A Matter Of Delicacy

The Flight

     Caroline's horse reared up and screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that broke straight through into my heart. She screamed and fell in a cascade of lurid orange satin.
     There was chaos.
     Lady Bruce started screaming and fighting through the guards, clawing her way through to Caroline. Willoughby was yelling, his pistol drawn and ready to fire. The guards were suddenly wrestling the King back onto a horse and charging off with him.
     I was hurtling towards Caroline, throwing myself down on the ground to cover her from any fire. She was swearing like a sailor, and a mess of expensive fabric and filthy mud. I grasped her by the shoulder and held her still, looking her over for the bullet wound that must surely be there. Surely she was bleeding out in front of me and I was going to have failed her.
     But there was nothing.
     I searched again, then stared at her in disbelief. She stared back, eyes wide and terrified, panting in shocked gasps.
     'Did he miss?'
     I stood sharply, dragging my pistol out of my belt, 'he did, Your Highness. And I promise you, that was the last shot he'll take at you.'
     Willoughby held out a hand to stop me, 'I'll go. You get them home, I'll find him.'
     God, he really was gorgeous. With all that honour and sharp jawline and earnest looks and messy hair and willingness to get himself killed for someone that wasn't even his to protect.
     I reached up and touched his face, running my thumb over his cheek like he was the sun and I had been stuck indoors for a month. He looked down at me, eyebrows creasing, lips already forming a question.
     'Protect them. I'll be back soon.'
     And I ran off in direction of the shot.

     While the terrain wasn't the most conducive to a chase, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I sprinted over the grass and towards the wood where the shot had come from. My pathway was littered with natural debris, and I had to leap over a rotting log and a thicket of bracken. The ground beneath my boots was just firm enough and I made it within thirty seconds.
     Skidding to a halt in the pine-needle strewn border of the wood, I breathed deeply and scanned around. Beresford would have moved the second that he fired, climbing down out of his tree and moving, making himself a nimble target, harder to track.
     But not impossible.
     I looked back towards the horizon, where the hunt had been gathered when the shot was fired. Moving slowly, and keeping my eye on where Caroline had been sat on her horse, I moved through the trees until I got to the right angle. To my left was a tall oak tree, with thick leaves and a sturdy trunk. The shadow I had glimpsed from the hill turned out to be a tangled knot of branches left over from last year's fall. The lowest bough sprouted from the trunk about a metre above my head, but it craned downwards until it curved around thigh height.
     There was a smudge of fresh mud on the bark, and another about a foot further up the trunk. Carrying on, I noticed a fresh cut in the bark where a new sprig must have been ripped from the tree, and some moss that had been flattened right down, as if sat on for a long period of time.
So this is where he'd been.
     I cast around, looking closely at the trees around me. There were plenty he could have gone for, but he was nowhere to be seen. I followed the deer path deeper into the wood, towards a thicket of bracken. It would have made for good cover. The grass around it had been tramped down, but that could have been from anything.
     I stopped next to a sapling, spindly and thin as it grew desperately under the wide canopy of the trees that had been here since the Middle Ages. As I stood, a smudge of dark red-brown on the bark caught my eye. I frowned, touching it with my fingers. It came away sticky and smelling strongly of metal.
     He was bleeding.
     I clenched my fingers into a fist and stalked off deeper into the wood. In here, the light was a little dimmer, the air a little stiller, and the smell of the wood rose in my nostrils. The thick, earthy smell of the ground washed around me, along with the sharp stench of badger droppings and the sweetness of gently rotting leaves. A bird trilled somewhere in the trees, a rodent scurried through the bracken, the branches above me shifted gently in the breeze.
     There was another smudge of blood on a fallen log in front of me, as if Beresford had pressed a hand to steady himself as he was moving.
     Why was he bleeding? Had he tripped and cut himself when coming down the tree? None of us had taken a shot at him, more's the pity.
     A twig snapped in front of me and I froze, ears trained into the silence. Behind all the sounds of the wood, I could make out a faint, panting breath.
     There.
     I set off at a print, and the shadow of a man darted out from behind a thick-trunked tree and paced away, gripping a rifle in his hand.
     It wasn't Beresford, I realised with a shock, as I finally got a clear look at him. It was Paulette.
     That explains the blood, I thought. I'd taken a shot at him myself only yesterday and hit him in the shoulder. He hadn't even had a day to heal before Beresford had him up a tree committing regicide.
     I ran, ripping my pistol out of my belt and gripping it firmly.
     I would end this.
     Paulette darted to the left and took another path through the dense trees. I veered away, dodging a rock and a badger set and sprinting after him.
He was limping hard, loping in an awkward way with one hand clutching his rifle and the other pressed hard against his shoulder. It must be bleeding a lot.
     I ducked my head and charged on, eyes fixed on my target. I was gaining on him, and when he looked back at me his face was filled with dread and fury.
     I didn't both yelling at him to stop. We both knew that would be insulting.
     Apparently, he'd come to some conclusion, because when he reached the base of a large yew tree he spun to face me, leaning against the bark, with the rifle pointed firmly in my direction.
     I skidded to a halt in front of him, chest heaving and hair wild.
     He looked awful, his face even paler than usual and his forehead shining with sweat. Blood was seeping through the hastily-tied bandage across his shoulder.
     I eyed the rifle in his hands. Had he had time to reload it? There had definitely been a shot he'd taken at Caroline, but would he have been able to reload while he was hidden in the bracken?
     His breath was coming in ragged pants.
     I squared my jaw at him, 'what? Beresford not let you have a day off even with a bullet in your chest?'
     He grimaced at me, a look of such twisted agony and anger the circus masters would have loved it. 'Shut your mouth. You have no idea what you're talking about.'
     'I know that when I was injured – my compliments on your torture technique, by the way – I was given the time to recover as best I could. I can't say the same about your boss.'
     'He's not my boss,' Paulette gripped the rifle and hefted it higher aiming at my face.
     I felt suddenly sad, 'a friend wouldn't make you climb a tree twenty-four hours after getting shot and falling from a third-floor window.' I took a step towards him and he flinched, the barrel of the rifle shaking.
     'I will shoot you,' he spat through gritted teeth. 'And God, I will enjoy it.'
     I eyed him, taking in the rolling eyes, the shaking hands, the heavy lean against the tree. He was too far gone, that wound had sapped him of every ounce of strength he had. He must have pushed himself to breaking point getting up that tree, ripping open the fresh wound all over again, taking the shot, then escaping as fast as he could, hoping against hope that he'd have enough strength to evade me.
     No way would he have had the energy to reload when he had hidden.
But he was holding it with far too much purpose for a man who was bluffing.
     It was a risk – one that could kill me.
     'Where is he?' I asked. 'Tell me where he is and I'll tell Grenville that you cooperated. You'll get life, but at least you won't hang.'
     Again the rifle was hefted at my face, 'one more step and I swear I'll put a bullet in your head.'
     I squinted at him, then lowered my pistol.
     His eyes darted between it and me, lips curling into a hideous grin, 'don't be naive, we've stepped too far down this road to come back. I might not have got the bitch, but Beresford will.'
     My heart thudded in my chest, 'what?'
     He cackled, and his spittle was flecked with blood, 'took you an awful long way from your precious little Princess didn't I? And what? You've left them with that Pretty Boy as their only protection, eh?'
     I stilled, my finger tight and dreadful on the trigger of my pistol.
     'How's that wound of his? Holding him up much? Still as fresh as mine, isn't it? Good to exploit that one – would be a shame if someone took advantage.'
     My jaw clenched. I should never have left them.
     But Paulette was exhausted, and scared, and raving, and probably already dying a little bit.
     And he'd told me where Beresford would be heading.
     'You should know,' I said coldly, 'that when I find him I won't hesitate in killing him.'
     'Neither will he,' again blood flecked his lips and he sagged a little against the bark of the tree. 'Pity really, I would have enjoyed hearing that German bitch scream.'
     I took the damn risk.
     Leaping forward, I batted the barrel of the rifle away from me, hearing a sickening, joyful, click of an empty shot go off to my left. Paulette roared in pain as his whole body was forced off centre. And, as he was stumbling, I raised my pistol to his head.
     And fired.
     After his body slumped to the ground I stood, breathing steadily, and stared down at him.
     It was a shame really, to die in the mud with such fierce belief in a man who had forced him through such pain.
     But I couldn't bring myself to feel sad for him. The bastard had tortured me, exploited my injuries, beaten me within an inch of my life, hurt Willoughby, taken a shot at Caroline.
     I picked up the rifle from where it lay loose in his limp hand, and pulled the little pouches of power and shot from his belt. Reloading my own pistol, I stuck it back into my belt and took a moment to reload the rifle as well – God knows I would learn from Paulette's mistake.
     Slinging it over my shoulder, I turned on my heel and left his body in the mud without another thought.
     I had a Princess to save.