Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  “All this being so, what end could you serve by truth?” she countered.

  “To make you realize to the full the injustice that you did. To make you understand the wrongs for which you are called to pay. To prevent you from conceiving yourself a martyr; to make you perceive in all its deadly bitterness that what now comes to you is the inevitable fruit of your own faithlessness.”

  “Sir Oliver, do you think me a fool?” she asked him.

  “Madam, I do — and worse,” he answered.

  “Ay, that is clear,” she agreed scornfully, “since even now you waste breath in attempting to persuade me against my reason. But words will not blot out facts. And though you talk from now till the day of judgment no word of yours can efface those bloodstains in the snow that formed a trail from that poor murdered body to your own door; no word of yours can extinguish the memory of the hatred between him and you, and of your own threat to kill him; nor can it stifle the recollection of the public voice demanding your punishment. You dare to take such a tone as you are taking with me? You dare here under Heaven to stand and lie to me that you may give false gloze to the villainy of your present deed — for that is the purpose of your falsehood, since you asked me what purpose there could be for it. What had you to set against all that, to convince me that your hands were clean, to induce me to keep the troth which — God forgive me! — I had plighted to you?”

  “My word,” he answered her in a ringing voice.

  “Your lie,” she amended.

  “Do not suppose,” said he, “that I could not support my word by proofs if called upon to do so.”

  “Proofs?” She stared at him, wide-eyed a moment. Then her lip curled. “And that no doubt was the reason of your flight when you heard that the Queen’s pursuivants were coming in response to the public voice to call you to account.”

  He stood at gaze a moment, utterly dumbfounded. “My flight?” he said. “What fable’s that?”

  “You will tell me next that you did not flee. That that is another false charge against you?”

  “So,” he said slowly, “it was believed I fled!”

  And then light burst upon him, to dazzle and stun him. It was so inevitably what must have been believed, and yet it had never crossed his mind. O the damnable simplicity of it! At another time his disappearance must have provoked comment and investigation, perhaps. But, happening when it did, the answer to it came promptly and convincingly and no man troubled to question further. Thus was Lionel’s task made doubly easy, thus was his own guilt made doubly sure in the eyes of all. His head sank upon his breast. What had he done? Could he still blame Rosamund for having been convinced by so overwhelming a piece of evidence? Could he still blame her if she had burnt unopened the letter which he had sent her by the hand of Pitt? What else indeed could any suppose, but that he had fled? And that being so, clearly such a flight must brand him irrefutably for the murderer he was alleged to be. How could he blame her if she had ultimately been convinced by the only reasonable assumption possible?

  A sudden sense of the wrong he had done rose now like a tide about him.

  “My God!” he groaned, like a man in pain. “My God!”

  He looked at her, and then averted his glance again, unable now to endure the haggard, strained yet fearless gaze of those brave eyes of hers.

  “What else, indeed, could you believe?” he muttered brokenly, thus giving some utterance to what was passing through his mind.

  “Naught else but the whole vile truth,” she answered fiercely, and thereby stung him anew, whipped him out of his sudden weakening back to his mood of resentment and vindictiveness.

  She had shown herself, he thought in that moment of reviving anger, too ready to believe what told against him.

  “The truth?” he echoed, and eyed her boldly now. “Do you know the truth when you see it? We shall discover. For by God’s light you shall have the truth laid stark before you now, and you shall find it hideous beyond all your hideous imaginings.”

  There was something so compelling now in his tone and manner that it drove her to realize that some revelation was impending. She was conscious of a faint excitement, a reflection perhaps of the wild excitement that was astir in him.

  “Your brother,” he began, “met his death at the hands of a false weakling whom I loved, towards whom I had a sacred duty. Straight from the deed he fled to me for shelter. A wound he had taken in the struggle left that trail of blood to mark the way he had come.” He paused, and his tone became gentler, it assumed the level note of one who reasons impassively. “Was it not an odd thing, now, that none should ever have paused to seek with certainty whence that blood proceeded, and to consider that I bore no wound in those days? Master Baine knew it, for I submitted my body to his examination, and a document was drawn up and duly attested which should have sent the Queen’s pursuivants back to London with drooping tails had I been at Penarrow to receive them.”

  Faintly through her mind stirred the memory that Master Baine had urged the existence of some such document, that in fact he had gone so far as to have made oath of this very circumstance now urged by Sir Oliver; and she remembered that the matter had been brushed aside as an invention of the justice’s to answer the charge of laxity in the performance of his duty, particularly as the only co-witness he could cite was Sir Andrew Flack, the parson, since deceased. Sir Oliver’s voice drew her attention from that memory.

  “But let that be,” he was saying. “Let us come back to the story itself. I gave the craven weakling shelter. Thereby I drew down suspicion upon myself, and since I could not clear myself save by denouncing him, I kept silent. That suspicion drew to certainty when the woman to whom I was betrothed, recking nothing of my oaths, freely believing the very worst of me, made an end of our betrothal and thereby branded me a murderer and a liar in the eyes of all. Indignation swelled against me. The Queen’s pursuivants were on their way to do what the justices of Truro refused to do.

  “So far I have given you facts. Now I give you surmise — my own conclusions — but surmise that strikes, as you shall judge, the very bull’s-eye of truth. That dastard to whom I had given sanctuary, to whom I had served as a cloak, measured my nature by his own and feared that I must prove unequal to the fresh burden to be cast upon me. He feared lest under the strain of it I should speak out, advance my proofs, and so destroy him. There was the matter of that wound, and there was something still more unanswerable he feared I might have urged. There was a certain woman — a wanton up at Malpas — who could have been made to speak, who could have revealed a rivalry concerning her betwixt the slayer and your brother. For the affair in which Peter Godolphin met his death was a pitifully, shamefully sordid one at bottom.”

  For the first time she interrupted him, fiercely. “Do you malign the dead?”

  “Patience, mistress,” he commanded. “I malign none. I speak the truth of a dead man that the truth may be known of two living ones. Hear me out, then! I have waited long and survived a deal that I might tell you this

  “That craven, then, conceived that I might become a danger to him; so he decided to remove me. He contrived to have me kidnapped one night and put aboard a vessel to be carried to Barbary and sold there as a slave. That is the truth of my disappearance. And the slayer, whom I had befriended and sheltered at my own bitter cost, profited yet further by my removal. God knows whether the prospect of such profit was a further temptation to him. In time he came to succeed me in my possessions, and at last to succeed me even in the affections of the faithless woman who once had been my affianced wife.”

  At last she started from the frozen patience in which she had listened hitherto. “Do you say that... that Lionel...?” she was beginning in a voice choked by indignation.

  And then Lionel spoke at last, straightening himself into a stiffly upright attitude.

  “He lies!” he cried. “He lies, Rosamund! Do not heed him.”

  “I do not,” she answered, turning away.

&nbs
p; A wave of colour suffused the swarthy face of Sakr-el-Bahr. A moment his eyes followed her as she moved away a step or two, then they turned their blazing light of anger upon Lionel. He strode silently across to him, his mien so menacing that Lionel shrank back in fresh terror.

  Sakr-el-Bahr caught his brother’s wrist in a grip that was as that of a steel manacle. “We’ll have the truth this night if we have to tear it from you with red-hot pincers,” he said between his teeth.

  He dragged him forward to the middle of the terrace and held him there before Rosamund, forcing him down upon his knees into a cowering attitude by the violence of that grip upon his wrist.

  “Do you know aught of the ingenuity of Moorish torture?” he asked him. “You may have heard of the rack and the wheel and the thumbscrew at home. They are instruments of voluptuous delight compared with the contrivances of Barbary to loosen stubborn tongues.”

  White and tense, her hands clenched, Rosamund seemed to stiffen before him.

  “You coward! You cur! You craven renegade dog!” she branded him.

  Oliver released his brother’s wrist and beat his hands together. Without heeding Rosamund he looked down upon Lionel, who cowered shuddering at his feet.

  “What do you say to a match between your fingers? Or do you think a pair of bracelets of living fire would answer better, to begin with?”

  A squat, sandy-bearded, turbaned fellow, rolling slightly in his gait, came — as had been prearranged — to answer the corsair’s summons.

  With the toe of his slipper Sakr-el-Bahr stirred his brother.

  “Look up, dog,” he bade him. “Consider me that man, and see if you know him again. Look at him, I say!” And Lionel looked, yet since clearly he did so without recognition his brother explained: “His name among Christians was Jasper Leigh. He was the skipper you bribed to carry me into Barbary. He was taken in his own toils when his ship was sunk by Spaniards. Later he fell into my power, and because I forebore from hanging him he is to-day my faithful follower. I should bid him tell you what he knows,” he continued, turning to Rosamund, “if I thought you would believe his tale. But since I am assured you would not, I will take other means.” He swung round to Jasper again. “Bid Ali heat me a pair of steel manacles in a brazier and hold them in readiness against my need of them.” And he waved his hand.

  Jasper bowed and vanished.

  “The bracelets shall coax confession from your own lips, my brother.”

  “I have naught to confess,” protested Lionel. “You may force lies from me with your ruffianly tortures.”

  Oliver smiled. “Not a doubt but that lies will flow from you more readily than truth. But we shall have truth, too, in the end, never doubt it.” He was mocking, and there was a subtle purpose underlying his mockery. “And you shall tell a full story,” he continued, “in all its details, so that Mistress Rosamund’s last doubt shall vanish. You shall tell her how you lay in wait for him that evening in Godolphin Park; how you took him unawares, and....”

  “That is false!” cried Lionel in a passion of sincerity that brought him to his feet.

  It was false, indeed, and Oliver knew it, and deliberately had recourse to falsehood, using it as a fulcrum upon which to lever out the truth. He was cunning as all the fiends, and never perhaps did he better manifest his cunning.

  “False?” he cried with scorn. “Come, now, be reasonable. The truth, ere torture sucks it out of you. Reflect that I know all — exactly as you told it me. How was it, now? Lurking behind a bush you sprang upon him unawares and ran him through before he could so much as lay a hand to his sword, and so....”

  “The lie of that is proven by the very facts themselves,” was the furious interruption. A subtle judge of tones might have realized that here was truth indeed, angry indignant truth that compelled conviction. “His sword lay beside him when they found him.”

  But Oliver was loftily disdainful. “Do I not know? Yourself you drew it after you had slain him.”

  The taunt performed its deadly work. For just one instant Lionel was carried off his feet by the luxury of his genuine indignation, and in that one instant he was lost.

  “As God’s my witness, that is false!” he cried wildly. “And you know it. I fought him fair....”

  He checked on a long, shuddering, indrawn breath that was horrible to hear.

  Then silence followed, all three remaining motionless as statues: Rosamund white and tense, Oliver grim and sardonic, Lionel limp, and overwhelmed by the consciousness of how he had been lured into self-betrayal.

  At last it was Rosamund who spoke, and her voice shook and shifted from key to key despite her strained attempt to keep it level.

  “What... what did you say, Lionel?” she asked. Oliver laughed softly. “He was about to add proof of his statement, I think,” he jeered. “He was about to mention the wound he took in that fight, which left those tracks in the snow, thus to prove that I lied — as indeed I did — when I said that he took Peter unawares.

  “Lionel!” she cried. She advanced a step and made as if to hold out her arms to him, then let them fall again beside her. He stood stricken, answering nothing. “Lionel!” she cried again, her voice growing suddenly shrill. “Is this true?”

  “Did you not hear him say it?” quoth Oliver.

  She stood swaying a moment, looking at Lionel, her white face distorted into a mask of unutterable pain. Oliver stepped towards her, ready to support her, fearing that she was about to fall. But with an imperious hand she checked his advance, and by a supreme effort controlled her weakness. Yet her knees shook under her, refusing their office. She sank down upon the divan and covered her face with her hands.

  “God pity me!” she moaned, and sat huddled there, shaken with sobs.

  Lionel started at that heart-broken cry. Cowering, he approached her, and Oliver, grim and sardonic, stood back, a spectator of the scene he had precipitated. He knew that given rope Lionel would enmesh himself still further. There must be explanations that would damn him utterly. Oliver was well content to look on.

  “Rosamund!” came Lionel’s piteous cry. “Rose! Have mercy! Listen ere you judge me. Listen lest you misjudge me!”

  “Ay, listen to him,” Oliver flung in, with his soft hateful laugh. “Listen to him. I doubt he’ll be vastly entertaining.”

  That sneer was a spur to the wretched Lionel. “Rosamund, all that he has told you of it is false. I...I...It was done in self-defence. It is a lie that I took him unawares.” His words came wildly now. “We had quarrelled about... about... a certain matter, and as the devil would have it we met that evening in Godolphin Park, he and I. He taunted me; he struck me, and finally he drew upon me and forced me to draw that I might defend my life. That is the truth. I swear to you here on my knees in the sight of Heaven! And....”

  “Enough, sir! Enough!” she broke in, controlling herself to check these protests that but heightened her disgust.

  “Nay, hear me yet, I implore you; that knowing all you may be merciful in your judgment.”

  “Merciful?” she cried, and almost seemed to laugh

  “It was an accident that I slew him,” Lionel raved on. “I never meant it. I never meant to do more than ward and preserve my life. But when swords are crossed more may happen than a man intends. I take God to witness that his death was an accident resulting from his own fury.”

  She had checked her sobs, and she considered him now with eyes that were hard and terrible.

  “Was it also an accident that you left me and all the world in the belief that the deed was your brother’s?” she asked him.

  He covered his face, as if unable to endure her glance. “Did you but know how I loved you — even in those days, in secret — you would perhaps pity me a little,” he whimpered.

  “Pity?” She leaned forward and seemed to spit the word at him. “‘Sdeath, man! Do you sue for pity — you?”

  “Yet you must pity me did you know the greatness of the temptation to which I succumbed.”r />
  “I know the greatness of your infamy, of your falseness, of your cowardice, of your baseness. Oh!”

  He stretched out suppliant hands to her; there were tears now in his eyes. “Of your charity, Rosamund....” he was beginning, when at last Oliver intervened:

  “I think you are wearying the lady,” he said, and stirred him with his foot. “Relate to us instead some more of your astounding accidents. They are more diverting. Elucidate the accident, by which you had me kidnapped to be sold into slavery. Tell us of the accident by which you succeeded to my property. Expound to the full the accidental circumstances of which throughout you have been the unfortunate victim. Come, man, ply your wits. ‘Twill make a pretty tale.”

  And then came Jasper to announce that Ali waited with the brazier and the heated manacles.

  “They are no longer needed,” said Oliver. “Take this slave hence with you. Bid Ali to take charge of him, and at dawn to see him chained to one of the oars of my galeasse. Away with him.”

  Lionel rose to his feet, his face ashen. “Wait! Ah, wait! Rosamund!” he cried.

  Oliver caught him by the nape of his neck, spun him round, and flung him into the arms of Jasper. “Take him away!” he growled, and Jasper took the wretch by the shoulders and urged him out, leaving Rosamund and Oliver alone with the truth under the stars of Barbary.

  CHAPTER XII. THE SUBTLETY OF FENZILEH

  Oliver considered the woman for a long moment as she sat half-crouching on the divan, her hands locked, her face set and stony, her eyes lowered. He sighed gently and turned away. He paced to the parapet and looked out upon the city bathed in the white glare of the full risen moon. There arose thence a hum of sound, dominated, however, by the throbbing song of a nightingale somewhere in his garden and the croaking of the frogs by the pool in the valley.

  Now that truth had been dragged from its well, and tossed, as it were, into Rosamund’s lap, he felt none of the fierce exultation which he had conceived that such an hour as this must bring him. Rather, indeed, was he saddened and oppressed. To poison the unholy cup of joy which he had imagined himself draining with such thirsty zest there was that discovery of a measure of justification for her attitude towards him in her conviction that his disappearance was explained by flight.