Roger laid down the spade and embraced her carefully. “Go back now, Leonie,” he said. “Please go back to the house, or into the chapel.”
Before she could answer, a long, thin, heartrending howl came from the cypresses. Leonie jumped and Roger clutched her tighter. She shuddered in his grip, then braced her body and nodded.
“Stay in the chapel if you are frightened,” Roger urged.
“Frightened? No. I was only startled. The dog—it is silly to say one recognizes a dog’s voice—but that sounded so like my spaniel. She must be dead also, poor thing, she was so useless, so small and frail. No one would have taken her because she could not work.”
Leonie shuddered again. The dog was still howling. Then she eased herself out of Roger’s arms and began to walk back toward the house. Roger turned toward where the sound had come from, but he could see no flicker of black and white. The moon was almost down too, and he had better hurry and finish burying Henry.
Jean-Paul Marot had enjoyed his dinner far less than Leonie had enjoyed her piece of sausage. She sat on the ground in the cold and dark, but her heart was warm and full of hope. Jean-Paul had achieved all the warmth and light and elegancies that he had ever dreamed of in his present surroundings, but his heart was cold and dark. Somehow, the more his desires were satisfied, the emptier he became. For a long time after his victory, he had almost forgotten Henry de Conyers and his family, but there had been a burning, bitter renewal of his first satisfaction—when he soiled the wife and daughter—when the news of the son’s and wife’s deaths was brought to him. Little by little de Conyers would be stripped of everything. He would end where Marot had started. Somehow, de Conyers was Marot’s symbol. As Henry descended from power to nothing, Jean-Paul rose from nothing to power.
When he had been wakened by the sound of the tocsin and had been told why it rang, Marot was angry but he never associated the mob with Henry de Conyers. Marot had given orders to shoot to kill because he did not believe in revolution, at least, not against himself. Besides, the town would never miss the type of people that caused the riot. After the mob had been driven away, Marot had gone to the Hôtel de Ville to assess the damage. He had listened without doubt to Louis’ tale of the timid knock at the side door, the respectable-looking man who had a story of an emergency. Louis would not let him in, of course. He had stepped out, locked the door to protect the building and while he was so engaged, he had been seized, beaten, knocked unconscious and bound. As soon as he could free himself, he had given warning.
Louis’ disheveled and bloodied appearance gave mute testimony in his favor, and Jean-Paul accepted the lies and turned his attention to the ruin in the offices, to the loss of the special funds to ease the lot of the foundlings and the poor. Most of the night was spent in inventorying the damage and setting the buildings to rights, tasks in which Louis busied himself assiduously. So assiduously that it was reasonable he should not think of prisoners in whom he would not be expected to have had any special interest. It was nearly morning before Marot himself noticed that the cellar door was still closed while all the others had been burst open. At first that satisfied him, but later he wondered why that door alone had not been opened.
The question led immediately to the discovery of de Conyers’ escape. Marot exploded into violence bordering on hysteria. All other activity was abandoned while search parties were organized for the town and gate guards were questioned. At the gates no one had seen anything or heard anything. The disturbance in the center of the town had not reached them. In particular the guards of the southwest gate were questioned, and they swore on their souls, on the souls of their parents, children and wives, that they had not opened the gate for anyone—man, woman, dog or cat. This was true. Leonie had opened the small door beside the gate herself.
Nonetheless, Marot was convinced that de Conyers had gone back to the château. His conviction rested on a number of rational reasons—the money in the strongroom for one—but most forceful was the totally irrational conviction that if de Conyers reached the château, somehow power would be restored to him. Thus, Marot himself went with the men who searched the château to be sure, very sure, absolutely sure that de Conyers had not found his way there nor would be able to do so later.
Discovery that the house was empty had not had the effect Marot hoped for. The more carefully he searched, the stronger grew the conviction that de Conyers was there, watching him, laughing at him. The growing reluctance of the men to continue the search and to remain on guard to catch de Conyers when he came reinforced the irrational fear that somehow de Conyers was taking over, ordering the men to go away, convincing them that he was harmless—while he gathered his forces to destroy them all.
Only the glances the men cast at Marot, glances that grew more and more doubtful, gave Jean-Paul the strength to see this fear as irrational and prevent him from voicing it. However, when he was alone, it returned and grew. It was peculiar that no one else seemed to sense de Conyers’ presence, Marot mused, except to obey the commands he was giving. Perhaps there was some special affinity between himself and de Conyers. This chance thought took hold and grew in Marot’s mind until, by the time dark fell, he had reached a new conclusion. De Conyers could not be found because the other men were there. The question of who would hold the power in Saulieu must be settled only between himself and de Conyers.
As soon as he came to this conclusion, Marot was utterly convinced by it. What was more, he suddenly understood why all his achievements had brought him no satisfaction—had left him empty. It was because de Conyers still held the power. Even as a helpless prisoner, the right had been his… No! Not the right! That was de Conyers’ voice speaking in his mind. The evil influence…that was it! The evil influence that de Conyers wielded would exist as long as he did. Jean-Paul realized that his long dissatisfaction was his own fault. He had been thinking of himself, of the sweetness of revenge. What he should have done was have de Conyers killed. That would have cleaned the evil out of Saulieu—washed it away with blood, as the L’Ami du Peuple recommended.
Of course, the fact that de Conyers was alive had encouraged resistance. His evil fed the evil in the hearts of those who opposed the good Jean-Paul wished to do. When de Conyers’ evil was gone, it would draw with it or weaken all the other evil. But Marot understood that through this error de Conyers’ evil had been allowed to grow strong. That was how de Conyers had deceived the men who searched. He alone was able to resist, and it was his personal duty to return to the château and kill de Conyers. Then he would be free and Saulieu would be free.
There was no difficulty for Marot. True, the groom he ordered to saddle a horse for him looked rather oddly at him and the guard at the gate did also, but no one dared say anything. Later they talked about how strange he had looked, about how he had muttered to himself about evil forces in possession, and their tale was of considerable help to Louis. However, no impediment was placed in Marot’s way, and he rode away sure of himself and his purpose.
Because he knew with perfect certainty that de Conyers was in the château and that the confrontation between them was ordained, he was neither surprised nor angered by the fact that his men had taken shelter in the gatehouse. He did not stop to reprimand them. What was the use? Either de Conyers or fate had arranged everything. Thus it was not the men’s fault that they had abandoned their posts. That was a necessary part of Marot’s struggle against the evil living in de Conyers. Calm in the conviction that good was stronger than evil and that he must triumph, Marot rode around the house and put his horse into one of the empty stalls in the stable. Then he went to the house.
“I am here alone,” he called into the black emptiness. “Come and see if you can bend me to your will.”
No answer, not even an echo. His voice rolled into the empty, ruined house and seemed to be absorbed. Jean-Paul felt a leap of joy. Good was more powerful than evil. Even though he was alone, de Conyers was afraid to come out and confront him. But their meeting was o
rdained. Thus, Jean-Paul was sure de Conyers could no longer hide from him. He began another systematic search of the house.
By the time he was finished, the moon was very low in the sky and Marot’s conviction was beginning to waver. Deep inside grew a little sick fear that he was mad, that he had made up everything—de Conyers’ power, his evil, his presence in the château. There was no way he could believe that de Conyers was in the house, but there was no way he could accept that sickness inside. He crushed it down, standing in the entryway, staring back into the house. Very well, if de Conyers was not inside, he was outside. Marot turned and like a blessed assurance to wash away his ugly fear, he saw a figure in the moonlight just rounding the dark hedges of the maze and heading toward the back of the house.
Stifling a cry of joy, Marot ran quickly through the house to the kitchens. As he went, it occurred to him that what he did was stupid. De Conyers might turn aside, go back to the woods, run and hide. He pushed that idea away. It was not possible. The meeting and his victory were ordained. That conviction sustained Marot when he came to the back door and saw no one. Although he knew he should remain inside the house, where his enemy could not see him and he would have the advantage of surprise, there was enough suspicion of his own sanity under Marot’s reiterated conviction of ordained fate to make it impossible to do that. Strangling his fears, he hurried along the path behind the house toward the clump of trees that shaded the stables.
The howling of the dog had disturbed Leonie more than she admitted. She had spoken the truth to Roger; she was not afraid. However, the voice of the little dog, a small, seemingly frail creature sent to her by her uncle all the way from England as a gift, brought back her whole easy, happy life before the revolution. The dog, named Fifi because it was the silliest, most useless name Leonie could think of, epitomized the old life—full of grace, intelligence that was rarely tested, love, and beauty. Fifi was a King Charles spaniel, exquisitely beautiful, with long, silky black-and-white fur, but she weighed no more than four kilos. As a puppy she had fit into Leonie’s hand.
Leonie remembered her practical mother, accustomed to hunting dogs and work dogs, staring at the tiny creature with amused bewilderment. But in the end they had all come to love Fifi. She was affectionate and very, very clever. She could be taught anything—to do tricks, play games, carry messages. Many times Leonie remembered her mother speaking with exasperation about Fifi’s size. Such a clever dog could have been extremely useful if it were larger, Marie said. It was a shame to breed such silly creatures. Still, it was Leonie’s pet and Marie did not deprive her daughter of any reasonable pleasure, not even such a foolish one.
Dead too, Leonie thought, tears rising to her eyes so that she was half blind. Although Fifi’s body was far sturdier than one would expect from so small an animal, it was inconceivable that the little bitch could survive alone. She had been hand-fed, cosseted, since the day she was born. Even if no one had killed her on purpose, because she was a symbol of the hated aristocracy, Fifi could neither hunt nor forage for herself, Leonie thought. But it was odd, very odd, that the howling had been so much like hers and the black-and-white mottling on the animal that had run out the woods… No, I will not think about anything so silly, Leonie decided, and she kept her eyes resolutely on the path directly in front of her, not permitting herself to look hopefully for another flash of black and white so that she could call, “Fifi, Fifi,” and again hope to hold that soft, wriggling bundle of joy.
Thus, Leonie did not see the shadow slipping along the trees, past the side of the stable. She was too fixed in her self-discipline to hear the indrawn breath and low curse Marot uttered when he realized the figure was that of a woman, not of Henry de Conyers. In the next moment he saw, in the low moonlight, that the woman’s hair was pale. Yet the stride was that of a young woman, not the stiff totter of a gray-haired crone. Blonde hair was a rarity in Saulieu. Marot’s heart leaped with joy. The only woman in the area he knew to have pale hair was de Conyers’ whelp. If she was here, so was her father!
As Marot reached this conclusion, Leonie drew abreast of him. He shoved the pistol he had been carrying back in his pocket, let her take a step or two more, jumped out and seized her from behind, one arm going around her throat and the other around her waist.
Chapter Nine
As soon as Leonie was a few steps clear of the grave, Roger turned his attention to filling it as quickly as he could. Reverence for the dead was a good thing, but care for the living was more essential. Roger was quite sure that if Henry de Conyers knew what was happening he would be far more anxious to be sure his daughter was protected then to have himself covered with earth with slow dignity. Fortunately, Roger thought as he threw and pushed earth into the grave, Leonie was walking very slowly. He should be able to catch up with her before she reached the house.
He had in fact, just thrown the last shovelful of earth on top of the mound when Leonie reached the edge of the maze. With a sigh of relief, he put the spade and mattock back in the shed, closed the door, and hurried around the chapel into the alley between the trees that led back to the house. He was more than halfway down it when he heard a single choked shriek. Before his mind had clearly comprehended what it meant, Roger was running desperately along the path. His body reacted to the signal of danger, although he had not yet thought of what to do when he arrived.
Indeed, his mind was still frantically asking Where? Where? when a fusillade of shrill barking drew him instinctively to the left toward the back of the house. In seconds he saw Leonie struggling in the grip of a man. Without thinking of the pistols he carried, Roger launched himself forward again, but before he could reach Leonie’s attacker, a small black-and-white animal charged from the trees beyond the stables, leaped high, and seized the man by the leg above the boot. Marot uttered a bellow of rage and pain and kicked out, but the gesture did not free him. Jaws locked, Fifi hung on as grimly as any bulldog, her turned-up snout permitting her to cling rather than leap and slash in the usual canine attack.
Marot roared again as his own jerk tore the flesh of his leg, since Fifi’s jaws would not yield. Unthinking, reacting only to his own pain, he released his hold on Leonie to strike at the dog. Instantly Leonie twisted away, hitting Marot as she went, and simultaneously Roger struck him in a wild, flying leap. Both men crashed to the ground, Roger on top, while the violent shock tore Fifi loose from her hold.
Spitting out flesh and cloth, Fifi rolled to her feet, growling, ready to attack again. She was brought up short by the beloved voice that went with the beloved scent of the goddess.
“No!” Leonie shrieked. “No, Fifi. Come!”
If Leonie had known that Fifi could well distinguish between Roger and Jean-Paul and would attack only Jean-Paul because his was the scent that her goddess had cried out against, she might have risked losing that precious remnant of her old life to help Roger. She feared however, that the tiny bitch would attack the wrong man and lose her own little life while bringing disaster on them all. Besides, what help could little Fifi be? For a full minute after her instinctive order to the dog, Leonie stood gasping and trembling. She had not seen the man who seized her, but he had asked her one question, where her father was, and she knew that voice. Never, never, would she forget the voice that taunted her father while despoiling her. In the single minute after her escape from his clutches, shock was submerged by hatred, and hatred by fear as Leonie saw Roger being forced back and over by Marot.
No! If she died for it, Marot would not hurt another person she loved. Leonie ran to the stable, grabbed a heavy spoke torn from a carriage wheel, and rushed back. In the few moments she had been gone, the tide of battle had turned. Roger’s initial advantage, owing to surprise and the force with which he had hit Marot, had not lasted long. Roger was no weakling, but he had had nearly nothing to eat for two days and he was tired already from burying Henry. Besides, Marot, convinced he was fighting the Devil himself in the person of Henry de Conyers, had the inhuman stren
gth of the insane.
After his initial cries of pain when Fifi seized him, Marot had fought in silence, grabbing Roger by the throat and twisting. First Roger had struck at him, but Marot ignored one blow that split his lips like an overripe tomato and another that opened a bleeding gash below his eye. All his attention was on his own two hands, which were closing the air from Roger’s throat, and his legs, which were lifting his left side so that Roger was toppling off him to the right.
Aware that his blows were useless, Roger tried to force his hands between Marot’s arms to break the grip on his throat. At the same time he tried to brace himself on his right knee to maintain his superior position. But somehow, he could not seem to feel the ground, and his arms were soft and as limp as scalded celery stalks. Vaguely he noted through the roaring in his ears and the bursting sensation in his chest that the moon must have set very suddenly, because it was growing as dark as in the tunnel. Then he could feel himself falling, but was he falling into the dark inside himself or onto the ground?
As Leonie approached, Marot was just coming upright above Roger, his hands still tight on Roger’s throat. His face—with the blood black in the little moonlight that remained, the eyes glittering in insane triumph—was a grotesque mask. Roger’s hands clung to Marot’s wrists, but they were slowly opening as the last of his consciousness left him. His mouth gaped wide in a futile effort to find breath.
“No!” Leonie snarled softly, and she swung the spoke at Marot’s head.
The power of that blow was far beyond Leonie’s ordinary strength. She was beside herself with hate for the murderer of every good thing in her life. In fact, she was so blind with rage that she missed her aim. The spoke caught Marot at the base of the skull, and it snapped the neck, crushed the bone and tore the soft spinal cord right in two. Marot’s head snapped back into an impossible position, the mouth gaping open but upside down in a seeming surprise that was more ludicrous than dreadful. The convulsion of his death throes tore Marot’s hands from Roger’s throat, and his body fell away, off Roger, jerking and contracting in senseless spasm.
The English Heiress (Heiress, Book One) Page 14
