Saved by love

by Barbara Cartland

  He wondered what else he could do to make sure that they remained in hiding and did not persuade any other foolish young women into joining them.

  He rode on knowing that he was ashamed of his own lack of intelligence by being ensnared by Zelée and understanding what Yursa felt about him.

  ‘Of course she would shun a man who had been connected with evil,’ his common sense told him. ‘And with her decency and purity she would believe that anyone who touched pitch would be defiled by it.’

  But that did not answer his problem.

  ‘What can I do?’ he asked.

  He rode down to his vineyards and felt that they were of little importance beside the love he could feel growing almost every passing moment for Yursa.

  He could hardly believe that what he felt was not a figment of his imagination.

  And yet he was honest enough to admit that it was love and very different from what he had thought was love in the past.

  His desire for women had been a flame that ignited between them, had made every glance of their eyes and every movement of their bodies an enticement.

  With Yursa it was different.

  He knew now that she was a part of the beauty he could see all around him, the rich crops in the valley, the wood-covered hills and the sunshine overhead.

  Because he loved her, she was also to him part of his faith.

  It was so ingrained in his soul that even the wiles of Zelée had not prevented it from being there like a light in front of the altar.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord,’ the Duc prayed in his heart.

  He knew that he must make reparation for the sins he had committed, even if some of them were unknowingly.

  Equally he was aware that, in failing himself and his own ideals, he had failed his family and the ancient blood that pulsated through his veins.

  He had also failed Montvéal, which stood for everything he believed in and which he owed his allegiance to.

  He was a long way from home when finally he turned round, knowing that he must go back.

  He wondered as he did so if he could approach Yursa again and tell her of his love for her.

  He had done everything where she was concerned in entirely the wrong way.

  He had believed that she would have fallen in love with him, as every other woman had done in the past, only to find that he was totally mistaken.

  Now he had to make reparation for his own stupidity.

  If he was to win Yursa, he had to persuade her that, as he now believed with his whole heart, they were made for each other.

  He could see all too clearly, as he had not seen before, that she with her intrinsic purity and perception was the complement of himself.

  He was completely convinced that if they were married, he would be able to dedicate his whole life to making her happy.

  He saw The Château in a different light from the way he had seen it in the past, not just a museum of treasures, not just a place where he reigned supreme as the Duc de Montvéal, but home.

  That was what he had really always wanted a place where he could be content not as a Duc but as a man.

  He wanted to bring up his children in an atmosphere of happiness and contentment which would enable them, when they were old enough, to face the world with confidence and faith in their own ability to succeed.

  ‘How can I explain to Yursa that that is what I want?’ he asked himself.

  He knew that was what she wanted too, but for the moment not with him.

  He had ridden so far and covered so much of his own land that by the time The Château came in sight the sun had lost much of its warmth.

  The shadows were growing longer and soon the day would be over.

  The Duc wondered what Yursa had done during the afternoon and if she had thought of him as he had been thinking of her.

  Because of the way he had left, he approached Montvéal through the wood, climbing up a twisting path that led to the plateau where it stood.

  To reach the front of The Château he had to pass the Chapel.

  Just as he neared it a child, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven years of age, came running towards him from the door surmounted by a cross.

  The Duc wondered who she was and realised as she came nearer that she was pretty with dark curly hair hanging on each side of her face.

  She was wearing a clean but worn dress that was patched in several places.

  “Monsieur. Monsieur!” she called.

  He drew his horse to a standstill as she reached him.

  She curtseyed as she did so crying out urgently,

  “Monsieur. Help! My little brother has fallen into a deep hole in the Chapel. He’s crying, but I cannot reach him.”

  “A hole in the Chapel?” the Duc repeated.

  Then he understood and said,

  “I think you mean the Crypt.”

  “Quickly, monsieur – help him! Please – help him! He is crying and I’m frightened for him.”

  The Duc dismounted, leaving his horse who he knew would come when he whistled, free to crop the sparse grass outside the low wall of the courtyard.

  Walking across the paving he hurried into the Chapel.

  There was light from in front of the altar and from the candles flickering in the Lady Chapel and in front of the statue of Joan of Arc.

  The Duc went quickly to the opening of the Crypt, which was not far from the West door.

  As he expected, the iron door that covered it so that it was level with the stone floor of the Chapel was lying open.

  He peered down into the darkness, the child beside him saying,

  “He was crying, monsieur, and now he’s quiet. Perhaps he’s dead!”

  “No, of course not,” the Duc said reassuringly. “But he may have hurt himself.”

  As he spoke, he started to climb down the wooden ladder attached to the wall that led into the depths of the Crypt.

  He had descended for about eight feet and walked a short distance before the Crypt narrowed and the ceiling became lower.

  There was no sign of the little boy.

  Then, as he moved slowly looking closely into the darkness, he heard a sharp bang above him.

  He realised with surprise that the door of the Crypt had been closed.

  “Leave that open,” he shouted, “otherwise I cannot see!”

  There was no reply, but he heard to his astonishment the sound of the bolt being shot into place.

  For a moment he thought that he must be mistaken, then in the darkness he heard the sound of water and, although it seemed incredible, he realised that he had been trapped.

  The Crypt had been used during the Revolution to hide many of the treasures from The Château.

  They had been placed in strong-boxes and the Crypt flooded so that enemies or thieves had not thought it worthwhile to search through the deep water.

  Now the Duc was aware that if somebody, and it was not hard to guess who was behind all this, flooded the Crypt while he was locked inside, he would be drowned.

  He stood still, considering his position and wondering how he could save himself.

  There was, he knew, an outlet for the water at the far end of the Crypt.

  But he could remember that it was not large enough for him to manipulate himself through it.

  In fact he could recall when he was a small boy trying to climb out of the Crypt that way when one of his friends had locked him in as a joke and finding it impossible.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked.

  In order to make sure that he was not mistaken in what had happened, he climbed back up the wooden ladder.

  When he could reach the iron door, he put up his arm to press against it.

  He had been right in thinking that it had been bolted and he knew that it would be impossible however hard he tried to force it open.

  It was then he shouted out,

  “Help! Help me! Help!”

  There was no response.

  At this time of the evening his Private
Chaplain would have finished his Evening Prayers and retired to his apartments, which were some distance away inside The Château.

  Often there were villagers and nuns who came to pray, but not this late because of the steep climb to the Chapel through the woods.

  It was an even longer distance up the drive on the other side of The Château which was used by carriages.

  The Duc stood on the ladder, pushing at the door again and again only to know that it would be easier to push down a stone wall than to open the bolted door.

  He was aware that beneath him the Crypt was flooding quicker than he had ever known.

  He had the idea that whoever had planned his death in this way had tampered with the age-old apparatus.

  The water was pouring in and he reckoned that by now it would be a foot or so deep.

  This meant that in a very short while the water would be up to his shoulders and then over his head.

  Desperately, to test if he was right, he climbed down and found that the water nearly reached the top of his riding boots.

  He pulled off his coat, flung it down and climbing up the ladder once again started to push even harder than he had before at the bolted door.

  Once again he cried out for help and as he did so he thought of Yursa.

  He remembered how she had read his thoughts.

  Now he told himself that his only chance of salvation was if she could hear him calling to her and realise that he was in danger.

  “Help me! Save me!” he shouted aloud and felt as if his whole mind and soul was winging towards her.

  ‘Help me, Yursa! Save me! I don’t want to die!’

  The words came involuntarily to his lips and he added a prayer,

  ‘God, make her hear me!’

  *

  Yursa had spent the afternoon when she had left her grandmother in the boudoir that adjoined her bedroom.

  She sat there quietly, hardly noticing the fragrance of the flowers or the beauty of the small room.

  Instead she was longing for the safety and security of England, the house where she had been born and where she had been so happy with her father and mother.

  There everything was peaceful and quiet and she thought that once she returned home she would feel safe.

  She would be able to forget the horror of last night, the screams of the witches and the evil in Zelée de Salône’s eyes.

  She prayed that the evil she had felt emanating from them when they invoked Satan would be erased from her mind.

  Yet she knew that never again would she read about or hear of witches without feeling the fear of them striking through her like forked lightning.

  ‘I will be safe, Mama, when I am home with Papa,’ she whispered.

  She felt that she could see her mother smile at her and she closed her eyes and thought that she was a child again, saying her prayers at her mother’s knee.

  *

  A long time later she realised that the afternoon was drawing to a close and soon it would be time for her to change for dinner.

  She realised that she must go down to the dining room and behave as if nothing had happened.

  At the same time she shrank from seeing the Duc.

  He had asked her to marry him, but how could she marry a man who had loved a witch?

  She remembered how Zelée de Salône had said that he belonged to her and she would never let him go.

  Yursa was sure that was true.

  Somehow the witch would gain ascendancy over him, even though for the moment he repudiated her.

  ‘I want to go home!’ Yursa repeated to herself.

  She knew she was running away, but there was nothing else she could do.

  Then suddenly she heard the Duc calling her.

  Because it seemed so real she stopped thinking and listened.

  There was only silence and she thought that she must have dreamt it.

  Then she heard him again and was aware that she heard his voice in her mind and not in reality.

  And yet, it was so clear, so strong that it was as if it was speaking in the very depths of her heart.

  ‘I am imagining things,’ she told herself.

  Yet she knew that it was his thoughts reaching out to her, just as she had been able to hear them when they were together.

  ‘If he wants me, I will not go to him,’ she told herself defiantly.

  Suddenly she heard him quite clearly saying,

  “Yursa, save me! For God’s sake save me!”

  He was in danger, but why? And how could she be sure of it?

  Inevitably she thought of Zelée de Salône.

  Could she now be harming the Duc as she had tried to harm her?

  She was evil and Yursa could feel the vibrations of evil emanating once again from her.

  It was so strong that she knew she must go to the Chapel for only in the Chapel was she near to God.

  The living Sacrament that was enshrined there would combat the evil of a witch.

  She opened the door of her boudoir and, as she did so, she could hear the Duc calling her even more urgently than he had before.

  “Save me – Oh – Yursa – save me!”

  It was then, without really considering it, she began to run.

  He needed her and, because it seemed to be somehow concerned with Madame de Salône, she must reach the Sanctuary of the Chapel.

  She sped along the corridor and down the stairs, reaching the door that opened into the courtyard.

  There she hesitated for a moment and then seeing that the Chapel door was open, she ran to it.

  It was then, as she did so, her eyes on the flickering light in front of the altar, that she heard the Duc’s voice again.

  Now not in her mind, but somewhere beneath her feet.

  “Help me! Help me Yursa! Save – me!”

  She turned bewildered in the direction that the sound had come from and realised that it was underneath the ground.

  “I am here. Where are you?” she called out and thought as she spoke that this must be part of her imagination.

  Then she heard his voice more clearly.

  “The door of the Crypt, it is bolted! Open it quickly!”

  It was difficult to see, but Yursa thought later that it was just instinct that made her find the trap door in the ground and the bolt that lay across it.

  She pulled at it with all her strength and strangely enough, as if it had just been oiled, it slid back.

  As it did so, the door was pushed open and she saw first the Duc’s hand and arm appear.

  Then his head emerged from the darkness of the water that covered him up to his neck.

  She gave a little cry at the sight of him and, as he clambered up, the water swishing onto the floor, she exclaimed,

  “She was – trying to – drown you! But – you are – safe! Safe!”

  The Duc stepped onto the stone floor saying as he did so,

  “I am safe, my darling, thanks to you, although, God knows, if you had come a few minutes later, it would have been too late!”

  “But you are – all right,” Yursa breathed.

  Then she was not certain how it happened, but she stretched out her arms, he pulled her against him and his lips came down on hers.

  For a moment she was too surprised to realise what was happening.

  Then, as he held her closer and his lips took possession of her, she knew that she loved him.

  She knew too that, if he had been drowned, she would have lost everything in life that mattered.

  He kissed her at first violently with the sheer relief that he was alive.

  Then, as he felt the softness and innocence of her lips, his kiss became more gentle and more tender.

  He pulled her closer and closer still and, although, because his shirt was wet the water soaked through her gown, Yursa was not aware of it.

  She only knew that her whole being was surging with an inexpressible rapture because the Duc was alive when he might when he might have died.

&
nbsp; She had saved him from the witch and she loved him.

  He kissed her and went on kissing her and she felt as if she gave him not only her heart but her mind, her soul and her body.

  She was a part of him and there was nothing else in the world but him.

  Then he raised his head and said in a voice that was curiously unsteady,

  “I am making you wet, my precious.”

  “You are – alive – and I – love you!”

  “That is what I want to hear.”

  He was kissing her again, kissing her with long, slow, passionate kisses that made her feel as if he swept her into the sky and her feet were no longer upon earth.

  At last, as if he came back from the Heavens where she had taken him, the Duc said,

  “How could you be so wonderful as to have heard me? I knew that only you would be aware that I was in danger and my life hung by a thread.”

  “I heard you – I heard – you! And I knew – that because you were – menaced by – evil I must – go at once to the – Chapel.”

  “I have never been so near to death before!”

  “But – you are – alive!” she whispered.

  She put her cheek as she spoke against his shoulder and realised just how wet he was.

  “You must take off these wet clothes,” she said, “or you will catch – a chill.”

  The Duc laughed.

  “A chill will not matter as long as I can live, breathe, and tell you I love you.”

  He would have pulled her close to him again, but he said,

  “We will go back to The Château, but first I must turn off the water.”

  As he spoke, he looked down and realised that the water was overflowing and they were standing in a puddle that was spreading over the stone floor.

  Yursa quickly moved her feet away from it and the Duc looked at the side of the wall.

  There was a small wheel which could turn on the water in the Crypt, but when he looked for it, he realised that the wheel had been removed.

  The water would therefore pour through without being able to be checked.

  He knew, although he did not say so to Yursa, that it was on Zelée’s orders that it had been tampered with.

  Now nobody could have saved him by preventing the Crypt from overflowing.

  He thought that he would send somebody from The Château to attend to it and went back to Yursa.