The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  At midday he reached Montargis, a smaller place where the people at the inn were both civil and moderate in their charges. Late that afternoon, after another uneventful day, he came to Briare, where for the first time he saw the great sweep of the river Loire; and, having cautiously enquired the tariff at the inn, he decided to stay there for the night.

  Next day his road lay along the river bank; and the country was so pleasant, with its green meadows and many white châteaux set among groups of trees, that, after taking his midday meal at Pouilly, he lingered there much longer than he had previously allowed for such halts.

  It was nearly three o’clock when he reluctantly left the grassy knoll on which he had stretched himself near the edge of the river, to collect his mare. Then, as the town clock chimed, he suddenly realised how the time had slipped away and began to press his pace, as he intended to sleep at Nevers that night, so still had some thirty miles to cover.

  Having made good time to Pougues, he gave his mount half an hour’s rest there while refreshing himself with a pint of wine; then set off on the last ten miles of his third day’s journey. The road now left the river and rose to steeper ground where wild heath was interspersed with patches of woodland. The best of the day had gone by the time he was half-way to Nevers and twilight was beginning to fall. It was still quite light in the open spaces but among the trees there was a suggestion of gathering darkness.

  Suddenly a woman’s scream rent the evening quiet. He had just entered a belt of woodland through which the road curved away a little to the east. Pulling one of his pistols from its holster he set spurs to his mare and galloped round the corner.

  As he rounded the bend he saw that the road descended into a hollow. To one side of it the trees fell back in a glade leading to the open heath; in its centre stood a coach drawn by four horses. The coach had been going in the same direction as himself. It was now surrounded by a group of masked men. Two were still mounted; one, in front of the horses, was holding up the coachman; the other with his back to Roger, was covering the footman on the boot. Two more were dragging an old lady out of the coach.

  To tackle four highwaymen single-handed was a dangerous business. Roger cursed the ill-fortune that had brought him on this scene; but he would have been ashamed to ride off without making an attempt to succour the old woman. His decision to intervene was practically instantaneous. He knew that his only chance of driving off such odds lay in his sudden appearance having taken the rogues by surprise. Reining in his mare, he took aim at the nearest highwayman and fired.

  The others, facing Roger, had given shouts of warning the instant they saw him. But the man in the rear of the coach was caught unawares. He half-turned to look over his shoulder, suddenly realised his danger, and ducked his head. Next second he jerked in his saddle, gave a cry and slumped forward with one arm hanging limp at his side. His pistol fell from his nerveless hand, clattered on the road and exploded with a loud report. Startled by the pistol going off almost under its belly, his horse reared, then cantered away with him lurching from side to side as he strove to keep his seat.

  At the sight of their comrade’s discomfiture the two men who were rough-handling the old lady let her go. Running to their horses they hoisted themselves into their saddles. Both drew pistols and came charging up the little rise. Roger wondered grimly how he would come out of the affair; but he was ready for them.

  Before the smoke drifted from the barrel of his first pistol he had thrust it back in his holster and drawn his second. As the two came galloping towards him he took careful aim at the one on the right. He was within an ace of pulling the trigger when there came a bang like that of a small cannon. Now that aid had come the footman on the boot of the coach had recovered his courage. Pulling out a blunderbuss, and aiming at the backs of the two highwaymen, he had let it off.

  With a horrid swish and whistle slugs and old nails sang through the air. The buttocks of the horse ridden by the man on the left got the worst of the discharge. With a pitiful neigh it swerved, nearly throwing its rider, and bolted with him, carrying him off into the woods. But a fragment of the charge grazed Roger’s black, causing her to rear at the very second he fired.

  His bullet went harmlessly over the head of the man at whom he had aimed, but the mare rearing at that moment probably saved his life. The highwayman had fired almost simultaneously with himself, and the bullet, instead of striking him, buried itself in the fleshy part of his mare’s neck.

  The impetus of the man’s charge carried him past Roger. Both swerved their mounts in a half-circle and drew their swords. The blades met with a clash, parted, and came together again. From the feel of his opponent’s steel Roger knew that he was pitted against a strong swordsman, Once more he cursed his luck for having landed him in this unsought fracas.

  For a minute or more the two of them exchanged furious cut and thrust, neither gaining any advantage. Roger was now fighting with his back towards the coach. Owing to the noise made by the stamping of the horses’ hoofs he did not hear the fourth highwayman come galloping up the slope to his friend’s assistance.

  Suddenly another pistol-shot rang out. The newcomer had fired at Roger’s back. Fortunately, as he was riding full tilt, his aim was bad, and low. The bullet struck the rear projection of the mare’s saddle with a loud thud, ricocheted off and whistled through the sleeve of Roger’s coat, tearing the flesh of his left arm above the elbow. The pain was as though he had been seared with a red-hot iron, and a sudden warm wetness below the wound told him that he was bleeding badly. But his fingers still clutched the mare’s reins and answered to his pressure.

  He knew that his situation was now near desperate. For help to arrive within a few moments on that lonely road, at such an hour, would be little short of a miracle. He still held his sword, and at the price of savage pain could control his mount. But at any moment one of the two unwounded men might wound him again, and this time fatally.

  Hastily disengaging his blade he pulled his mare back on her haunches, and half-turned her to meet his new attacker. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the coach. Now that it had been freed from its hold-up the old lady had got back into it and was seizing the chance to escape. The vehicle was already in movement, and the coachman lashing his horses wildly. At a lumbering gallop it careered off down the road.

  The man who had fired the pistol drew his sword. He came at Roger in the same instant that the other renewed his attack. Roger was now between them, so at a grave disadvantage. His peril made him gasp; but his wits did not desert him. In a desperate attempt to get out of his dangerous situation he parried one thrust, ducked the other, and spurred his mare forward. Then, as she shot past his latest antagonist, he delivered a swift sideways cut at the man’s head.

  The sudden move took the fellow off his guard. The point of Roger’s sword caught the corner of his eye and slashed his face down to the chin. His mask fell off and blood spurted from the ugly wound. With a howl of rage and pain, he clapped his free hand to his face. Half-blinded by blood, he reeled in his saddle and his horse ambled off with him to the side of the road.

  Roger had barely time to realise that he had put one of his opponents out of the fight before the other was on him again. Once more their swords clashed and slithered. Weak now from loss of blood he knew that unless he could end matters quickly he would be done. Exerting all his remaining strength in a fierce downward sweep, he followed it with a swift lunge.

  His first movement beat down his antagonist’s blade, the second pierced his right side. But the force of the man’s own thrust had not been fully spent. His sword entered Roger’s boot above the ankle, tore through the tendons on the inner side of his foot, came out at the back of the boot and buried its point in the flank of his mare.

  As she whinnied with pain, and reared in an attempt to throw him, Roger caught a glimpse of his enemy. His face had suddenly gone deathly white beneath his mask and his sword had fallen from his hand. Next second Roger’s mare lowered her h
ead, dragging fiercely at the reins, lifted it again, and plunged wildly forward down the hill.

  Roger still held his drawn sword in one hand; his other was weakened from the first wound he had received. His instep, too, was now paining him so severely that he could no longer exert the full grip of his right knee on the saddle. As the mare dashed down the slope it was all he could do to keep his balance.

  In an effort to check her wild career he hauled on the reins, but all he succeeded in doing was to pull her head round slightly to the left. Leaving the road, she galloped through the clearing among the trees out on to the open heath.

  For over a quarter of a mile he fought to regain control of her, while she avoided ditches and foxholes only by a miracle. His efforts gradually became weaker and he realised that he was powerless to do anything until she slowed down of her own accord. Suddenly she stumbled, recovered, shivered violently; then, without warning, fell to her knees, pitching him forward over her head.

  He let go the reins and flung out both hands in an attempt to save himself. His left arm doubled under him, his forehead struck the hilt of his out-thrust sword, and the blow knocked him unconscious.

  It was some time before he came to; but when he did the pain from his wounds swiftly brought back to him the events which had led to his having been flung there, face downward in the young bracken. After a moment he raised himself on his good elbow and turned over. As he moved his injured foot the stab of pain from it was so acute that he gasped and shut his eyes. When he opened them he realised that it was now nearly dark.

  Gingerly settling himself a trifle more comfortably he looked about him. He was lying in a shallow-bottomed gully, so he could not see more than half a dozen yards in any direction; but a faint, pinkish-orange glow breaking the dark night sky over his right shoulder told him that he was facing south-east, so the road must be somewhere in his rear.

  From that he judged that his pull on the left-hand rein of the mare must have brought her round nearly in a half-circle before she threw him. Anxiously he looked to right and left in search of her; then screwed his head round as far as it would go. There she was, immediately behind him, about three yards away on the slope of the gully. She was lying quite still on her side, with her near hind leg sticking stiffly out at an angle. The light was still just sufficient for him to see a dark pool on the ground in front of her where the blood had poured from the wound in her neck. One glance was enough to tell him that she was dead.

  He wondered what the devil he was going to do now. Night was fast approaching and he doubted very much if he could stagger even as far as the road. His head, foot and arm were all hurting him abominably. From the latter he had lost quite a lot of blood, and it was still bleeding. If he could not get his wounds attended to he might quite well die of weakness and cold before morning.

  The coach had driven off; but even had he believed it to be still in the vicinity he would not have dared to shout for help. He thought that he had rendered three of the rogues hors de combat, but he was by no means certain. The wound of the man he had run through the side might be only superficial. Then there was the fellow whose horse had bolted with him after being shot in the buttocks by the footman. Either or both might still be quite close by. They would be furious with anger at the wrecking of their plan, and thirsting for vengeance. If they found him in his present helpless state it was a certainty that they would murder him.

  Nevertheless he knew that he must get help somehow. All over France wolves still abounded. In winter they often invaded villages and, made fierce by hunger, attacked men as well as women and children. Even now, when they had retired to their lairs in the higher ground, they still came down to roam the more desolate areas at night in search of stray cattle. Weakened as he was he knew with a horrid sinking feeling that he might easily fall a prey to them.

  He felt that whatever pain it cost him he must somehow manage to crawl back to the roadside, as only there would he have any chance to attract the attention of some late passer-by. To do that was to risk an encounter with one of the highwaymen, but it was a gamble that had to be taken. To remain lying where he had fallen was to invite death, and perhaps a horrible death, in a ditch.

  Turning over on his stomach he got slowly to his knees. Then he began to crawl forward, dragging his wounded foot behind him. He had not covered more than four feet when it knocked against a stone. The spasm of agony that went through him was so acute that he nearly fainted.

  For a moment he lay there dizzy and helpless. As he did so the monstrous ill-luck of which he had been the victim came to his mind again. But for that chance encounter he would by now be dining in the warmth and comfort of the inn at Nevers. By interfering in someone else’s quarrel, he had had his mare killed, was grievously wounded and likely to die himself.

  Suddenly he began to curse, loud, long and fluently, in English, French and German. Then, as he paused at last from lack of breath, a soft voice just behind him said:

  “Hush, Monsieur, I pray! That is no language to use in the presence of a lady.”

  Jerking round his head he stared up at the cloaked and hooded figure of a woman. It was now too dark to see her face, but he would have known that voice anywhere. It was that of Isabella d’Aranda.

  Chapter VII

  The Road to the South

  Roger drew a hand wearily across his eyes. He could only suppose that the state to which he had been reduced had sent him temporarily off his head, and that he was suffering from an hallucination. But the cloaked figure ran down the bank, sank in a flurry of skirts beside him, and grasped his hands. He caught a heady whiff of the scent of gardenias, and the soft voice came again.

  “Mon brave Chevalier! Thank God that I have found you! Are you gravely hurt? Oh, I pray that your wounds be not serious!”

  “I have no vital injury,” Roger croaked, “though I am in some pain and weak from loss of blood. But by what miracle can it be you who have come to my assistance, Señorita?”

  “ ’Twas my coach that you protected from those villains. I leant out of the window and recognised you, but you were much too heavily engaged to see me. When we drove off and you failed to follow I felt sure you must be wounded. Pedro, my footman, confirmed my fears. He said the last glimpse he had of you was being carried away by your horse on to the heath. So we returned to search for you.”

  Still greatly puzzled, Roger murmured: “I thought you on your way to Spain.”

  But she was no longer listening to him; she had stood up and was calling to her servants. There came an answering shout and from the gathering shadows Pedro emerged. He was accompanied by a buxom, fat-faced maid, whom Isabella addressed as Maria, and in addition to his blunderbuss he carried a lantern. By its light the two young women examined Roger’s wounds, exclaiming in sympathy and gabbling away to one another in Spanish while they attended to his arm and head. Both had bled copiously, making him a horrid sight, but his arm had been no more than laid open by the bullet and the skin of his forehead only torn where it had struck the rim of his sword-hilt. He was much more worried about his instep, which they had not so far noticed. When he pointed it out to the Señorita, she exclaimed:

  “Alas, yet another wound! And to get at it your boot will have to be cut off. But there is little blood and that about the slits where the sword passed through is dry already. I think we had best get you to the coach now, and so to Nevers, where you can receive proper treatment.”

  Taking the lantern from Pedro she told him what she wished done. With the assistance of the two women the big Spaniard hoisted Roger across his shoulders; Isabella then led the way with the light and Maria supporting Roger’s bad foot to prevent it from bumping, brought up the rear. Fortunately it was no great distance to the road and after five minutes’ puffing and grunting Pedro lowered his heavy burden on to the back seat of the coach.

  It was a huge vehicle and could have held eight people comfortably. In the other back-seat corner sat the old woman he had seen hauled out of it,
and next to her was Quetzal. Although the roof of the coach was piled high with luggage, most of its front seat was also occupied with packages of all sorts and sizes; so Maria, still supporting Roger’s foot, squatted on the floor, while Isabella sat down between him and her Indian.

  Having sent Pedro to fetch Roger’s sword, saddlery, valise and bedroll from the back of his dead mare, Isabella said: “Monsieur de Breuc, I wish to present you to the Señora Poeblar. The Señora was my governess until I entered the service of Madame Marie Antoinette, and recently undertook the long journey from Spain in order to act as my companion when I left the Court of France.”

  Roger was in no state to make graceful compliments, but the Señora made up for the brevity of his greeting by breaking into a spate of Spanish, and when she had done Quetzal added a few phrases.

  “The Señora thanks you for having rescued us, Monsieur,” Isabella interrupted. “She is desolated at not being able to do so in a language you understand; but during her previous sojourn in France she hardly left our Embassy, so she knows only a few words of French. Quetzal also thanks you. He calls you Monsieur Blue-Eyes, and says that later he will give you a red feather to wear in your hair, because that is a mark given to especially brave men in his country to distinguish them from others.”

  With an effort Roger murmured his appreciation; but to speak at all made worse the throbbing of his head, so he was much relieved when Pedro had fetched his things, and the coach set off.

  Fortunately, Nevers being a place of some size, the inn there was a good one, and before the hold-up Isabella had already sent her outrider ahead to secure the best accommodation at it. Roger was carried in, made as comfortable as possible on Isabella’s own travelling mattress, and a chirurgeon was sent for.