Far up on the mountainside, a man in a long dark cloak and mask lifted his face to the damp sky and howled. It was a good howl, very much like the wild wolves out on the Russian steppes. It was unfortunate for verisimilitude that the last wolf in Scotland had been killed by Sir Ewen Cameron in 1860. But the masked man was not native to Scotland, and had every reason to believe that where there were mountains, there should be wolves.
Dogs in the castle below answered his howl, as well as one human hound. The man smiled contemptuously beneath his mask. Let the petty little man lay his plots and woo his Duchess. The masked man had more important affairs to attend. Far more to the point was a lone human wolf howl from higher up the mountain, accompanied by a deeply drawn out howl that could easily be a true wolf.
The cloaked man began to climb the steep rock face. As the rain came down harder, he was glad of the oiled woolen cloak that kept out the worst of the damp. But in spite of the tight weave and the lanolin rubbed into it, the cloak was heavy and sodden by the time he reached the small castle near the mountain peak.
It was more of a fortress, really, hardly more than a stone tower with a crenelated walk and roofed guard tower at the top. There had once been an attached manor, but it had burned a year or two before and all that remained of it were the stone fireplaces and chimneys, and the peaked walls that had held up the gabled roof. The Castle of Mabway was in sad condition.
The heiress who should have cared about its condition paid no attention, and rumor had it that her husband, the Duke of Gwyndonmere, had his hands full keeping up with affairs in the Valley. The folk who had once lived there had, for the most part, migrated to the valley. Those who remained were sheep and cattle herders who now owed their fealty to Gwyndonmere.
It was ideal for the masked man’s machinations.
He tapped in a pattern at the door, and after a moment a tiny window in the door unshuttered, and a voice whispered, “The sleigh moves swiftly.”
The masked man answered, “When the wolves howl behind.”
The shutter closed, and the door was opened on a darkened hall. The masked man entered, and the whisperer closed and locked it behind him. There was a shushing sound as a heavy drape was drawn across the door, then a rustling as another drape was drawn aside.
The masked man entered a small room where three other men were grouped around a table that held lead mold of the sort often used to make bullets and a stamp not unlike those used to seal letters.
“Were you able to find enough silver in the ruins to coat the coins?”
“Just enough,” said a chunky little man who was wearing a striped hat that had a long tail and a tassel on the end.
“I thought I told you to get rid of that hat,” the masked man said. “It is not a style worn here, and it is far too noticeable.”
“I’m not wearin’ it outside like,” the little man said. “And anyway, it is cold in here. It keeps my head warm.”
“It’s not my fault you got skelped in by wild Indians in the colonies, nor that you didn’t bring back enough furs to make it worth your while.”
“You try what it’s like sometime. Anyways, you better be nice to me. I’m the only one who can make the king’s face or a queen’s on any coin worth the name.”
A man with a lean cadaverous face said, “Enough bickering. We each have our roles to play. This valley is the perfect place to assemble an army and run it up the Regent’s royal backside. This valley has been at peace and loyal to the crown for so long, it is the last place from which he would expect an invasion.”
The third man at the table rounded upon them all. “That is correct. Soon, we will cast down the aristocracy, smash the machines, and cottagers will be able to ply their trades and live decently as becomes honorable folk.”
“Oh, right,” scoffed the whisperer, in harsh voice that was scarcely louder or that hand more timber than his greeting at the door. “You, who smashed and burned small shops all across France. You would exalt small shop owners.”
The cadaverous man smacked his hand on the table again. “Enough, I say. There is work to be done. Did you deliver the coins to that amorous idiot?”
“I did. And he added a little something to them. They should be circulating merrily all through the trade fair by now.”
The five men shared predatory grins that were more like the baring of teeth than smiles. Around the tower, the mountain slope was silent. The small creatures of the land knew when it was best to lie low and be still.
Chapter 15
David Hammonds knocked on the door of the butlery with his left hand. “Mr. Hammonds?” he called out. Then, “Grandfather?”
Mr. Hammonds opened the door. Several bottles of wine stood on the table, with the cork puller beside them. Also on the table were two large wooden boxes, probably containing tea.
“What is it, David?”
“Grandfather, that is, Mr. Hammonds. . .”
“Which do you want? Your grandfather or the butler?” the older Mr. Hammonds asked. “You know the proper address.”
“Yes, sir. I…Well, the thing is, I think I want both.” The tall, gangly red-haired young man held up his right hand which was beginning to swell.
Startled, Mr. Hammonds opened the door wider. “Come in and sit down. I’ll send for Gran’ther Tim and Dr. Dermott. What have you been doing? You cannot have gotten that properly doing your duty.”
