Jack Higgins – Wrath of the Lion 1964 The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. WILLIAM BLAKE

Mallory quickly reversed the engines. For a moment nothing seemed to be happening and then quite suddenlyFleur de Lys slid backwards.

“That settles that,” he said. “We obviously aren’t going to get any further.”

He cut the engines, went out on deck and climbed on top of the wheelhouse. The reeds were very thick at this point, but to the left was a small lagoon, circular in shape and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter.

He pointed to it as Guyon scrambled up beside him. “Our one chance.”

He jumped to the deck, went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. As they rumbled into life he spun the wheel and crashed the boat into the reeds as she gathered speed.

For a moment they seemed an impenetrable barrier and then they slowly parted andFleur de Lys passed through into the lagoon. Mallory cut the engines and she moved slowly to the far end and came to a halt, her prow grounding gently against a sandbank.

“No time to waste,” he said. “One of us stays with the boat. The other goes for Granville and his wife.”

“That had better be me,” Guyon said. “We have mutual acquaintances. I think he would trust me.”

Mallory pulled the chart forward. “You’ll do better by going on foot and swimming the intervening channels.” He opened a drawer and produced a pocket compass. “Keep due west and you can’t miss the central island. About a quarter of a mile away.”

“Getting Granville back here might be difficult,” Guyon said. “He’s an old man.”

“But used to these marshes. That’s why he comes here, remember. You’ll have to make out the best way you can.” Mallory produced the revolver he had taken from the young sailor at the castle and held it out. “Not much, but better than nothing.”

Guyon pushed it into the pocket of his oilskin jacket and went out on deck quickly. He jumped from the prow to the sandbank and plunged into the reeds.

Mallory lit a cigarette and stood on deck in the quiet rain. Perhaps five minutes later he heard the sound of an outboard motor passing along the main channel. It moved into the distance, muffled by the fog, and then there was only silence.

As Guyon went through the reeds a curlew whistled hauntingly somewhere to the left and wildfowl called as they lifted from the water, disturbed by his passing. He came out on higher ground, checked the compass and ran forward, alone in a land of shining mudflats, lonely creeks and everywhere the reeds.

He came to the end of solid ground and waded across a narrow creek, his feet sinking into soft mud. He could taste the salt on his lips and it stung his eyes painfully, but he kept on moving, pushing through the reeds into the grey shroud.

Gradually the ground became firmer again until he was able to run across sand and coarse marsh-grass. A few moments later he stood on the banks of a shallow lake and the house loomed out of the fog on its island fifty yards away.

The evil, scum-covered waters reached out to meet him as he moved forward, and he took out the revolver and held it above his head. It was not likely that the water would affect it, but there was no point in taking chances.

It was surprisingly easy going, the mud giving way to hard sand, and he was soon moving up on to dry land again. As he ran towards the single-storeyed house a narrow wooden jetty loomed out of the fog and he paused abruptly. No boat was moored there, not even a marsh punt. He stood there, a frown on his face, considering the fact, then turned and went towards the house.

He could smell wood smoke and saw it lifting in a blue tracer from the rough stone chimney. He went up rickety wooden steps to the porch, opened the door and went in.

The room was furnished simply but comfortably, loose 160

rugs scattered across the polished wooden floor. There were several bookcases, all filled, a sofa and two easy chairs in front of the fireplace.

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