letter to Bombay gave me an interest in seeing justice done, my commitment to seeing the scroll holder to the right hands in England is now predominantly driven by a need to help Gareth succeed, rather than to appease my own feelings.
Love, I am learning, has broad repercussions.
Gareth-loving me-is concerned for my safety, yet his concern is nothing to the concern I feel for him. I know what sort of man, what sort of soldier, he is. No less than MacFarlane, he will lead his troops into battle, at their head even be they a ragtag rabble of sailors and farmhands armed with pitchforks and rakes.
If any attack comes here in Boulogne, Gareth will meet it face-to-face.
Love, I am learning, can result in fear. I have far more reason to fear for him than he has to fear for me.
E.
The day started calmly, yet Gareth couldn’t shrug off a sense of impending doom.
He was less than impressed when Mullins’s prediction of how many of their ragtag troops would report for duty proved correct. Only a dozen with nothing better to do slouched into the common room, and from their easygoing expressions, they were there for the entertainment rather than with any expectation of seeing action.