The Elusive Bride

Fifteen

10th December, 1822

Morning

Our room in the Perrot auberge in Boulogne

The next morning, in the mizzling drizzle that had replaced the night’s sleeting rain, they gathered in the stable yard to farewell Gustav and Pierre Juneau.

Despite their relatively short association, the hugs and farewells were affectionate and heartfelt, the admonitions to take care deeply sincere.

Gareth handed over a pouch with the rest of their fee, together with a sizeable tip. He clapped Pierre on the shoulder. “We wouldn’t have fared half so well without you.”

“Indeed.” Emily beamed at Gustav. “We’d still be on our way here if we’d been in the hands of anyone else. We are deeply in your debt.”

Both Juneaux made dismissive sounds, shook hands, then climbed up to their carriages.

Beside the first carriage, suddenly sober, Gareth looked up at Gustav. “Be on guard-at least until you’re well south. I doubt there’ll be many cultists left along the road, but until you’re out of this area, have a care. That we’re not with you won’t matter-the cult is renowned for its vindictiveness.”

Gustav tapped his coachman’s hat. He glanced back at Pierre, who nodded that he’d heard, then Gustav looked down at Gareth. “We’ll remember-meanwhile, take care of yourselves.” His gaze rose to touch the others who had come to stand behind Gareth. “All of you-fare thee well, and when you get to England, make sure you rid us all of these vipères.”

Assurances rang out, then Gustav clicked his reins, and the two coaches lumbered out of the yard.

Emily sighed. She slid her arm in Gareth’s and let him turn her toward the auberge’s door. “I’ll miss them, but letting them go is a sign. We’ve come to the end of our travels through lands not our own-once we cross the Channel, we’ll be home.”

Gareth wished he could let her continue to imagine they were close to being safe and free, but…“There’ll be cultists waiting for us in Dover.”

She frowned. “But surely not as many as here?”

“I don’t know how many, but they will be there. The Black Cobra is Ferrar. While England is home for us, it’s home for him, too.”

“So we’ll need to be on guard even after we reach Dover?”

He nodded.

Beneath her breath, she swore.

In a deserted barn to the east of Boulogne, Uncle surveyed his assembled troops. As soon as it had become clear the major was halting in Boulogne, he’d sent riders to summon all the cultists stretched along the coast this side of the town of Calais.

There were four couriers heading to England, this much Uncle knew, but only the major had come this way. What news had reached him placed one of the other three far to the east, and the other two had traveled by sea around the Cape and had yet to make landfall.

His orders were to capture the major and, above all, retrieve the scroll holder he carried. There had been no opportunity to search the party’s bags, but regardless, Uncle wanted the major. Nothing else would do-nothing else would avenge his son.

“It is as I foretold.” Uncle smiled benevolently on his tools, his weapons. “Our pigeons are trapped, their wings clipped by the storm. They have taken refuge in the town and are huddling there, waiting to be plucked.” Slowly he paced before his men, meeting their eyes, letting them recognize the brilliance of his planning. “While the winds blow hard, the sea is impassable. There is nothing they can do-no way they can escape us. Now we must devote ourselves to dealing with these upstarts as our leader would decree-as the glory of the Black Cobra demands!”

A rousing cheer went up. He waved, and it faded.

Before he could continue, Akbar, until then standing in the shadows to one side, stepped forward. “What about the coachmen? They helped our pigeons flee us-their families gave our enemies succor.” A rumbling rose from the assembled men. Akbar kept his gaze on Uncle’s face. “We should show the coachmen the vengeance of the Cobra, and make them pay his price.”

There were nods and murmurings as the men turned eager faces to Uncle, clearly anticipating being unleashed.

Uncle smiled benignly. Magnanimously, he waved the coachmen aside. “We have better-more important-things to do than concern ourselves with lowly coachmen who have no further part to play. The Black Cobra demands service of the highest caliber, and it is critical not to be led astray by any quest for personal glory.”

Uncle turned his smile directly on Akbar. Let his ambitious second dwell on that.

Unsurprisingly, his words had refocused the men’s attention back on him. Raising a hand in benediction, he gave them their orders. “You must spread out and scour the land around the town. We must find the perfect place in which to hold and discipline the major and his woman.”

Somewhat to Gareth’s surprise, the rest of that day passed swiftly. With every hour, their news spread further, and more and more townsfolk, especially the men, found reason to drop by the Perrots’ auberge. Some came to report seeing cultists lurking in the town and down by the docks over the past week, but by all accounts the “heathens” had since slipped away.

Two gendarmes dropped by to listen to their tale, retold with gusto by one of the Perrots’ sons. The gendarmes nodded, wished them luck, and left. Heathen cultists and English, Gareth surmised, fell outside their remit.

Throughout the morning, brawny young men came to the inn to offer their services in repelling the heathen hordes. As Gareth had plenty of coin to supply ale, and he, Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins had plenty of tales to tell, it was easy enough to keep their new recruits amused.

A few brought rusty muskets. After a quick examination, knowing the cult would never resort to firearms and that by recruiting the locals themselves, there was little to no chance the cult could, this time, hire locals against them, Gareth decided that firearms in general weren’t worth the risk.

Immediately after lunch, when the crowd in the common room had grown dense with muscle, he stood and thumped an empty tankard on the bar. When he had everyone’s attention, he stated in a voice that carried through the room, “All those who want to fight the heathens gather in the side yard now. Weapons training will commence in five minutes.”

While the gaggle of men filed eagerly out of the door, he gathered Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. “Knives-all sorts, but use the most basic moves. Once we see what they’re like, we’ll split them into groups.”

The others-all ex-army-nodded, and followed him out into the yard.

They put their recruits through their paces, much to the amusement of the crowd that gathered to watch and exclaim.

In short order, the activity turned into an event, with performers and an appreciative audience, many of whom were female. Initially the murmurs, giggles, and sly glances irritated Gareth, but then, passing before a knot of girls, he heard, “I must rush home and tell Hilda about this.”

After that, he watched the crowd more closely, and saw that girls were constantly coming and going. They couldn’t stay for long because they were expected home-but once at home, they would talk.

He couldn’t ask for a more certain way of spreading the news about the cultists. Once he realized that, he forgot about the crowd, and concentrated on drilling his inexperienced but enthusiastic troops.

The day ended with a flurry of ice and no cultists anywhere. Seated with the others in the common room, while they finished their dinner and Bister, Jimmy and Mullins entertained the table with tales of the new recruits and their varied skills, Gareth let the talk wash over him, and mentally ran through his preparations again.

The scroll holder-the item the cultists most wanted-was as safe as it could be. On the intial stages of their journey, Arnia had carried it, but in Alexandria, once he’d taken Watson’s measure, he’d spoken with him. Watson was steady, loyal and dependable, with a deep streak of integrity. He was also the oldest of their group, the least likely to be involved in physical heroics. From Alexandria on, Watson had carried the scroll holder-exactly where, even Gareth didn’t know.

If anything adverse were to happen to their party, Watson would take whatever survivors there were and make for England. He had money and letters of introduction and instructions from Gareth-and he had the scroll holder. No matter what, the scroll holder would reach England.

Gareth had also given Arnia money and letters of introduction. If the cult succeeded in breaking up their party, she would take Dorcas and head for England. Together, the women would manage, and the cult would ignore two women of lower caste.

The rest of them were potential targets. The cult would come for him and Emily, then, when they didn’t find the scroll holder, would go for Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins. They might even consider Jimmy.

He was deep into trying to think like a cult commander, when Emily’s hand closed about his wrist and pulled him back to the present. Raising his eyes, he met hers.

She studied his face, her own expression serious. After a moment of searching his eyes, she murmured, “They’ll be plotting and planning, too, won’t they? Gathering their forces and organizing?”

The others, hearing her question, fell silent and waited for his reply. He glanced around the table, then returned his gaze to Emily’s face and nodded. “Even though Ferrar isn’t here-at least I think it highly unlikely he will be-there’ll be a commander of sorts in charge.”

He looked at the others, let his gaze rest on Bister and Jimmy. “In whatever’s coming, we shouldn’t imagine we’ll be facing any poorly disciplined group. The commander will almost certainly have brought assassins and some of the better-trained guards with him.”

His gaze moving to Mooktu and Mullins, he went on, “As for numbers, Ferrar would know that the easiest way to block our access to England would be to control the Channel ports. We’ve already heard there were watchers posted here, and Ferrar would have sent contingents of cultists to every port.”

“Now they know we’re here, they’ll draw those others in, have them join the group here.” Mullins made it a statement.

Gareth hesitated, then said, “I don’t know what route the other three couriers are taking, but unless one of the others is near-and I don’t think that’s likely-then yes, I imagine that when the fight comes, we’ll be facing a goodly number, not just ten or even twenty.”

Dorcas shivered and gathered her shawl closer.

Gareth seized the moment to marshal his words, then quietly went on, “We need to remember my orders.” In deference to all they’d been through together, he used the royal “we.” “I’m supposed to do all I can to engage and remove as many cultists as possible, especially here-and while I don’t know enough to appreciate why, we can trust absolutely that Wolverstone’s orders are sound.”

He met Bister’s eyes. “Which is why our ragtag recruits are a godsend. We need to do all we can to whip them into reasonable shape, to prepare them to engage and defeat the cultists.”

“One idea that occurs to me,” Mooktu said, “is that the cultists fight with blades only, all close quarters, hand-to-hand. Yet many of our recruits are sailors and farm workers-many have abilities with implements that strike from a greater distance.”

Mullins was nodding. “Like staffs, pitchforks, and the like-and slingshots, too.” He looked at Gareth. “Perhaps we should encourage them to work with those.”

“From what I saw, not many have any experience with swords.” Gareth considered, then nodded. “Tomorrow we’ll see what skills they do have, and work with those.”

Once again he glanced around the table. “Of one thing we can be absolutely sure. The Black Cobra will have given orders that we are to be stopped. Here, in Boulogne. So the cult will come for us, and they’ll come in force. For the cultists and their commander here, this will be their last stand.”

Huddled in his cloak, Uncle slowly turned, surveying the large chamber in the light of the lanterns two of his followers held high. Then he smiled. “This will do nicely.”

Looking at the young cultist who had come running to tell him of the tumbledown mansion hidden amid overgrown gardens not far from the town, Uncle raised his hand in blessing. “You have done well, my son.”

He looked inquringly as other cultists filed into the room.

One bowed. “We have searched, Excellency, but there is no one here. It is abandoned.”

“And big enough and sound enough for our headquarters?”

“It seems very appropriate, Uncle.”

“Excellent. Make arrangements to move all our baggage here, and summon all our fighters. This will henceforth be our headquarters.”

The men bowed.

Swift footsteps in the corridor outside had them all looking to the door.

Akbar appeared. He paused, taking in the ornate chamber-a drawing room, Uncle thought it would be called-then strode in. Pulling off his gloves, he met Uncle’s gaze, then bowed curtly.

“The men watching the inn report that the major has commenced drilling locals in the yard.”

Uncle frowned. “These are soldiers-militia?”

“No. Sailors, farmers-young men mostly, only a few older.”

Uncle’s expression turned contemptuous. “Lower orders.” He waved dismissively. “They are no threat to us. It is not in the nature of peasants to rise up against their betters.”

“But-”

“Doubtless the major thinks to distract us-to pretend he has large numbers of fighters. He does not.” Uncle met Akbar’s gaze, quietly stated, “He will not succeed in distracting us from the path we are destined to follow. That the Black Cobra has ordered us to follow.”

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

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.

As the skies had cleared, Bister and Mooktu took most of the group-ten youthful lads plus Jimmy-into the large yard at the side of the inn, and tested their defenses when attacked with long knives. Each lad had a pitchfork, shovel, or staff. Gareth meanwhile trained the two who had some skill with their swords.

After setting them sparring, he stood and watched, calling out comments and corrections, stepping in every now and then to demonstrate a thrust or parry.

He was watching critically when Emily appeared by his side.

She glanced over the yard. “Not many today.” She met his eyes as he briefly glanced her way. “Perhaps nothing will happen. They might have decided to make a stand in Dover.”

“It’s possible.” He grimaced. “But unlikely. Have Dorcas and Arnia returned?”

“Yes. They said the priest would be happy to ring the bell should there be any need. Apparently, that’s the recognized signal if there’s any emergency in this part of town.”

Gareth nodded vaguely, then stepped forward to correct a wobbly thrust.

When he stepped back, Emily murmured, “I’ll leave you to your training.”

Eyes locked on the would-be swordsmen, Gareth nodded.

Smiling, Emily stepped back. She stood for a moment observing the group Mooktu and Bister were working with, then spent another moment studying the onlookers-mostly old men and young girls-lining the pavement along the street side of the yard. There were far fewer than the first day, but clearly, people knew their party was still at the auberge.

Rather than push through the line of old men to reach the front door, she turned and headed down the side of the auberge for the back door to the common room. Located just around the corner, it gave onto the rear stable yard.

The cobblestones were old; she had to watch her feet. She picked her way around the corner, idly wondering what the weather in England would be like-and almost walked into a man.

With an “Oh!” she looked up.

Caught her breath on a gasp as not one but two men gripped her arms hard, one on either side.

The man on her left-black-haired, dark-eyed, nut-brown skin-leered as he pressed close-and pressed the tip of a knife into her side. “No sound.”

She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. She could feel the cold bite of the knife-with just a touch it had sliced through her gown. The slightest push and it would cut into her.

Apparently satisfied she comprehended her danger, the man-unquestionably a cultist even though he wasn’t wearing a turban or black silk scarf but instead was enveloped in a hooded cloak indistinguishable from countless others-glanced across the stable yard to where a third cultist, similarly disguised, waited.

The third man nodded. The man on her left urged her forward. “Walk quietly. Make no sound and we will let you live. Pray none of your friends notice-if they do, we will have to kill them.”

She had no choice. Even if she swooned they would simply drag her along. But once they reached the street, someone would see, would notice…

Her hopes died as they rounded the far corner of the auberge and she saw a dogcart waiting. They half lifted, half pushed her onto the front bench. The man with the knife followed and sat beside her. The third man took the reins and climbed up to sit on her other side, while the other man climbed on behind.

Wedged between the cultists, the horrendously sharp knife still pressed threateningly to her side, she had to sit silently and be driven out of the lane, into the square, and away.

Gareth was thinking of calling a halt for luncheon when Dorcas came into the side yard. She looked around. A frown formed on her face.

When her gaze returned to him, he raised his brows.

She walked across to him. “Have you seen Miss Emily?”

“Not recently. She was out here about an hour ago, but went inside again.”

Dorcas shook her head, looking toward the street. “We can’t find her. No one’s seen her, not since…well, it must be since she spoke with you.”

A chill coursed through his veins, but Gareth told himself not to leap to conclusions. “If she’s not in her room…is there anywhere else she might go to fill in time?”

“Not that I can think of. And…well, I don’t want to cause a fuss that might be unnecessary.” Dorcas met his eyes. “There haven’t been any sightings of cultists for days-no one’s come into the common room to say otherwise.”

“We haven’t seen or heard of anyone lurking around, either.”

“So there’s no reason to suppose anything dreadful has occurred.” Dorcas looked across the yard, then drew in a breath and rushed on, “But to go off somewhere without telling you, or me, especially now, when we’re all so on edge…that’s very unlike Miss Emily. Still, perhaps-”

“No.” Grim, Gareth caught her eyes as she looked at him. “You’re right. She wouldn’t vanish of her own accord. Which means-” He cut off the thought, instead said, “We search. Find whoever you can, and search thoroughly upstairs. I’ll get Bister and our recruits to check outside, while Mooktu and I will talk to the Perrots and search the ground floor. We’ll meet in the common room as soon as we’re done.”

Eyes wide, Dorcas nodded and hurried back to the auberge.

Grim-faced, Gareth turned to the men in the yard.

The search didn’t take long. Ten minutes later, Gareth strode into the common room to find Dorcas already there, the normally stoic maid wringing her hands, a worried Arnia standing beside her.

“She is not upstairs,” Arnia said.

Gareth turned as Perrot, who had gone himself to check his basement while his sons checked the stables and outbuildings, joined them.

The auberge keeper spread his hands. “There is no sign.”

“All our carriages and horses are still here,” one of the sons added.

Mooktu arrived from the kitchens and storerooms. Grimly, he shook his head.

Watson and Mullins rose from the table where they’d been waiting.

The front door crashed open and Bister barreled in, Jimmy on his heels. “She’s been taken by three men in a cart. They headed south.”

Gareth strode toward them. “Who saw them-and when?”

Bister was nearly out of breath. “Two old geezers outside. About an hour ago. And yes, they’re sure-they noticed because they thought it odd that in this weather she had just a shawl on over her gown-no cloak-while the three men in the cart were well wrapped up. Hoods drawn an’ all, so no one saw their faces.” Bister looked at Dorcas. “They said she was wearing a pink gown and had a purple shawl. Brown hair up.”

Dorcas paled. “It was a lavender gown.”

Bister nodded. “Like they said-pink.” He looked at Gareth. “It was her.”

Tight lipped, Gareth nodded. “Any advance on ‘south’?”

“Bister and I ran to the end of the street,” Jimmy put in. “There were lads at the corner, lounging about-they remembered and showed us the road the cart took. It’s not a main road-seems it goes south along the coast a ways.”

An angry rumble had been growing from the locals. Shock was quickly giving way to outrage. Now someone called out, “That’s the Virgejoie road.”

Gareth glanced at Perrot.

The auberge owner clarified, “It is the road that leads to one of the old aristo-family homes-a chateau.”

“Who lives there now?”

Perrot spread his hands. “No one. It has been deserted since the family fled during the Terror.”

“What condition is the chateau in-is it liveable?”

Numerous local men pulled faces, tilted their heads, then one vouchsafed, “The outbuildings and barn are derelict, but the main house still has walls, shutters and doors, and most of its roof.”

“Fireplaces, too,” another put in. “One could shelter there even in this weather. Gypsies sometimes do.”

Gareth exchanged a glance with Mooktu as the exclamations and rumblings rose anew. “That’s where they’ll be.”

Mooktu nodded. “They’ve taken her so you will come for her-they will wait until you do.”

He meant “wait before they do anything drastic” the cult was well known for forcing men to watch as they tortured their loved ones. His heart like lead, Gareth nodded-tried to push his reactions, his emotions down enough to think.

He had to think or he’d lose her.

He wasn’t going to lose her.

Perrot tugged his sleeve. “You have to let us help.” The auberge owner gestured to the crowd thronging the common room as the locals who’d come in for lunch were joined by a steady stream of others, alerted by yet others who’d gone out to spread the news. “This cult-they have played us for fools. They have attacked and carried off the lady while she was here, under my roof, and we scoffed and thought you were safe.” Like an aging bantam, Perrot stuck out his chest. “You must let us expunge this stain on our honor by letting us help you get her back.”

Many locals, young and old, cheered and clamored in Perrot’s support.

Gareth glanced at Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins, waiting, ready for action, to one side, then he raised his hands and waved to quiet the crowd. Into the ensuing silence he said, “Everyone who wishes to assist-we’ll gladly accept your help. But”-he spoke strongly over the swelling cheers, silencing them once more-“we must do nothing that puts Miss Ensworth’s life at risk. So.” He paused, felt the familiar yoke of command settle on his shoulders, combined with a sharply threatening imperative. His mind raced. After a moment, he knew. “Here’s what we have to do.”

He sent Bister, Mooktu, and Mullins to circle past the cult’s pickets. “They’ll have more than one or two along the road into the estate, close enough to town to have time to race back and warn those at the chateau of our approach. Take positions between them and the chateau, as close to the chateau as possible without being seen from the building, and stop any messenger, any warning, getting through. We’ll meet you there once we’ve gathered our forces.”

The three nodded and went.

Dorcas and Arnia followed, dispatched to find the priest and get his church bell tolling.

Gareth looked at Watson, met the older man’s eye. “You need to stay here-you know what to do.”

Watson nodded. “I do. I will.”

Turning back to the gathering rabble-older locals as well as an increasing number of sailors and others who had days before formed part of their impromptu militia-Gareth waved at the door. “Let’s take this outside. Form up, and I’ll tell you exactly what we must do.”

Must do. Exactly. He needed these men, but if he didn’t control them, neither Emily nor he would see England again.