from the heat of a leaping, log-devouring inferno in a shoulder-high stone fireplace and from charcoal braziers dotted about the chamber.
As the solicitors approached the bed, it became immediately apparent that His Grace, the Thirteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire was on the point of kicking the bucket. His bristling white hair was now limp, his long slender patrician nose was pinched, his face waxen and drawn, his thin lips slack and parted, exposing his toothless gums as he gasped for the last few breaths remaining to him.
“Your Grace,” shouted the butler an inch from his ear, since it was common knowledge that the Duke was almost stone deaf, “your solicitors are here.”
The old man’s eyes flickered open, a wicked little tongue popped out to moisten the dry lips, color came to his cheeks, and his hair grew stiff like the hackles of an angry dog.
“Is that you, you blundering beggars?” he gasped.
“Yes, Your Grace,” shouted the three solicitors in unison.
“Lower your faces, you blithering idiots,” panted the Duke. Instantly, the three men leaned forward until they were nose to nose with the dying man. “Where is my will?” he growled.
“Right here, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell smoothly. “We have a copy in my case, another copy at our office, a copy is with the Lord Chamberlain, and you have three copies hidden about the castle.”
“Tell me what they say,” ordered the old man.
“They say that every bit of your estate goes to your nephew, Lord Percival, and not one farthing to your nephew, Paul.”
“Say it again,” gasped the Duke.
“Every bit of your estate…”
“Not that,” interrupted the Duke. “Tell me again about the part concerning that worthless, shiftless, hell-damned wastrel nephew, Paul.”
“Not a worn farthing, a withered blade of grass, nor a stale turd from the stables. That is how it is phrased.”
A sweet, contented smile crossed the dying man’s lips. “Say it again,” he ordered.
“Not a worn farthing, a withered blade of grass, nor a stale turd from the stables.”
“Show it to me in the will again,” said the Duke.
Mr. Blatherbell opened his case, drew out the will, turned it to the proper page and held it close to the Duke’s eyes. The Duke read it carefully, his smile becoming broader and broader. “The happiest day of my life,” he sighed. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “Where is Percival?” he asked.
The butler bent down to his ear. “He is on his way, Your Grace,” he roared. “He should be here at any moment.”
“Send someone for him,” said the Duke. “Tell him to hurry. I cannot die until I look into his dear, sweet face again.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The butler straightened up, went to the door, called a servant inside and gave quiet instructions.
“Ah, yes,” smiled the dying man. The happiest day of my life.”
“But My Lord,” said the coachman through the roof flap to Lord Percival Sanderson. “It’s too dangerous to cross here. The upper bridge would be safer.”
Percival heaved his fat, silk-clad body off the seat and leaned out of the window, his bulging, pale-blue eyes staring out into the dark, his full, petulant lower lip caressed gently by a podgy hand, its fingers liberally adorned with large-stoned rings.
“I see absolutely nothing,” he snapped peevishly at the coachman. “You must have a selfish motive to insist on taking the longer route.”
“No, My Lord,” said the coachman tightly. “My only motive is to protect your noble self.”
“Nonsense,” said Percival. “I know all about you knavish, pious-sounding cut-throats, that’s what you are, always scheming to steal the pennies from a dead man’s eyes.” His bulging eyes swelled outward even further as a thought struck. “Dead man!” he screeched. “Hurry, you worthless churl, I must get to Uncle’s before it is too late. Drive on!”
“Yes, My Lord,” sighed the coachman helplessly. Turning away, he leaned down from his perch to speak with the postilion, who had just returned from a reconnaissance of the bridge, a lantern hanging from his hand, a wide felt hat protecting his face and neck from the torrent. “What’s it be, Jamie boy?” asked the coachman.
“’Tis a mean one, that it is,” said the postilion, shaking his head. “The water’s racin’ down like it’s fleein’ from the devil hisself, and it’s already a good two ‘ands over the bridge.”
“’Is Lordship said to go over it. ‘E ain’t got the time to go by the upper bridge.”
“Well,” said Jamie, pulling his baggy hat further down over his face, “it’ll be God’s own luck if we don’t all end up swimmin’ tonight, so let’s be at it.” He handed up the lantern to the coachman, who hung it back on its hook beside his seat. “Ow do yer want to take it across? Easy as she goes or flat out?”
The coachman pursed his lips, thinking. “Ow do you see it, Jamie boy?” he asked finally.
“I don’t think she’ll ‘old no matter what we do, but goin' flat out will get us further across afore she drops.”
“All right, Jamie boy. We’ll take 'er fiat out.”
While the postilion walked to the near-side lead horse and mounted it, the coachman flexed his fingers, gripped the whip and set, himself more securely on his seat, bracing his feet tightly against the floor. When he saw Jamie dig his heels into the sides of his mount and slap the rump of the off-horse with his crop, he shouted, “Let ‘er go, Jamie boy!” and they both loosened the reins. The horses sprang forward pulling the heavy carriage down the sloping road leading to the bridge as if it were an empty cart, their hooves flinging up mud and water, the vehicle rocking as it dropped in and out of ruts, the postilion and coachman shouting at the top of their lungs, plying the whip and crop furiously, trying desperately to build up all possible speed.
The plopping noises of the horses’ hooves became sharp thuds as they reached the wood planking of the bridge and sped onto it. In moments the thuds were drowned by splashes as they entered water rising to their knees. Seconds later, they slowed almost to a walk as the river rose to their bellies.
Now the coachman could see the peril, a rushing torrent of muddied water sweeping over the middle of the bridge, sending branches, small trees and carcasses of dead sheep smashing against the thin wooden balustrades, the planking under the wheels vibrating and swaying as it shuddered from the battering it was taking from the debris and raging current.
Furiously the two men struck at the horses, urging them on, fighting not only the dangers of the flood and the weakened bridge but also the terror reflected in the animals’ eyes and their snorts of alarm.
Foot by foot they waded through the rampaging waters, now rising to their chests, then barely a hand below their withers, the postilion kicking his feet free of the stirrups to thump his heels high on his mount’s flanks.
They
