Chapter Four

The toppled coach dragged along for a few terrifying seconds that felt like forever. They'd gone down on the left side, so Daizell thumped on top of the buxom woman, and Cassian landed on top of them both, with extra feet and legs flailing from the other passengers. It was a maelstrom, a dizzying chaos of movement and bodies and pain and screaming.

They rocked to a stop, in what might have been a deathly silence except for a loud, enraged noise close to his ear.

The baby. He'd still got the baby, and it was howling with infant fury. He felt a moment of bone-melting relief that it wasn't forever silent, and then started wishing it would stop.

He was squashed in a heap of bodies with bones, heels, and elbows sticking into everything of him that was soft and vulnerable. ‘Cassian?' he managed, shouting over the squalling. ‘Cassian!'

‘Urgh.'

He wasn't the only one groaning. There was a low sobbing, and a male voice cursing in a low tone. ‘Is everyone all right? Cassian, are you hurt?'

‘No. Or – no, I don't think anything's broken—'

‘Then get the devil off me. Come on, move. Get out!'

‘Where?' Cassian demanded with a note of panic. ‘How?'

‘Out the window, you fool, above you. Move your arse, I've got a baby down here.'

‘My baby,' wailed the woman from under Daizell. ‘Connie. Oh God, God help us!'

‘She's all right!' Daizell said as if the baby's outraged shrieks didn't tell their own story. ‘Cassian, shift yourself before this deafens me.'

He shoved to make the point. Cassian pulled himself together and clambered awkwardly out of the coach window. This involved him treading fairly heavily on Daizell, who expressed his feelings with as much moderation as he could. ‘Take the blasted baby!' he shouted once the man was out. ‘Come on, get her!'

Cassian reached reluctantly down. Daizell jammed the struggling, crying, distressingly damp bundle into his hands, and then hoisted himself out of the window, attempting to use the coach itself rather than his fellow passengers for leverage.

He found his feet despite shaky legs, and stood on the top, or side, of the coach to survey the scene for a moment. Cassian was kneeling awkwardly by him, holding the baby with dismay. His nose was bleeding. On the road, people were scattered around in little weeping knots, or sprawled and unmoving. At least one had blood spreading around his head in a puddle. Daizell looked away, down at the horses, and swore like a trooper.

‘What is it?' Cassian demanded.

‘Nobody's cut the traces!'

Daizell clapped his hand to his pocket, and was relieved to find his clasp-knife. He skidded down the sidewise roof of the coach with reckless speed and ran to the horses' heads. Two had already struggled to their feet and if the panicked creatures started to run again, dragging the overturned coach behind them, Christ knew what would happen to the four people still in there. ‘Someone help me!' he called to the world in general, and ran to start sawing at the leather straps.

A third horse rose as he started cutting. The fourth was still down but kicking. He couldn't see the driver; the young sprig in the caped coat was watching with a fatuous grin. ‘Help me!' Daizell said again, to nobody.

There was a thump and a scrabble behind him, and Cassian was there, babyless. ‘Cut the traces!' Daizell shouted. ‘Quick!'

‘No knife,' Cassian said, with a calm serenity that begged for punching, and moved to the lead horse's head. He was dishevelled and his face was bloodstained, but his stance radiated peace. ‘There, boy. There.'

‘Get away before it kicks you!' Daizell snarled.

‘He won't. Here, now.' He had an uncommonly sweet tone to his voice as he soothed the frantic horse. ‘Come, beauty, be a good boy for me. Such a good boy, aren't you? Such a lovely, willing, very good boy . . .'

His tone was honey and velvet, and somehow Daizell's knife had slowed in its work at the murmured endearments. He gave himself a mental kick, and severed another trace, but he could see and feel the horses calming under Cassian's influence. He cut the remaining traces anyway, in case, and clambered out of the way.

Cassian gave the horse a final pat and stepped back. They looked at one another, and Cassian said, ‘What now?' for all the world as if Daizell was the expert on disasters.

‘Where's the baby?'

‘Oh!' Cassian looked round and hurried to the grass verge, where he picked up the howling infant, keeping it at arm's length. ‘Oh. Ugh. It smells really very bad now. And it's . . . squashy.'

‘I doubt she's the only one to have soiled herself,' Daizell remarked. ‘Where's the mother? Has anyone got the rest of them out?'

Cassian looked blank. Daizell cursed internally, and clambered up onto the coach again.

The next little while was an aching, relentless slog. Two of the male inside passengers had made it out on their own. One was nursing a broken nose; the other was unharmed, and much bigger than Cassian, so he and Daizell set to getting the last two free. The woman was battered and looked sick as a dog, but she thanked Daizell vocally and went to reclaim her child from Cassian with tears.

The final man was curled in the bottom of the coach, sobbing with pain.

‘We need to get you out,' Daizell said. ‘They won't be able to get the coach upright with you in. Where does it hurt? Can you sit up?'

‘My arm. My arm!'

Daizell offered a cautious, supportive hand. He only wanted to take the fellow's weight, but as the man shifted, his arm moved in a terrible way and he screamed. ‘Jesus! Don't touch me!'

‘Christ,' Daizell muttered. ‘Hey, someone up there! Help us!'

He and the other man managed the job eventually. It took heaving, and shoving, and the victim screamed a lot and then passed out, which was a mercy all round. His arm was bent in bad ways. The other man cut off his coat sleeve, muttering about swelling, and they all saw the bloody, jagged bone sticking out of the skin.

That was it. Daizell sprinted for the ditch and cast up his accounts, on his hands and knees on the dusty verge, puking with tears in his eyes.

‘Charnage!' It was Cassian, crouching beside him. ‘Are you all right?'

‘No,' Daizell said comprehensively. ‘Christ. Did you see—'

‘I didn't look.'

‘He'll lose the arm if he even lives. He screamed, I hurt him – and the blood . . .' The smell of it, and the look of terror in a man's eyes as he felt his death approach, and his own utter failure to do any good. ‘Christ. Useless. I'm useless!'

‘Shh.' Cassian reached out. Daizell grabbed his hand, all need and instinct, clutching it hard. Dusty, sweaty, warm, alive. Cassian held on tight, giving him a moment of silence he badly needed, then asked again, ‘Are you all right?'

‘No. Yes. Of course I am.'

‘You've done everything you could. More than anyone else did. Come on.' Cassian spoke in the calm voice, the one he'd used on the horse. ‘Come on now, Charnage, I've got you. Good man. Up you get, now.'

Daizell held on to his hand for a second longer, for both the physical comfort and that soothing voice, then let go and hauled himself to his feet. Cassian put a hand on his arm. He didn't say anything stupid about it being all right, or a nasty shock. He just stood by Daizell, and touched him so he wasn't alone.

He got about a minute of that peace, and then people started shouting.

The outside passengers who'd been thrown off had now gathered themselves, those capable of it. Several were demanding what was to be done. It seemed the driver was unconscious; the man on the ground in a pool of blood wouldn't be getting up soon either, they were all stranded on a coach-road to Stratford, and the woman with the baby had assured them all that the very kind, capable gentleman – bafflingly, she meant Daizell – would know what to do.

‘I want to know how we get to Stratford!' a thin man said. ‘I have urgent business!'

‘I want compensation,' someone else added. ‘That driver handing over the reins like that—'

‘Do I look like the coach company?' Daizell retorted. ‘I've no idea what we do except wait for another stage and get help. Or walk to find a house where they can send a cart, I suppose.'

‘We need a doctor,' someone said. ‘There's three men in a bad way.'

‘Someone has already gone back to the last house for help,' said the thin man angrily. ‘We could have driven on if you hadn't cut the traces!'

Daizell stared at him. Cassian stepped in, quite literally, moving in front of him. ‘You must not realise, sir, the horses were like to bolt with people still inside the coach – one with a dreadfully broken arm, and one a lady. It was a necessary action in a difficult situation. I'm sure you understand.'

He sounded like someone who spent a lot of time pouring oil on troubled waters. The thin man didn't appear mollified. ‘So you say, but the urgency of my business—'

‘ I was in that coach,' the mother announced, looking daggers at him. ‘I would have been dragged along and killed if it wasn't for this gentleman who saved my baby, and if you think your nasty business should come before my little girl's very life, you miserable old stockfish—'

Cassian and Daizell eased back out of the way in silent synchrony to let her pulverise the fellow unimpeded, and everything might have simmered down if the fashionable young man hadn't spoken up, in a voice that sounded decidedly slurred. ‘'F we're in a hurry, let's get the tits back on the road, what? Coach back on its wheels, it'll take two minutes, and off we go!'

‘The traces have been cut, the axle broke, and we lost a wheel,' Cassian said. ‘It will not be a swift repair.'

‘Oh, hush, Mother Shipton,' the young man said with a dismissive flap of the hand. ‘We've strong fellows enough. We'll be back on our way in no time. Yoicks!'

Cassian stiffened. ‘There are three seriously injured men here. What do you propose to do, leave them on the side of the road?'

The young man shrugged. Daizell held up a finger. ‘Sir, you were on the box when we set off. Am I correct in thinking you took the reins?'

‘That's right!' The young man beamed. ‘What a ride, eh?'

‘And you didn't feel the axle go? Or think of slowing down?'

‘You do realise you overturned us, and people are seriously hurt?' Cassian did not sound soothing any more. His voice rose. ‘People might die because you crashed us!'

‘Oh, rubbish. Everyone spills now and again, what? Accidents happen. Part of the fun! Lot of fuss.'

Daizell considered that. He nodded slowly. Then he punched the young man with everything he had, and was delighted to feel his nose break.

The youth staggered back, clutching his face. He seemed more shocked than hurt, which Daizell regretted. ‘You – what – how dare you?' he said thickly. ‘Do you know who I am? I'm Tom Acaster! My father is Sir Benjamin Acaster!'

‘You're a slobbering ape, and your father is an imbecile for not drowning you at birth,' Daizell snarled. His throat still stung with the taste of vomit. ‘You stupid little turd, you've probably killed that man!'

‘You wait till my father finds you! I'll have your name and direction, sir!' The youth's voice was nasal, choked with blood.

‘My name is Daizell Charnage. Charnage , like carnage with an H, got that? And as for your father—' He grabbed the youth's shoulder, threw him down to the ground with the aid of a foot between his ankles, and assisted him into the ditch by means of a few forceful kicks to the posterior. The howls and the muddy splash relieved his feelings a little.

He turned away, brushing his hands, and realised everyone was staring at him.

‘I'm not saying you were wrong to do it,' the baby's mother remarked thoughtfully. ‘Not wrong . But Sir Benjamin lives just at Upton Snodsbury, not half a mile up the road, and he's powerful careful of his lad. And he's the magistrate hereabouts.'

‘That young fool overturned us!' Cassian said. ‘Surely nobody will defend that!'

Everyone turned to look at him. Daizell contemplated the fact that they were an indeterminate way into the countryside, with a rich man's wrath a short distance off, and any replacement coach some hours away. ‘Cassian? I think we'll walk.'

At least Cassian didn't have a trunk. They trudged along the road together, each with his travelling bag, under the April sun. Cassian had wiped most of the blood off his face, and seemed to be breathing without issue.

‘Your nose isn't broken?' Daizell asked.

‘No. I'm prone to nosebleeds.'

‘Good. Not the nosebleeds. That it's not broken.'

They crunched along some more. Daizell had led them off the main road at the first fork, and sincerely hoped they were going somewhere useful: he'd mostly been propelled by the urge not to have an outraged magistrate catch up with him. Cassian was wearing Wellington boots, which seemed not to be uncomfortable, but he looked much as a man might after being overturned in a chaise and forced to walk along a warm road without a drink because his idiot companion had punched a powerful man's heir in the face.

‘Sorry,' Daizell said abruptly.

‘For what?'

‘Hitting that fool.'

‘Why?'

‘Because now we're probably in a deal of trouble.'

‘Nonsense,' Cassian said. ‘I'm sure he'll be taken up by the authorities and held to account.'

‘Weren't you listening? His father is the authorities!'

‘There's plenty of magistrates. I don't see anything to worry about. And in any case, you did quite right, since he didn't seem to feel the slightest remorse. Accidents happen , indeed. Outrageous. I'm not at all surprised you lost your temper.'

‘It was a stupid thing to do. If we get in trouble—'

‘I'm not worried about that,' Cassian said, with the serenity of the extremely naive. He would change his tune fast enough when he was faced with a rampaging baronet throwing around his wealth and authority. ‘And I had meant to say, too, thank you for what you did back there.'

‘I did nothing.'

‘You did everything. You saved that child.'

Daizell felt himself flush, as if his face wasn't warm enough. ‘I dare say the mother could have held her if need be.'

‘At the bottom of that heap? No. It was a good thing to do, and a kind one,' Cassian said. ‘But really, I meant thank you for instructing me. I realise I was no great help to you, and I'm sorry for it.'

‘You were astonishing with those horses.'

‘When I realised I needed to be, which is to say, when you pointed out the problem. I couldn't seem to think.' He sounded as though it was eating at him. ‘I simply panicked, which is contemptible. I don't know why; I've had spills before.'

‘Being a passenger in a stage is quite different from driving your own team. You can't see what's going to happen, you aren't in charge.' Cassian nodded, confirming that indeed he did drive his own horses. Why wasn't he now? ‘Whereas that was my third tumble in a stagecoach, so I'm used to it. Not that sort of tumble,' he added as Cassian choked.

‘I should hope not. There would hardly be space.'

‘And all the passengers looking on. Puts a man off his stroke.'

Cassian snorted. ‘Someone would tell you they'd been on a stage where four passengers—'

Daizell's bruised shoulders hurt with the shaking as he laughed. It felt good, though, lifting the cloud. ‘What I was trying to say was, I've had that unlovely experience twice before. The first time, I was no use to man or beast: I sat there stunned, and I wasn't even injured. I couldn't seem to take in what had happened. Just useless.'

‘Yes,' Cassian said in a low voice. ‘That's how I felt.'

‘But you weren't. You did what you were told,' Daizell said. ‘That's better than the people who stand around and cry, and even they're better than the ones who get in the way. You did as well as anyone could expect, and next time you can deal with the horses and the swine who thinks he's a whip, and the one who wants to drive the coach over the bodies to get to his important engagement.'

‘I'll look forward to it,' Cassian said. ‘You – uh, you think people do get used to these things? To dealing with emergencies?'

‘If you have enough of them.'

‘Yes, but what if you don't? Or haven't? I mean, if one is used to being held up by a – a scaffolding of other people, and has never encountered emergencies, might one not discover one is helpless without that support?'

Daizell wasn't entirely sure what he was actually being asked, but it sounded painful. ‘Everyone relies on other people. And eventually most people let you down, one way or another, so I dare say it's a good thing to practise dealing with difficulties on your own. But I don't see there's any great moral virtue in it.'

‘Do you not think independence is a virtue?'

‘Overrated,' Daizell said. ‘One should be able to do things for oneself, but the world would surely be a better place if we did more for one another.'

‘Yes,' Cassian said. ‘Yes, that is true. And we can't all expect to do everything.'

‘Certainly not right, and definitely not the first time we try.'

‘No. Although, even so, nobody wants to be helpless.'

‘No.' Daizell knew exactly how it felt to be helpless. ‘No, that is an unpleasant sensation.'

‘One feels so pointless,' Cassian said. ‘Filling a place, rather than being useful.'

That was not how Daizell would have described the sensation of having his entire life torn from his control, ripped up, and thrown away, but doubtless they had different experiences of helplessness. ‘Well, you weren't that. You did perfectly well, and better than many would have, and if those horses had bolted, things would have been a deal worse. You've nothing to rebuke yourself for.'

‘Then we can both flatter ourselves we made the best of a bad situation.'

‘If we weren't trudging along on an apparently endless road with no place of refreshment in sight and an enraged magistrate likely on our tail, I might agree with you.'

Cassian gave his startled laugh. ‘Well, there is that, but I'm sure we'll find somewhere. I suppose everyone from the coach is all right?'

‘No idea,' Daizell said. ‘I imagine someone will have come along by now and we'd reached the limits of what I was able to offer in the way of help.' That met with a silence. He glanced over and saw Cassian looking rather struck. ‘No?'

‘I was just thinking that I could have done more. Oh, curse it, I know I should.'

‘I don't see how, unless you're a bonesetter.' He remembered again the splintered end of bone, the torn skin and obscenely bared flesh, and shuddered the memory off.

Cassian glanced over. ‘Are you all right?'

Daizell didn't want to talk about it. ‘Is that a farmhouse there?'

It was a farmhouse, and a friendly one. The mistress of the house tutted and sympathised at their shocking escape from danger, as narrated by Daizell with a bit of flair, agreed that coaches were nasty rattling things that went too fast, brought them tankards of excellent home-brewed, and let them sluice off the blood and dirt and dust in the yard with a bucket, while she went to consult someone called Jed Browning as to how they could best carry on their journey.

Daizell thought of nothing but being briefly cool and clean as he stripped to the waist and dumped water over his head. He scrubbed his face, dunked his head in the bucket, and shook it like a dog to get the contamination of the day out of his curls, poured handfuls of water over his torso, and opened his eyes to see Cassian watching. His mouth was slightly slack, his sun-and-rain eyes fascinated, and they weren't locked on Daizell's face, either.

Well.

Daizell had no objection to being looked at, especially not in the hungry way Cassian was looking. He did have a strong objection born of experience to people looking and being caught looking and regretting it, and it somehow becoming his fault that they'd given themselves away. So he shut his eyes again before Cassian could realise they were open, made perhaps a slightly excessive performance of rubbing and stretching, and scrubbed at his face before saying, ‘Do you want the bucket?'

‘Please.' Cassian sounded a little stifled, but he took it and sluiced himself down in turn, and Daizell took the chance to watch while he could. Turnabout was fair play.

Cassian definitely stripped to advantage: the candlelight hadn't lied. Slim, but not willowy; not tall, not too much sinew and muscle. He was an elegant package, Daizell thought, a picture that repaid attention, with the water running rivulets down his skin in droplets that begged to be caught with a finger. A finger that Daizell might pop into his mouth, or even between Cassian's parted, expressive lips . . .

Bad Daizell. Bad. Fifty pounds , he reminded himself, and reached for the rough cloth to dry off.

Jed Browning, it transpired, had a cart, and was going past a hamlet whose name Daizell instantly forgot, where there was an inn that would give them a meal and a bed. It was now close on five o'clock, still warm and light, but night had a way of springing itself on you when you were on foot in the countryside. They thanked their benefactress, Cassian rewarded her for her kindness – lavishly, Daizell guessed by her expression – and they climbed into the back of Jed Browning's cart, resting on hay-bales.

That was the sort of thing that looked charmingly pastoral in paintings, but was surprisingly prickly in practice. It also tended to insects. But Cassian didn't object, lying back to look at the sky, and if he was happy, Daizell wouldn't be complaining. The hay cushioned the jolting as the cart rumbled over the rough stony path, and it was a while since Daizell had lain back companionably with someone he liked and enjoyed the moment.

‘You were dashed good with the horses,' he remarked. ‘Do you have your own?'

‘A pair I trained myself, of whom I'm very proud. Horses are wonderful creatures. So much life, and feeling, and they hardly ever judge one.'

‘Hardly ever?'

‘Oh, I've been judged by horses,' Cassian said with a laugh. ‘When I've been egregiously foolish or careless. But mostly they're very accepting.'

‘But you're not driving yourself now?'

‘No.' It sounded a little awkward. ‘I had reasons to go by the public coach.'

‘I'm sure,' Daizell said. ‘Well, it's such a safe and comfortable way to travel.'

‘Highly convenient, too, never taking one out of one's way—'

‘And so reasonably priced,' Daizell finished. He could see Cassian's grin, and his own lips were curving. ‘I expect you'll sell your own pair and become an aficionado.'

‘I won't do that,' Cassian said, and though he was smiling still, Daizell felt he meant it.

They were peacefully silent a little longer, then Cassian said, ‘Charnage?'

‘Daizell.'

‘Sorry?'

‘If you don't object. Most people call me by my first name, that's all. Daizell, or Daize for short. Unless you'd rather not, of course.' He cringed internally as he spoke, kicking himself for the unguarded offer. Of course Cassian wouldn't want to be on first-name terms with him: this was a temporary association, not a friendship, and Daizell would do well to remember that. ‘It doesn't matter. Charnage does very well.'

‘No,' Cassian said. ‘No, I would like to. Thank you. Daizell.' The name sounded magical in his soft voice. ‘That's an awfully unusual name.'

‘I should think it's unique.'

‘Where is it from?'

Daizell had of necessity told this story a great deal. The familiarity helped him recover himself from the surge of embarrassment and then of pleasure, and the sound of his name in Cassian's voice. ‘Are you familiar with the name Dalziel?' He pronounced it in the Scots way and saw Cassian frown.

‘Dee Ell? You mean, the letters DL?'

‘Pronounced Dee Ell, spelled D-a-l-z-i-e-l. It's a Scottish surname. My mother's uncle Ralph Dalziel took great pride in his roots, and when I was born my parents hoped to curry favour. He was rich. I was to be Dalziel Charnage in his honour, and he was to hand over the readies in his will, you see. Except my father's ability to spell was commensurate with his other talents, so he had me christened Daizell, with the I and L in the wrong places, and wrote as much to Uncle Ralph, who pointed out the mistake. Some people would have corrected themselves and smoothed matters over, but my father did not like to have his mistakes pointed out. He insisted my name was indeed Daizell, pronounced as spelled. Uncle Ralph took the hump, and there went my chance at a rich godfather and an inheritance. But at least I have an interesting name out of it.'

‘Good heavens,' Cassian said. ‘That's uh, remarkable.'

‘Very typical of my father. And myself, I suppose.'

Cassian twisted round to look at him with a little frown. ‘Well, it suits you, I think. Daizell, then. Oh. Er. I would return the compliment, but—'

He didn't want Daizell Charnage to call him by his first name. Naturally not. Daizell kept his features pleasant despite the familiar, hateful way his stomach clenched at the rejection, and waved an airy hand. ‘As you prefer.'

‘I didn't mean I wouldn't want – Um. The thing is, I loathe my name.'

Daizell blinked. ‘You—?'

‘My name, my first name. I hate it. It doesn't suit me at all, and I think it's hideous, actually.'

‘Ah. Right.' He controlled himself for about three seconds, then gave up. ‘No, sorry, I have to ask.'

‘Vernon.'

Daizell sat up a little, the better to contemplate him. ‘Vernon. Ver-non. Vernon? Good God, no. What were your parents thinking?'

‘It's as though they barely knew me at the time,' Cassian agreed with a lurking grin. ‘I suppose it wouldn't be so bad if I were a six-foot Corinthian with huge shoulders.'

‘It sounds more to me like a dastard who attempts to seduce the heroine, but is undone by seducing the housemaid.'

‘Not me, either way. Whereas Cassian is—'

‘Oh, delightful. It has a certain, what shall I say. A fairytale quality.'

‘You're thinking of Ossian. The Scottish bard.'

‘I probably am, but it still suits you. Charming the birds out of the trees, or rather the horses out of their panic, by the sound of your voice. Of course you're a bard.'

Cassian actually blushed at that, a delightful dusky pink, accompanied by a smile of startled pleasure. ‘I can't play the harp,' he protested. ‘Or the bagpipes.'

‘Thank God for small mercies.' Daizell would have liked to expound more on Cassian's voice, see how much darker he might blush. He restrained himself. ‘So your friends call you Cassian?'

‘It – uh, it's what I'd prefer to be called. I'd be very glad if you would.'

‘Then that's what I'll call you. Is it ever abbreviated, or always used in full?'

‘Well, um, I'd be happy with Cass.' He sounded quite shy. It was absurdly endearing.

‘Cass. Very well. And at least your name didn't open you up to the wrath of uncles, unless of course you have a rampaging Uncle Vernon who's offended you don't use it.'

‘Oh, it is an uncle name, isn't it? A terribly strict one who has control of the heroine's money and intends to marry her to his wayward son.'

‘I see you are a connoisseur of elevating literature,' Daizell said. ‘Have you read the latest Mrs Swann?'

Cassian had not, but he had a deal to say about the Waverley author, whose work Daizell also enjoyed, and they talked and argued and laughed as the cart jogged along in the evening sunshine.