The Sins of the Wolf - Anne Perry [190]
“What the hell are you doing, you damned lunatic?” Monk made a lunge to grab at Hector, and missed.
Hector was oblivious of him. The carriage was ahead of them again. They could see Alastair’s fair hair flying and Oonagh close to him, almost as if he were holding her with his other arm.
The street veered again, and they were beside the narrow, deep river leading to the sea. There were barges moored in it, and fishing smacks. A man leaped out of the way, shouting abuse. A child let out a wail and fled.
A fishwife screamed a string of curses and threw her empty basket at the carriage. One horse reared up and overbalanced onto the other, and in almost dreamlike motion they skewed crazily over to the harbor wall and the sheer drop to the water. The carriage swung around and the shafts snapped. The carriage balanced for a split second, then toppled over into the river, taking Oonagh and Alastair with it. The horses were left shivering on the edge, eyes rolling, squealing with terror, held by the chains and harness.
Hector reined in, throwing his considerable weight backwards to check his own horse, and slamming on the brake with his other hand.
Monk leaped onto the ground and ran to the edge.
Hester scrambled behind him, ripping her skirt where it caught, and almost spraining her ankle on the rough cobbles.
The carriage was already sinking, exquisitely slowly, sucked and held fast in centuries-deep mud beneath the surge of incoming tide. Oonagh and Alastair were both in the water, clear of all tackle and harness, struggling to stay afloat.
The next few moments were imprinted on Hester’s heart forever. Alastair gained his breath and swam strongly over to Oonagh, a mere stroke or two away, and for an instant they were face-to-face in filthy water, then slowly and with great care he reached out and grasped her heavy hair and pushed her head under. He held it while she flailed and thrashed. The tide caught him and he ignored it, allowing it to take him rather than let go of his dreadful burden.
Monk looked on in paralyzed horror.
Hester let out a scream. It was the only time she could remember screaming in her life.
“God help you!” Hector said thickly.
There was no more commotion in the water. Oonagh’s hair floated pale on the surface and her skirts billowed around her. She did not move at all.
“Sweet Mary, mother of God!” the fishwife said from behind Monk, crossing herself again and again.
At last Alastair looked up, his face smeared with mud and his own hair. He was exhausted; the tide had him and he knew it.
As if woken from a dream, Monk turned to the fishwife. “Have you got a rope?” he demanded.
“Holy Virgin!” she said in horrified awe. “You’re never going to hang ’im!”
“Of course not, you fool! I’m going to get him out!”
And with that he lashed the rope to the stanchion, the other end around his waist, and leaped into the water and was immediately carried by the current away from the wall and the still-visible floating roof of the carriage.
Others had gathered around. A man in a heavy knitted sweater and sea boots took the weight of the rope, and another went to the edge with a rope ladder.
It was ten minutes before Monk was hauled back and helped in. The fishermen took the bodies from him, and lastly eased him, shivering, streaming water, onto the quayside. He clambered to his feet slowly, his clothes weighing him down.
A little bunch of people stood around, pale-faced, fascinated and flustered as they laid Oonagh on the stones, her skin marble gray, her eyes wide open, and then Alastair beside her, calmer, ice-cold and beyond her reach.
Monk looked down at her, then at Hester, instinctively as he always did, and in that moment he realized the enormity of what lay between them now. He would never seek to put from his mind the night in the secret room, even if he could, nor would he have undone it, but it created new emotions in him he did not want. It opened up