Vixen

He stood back and watched as the young man remounted, his face red and mottled, one hand unconsciously stroking his throat where the finger bruises purpled on the delicate skin.

Crispin's throat was too sore for a reply even if he'd been able to think of one. For one terrifying moment he

had faced his own death by strangulation. He had never imagined such power in a man's fingers. He rode off, bending low over his horse.

Hugo thoughtfully flexed his fingers. A musician's fingers. Delicate and sensitive. A smile of satisfaction touched his lips, then he remounted and turned his horse toward Manchester, where presumably Chloe was to be found, caught up in the crowd. But what the hell were they all up to?

And then he remembered. It was Monday, August sixteen. The day Orator Hunt was to address the Reform Meeting at St. Peter's Fields. The demand was for manhood suffrage and the magistrates would be prepared for the worst.

He turned his horse off the road and rode across country, skirting the crowds in his haste to reach the city.

Chloe stayed with the crowd as it surged onto St. Peter's Fields. The excitement was infectious, and she pushed speculation about Crispin and the post-chaise to one side for the moment. It was all very interesting, and clearly she'd have to discuss it with Hugo, but there wasn't much to be done about it now.

People continued to pour onto the field, a torrent of humanity waving ba

Chloe sat her horse on the outskirts of the throng. She had a clear view over the crowd to the hustings and

watched as a party of men climbed onto the platform. A great roar of welcome went up from the gathering and the chant of "Votes for workers" swelled on the sultry summer breeze.

A man in an unusual white top hat stepped to the edge of the platform and the crowd roared louder. The man who'd told them about the Reform Meeting that day she and Hugo had come to Manchester had worn a white top hat, Chloe remembered. Presumably it was some kind of membership insignia.

Orator Hunt's voice rose above the crowd, which fell into a murmuring quiet. But whenever the speaker paused for effect, they roared approval and chanted his name.

Chloe's blood stirred as she strained to hear the orator over the crowd, and then she became aware of a different sound, a strange murmuring coming from one section of the meeting. She swiveled in the saddle and looked toward a church at the far side of the field.

"It must be the folks from Blackburn comin'," a burly man in a cobbler's apron declared from the ground beside her. There was a murmur of agreement as people stood on tiptoe to peer over heads to see what was causing the disturbance.

"It's soldiers," Chloe said. A troop of cavalry in blue and white uniforms trotted around the corner of a garden wall. The sun glinted on the unsheathed blades they held. Wheeling in formation, they lined up in front of a row of houses overlooking the field and facing the hustings.

A shout went up from the crowd, but it sounded perfectly good-humored to Chloe, more of a welcome than anything. And then it happened.

The cavalry, rose in their stirrups and waved their sabers over their heads. Someone shouted an order and with a cry the soldiers spurred their horses and charged

the front ranks of the throng, slashing right and left with their swords.

Chloe stared in horrified disbelief as the front ranks swayed before the cavalry charge and the air was rent with screams. Around her people were shouting, "Stand fast… stand fast." The crowd stood its ground and the soldiers fell back for a minute, unable to force their way through the compact press of humanity to reach Orator Hunt. Then they charged again, their swords chopping and hacking at the people blocking them. Chloe could see spurting blood, and the screams grew agonized, interspersed with groans and cries of terror.

"Break!" someone yelled. "They're killing them and they can't get away." And the cry was taken up. "Break… break." The crowd held still, as if drawing breath, and then with a rumbling roar surged and broke apart. It was like a tidal wave, immense and unstoppable. Maid Marion whi

A child fell to the ground and screamed in terror as feet pounded around him. Chloe flung herself from Maid Marion, sweeping the child up. Leading the horse, she clutched the boy against her, stumbling as the mob propelled her forward.

She reached the relative safety of a garden on the outskirts of the field. Maid Marion was sweating and trembling, her eyes rolling, the whites glaring. Chloe set

the child on his feet. He stared at her for a moment in shock and then picked up his heels and ran.

Presumably he knew his way home. Chloe felt sick with a rage greater than any she had known. The mob teemed past the garden and suddenly it was quiet. The field, which ten minutes ago had been a maelstrom of humanity, was almost deserted. The hustings were a wrecked heap of broken spars, the remnants of flags fluttering on the flagstaffs, torn ba

Chloe tied the mare to the garden gate and moved out onto the field. The yeomanry had dismounted and stood around, wiping their sabers, loosening the girths of their horses. The humid air was alive with groans emerging from the mounded bodies and the whi

Other people now appeared on the field, bending over bodies. Chloe knelt beside a young woman, bleeding from a sword cut to her breast. She was alive, though, and her eyelids fluttered. Chloe lifted the skirt of her habit and tore a strip from her petticoat, using it to staunch the blood. Two men passed by, carrying a dead man. An elderly man staggered along, leaning on the arm of a young lad. His lips were blue in his waxen face and he was wheezing painfully.

"I'll take 'er now, miss," a voice said softly. A man bent and picked up the young woman. "Thankee kindly." His eyes were blank, his voice flat.

Chloe wandered over the battlefield, helping where she could as people lifted bodies off bodies, releasing

the survivors and the wounded from the suffocating press of flesh.

They were all stu