The Reavers. George Fraser MacDonald
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Название: The Reavers
Автор: George Fraser MacDonald
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007325740
isbn:
“La Eenfamosa deezguised as a streeper?” gloated Don Collapso. “Fabuloose casting, Weezard! I can’t wait, hubba-hubba!”
“She will impersonate the accountant,” said the Wizard coldly, leaving the obese Iberian bewildered. “They will travel by smugglers’ sloop to the Cumbrian coast, journey overland by express hay-wain to Carlisle, and there lie secure in a safe house, a bordello-cum-library known as the Thynkynge Man’s Strumpet –”
“Eet sounds kind-a public,” Don Collapso was beginning.
“Prithee, peace, Excellency! ’Tis an ill-frequented ken, since lusty gallants care little for books, while serious readers take no joy in slap and tickle. There, I say, they will lie safe, in the Priest’s Hole Suite, ’twixt the sauna and the reference section – and there Frey Bentos will rendezvous with them tomorrow night, convey them hither, and thereafter to a secret spot marked X – see map reference in dossier – which lieth i’ the forest nigh Peebles Hydro, where King James lodges with his hunting party. Ye will all three keep your heads down i’ the forest until –” the Wizard’s voice sank to a sinister hiss “– King James’s hunt shall happen by. You, Don Collapso, will be with the royal party on a Distinguished Foreign Visitors’ ticket, and on some pretext of bird-watching or bug-hunting or being taken short or whatever, will lure away His unsuspecting Majesty from his attendants –”
“To thee seeclooded spot marked X!” yipped Don Collapso excitedly.
“– where he will be bushwhacked by seasoned local talent, a highly regarded Scottish combo known as Bangtail’s Boys* whose services have already been booked by this drunken sot on the floor.” The Wizard’s lips writhed in a bloodless sneer. “Poor peasants, they know nought of our dark design, but think ’tis straight kidnap, and will turn his maj. over to us for a cut of the ransom and ten per cent of the residuals on the memoirs they fondly suppose he is going to flog to the tabloids when we release him – which, of course, we won’t! Nay, senors, ’twill be the Big Sleep for Jacobus Rex! Our impostor, already on the spot, having changed into His Majesty’s garments, will presently return to the hunt, accompanied by Don Collapso, the royal attendants will suspect nothing – and that, fellow-conspirators, will be Stage One (Jimsnatch) happily concluded! Thereafter, Operation Heretic’s final consummation, the Enterprise of England, Mark II!”
Demonstrations of delight and congratulation broke out among the assembled baddies at the conclusion of the Wizard’s diabolic briefing. Don Collapso hurled his plumed bonnet on the floor and went into the Mexican Hat Dance, Clnzh dived into the cauldron and splashed with abandon, Frey Bentos resumed his imperturbable mask, and Lord Anguish rolled over croaking: “Hey, barman, whaur’s ma bluidy pint?” But we will not linger on this scene of Villainy Exultant; shuddering wi’ dismay, we pull back and up to a long downward shot of the cavern, atmospherically bathed in eerie violet and crimson lighting, with green steam rising from the cauldron to envelop the conspirators in ghastly fog. With Don Collapso’s triumphant “Olé’s!”, Clnzh’s animal barks, and Lord Anguish’s rendering of “I Belong tae Glasgow’ sounding in our ears, we flee appalled from this nest of evil and zoom dramatically o’er the border wasteland, cleaving the thinning mist until we close on that lighted window in Thrashbatter Tower behind which, with any luck, Archie Noble must at last be stoking the inner man to some purpose …
Considering that the light in the Thrashbatter kitchen was supplied by one guttering rushlight, far too dim to make out sell-by dates, let alone lists of ingredients, our stalwart reiver hadn’t done too badly. After pondering the great hams which hung in rows from the smoke-blackened rafters, the chines of beef, game pies, cold roasted fowls, and assorted joints littering the massive tables, and stroked his chin thoughtfully over the oven-ready trenchers of made dishes in the adjoining ice-house, he had chosen a carefully balanced snack consisting of a mortress of brawn for starters, pickled herrings for the fish course, a couple of sirloins removed with a brace of ducks, and a morsel of Stilton to clear the palate. A bowl of custard he had rejected as holding too much cholesterol, and now stood sipping a flagon of Diet Sack and nibbling a sugar-free comfit as he reflected that a kitchen so amply stocked with goodies argued an establishment doubtless furnished with other necessaries – like clean rags to replace those dropping in mouldering lumps from his athletic frame, and, if fortune smiled on him, washing facilities, bath gel, talc, and a hair-brush.
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