The Wild Cry of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  Roydon Sanford did not speak and, carrying her camera, Valda said as she opened the door into the yard,

  “Do let’s hurry! If we don’t start to take my pictures soon the sun will be going down and, unlike Paul Martin, I am sure that I shall be no use with a camera at night!”

  They spent what to Valda was an entrancing two hours photographing the foals in a field only a short distance from the farmhouse.

  Although the white horses were tame and in frequent use, as soon as Valda and Roydon Sanford appeared, the stallions threw up their heads and eyed them with suspicion.

  Many of the mares were still in foal, the others had their young beside them and for the first time Valda learnt that the foals were not born white.

  Most of them had a thick black woolly coat with a white patch on their foreheads. There was an occasional rust-coloured or fawn one.

  “In about eight months,” Roydon Sanford explained, “they will lose their youthful coat and by the time they are about four years old their colouring will have changed to pale grey. Subsequently it turns finally to white.”

  Valda started to take her photographs.

  The white horses silhouetted against the trees bordering the field or the buildings with their red roofs had a natural elegance she felt must somehow convey itself to the film.

  “They are beautiful!” she kept saying as she took picture after picture. “So beautiful I feel I shall never admire any other breed of horse however magnificent it may be!”

  “Wait until you see them wild,” Roydon Sanford said. “Tomorrow I will take you to a place where I know the mares are foaling. We must be careful not to disturb them and very wary of the stallions.”

  “They can be dangerous?” Valda asked.

  “As dangerous as a Camargue bull!”

  “I must photograph them!”

  “We will certainly try,” he promised and Valda felt he was amused at her enthusiasm.

  She only ceased taking photographs when the sun had lost its strength and the trees were throwing such long shadows that she was afraid the photographs would be too dark.

  They walked back to the farm and Roydon Sanford said,

  “We eat early in the Mas. In fact the guardians come in from the farm at sunset and we must have our meal at the same time.”

  “But of course,” Valda said. “I would not like to upset Madame when she has been so kind as to have me here.”

  When they entered the kitchen, it was to be assailed with the most delicious smell of cooking. On the table Valda saw an enormous collection of vegetables besides truffles, a variety of mushrooms, asparagus and olives, which she knew from experience, because they came from Provence, were the best in the world.

  “Despite the meat pasty I am hungry, madame,” Roydon Sanford remarked.

  “You have not worked very hard today, Monsieur Sanford,” Madame Porquier said severely. “I am not certain you deserve a big supper!”

  “You must blame mademoiselle for my shortcomings,” he said. “I was on the way to join Monsieur Porquier when she prevented me from going any further.”

  “That is a most unfair accusation!” Valda said. “Madame would be right if she starved you as a punishment!”

  She smiled at him as she spoke and he realised she had two dimples, one in each cheek. Then she ran upstairs to her bedroom, determined to put her camera in a safe place.

  She reckoned she must have taken at least twenty-five photographs, perhaps more.

  ‘I must keep plenty of film for the flamingos and the wild horses,’ she thought. ‘And some for the gypsies too.’

  There were two more rolls of film and out of all the snapshots she took she hoped there would eventually be forty or fifty worth showing in an exhibition.

  She was now absolutely convinced that she would have one in Paris and that her stepfather and all his friends would be amazed at her accomplishment.

  As she took off her afternoon gown, Valda thought how lucky she was to have found this delightful Mas where she could stay.

  She was not so ignorant as not to realise that a village inn could be extremely uncomfortable. Also vaguely she thought that there might be unforeseen dangers from the type of men who frequented it.

  Valda was, however, very inexperienced about the world – in fact she was completely innocent.

  She had no comprehension of what life could be like outside the luxurious, cosseted existence that had been hers ever since she was old enough to think.

  It was quite an experience even to have to undress herself without a servant to help her and to do up the gown she had brought with her to wear in the evening.

  It had, she thought, been an exceedingly good choice.

  Made of fine muslin, inset with rows of Valencian lace, it was light as a piece of thistledown and quite uncrushable.

  It was draped over the bodice in a manner that accentuated the smallness of her waist and, because she had been careful not to bring anything which might appear too dressy, while her neck and shoulders were bare, the gown had long tight sleeves of the same lace fastening at the wrist.

  The skirt was full and swept out over a silk petticoat which, rolled up tightly, had taken up very little room in the linen bag.

  Thinking her ordinary slippers would be too heavy, Valda had put in a pair of heelless satin ones that made her appear smaller than usual, but which had certainly weighed little more than an ounce or two.

  She had no idea as she changed that her gown would have caused a sensation in any wayside inn and certainly would be considered shocking by the ordinary peasant who had never seen a woman in evening dress.

  Even Roydon Sanford looked slightly surprised when she walked gracefully into the salon where he was waiting for her.

  He too had changed, but not into evening clothes.

  Instead he wore a velvet coat, which Valda had always associated with artists, and an unstarched shirt, although his collar was stiff.

  “You look very elegant,” he said as Valda approached him. “And, may I add, extremely beautiful!”

  Valda’s eyes widened in surprise at the compliment.

  She had a feeling it was too familiar and yet at the same time the fact that he obviously admired her appearance made her feel a little warm glow inside.

  Looking at him she realised that he was far better looking than he had appeared in the rough clothes he had worn in the afternoon and without the sombrero that all the guardians wore.

  His hair grew back from a square forehead and his features were clear-cut without being particularly outstanding.

  It was his grey eyes that were the most arresting thing about him.

  There was, Valda decided, a challenge in them, yet at the same time they were uncannily perceptive.

  They reminded her vaguely of her father’s, who always appeared to be searching for something he could not find.

  But where her father’s eyes had a hardness, which came from his strong determination and an inflexible will, Roydon Sanford’s eyes twinkled as if he was amused by life and slightly cynical about it.

  The same, Valda thought, might apply to his mouth.

  It was a firm mouth. But when he smiled there was a twist to his lips, which was disconcerting.

  She could not explain it to herself, except that it gave her a feeling of uncertainty and equally it made her shy.

  She did not answer what he had said. She merely sat down on one of the hard chairs with its mahogany frame and looked up at him questioningly.

  “How could I have imagined when I rose this morning,” he said, “and breakfasted with the Porquiers, that I should find myself this evening dining in state with a very lovely woman?”

  “I was thinking as I changed,” Valda said, “that I was fortunate to have met you. I am sure that you can show me parts of the Camargue that I might never have found on my own.”

  “I can indeed,” Roydon Sanford answered. “Moreover, if you wandered about the Camargue alone, you might encounter real
dangers from the quicksands.”

  “The quicksands?” Valda echoed. “I had no idea there were any!”

  “The sables mouvants, as the French call them, of the Camargue are a very real deterrent to keep strangers away,” Roydon Sanford answered. “The ground looks the same everywhere, but here and there where it is crusted it conceals a natural well of mud and water of anything from a few to twenty feet deep!”

  “How frightening!” Valda exclaimed. “But how do the cattle and horses avoid them?”

  “They do often get lost in them,” he answered, “which is why the guardians keep a sharp eye on them. Everyone will tell you stories of how dangerous it is to walk alone into the marshes.”

  “I am glad you warned me,” Valda said. ‘That is exactly what I had intended to do.”

  “The sables mouvants are not the only danger you might meet from being alone,” he said.

  Valda looked up at him and smiled.

  “I have a feeling you are going to lecture me,” she said. “I shall not listen, so don’t waste your breath!” “Somebody ought to talk to you – and very seriously!” “As I have already told you, I can look after myself!” Valda answered. “And I want to be free!”

  She paused and he asked after a moment,

  “What are you looking for?”

  The question took Valda by surprise. Then, because he had spoken seriously, she answered him lightly and with a frivolous note in her voice,

  “Excitement – adventure and perhaps – love! Why not?”

  “Of course,” Roydon Sanford agreed. “Why not?”

  Chapter Five

  Riding beside Roydon Sanford, Valda thought she had never been so happy.

  It was early in the morning and the air was crisp and clear, the sky, deep blue and infinitely high, promised a hot summer’s day.

  They had been riding for half an hour and the colour of the flowers and the butterflies fluttering above them was breathtaking.

  Yellow flags lined the banks of the irrigation ditches and the shallow edges of freshwater swamps.

  Some of the ponds were covered with the delicate star-shaped blossoms of the wild buttercup, the dainty tamarisks were a warm pink and swarming over them were thousands of yellow, red and brown dragonflies.

  ‘Everything that has happened since I left home has been an enchantment,’ Valda told herself.

  Last night having dinner alone with Roydon Sanford, she had enjoyed it as she had never enjoyed a meal before.

  She felt a little shy as they sat down at the table, wondering how she should amuse and interest him and suddenly feeling inexperienced and very young.

  But as the delicious food was put in front of them by Madame Porquier and they both started to eat hungrily, the barriers seemed to disappear and there was so much to say, so much to discuss.

  They started the meal with the asparagus that grew in long beds outside the farm and to follow there was young lamb cooked with herbs and garnished with mushrooms, small green peppers and courgettes, which had a special flavour.

  To drink there was a famous Rhône wine, which Roydon Sanford told Valda he had brought with him from the vineyards and which tasted like bottled sunshine.

  The dinner ended with a local cheese and fruit picked only a few hours earlier and served in a wicker basket. Even then Valda felt as if they had only just begun their conversation.

  There was so much more to say, but despite her interest she could not help feeling a sudden sleepiness creep over her.

  It might have been in part due to the Rhône wine, but, as her eyelids drooped a little, Roydon Sanford exclaimed,

  “You are tired. You have had a long day and must go to bed. If we are to go riding and try to take photographs of the foals and the flamingos, you will need to be up early.”

  “I was awake soon after four o’clock this morning,” Valda told him almost apologetically. “The gypsies were on the road by five.”

  “Then you have every excuse to be sleepy,” he smiled, “and I need not attribute it to the boringness of my conversation!”

  “It is certainly not that!” she answered. “I have never enjoyed a dinner more, especially as this is the first time I – ”

  She was about to say this was the first time she had ever dined alone with a man, but she felt that would be too revealing. He might ask her questions she would find difficulty in answering.

  She knew from what he had said earlier that he was suspicious that she should be travelling alone and unchaperoned.

  She thought that only by reiterating constantly that she liked her independence and wished to be free, would he really believe her to be one of the modern young women about whom a great deal of criticism was voiced in the newspapers of both France and England.

  “First time for what?” he asked.

  “First time in a Provencal Mas,” she replied.

  As she spoke, she rose from the table and he said,

  “Goodnight, Valda, and sleep well. There are many things to do tomorrow.”

  She put out her hand but, instead of shaking it, to her surprise he kissed it.

  She told herself that he had adopted French manners and, although she felt that she should rebuke him for calling her by her Christian name, it would, she thought, be more in keeping with her pose of independence to expect it.

  *

  She had fallen asleep the moment her head touched the pillow and she awoke in the morning to hear Madame Porquier pull back the curtains.

  “I would have let you sleep on, mademoiselle,” Madame Porquier remarked as Valda gazed at her hazily, wondering for a moment where she was, “but Monsieur Sanford asked me to inform you that he will have the horses outside in half an hour and your breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Horses!” Valda exclaimed and jumped out of bed.

  She came downstairs dressed in her thin leaf-green riding habit just as Madame Porquier carried a large breakfast and steaming hot coffee from the kitchen into the salon.

  Roydon Sanford followed her and Valda’s eyes were shining as she exclaimed,

  “You have persuaded Monsieur Porquier to let me have a horse?” “I have a young mare for you,” he replied. “She is rather skittish, but you assured me that you are an experienced rider.” “You shall see for yourself!” Valda replied.

  They both ate a large breakfast and then, with Roydon carrying the camera, they went out to the yard to find an attractive roan-coloured animal already fitted with a side-saddle for Vanda.

  “Thank you,” Valda said, as Roydon lifted her onto it with his two hands on each side of her waist as he had lifted her the day before.

  Her mount was in fact rather skittish to start with, but they galloped over the grasslands near the farm until as Roydon said, “the monkey has gone out of her!”

  Then they turned towards the swamps where it was wise to go slowly and Valda had a chance to see the birds.

  A dozen herons rose from their nests chattering as they made their way along a narrow, partially clear path through a reed thicket.

  There was the whistle of the marsh harrier, the squeak of the wild rails, the ringing of the bearded tits and then unexpectedly several hundred yards away in the middle of some shallow water Valda saw a mass of pink and white.

  She reined in her horse to stare at the flamingos with delight.

  She could hardly believe that their glorious pink plumage was not a mirage.

  Then, as she realised that they were too far away for her to photograph them, they rose into the air and she heard their desolate unmusical cry.

  They moved away, then, changing direction their leader a little ahead, they flew over Valda and Roydon so low that they could see the rose-red of their legs and under-wings – a brilliant flash of colour in the morning sun.

  One moment they were there, the next they were gone and Valda cried despairingly,

  “I did not have a chance to take a picture of them!”

  “You will see others,” Ro
ydon promised consolingly. “I was not expecting them to be here. If we don’t find them during the day, I know a place where they always seem to be in the evening just before the sun sets.”

  “There are lots of them?” Vanda asked, her disappointment abating a little at his words.

  “Monsieur Porquier tells me that no less than twenty thousand come to the étangs at this time of the year.”

  “I must have a photograph of them!”

  “You will, I promise you,” he said. “In the meantime let’s find the mares. Perhaps you might also take some pictures of the white egrets or the colourful guepier.”

  ‘That means a bee-eater, does it not?” Valda asked.

  “That is right,” he answered. “And occasionally we see parrots here and even the Egyptian ibis which is thought to be an infallible sign of dry weather.”

  “It’s so exciting!” she exclaimed with a little sigh of contentment.

  They rode on and now the reeds were massed almost like a jungle, and, as they moved through them, the birds were rising all the time, protesting noisily at their intrusion.

  It was very beautiful with clumps of tamarisk and occasionally trees and everywhere brilliant flowers and creepers, many of which Valda had never seen before.

  Roydon Sanford drew in his horse.

  “We have to walk from here.”

  “Walk?” Valda questioned in surprise.

  “That is why I insisted on your borrowing a pair of boots from Madame Porquier,” he answered. “This is the place from which to approach what I call ‘the heart of the Camargue’.”

  Looking down at the soft marshy ground where the water gurgled beneath the horses’ hoofs, Valda realised that he had in fact been very sensible in insisting that she wore a pair of rubber boots.

  Madame Porquier told her they had belonged to her daughter who was now married and had left the Mas.

  They were a little large for Valda, but, as she dismounted, she was glad that she had not to walk, as she had yesterday, barefooted.

  There were twigs on the ground that would have been painful, besides the fact that she was not really anxious to feel the muddy frog-infested waters squelching between her toes.

  Roydon took the horses’ bridles and tied the two animals skilfully to each side of a large fallen tree.