by Mary Stewart
‘Tired?’
‘A bit. You were right. The heat did take it out of me yesterday. I’ll stay at home today and think up something good for tomorrow.’
Presently people began to move, the tourists discussing the day’s programme. The Germans went off, arguing over a guide book, and soon afterwards the American couple strolled out into the Rue de la République, arm-in-arm. David got up then, and went into the hotel with Rommel, and in a few moments Marsden went in too. Loraine Bristol lit another cigarette and stared in front of her. I made some excuse and got out of my chair. Perhaps now I could get to David’s room and ask him about Marsden – why Loraine Bristol, if she did know Marsden, and if he had helped her and David in the first place, had not told David of the connection. Perhaps David would feel safer if he knew that there was a man on guard between him and Richard Byron.
It was possible, of course, I thought as I climbed the stairs, that David did know, but he had betrayed no such knowledge yesterday when we had seen Marsden on the bus, nor had any sign of recognition passed between Marsden and himself, beyond the casual recognition of fellow-guests in a hotel.
Marsden was in the upper corridor, so, without going near David’s door, I went into my own room, and collected the things I should want for the morning, my sun-glasses, a book, my Michelin guide. Then, after a few minutes, I went out again into the corridor, only to find that my plan of having a private word with David would have to wait, for he and Rommel and Marsden were together, making for the stairs.
‘… So I thought I’d go up there this morning,’ David was saying, ‘instead of to the river.’
‘I’m walking up that way myself,’ said Marsden. ‘Mind if I come with you?’
‘Not at all, sir …’ The voices faded. I went back into my room, thinking that it certainly did not sound as though David knew of any intimate connection between Marsden and his own affairs. Then I heard them come out into the courtyard, below the balcony, and I moved towards the window.
‘… The tower at the north corner,’ said Marsden. ‘Though how he ever got a mule up it I don’t know. Have you ever been in?’
‘No,’ said David. I saw him stop beside his step-mother’s table. ‘I’m going up to the Rocher des Doms,’ he told her. ‘Mr. Marsden’s coming too. You get a marvellous view of the ferry-boat from there; it has to cross with a rope, in case it gets swept away.’
Yes, I thought, watching them go together up the Rue de la République, and you also get a marvellous view of the suspension bridge that leads in from Nîmes and Montpellier. And I wondered just how much of his day David would spend up on the battlements, watching for a big grey car with a GB plate.
* * *
The day dragged by. Louise and I spent the morning in the gardens, according to plan, drinking iced grape-juice and idly watching the circular sprays watering the vivid lawn. Then she got out her sketch book and began to make rapid clever little drawings – of the children, thin and brown, of the old women who sat squarely on the narrow seats, knitting and watching them, of the ragged-trousered half-naked men who raked the gravel, of the frocked priests moving to and from the church across the way. I took out my book and tried to read, but between my eyes and the page swam perpetually two angry grey eyes under their black brows, and a mouth twisting with sudden murderous fury. I blinked it away and began to read with steady concentration, only to find after several minutes that I had read the same page over and over again, and had not taken in a single word of it, and that my brain was mechanically repeating, like a damaged record … you little bitch, you little bitch, you little bitch. I pushed back my hair as if by the action I could brush my mind clean of memories, but I gave up the attempt to read after a while, and sat, fidgeting with my sun-glasses, and wishing I could draw – do anything to take my mind off the wheel that it was treading, over and over again.
‘Louise.’
‘Mm?’
‘Let’s go and have lunch.’
‘Already?’
‘It’s time. We may as well go back to the hotel, don’t you think?’
But though we sat for a long time in the court, over a leisurely lunch and cigarettes, David did not appear and nor did Marsden. Paul Véry was in his corner, and smiled at me over his apéritif, but apart from him and ourselves, all the other residents, including Loraine Bristol, seemed to be lunching elsewhere. At length I got up.
‘I think I’ll go and rest,’ I said, and went up to my room.
To my own surprise I slept deeply and dreamlessly for a long time, and woke in the late afternoon, feeling refreshed and in my right mind. As I washed and slipped into the pale green dress I felt singularly light-hearted, as if some heavy cloud had lifted off the landscape, and had left nothing but a shining prospect of sun upon the wet spring grass. I had had an unpleasant experience, which had upset me considerably; very well, now it was over, and the memory of Richard Byron’s crazy furious behaviour could be thrust back with all the other nasty things into the woodshed. I sang as I clipped the silver bracelet on over the bruises, and I smiled at my reflection as I brushed my hair.
And as for David – the lifting cloud cast a momentary shadow there; but the fresh wind of common sense blew it away into rags. David’s problem was a tragic one, certainly, but a comparatively simple one, after all. There were two adults to look after him, and, if the conversation on the Rocher des Doms meant anything, Loraine Bristol would eventually marry her helper. The only problem was to keep David out of his father’s way, and surely that wouldn’t be so very difficult to manage? And, whatever I felt about it, I could do nothing for David. It was Mrs. Bristol’s problem, and I was a stranger. And I would see the last of them in a few days’ time anyway. There was only one sane thing to do, and that was to forget the whole business.
I went lightly along to Louise’s room, and found her doing her hair.
‘Louise, I’ve had an idea. I’m feeling as restless as a gipsy, and I’m sick of doing nothing. I’m going to take the car and drive up to Les Baux for a night – or even a couple of nights. D’you want to come?’
‘Les Baux? Where’s that and what is it?’
‘It’s a ruined village, a hill village south of Avignon. I believe it’s a queer wild sort of place – just ruins and a deserted village and an inn and a wonderful eerie view. It’s just what I feel like, anyway, miles from anywhere.’
Louise put away her brush and comb and began to do her face.
‘Do you want me to come – I mean, do you not want to go alone?’
‘I don’t mind whether I go alone or not. That’s not why I was asking. If you’d like the drive, come by all means. If not, I’ll be perfectly happy.’
She looked at me in the mirror. ‘Sure?’
‘Perfectly. I take it you don’t want to come?’
‘Not particularly. I’d rather laze about here and draw. But if you—’
‘Then forget it. It was a sudden idea, and it suits the way I’m feeling, but you needn’t let it affect you. I’ll go and ring up and see if they’ve a room at the inn, and I’ll drive up there for dinner.’
Louise sat down to put on her sandals. ‘You know,’ she said, with an upward look at me, ‘I was wondering last night – well, is anything up?’
‘Not a thing,’ I lied cheerfully. ‘I was tired, but after that sleep this afternoon I feel wonderful. But I feel a bit stifled in Avignon, and I want to be off up to Les Baux tonight. You’re sure you don’t want to come?’
Louise shook her head.
‘No. You go off and commune with nature and the ghosts in the ruined houses. It sounds terrible. I’ll see you when I see you, I suppose.’
So I went downstairs and telephoned the inn at Les Baux, where I was lucky in being able to secure a room for one night at least, with the probability of the next, if I should wish it. Feeling something like a released prisoner, I hurried back to my room, pushed a nightdress and a few toilet necessities into my big handbag, went down again and saw Madame, then
said goodbye to Louise and went out to get the car.
It was all done so quickly, and I was out of Avignon and heading for Orgon, before I really had time to think what I was doing. But when I did think about it, pushing the car along at a comfortable speed in the evening light, it still seemed a good thing to do. I wanted, above all things, to be out of Avignon, out of that galère, even for a short time. And I wanted to be alone. I was glad Louise had elected not to come, though, knowing Louise, I had never really for a moment suspected that she might want to. Somehow, the picture I had formed of Les Baux, the empty little mountain village, where night was so quiet and dawn so beautiful, just represented the sort of thing I very much needed.
About David Byron I steadfastly refused to think, and about Richard, his father, I did not think at all, except for a little twist of wry amusement when I looked at the map and saw that soon I would be turning on to the Tarascon road.
The evening was drawing down, and the light deepened. Away behind me I caught a last glimpse of the towers of Avignon, like torches above the trees. Around me the landscape grew wilder and more beautiful, muted from the white and dusty glare of day to the rose and purple of evening. The sun set, not in one concentrated star of fire, but in a deep diffusion of amber light, till the sharp black spires of the cypresses seemed to be quivering against the glow, and flowing upwards like flames formed of shadows.
It did not seem long before the Riley climbed the last hill, and I berthed it outside the inn not long before seven o’clock.
9
Oi deus, oi deus, de l’alba! tan tost ve.
(Ah God, ah God, but the dawn comes soon)
(Medieval French lyric)
The deserted town of Les Baux, in medieval times a strong and terrible fortress, stands high over the southern plains. The streets of eyeless houses – little more than broken shells – the crumbling lines of the once mighty bastions, the occasional jewel of a carved Renaissance window, clothed with ferns, have an uncanny beauty of their own, while something of the fierce and terrible history of the ‘wolves of Les Baux’, the lords of Orange and Kings of Arles, still seems to inhere in these broken fortifications. The prospect is wild enough, and strange enough, to satisfy anyone who, like myself that evening, felt so pressingly the need for quiet and my own company. With faint amusement I perceived slowly creeping over me the mood of melancholy in which the not-quite-romantics of the eighteenth century in England found such gentle pleasure.
I sat near the window of the little inn’s dining-room, watching the evening light on the distant slopes, and enjoying my lonely dinner. I ate slowly, and the light was dying from the land when at length I took my coffee and chartreuse outside on to the little terrace, and prepared to let the past have its way with me.
I got out my book, and read the chansons de toile again, the songs of lovely Isabel, Yolande the beautiful, Aiglentine the fair, who had sat at their embroidery, singing, so very long ago, in this same land. Then I shut the book, and sat dreaming, with my eyes on the broken lines and ghost-filled terraces of the town, trying to pave the streets and cut back the vegetation and fill the empty ways with horses and men and the glint of armour and the scarlet of banners.
I sat there till darkness had drawn over the scene, and then I went down to the car and drove it away from the inn door, round the open sweep to face the road again. I left it parked there, two wheels on the verge. Then I went up to my room.
Where was it that I had read that to watch the dawn over the ruined town was one of the sights of the world? Looking out of my window into the darkness, tracing the imperceptibly darker shapes of rock and hill, I thought that whatever the book had said it was probably right. I would go out early and wait for the sun to rise, and see if the ghosts of the Kings of Arles really did ride at cock-crow. So I did not undress, but merely took off frock and shoes, and lay down on one of the beds. I was asleep almost at once.
I must have slept for three or four hours, because when I woke and turned my head to look at the window, I could see, not light, but a faint lifting of the darkness. I put a light on and looked at my watch, only to find that I had forgotten to wind it the night before. I put the light off again, got up, and went to the window to lean out. My room faced south-east, and away to my left I could see what looked like the beginnings of a rift in the night, a soft pencilling of light on the underside of a cloud. The air was chill and clear and silent.
I closed the shutters, put on the light again, and got into my frock and shoes. I rinsed my face and hands in cold water to wake myself up properly, then put on my coat, and went quietly out of my room and down the stairs.
I must have made some slight noise, but nobody seemed to hear, or at any rate to bother about it. I supposed the people at the hotel were used to dawn-watchers in Les Baux. The door of the inn was not locked, so apparently there was nothing tangible, at any rate, to fear from the ghostly princes of Orange. Wishing I had a torch, I let myself out with caution and moved carefully towards the deserted buildings. My feet made no sound upon the grass.
How long I sat out there, in a coign of carved stone and rough rock, I do not know. Long enough, I suppose, for my vigil did at length bring in the dawn. I saw the first light, fore-running the sun, gather in a cup of the eastern cloud, gather and grow and brim, till at last it spilled like milk over the golden lip, to smear the dark face of heaven from end to end. From east to north, and back to south again, the clouds slackened, the stars, trembling on the verge of extinction, guttered in the dawn wind, and the gates of day were ready to open at the trumpet …
oi deus, oi deus, de l’alba! tan tost ve …
Suddenly I was cold. The pleasant melancholy had faded, and in its place began to grow, unbidden, the little germ of loneliness which could, I knew, mature in these dark and wild surroundings all too soon into the flower of desolation. I began to wish violently for a cigarette.
I got up, stretched, stood for a moment looking at the growing light. Waiting, perhaps, unconsciously, for the trumpet to blow its shrill aubade across the stars.
Something moved behind me.
Moved and spoke.
As I whirled, my heart stampeding, my hands to my throat—
‘So I’ve found you again,’ said Richard Byron.
He was standing barely three yards away from me. In the darkness I could see him only as a looming shape on the slope above me, but I would have known that voice anywhere, hard, incisive, with an edge to it, and an unpleasant undertone of mockery. He stood where he was, above me in the dark, and I knew that I was as securely trapped in my corner of rock as if I had been in a locked room. To the left of me, and at my back, the rock wall and the remains of a towering buttress; to my right, the sheer drop to the southern plain; and before me, Richard Byron.
I stood still, and waited.
He lit a cigarette, and in the hissing flare of the match I saw again the face of my nightmare, the dark hair falling over the frowning brow, the hard eyes narrowed against the flame.
The match lit a brief arc over the cliff. The cigarette glowed red as he drew on it.
‘How did you get here?’ I asked, and was annoyed because my voice was not my own at all.
He said: ‘You stopped for petrol at St-Rémy. You went across the road and had a drink in a boulevard café while they put oil in and cleaned up for you.’
‘Yes, I did. Were – were you in St-Rémy?’
‘I was. I was, like you, having a drink while they did something to my car. I went to your garage and waited for you, but when I heard you ask the man for the road up to Les Baux I knew you were safe, so I thought I’d wait. It isn’t so public here as it was in St-Rémy, and you and I have something that we want to discuss, haven’t we?’
‘Have we?’
His voice was unemotional: ‘You god-damned little bitch, you know we have. Where’s David?’
So there we were again, except that the issue, for me, was slightly clearer. I knew that I was not going to tell him wher
e David was, but I also knew what before I had only suspected, that he was crazy, and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
‘Where’s David?’
‘Asleep in bed, I hope,’ I said.
He made an impatient movement, and my throat tightened.
‘You know what I mean. Where is he?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ I said levelly. If it maddened him, I couldn’t help it, but I judge it better to be downright than to prevaricate.
He was silent for a moment, and I saw the cigarette glow again, twice, in rapid succession.
The next question, when it came, took me completely by surprise.
He said abruptly: ‘Is it money you want? If so, how much?’
‘I’ve as much money as I want,’ I said, when I could speak. ‘What were you going to offer – thirty pieces of silver?’
I could feel him staring at me through the darkness. He dragged on his cigarette again.
‘But I wouldn’t refuse a cigarette,’ I said.
I heard him fumble for it, and again a match rasped and flared. This time his eyes were watchful on me across the flame. He lit the cigarette and, coming a step nearer, handed it to me.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said contemptuously. ‘Are you afraid I’ll push you over if you come any nearer?’
‘Listen, my dear,’ said Richard Byron evenly. ‘This won’t get either of us anywhere. I want to know where David is. You do know, and you refuse to tell me. Very well, then I shall have to make you tell me.’
The cigarette wasn’t much help after all; I threw it over the cliff. My brief moment of initiative was over, and he was attacking again.
I said, more bravely than I felt: ‘And how do you propose to do that? Torture? Be your age, Mr. Byron.’
He said savagely: ‘My God, I’d like to try. If I lay hands on you again I’ll not answer for myself. I’d like to wring your lovely neck.’
‘I see. Gestapo stuff.’ But my voice shook.
