Evelyn could see lights moving along the drive far, far over on the other side of the lake. Opening her mouth, she screeched, “Help! Help! Po-leece! Helaarrgghh! Stop It! Aanngghh, you killin’ me!”
But the pain not only continued, it intensified, and at some point in her unbearable agony, consciousness left her and she slid gratefully into the painless nothingness of darkness.
CHAPTER
THE ELEVENTH
Thanks principally to Bar6n Melchoro, bales of documents and correspondence had been captured at the palace of the grand duke, along with selected works of art and a goodly quantity of gold. All of the voyage back to England, the bardn, Don Diego, and Sir Ali had spent the best part of their time in sorting the paperwork, reading and rendering or at least dictating renderings of translations or synopses.
Information gleaned from this work was most significant, of as much value as the minted gold, or more. They learned for one thing that London had now been as good as written off by the Holy See. For another, they learned that High King Brian VIII’s archenemy, King Tkmhas of Munster, had been or soon would be reinforced by Rome to the tune of a company or two of mercenaries and a famous mercenary captain, one Timoteo, the Duke of Bolgia, secured by the Holy See to endeavor to hammer the Munster troops into a true army along modern lines.
Upon hearing this last, Sir Calum and Sir Liam had both snorted derisively. “The only certain sure outcome of that,” declared Sir Calum, “is that the whole host of career galloglaiches and bonaghts are going to be a-march to north and east and west out of the Kingdom of Munster and straight into the employ of King Brian or any other who conducts war and leads armies in the old style of Ireland rather than in the new and alien manner of an Italian captain. Mark my words,
Tamhas na Muma will soon have no retainers save those bound to him by blood, by honor, or by Papal gold.”
The papers in another batch made it abundantly clear that there would be, could be no Crusader activity expected from Spain in the foreseeable future. The holy Christian Caliph of Granada was already at war with his most Catholic majesty of Spain in all save name. And in the New World, on the northern continent of that world, Spanish forces and a coalition of indios were making war against the French and another coalition of indios.
The Kingdom of Hungary seemed to be about to plunge into a civil war again, with various of its neighbors waiting hungrily along its borders like jackals, hoping to snatch bits and pieces of territory when the time seemed ripe.
The French and the Burgunds were snarling a little more loudly and viciously than normal and had even engaged in several skirmishes at odd points along their borders. The French were also picking at the borders of Savoy, and the Holy Roman Emperor, Savoy’s ally and patron, was known to have issued to the King of France the same threat he had issued to the Holy See last year.
The King of Naples was consolidating his hold on Sicily in the face of a sometimes stiff resistance, and he seemed to have as his next objective the Grand Duchy of Sardinia, which would surely plunge him into a war with Genoa. Since both Naples and Genoa enjoyed special relationships of alliance with Rome, which might be expected to attempt to mediate a row between two of the Roman allies, the letter noted that that particular time might be an ideal one for Catalonia to pick for the seizing of Sardinia and Sicily for her own, as had been long planned.
Another letter discussed the feasibility of having the Duke of Valencia assassinated, then speedily marching in sufficient force to seize the duchy and city for the Catalan Crown, while a fleet set sail from Barcelona to occupy the Valencia-owned Balearic Islands, as well.
Bass shook his head. “This King Josl of Catalonia is a damned acquisitive bastard, isn’t he?”
Melchoro nodded grimly. *’There were but a bare handful of Catalan knights on the Crusade last year and the year before. Now one knows why, eh? And this Duque de Valencia, gentlemen, is King Josh’s own half brother.”
A letter from yet another batch urged strong and concerted action against Malta. It seemed that the Maltese, taking advantage of the unsettled conditions, had commenced raiding the southern and the western coasts of Sicily and were offering slaves captured in those areas at far below the prices agreed upon by the slave traders’ guilds. Bass silently wondered how and why such a missive had been where it had been found—in a small port on the Bay of Biscay.
The voyage back to England was quick, quiet, and uneventful. The few sails that hove into view on the distant horizon made haste to disappear from the view of so many warships as speedily as they could.
On arrival at Thames-mouth, Bass had the sealed casks containing the reams of documents and letters and the king’s share of the loot of Gij<3n-port rowed over to Sir Paul Bigod’s flagship and keeping, then set sail for his own port with his personal fleet, now grown to seven ships. The first phase of his commission was now completed. Next would be the Irish expedition. But arrived at Norwich, he found another messenger awaiting him. The two men met in the dead of night in a place that few if any of the superstition-ridden folk of this world and time would have willingly frequented at such an hour. Their two horses placidly munched at the grasses growing around the canted or tumbled ancient gravestones while the riders squatted on their heels and conversed in a language that no other man or woman within two thousand miles could have comprehended. The two men were much alike; not only did they wear similar styles of clothing and weapons, but their almost identical physiologies and physiognomies indicated an affinity at least of race if not of family. Indeed, the only obvious difference was that one seemed somewhat older than the other. “It is something that might well go into records and be noted by those who would use that information ill. Far too many persons witnessed that particular projection. Many are persons of note in their world and time, and their elimination would cause even further disruption, cause more records to be put down, and some future examiner might correlate the oddities, to our detriment. This is why I arranged for Foster Bass to be summoned here once more so soon. I knew that you surely would accompany him, and I need your help in setting this matter aright.” The elder squatted in silence for a moment, then said, “Yes, I agree, younger one. They must be returned to the exact place and time of projection. Do we use our projector or that one brought down here from Whyffler Hall?” The younger shook his head. “Most of that more primitive device has been disassembled and bits of it scattered from the archepiscopal palace to the Royal Manufactory of Arms and Gunpowder. No, we must use our own.” The elder shrugged. “Probably better that we use a sophisticated instrument anyway. But we must use exceeding care in making the adjustments and reckoning the settings, for we’d but exacerbate matters were we to put them down say two hours early and ten yards out in the river. And we must make certain that they all are in one place, one small spot, with their instruments, when we activate our projector.” “They are all together in one suite of rooms on the archepiscopal estate now being used by Webster Buddy. I have carefully plotted the coordinates of the building, the rooms, and the elevation, elder one. When shall we do it?” The elder shrugged again. “Why not now? I assume you brought the projector with you, as usual?” Evelyn Mangold awakened to complete darkness and the familiar sensation of being in a moving vehicle. Her wrists were handcuffed and her ankles were tied. Her mouth was filled with some kind of cloth, and she could feel tape pulling painfully at her lips, chin, and cheeks. Movement of her eyebrows made it clear that more tape had been used to secure pads over her eyes. She decided after a while that she was lying on the floor of a truck or a station wagon, traveling at speed over a smooth, paved road, and she felt as if she were wrapped in canvas or something like it. From somewhere up ahead she could hear a soft rumble of men’s voices, but they were not speaking English and she could understand not a single word of the three-way conversation. A woman’s voice once said a few words in the same strange tongue, but it was not Millicent’s or any other she could recall having heard.