Page 59 of Vying for a Viscount
“My name is Knight, and I serve the Prince Regent. We come in peace. Who leads this march?”
A tall, large, middle-aged man stepped forward. He was dressed as a sheep farmer. “I am.”
“As you can see, we aren’t soldiers. But if you continue to London and Carlton House, you will encounter soldiers, opposition, and possibly bloodshed and arrest. Are you willing to risk this?”
“Yes.”
“If you continue on your path, some of you could hang. Doesn’t that cut at the very reason you are marching today? In hopes of saving three souls from death.”
Several of the men in the front conversed, and then the leader said, “Why should we believe you?”
“Many of the rebellions during the past several years have led to bloodshed, imprisonment, or hanging. The Prince Regent is tired of his good subjects in England being led astray by radicals hiding behind their print. Return to your homes. Marching to the entrance of Carlton House will be seen as a threat to the royal family. Please, I beg of you, don’t continue your quest. You want to save three men from hanging. Doing it this way will only add to that number. It won’t accomplish what you want.”
Again, several of the men talked among themselves. Some seemed agitated, others weary, and some determined to see this through.
“May we speak privately?” the shepherd-farmer said to Knight.
“Yes.” Knight dismounted and handed Greyson his reins. The two stepped to the side of the road and spoke quietly.
It was then that the sound of foot soldiers bearing down on them was heard, led by their leader on horseback. The soldiers arrived, swords drawn. The leader yelled, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Wright. Put down your weapons and go back where you came from, and no one gets hurt or arrested.”
Knight approached the Lieutenant Colonel. Wright leaned down, and they spoke quietly. Greyson noticed that as the conversation unfolded, several young lads in the middle of the protesters were getting antsy. No doubt eager to continue their quest. Young, wet-behind-the-ears lads who wanted to prove themselves, no matter the cost to others.
“Knight!” Greyson bellowed and jerked his head toward the lads.
Knight approached the leader of the protesters, and they exchanged words. Knight had turned to his horse when a lad rushed him with a shovel.
“Knight!” several Black Knights yelled.
Knight turned and ducked out of the way of the shovel, then wrestled it from the boy’s hands. “Do you have a death wish, lad?”
But it was too late. That one lad and his bad choice caused the infantry to rush forward, and weapons clashed. Greyson and the rest of the Black Knights dismounted and ran forward to stop the fighting. Unfortunately, when the confrontation ended, several people on both sides were injured, and the Lieutenant Colonel had the protesters’ leader arrested. Convinced the remaining men would be returning home, the infantry soldiers left, leaving the cleanup to Knight.
During the skirmish, Greyson ran toward one of the protesters to keep him from stabbing a soldier with his pitchfork. It was a much to save the soldier as it was to save the lad from the hangman’s noose. He’d sworn an oath to keep the peace and he would do everything in his power to keep his word. But as he shoved the soldier aside, the pitchfork was already in motion. The lad’s eyes widened in shock as a searing pain pierced Greyson’s thigh, and he collapsed to the ground.The lad, no doubt, fearing for his life, pulled the weapon out and ran, leaving him on the ground, breathing through the agonizing pain radiating down his leg. Blood quickly soaked his tan riding breeches.
Retired Captain Sweeney reached him first. “Christ! What the hell?” he yelled as he removed his cravat and used it as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Greyson gritted his teeth to keep himself from screaming. The pain was so intense that the world swirled around and around, then faded away.
The next thing he remembered was waking up in a strange room, on a strange bed, with a physician working on his thigh, which burned and stung at the same time it was tingly and numb.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he said in a raw voice.
“Easy, Viscount. I’m the duke’s physician, and I’m trying to save your leg. I’ve cleaned your wounds. Had to pick out dirt, grass and rust first. Now I’m packing the puncture wounds. You were lucky the pitchfork didn’t go deep enough to hit bone.
Had he saidtrying to save your leg? He tried to lift his head to see his leg, to no avail.
“Be still.”
“I want to see my leg.”
“You can later. Right now, I need you to stay still and keep off it. You’re under bed rest for the foreseeable future. And let us hope infection doesn’t set in.”
“Where am I?”
“Tremont Manor. I’ve done all I can for now.” He removed a brown bottle from his valise and using a dropper put some into a cup. The doctor helped Greyson raise his head. “Drink this. It will curb the pain and help you sleep. What you need is sleep and rest to heal and fight infection if it happens upon you.”
Greyson drank the entire contents of the cup, knowing the doctor put laudanum in it to help him with his pain.
“Rest. Do not, under any circumstances, get up from this bed.”The physician placed the spoon and laudanum on the bedside table. “I’m sending a nurse to keep watch over you. She will have instructions.”
