by Deryn Lake
Princess Sobieski groaned quietly.
‘My daughter will nevaire be saved. See, she is shorter than your niece. She will nevaire, nevaire get past zee porter.’
‘Then put high heels on her for the love of God,’ snapped Joseph. He was bundling the weeping nun — clad only in her shift — over his shoulder and had no patience at all even for a Princess. Now I want no sound from any of you while I dispose of this poor creature. Highness, put what you want to take into an apron and hold it under your cloak. When I return I shall walk with you to the porter’s lodge and lift you onto Melior Mary’s horse.’
Clementina’s face fell.
‘Then I shall not need my rope ladder? It was so difficult to get the butcher’s lad to bring me one.’
‘No,’ said Joseph firmly. ‘You will not need your rope ladder.’
‘Perhaps another time?’
‘With God’s good grace there won’t be another time.’
The three women stared at him contritely and did not utter a word, only Melior Mary having the audacity to pull a face at his retreating back.
Wogan thought in after years that the hour he waited alone in the cold — only dismounting once to relieve himself — was the longest of his life. In the convent nothing stirred. He had seen Chateaudeau — the code name of his old friend Joseph Gage — meet Melior Mary and walk safely past the porter. And after that — whether it boded for good or ill — total silence.
But now, at last, his horse was pricking its ears and — by straining his eyes — he could see two figures, arms wound round each other lover-like, ambling past the porter’s lodge. Whether it was Melior Mary with Joseph or whether it was Clementina he had no idea; the fox fur concealed the face completely and he thanked God for the blizzard which the old Princess had said would spoil it all but which he had maintained would be to the advantage of the rescue party.
He watched as Joseph and the girl approached Melior Mary’s tethered horse and then he saw something which set his heart racing. The girl had stumbled, as if she was not used to her shoes, and one of them had fallen off.
Melior Mary had gone in wearing riding boots — this was the Princess trying to make herself look taller.
Without bothering to look for the missing footwear Joseph lifted her onto the sidesaddle and kissed her on the cheek. Wogan saw the Princess throw her arms round the great rake’s neck and kiss him exuberantly. Then in a flurry of flying snow she was off — heading towards the thicket where the Captain still lay hidden.
And then he watched as she turned to wave, saw Gage’s arm raise in response and then saw his friend turn back into the yawning blackness of the sleeping convent. Would he ever see him alive again — or the Beauty who had so deeply stirred his soul? But no time to think of them, the pretty little thing had reined in and was peering anxiously amongst the trees.
‘Is zat you Chevalier Wogan?’ she said as he called her name softly.
He couldn’t help himself.
‘It is, me little darlin’. Glory be to God but you’re free. And isn’t Jamie the Rover just the luckiest man this side of Dublin.’
He let out an involuntary Huzzah for his heart sang. The dynasty was secure — the royal bride had started the journey to her wedding.
12
‘She’s gone,’ said the Mother Superior. ‘She and the Princess’s Gentleman. They were traitors — they rescued prisoners of the Emperor — they got what they deserved.’
Hyacinth went cold.
‘She’s not...?’
The woman of God looked at him as unsmilingly as only a zealous Christian could. She had long ago forgotten what charity meant, knowing His way and His laws and caring nothing who might be crushed while divine rights were executed. She was a merciless machine devoted to dogma and she looked at him narrow-eyed and tight-mouthed as she said, ‘Dead? No. They’re both in prison. But you can pray for their souls in there.’
Hyacinth turned away, his riding boots sounding overloud on the stone floor.
‘Then I shall go to them.’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘As you wish.’ She had already lost what little interest she had in him. ‘Let God’s will be done.’
The walls of the room were formless, the drums of Hyacinth’s ears were at bursting point; again a thousand voices called out for Prionnsa Tearlach; a brave young figure floated free the standard.
‘It has, madam,’ he said, turning in the doorway. ‘Princess Clementina is on her way to Rome and to marriage. And by King James she will bear a son who will come to reclaim his father’s throne. He will be the pride of Scotland — of all of us.’
The nun’s habit was black against the snow-driven window. She had taken hold of the crucifix from round her neck and was bearing it aloft.
‘Begone,’ she said, ‘back to whatever monster of Hell spawned you.’
‘God have mercy on your pitiless soul,’ he said in reply. Then he turned and walked, without once looking back, from the house of the brides of Christ.
*
‘God damn it,’ said the prisoner in a reedy voice, ‘but I do swear that this pox hole is ruining me prinkum-prankum, so it is.’
He stood, for the simple reason that his legs were shackled to the wall, and any other position would have been impossible for him, with his back against the damp-running stones, his arms behind him, his head lolling to give his neck what rest it could. He was in the cage that passed for the communal dungeon lying beneath the fortress of Innsbruck.
‘Shut your woman’s mouth, dandyprat,’ growled a voice from beside him, for though he had spoken in English the meaning of the words was clear enough.
‘Don’t speak your lingo, damme.’
For reply a lump of human dung was flung at him, staining the prisoner’s once exquisite turquoise satin breeches. With an amazing suddeness his arm shot out from behind him and a fist like a flint crunched into his assailant’s guts, causing him to groan and slump, winded, upon the stinking floor. Without seeming to pause for breath the prisoner resumed his original stance.
And that was how Matthew Banister found him, peering in the light of the gaoler’s candle, his handkerchief pressed to his nostrils to stave off the stench of human waste.
‘Chateaudeau,’ he called out in French, ‘I’ve come to see you. My name is O’Toole. I am a friend of Captain Wogan’s.’
At the sound of his voice a curious transformation took place. If the word alert could have been applied to anyone in that dread place, it would have described the prisoner’s attitude. His head pricked like a hound’s, his aching back tensed, his manacled legs straightened.
‘Well, well, Banister,’ he said drawlingly. ‘I’ve been expecting you. How dee do?’
Amazed, Hyacinth screwed up his short-sighted eyes and found himself staring straight into the face of Joseph Gage.
*
It was like March in May, the wind roaring up the Channel and the sea wild with spume. Most of the passengers had gone below, sick to the stomach. But on the deck, standing beneath the sprit, a woman watched the waves with dancing eyes while beside her, standing protectively between her and the spray, a man with a great gashed scar watched every expression on her face. To a casual observer he would have seemed emotionless, in some ways like a hunter watching his prey; quiet and still, betraying by not so much as a flicker his presence. But that would have been a rapid impression. For anyone who cared to study the man more closely would have seen that, rather than being a stalker, he would have killed without compunction or hesitation any living thing — man, woman or child — that approached the girl in anything other than respect. Mitchell of crag and glen, the man of lochs and waterfalls; Mitchell of the hard-heart and sword-edged spirit, loved fiercely. And all the more because the emotion was foreign to his experience; the mother that bore him dead within the hour, the father tough and harsh as leather. No warmth, no tenderness, no human caring ever; and then, like a cloudburst, the meeting with Melior Mary. Mitch
ell was overawed with the immensity of his own feeling.
‘Look out there.’ Her voice interrupted the jealous contemplation of her eyes, her skin, her hair. ‘Do you see? The waves are like white horses. Is that possible; that great white horses could dwell out there and swim in the sea’s race?’
He thought silently for a moment or two and then said, ‘Who knows, Missie. There’s a legend in Scotland of a beast that dwells in a loch. They say the blessed Saint Columba was called in to exorcise it — but even he could not do so. Perhaps horses are out there, dwelling in fathomless caves.’
A lock of silver hair escaped from beneath a burgundy hood as she turned to look at him, the great eyes — the colour of mist in that storm-tossed day — wide and credulous.
‘How wonderful it would be to capture one and return with it to Sutton Place and watch as it went like a thunderbolt through the forest. You will love my mansion house, Mitchell. I hope you will stay long.’
‘A great deal depends on your father, Missie. Who knows what kind of reception he will give you?’
Melior Mary laughed, turning her face into the wind.
‘Oh you will be welcome! You are a servant of the Earl of Nithsdale and a friend of King James. In his eyes you could do no wrong. It is I who will have to look to my hide.’
‘He’ll no touch it.’
The reply was very quiet and Melior Mary stared at him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘For one reason you risked your life for the Princess — and for the other I would kill him first.’
But this last part he murmured so softly that his words were blown on the breeze and were lost to her.
‘You’re such a friend, Mitchell,’ she answered — and she tucked one of her small, strong, hands into the crook of his arm.
*
‘But I promised John Weston that I would not return to Sutton Place.’
‘Damn you, Banister — all I ask is that you see Sibella safely there. She is alone and bewildered, with no word from me since I went to conduct the Princess and her mother to Rome. And if I had guessed then that it would have led me to this hell cave I would never have entertained the idea.’
Joseph sat amongst the filth, his leg irons removed at Hyacinth’s shouted insistence to the gaoler, his beautiful clothes indescribably disgusting, his hair — grown to his shoulders — alive with lice.
‘First taken prisoner in that damned convent — and now this!’ he went on. ‘I doubt that I shall come out of it alive, Banister. You must take her to the only other family she has.’
‘But Melior Mary — she is safe?’
‘Aye — and no thanks to either of us. She would be rotting here beside me if that fellow Mitchell had not cut down six men where they stood and snatched her aloft his horse. No, it is you who must take my wife back to John and Elizabeth. Do I have your word on it?’
Why he hesitated Hyacinth never knew, but hesitate he did. And a second later that familiar feeling of danger, that even the mention of Sibella’s name could rouse, stirred itself within him. Nonetheless he covered the minute pause by coughing into his hand, so that Joseph only heard him say, ‘Of course. I shall go straight to London.’
‘She will be in my Berkeley Square house. Tell John to see that it is closed up and so, too, my places in Bath. Don’t let Sibella worry, Banister.’
With a lurching sense of betrayal that did not sit easily upon him, Hyacinth said, ‘I’ll take care of her.’
And as if sensing the guilty tripping of Matthew’s tongue, Joseph lowered his voice and his last words came out like drops of venom, ‘And if you — or any man — should take advantage of my position and lay so much as a fingernail upon her, you are as good as dead. I will personally string you up and watch you dance. Now begone. If they kill me or let me decay to the end I shall somehow have word taken to the Ambassador. Meanwhile, silence means that I live, Banister. Remember that. Silence means I live.’
*
May had passed and with it the celebration of Beltane; and now the mighty sun lay at its furthest point from the equator on the very fringes of the tropic of Cancer. Beneath a translucent sky the world quivered with the power of the summer solstice and, as if in accord with the old rhythms that stirred in the earth’s magic heart, the fabric of Sutton Place was warm in harmony with the ripening land.
It was the eve of midsummer — the night when the sky was always light; the night when the ancient stones of Salisbury glowed again with energy; the night when those who were near the timeless secrets of the cycle of life and after-life, lit fires that the death of the sun might not let evil hold sway. And — as the sun finally went down and the moon goddess rose in the heavens — old, wild prayers were said for the year that was now condemned to die.
And, at last, the coil of destiny, that had lain in wait so long for Sibella and Brother Hyacinth, was sprung. And they, hapless creatures, must take part in all that had always been planned; must act out the next sequence that the pattern of birth, of pain, of despair, had relentlessly set for them. There was no hope; they could not break the ancient spell even if they had been aware of its existence.
In a moon trance Sibella rose from her bed and crossed to the window — mullioned were the panes, moulded the sill — as vigorous still as the day when English craftsmen, directed by the Italian master, da Trevizi, had put them in place. Beneath her the silvered garden rolled away, with nothing but the moving droop of a peacock’s tail to disturb the night. Yet she saw none of it, only feeling the stirring of a long-forgotten ritual; only knowing that she must go to him who was her soul’s partner or die before the ailing sun struggled once more into the heavens.
In the room next to hers Melior Mary tossed in her sleep, near to waking but not yet ready to open her eyes. She had known no peace since her return to Sutton Place. Strangely through no fear of retribution at the hands of her father who — on hearing her part of the adventure — had said no more of it.
No, her trouble lay further than that; in a deep-rooted anxiety with her own wild ways. She knew that she would never feel contentment’s comfort if she could not harness her spirit, control the fierce emotions that sometimes raged within her; knew that she must no longer torture Matthew Banister by witholding herself from him. She had given him her virginity, allowed him to possess her exquisite body once. But then she had become afraid, not of love itself but of the pleasure she had found in it. For in that pleasure lay dependence upon another. She had sensed her one weakness. Matthew Banister had the power to master her — and in mastering her so, too, Sutton Place.
Yet now she could no longer risk losing him. She sensed that he had had enough of her cruelty; within the week he planned to leave the mansion house forever. And that she could not allow — Brother Hyacinth was her chosen consort and must remain at her side always. She must gamble on her taste for passion devouring her.
But as Sibella glided past her door Melior Mary heard nothing. Nor did John and Elizabeth, who had grown more and more alike with each passing year; speaking the same thoughts at the same moment, laughing at the same things, striking the same attitudes over matters of the day. Middle age had ironed out all the fire of youthful diversities; they had turned harmoniously into a boring country landowner and his wife.
But, in his room in the coach-house block, Mitchell woke and knew, with the dark Celtic blood that was his birthright, that ancient mysteries were at work. And he rose and dressed for fear that his Missie — the girl for whom he had left the Earl of Nithsdale’s employ and gone instead to act as bailiff at Sutton Place — could be in danger. Like a dog he waited in the darkness, sniffing for trouble.
And for Hyacinth, just waking, there was the sense of a net’s closure. He had heard that rare thing, the sound of the great wheel of fortune coming to rest. But with it followed no elation, no joy that he could leap on before it began its next mighty cycle and be carried forward to a completely new bridge of life. Only a quiver of foreboding, over which he had n
o control, seized him coldly.
Melior Mary’s voice came back to him with the words she had spoken after his reappearance at the mansion house.
‘There is that in me — detestable though the emotion is — that cannot share anything. Do you know that when my mother lost her poor sad babe, I was glad? No, not glad that she was unhappy or that the mite never knew God’s daylight, but glad that I would not have to share Sutton Place. Glad that the inheritance was still to be mine. There is only one person with whom I can share the house — and it is you! That is why it is so important that you love only me. For if you fail me I am doomed to be an old maid and never produce the son that will save the Weston line.’
She had looked such a stormy petrel as she said those words, the big eyes smouldering in her face, the silver mane tossing.
‘I think it is better if you do not say that, Melior Mary,’ he had answered. ‘I am a man from nowhere. Your father’s wish is that you should marry William Wolffe, his sister’s son, for the sake of the heirdom.’
‘Never,’ she had whispered. ‘Sutton Place is mine without need for that. And you are to be my consort. Remember what I say to you — you must love nobody else.’
And now, in the silent enchantment of midsummer Eve, he knew that she was coming to him. That the other side of her extraordinary personality was teasing its way across the quadrangle to slip into his arms and surrender to him what he had craved for two tormenting years; the sensual witchery of which only she was capable. She would cloud his senses and raise him to heights of eroticism with her love; she who had been scarce more than a child on that one wild occasion when she had been his, was coming back to him at last.
The knock on his door was disturbing, not the light tap that he had been expecting but a measured three strokes, as if a cane banged down upon a stage at the start of a play. And then he knew that he had one last chance, that if he did not answer fate would give him another opportunity to wrest round circumstances. But he was a runner in a maze. Every corner presented him with the same alley. He could no more have lain there, silent in the shadows, than ended his life.
