by Jane Feather
Jasper removed Chloe’s hand from his arm as they reached the table and placed it on Crispin’s. As she felt Crispin’s hand close over hers, Chloe looked up through the gauzy material of her veil at his face hovering in the air in front of her. Unease filtered through the rosy mists of unthinking. She was being married to Crispin. Jasper had said so and that was what was supposed to happen.
But it wasn’t supposed to happen. It mustn’t be allowed to happen. The passionate conviction thrust through the trance and for a second she was aware of her surroundings, of the people around her. She could smell the woodsmoke from the fireplace, the hot candle wax. Her lips moved beneath the veil as if to form some shout of protest, some screaming appeal to the shapes around her. But nothing would come. And then the moment of lucidity was gone and the warm muzziness had returned. She smiled vaguely and obediently stepped up to the table beside Crispin.
Hugo stood outside the closed door to the crypt. The ghosts seemed to come out to meet him as he postponed the moment when he would take the key from its secret shelf under the lintel, open the door, and go inside, down the shallow flight of stone stairs into the labyrinth of cold, vaulted chambers smelling of earth and mold and the grave.
Samuel stood beside him, patiently waiting. It was late afternoon and a flock of rooks circled noisily overhead before settling in a black cloud onto the gaunt branches of a nearby copse. The sleet had stopped, but the darkening sky was still heavy with snow clouds and the wind raced achingly cold across the moor.
“A bit cheerless, this is,” Samuel observed matter-of-factly. “We goin’ to stand out ’ere till we turn to stone?”
“I’m sorry,” Hugo said. He reached under the lintel and his fingers unerringly found the little slot. It was as if he’d been here yesterday. He pulled out the great brass key and fit it into the lock. The door yawned open onto the darkness and the smell came out and hit him. How was it that once that smell had excited him, had been redolent with the exultant sense of things unknown and forbidden? But only on that last occasion had he gone down into the crypt in full possession of his senses … in full awareness of the evil that the excitement had masked.
Samuel lit the lantern he carried, and together they went inside, Hugo pulling the door to behind them. It was unlikely there were any watchers, but it wasn’t worth taking unnecessary risks. He closed his mind to the memories, concentrating only on what had to be done.
“Gawd ’elp us,” Samuel muttered as they descended to the crypt. “What kind of an ’ell’ole is this?”
“You may well ask,” Hugo said, welcoming Samuel’s prosaic commentary. He stood in the vaulted central chamber, holding the lantern high. Everything was in readiness for the night’s ceremonies; fresh altar candles planted in the holders around the bier, the torches newly filled with pitch in their sconces on the walls. The bier was spread with a white damask cloth, a thick pillow at its head. On the long, low table against the far wall stood the flagons of wine, the little pots of herbal magic, the clay pipes for the opium.
He stood very still and let it come back to him. He had to face it if he was to overcome it. He closed his eyes and the room filled with the whispering ghosts of ecstasy and laughter. Limbs twined before his internal vision and on his tongue lingered the bitter aftertaste of the little pellets that sent a man into a world of pleasure beyond imagining as he moved between the smooth white thighs of his partner.
Did Jasper intend giving Chloe the drug before she took her place oh the bier? Such an enhancement of pleasure for one normally so passionate would be beyond words….
“Over here.” He spun on his heel and strode to a dark hole in the far wall. The lantern illuminated the smaller chamber beyond. Samuel followed him up a rough-hewn flight of steps carved into the wall. At the top they opened onto a narrow stone gallery overlooking the crypt. “I’ll be up here,” Hugo said quietly, looking down at the bier.
He took a pair of epees from Samuel and rested them carefully against the low rail of the gallery. On the ledge he placed a narrow box containing two dueling pistols. Silently, he checked the other pistol in his belt, ran his finger down the sharp blade of a cutlass before returning it to the sheath resting snug against his thigh.
“Quite a little armory ye’ve got,” Samuel remarked with satisfaction. He knew Hugo’s skill with both sword and pistol, just as he knew how cold and clear he was under fire. A one-man army, he would wait in ambush and spring his surprise attack with all the careful calculation of a tried campaigner.
“Take your place Outside now,” Hugo said, handing him the key. “You saw where to put this?”
“Aye.” Samuel took the key and the lantern. “Powerful dark it’ll be once I’ve gone.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Hugo said. “You know what to do?”
“Aye,” Samuel repeated as phlegmatically as before. “I’ll be off, then.”
Hugo sat on the stone floor, resting his back against the wall, watching as the flickering light of the lantern retreated. He heard the dull thud as the door closed behind Samuel and he was alone in the darkness. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind of all but the certainty of success.
• • •
You may kiss the bride,” old Elgar mumbled, heaving an audible sigh of relief at the knowledge that he’d somehow muddled successfully through the service.
Crispin slowly lifted Chloe’s veil. His face came close to hers, and suddenly she could see him clearly, every feature sharply defined, just as his mouth came down on hers. A nameless terror chased away the warm languor of indifference, and with a dreadful rush of insight she understood what had happened. She pushed against Crispin, her eyes opening wide, her clear gaze fixed on the Reverend Ponsonby behind her husband.
Crispin drew back, aware of the change in her. Her heart thudded with fear and immediately she dropped her gaze and let her arms lie still at her sides.
“It’s wearing off,” he whispered urgently to his stepfather over Chloe’s head.
Jasper took her arm and drew her away from the makeshift altar. Chloe was now aware that what she had perceived through the mists as a crowd was in fact only a small group of men.
“We must give her some more,” Crispin was whispering as they moved to the side of the hall.
Jasper caught her chin and lifted it. He gazed fixedly at her face. Chloe fought the awareness from her eyes. It was easier than it might have been since she still seemed to have only a tenuous hold on reality. She only knew that she must prevent having that liquid poured down her throat again.
“Too much will defeat the object,” Jasper said quietly. “We don’t want her cataleptic. She’s not eaten properly for two days and the mixture is much more potent on an empty belly.”
Chloe let her eyes wander and a vague smile touched her lips.
Jasper released her face, “She’s all right. I’ll give her something else when we begin.”
Chloe drifted over to a settle beside the massive ingle-nook fireplace and sat down. Her head was beginning to ache and she felt nauseated, but her senses were returning so fast now, they seemed to be tumbling over themselves as full awareness flooded her. She had been married to Crispin. She was Crispin’s wife. Till death.
She kept her eyes down, her hands twisting idly in her silken lap. A spark of firelight caught the sinuous golden twists of the coiled serpent ring they’d put on her finger. Nothing mattered any longer in the face of the fact embodied in the perverted wedding ring. Except Hugo … Hugo was to walk into a trap when they took her to the crypt. He would be forced to watch the ceremony of her initiation and then Jasper would kill him. For herself, the crypt didn’t matter. She was condemned to a life as Crispin’s wife … his prisoner … what else happened to her mattered not a jot. But she must try to help Hugo. If they believed her still drugged, she might have a chance.
She let her head fall back against the settle and closed her eyes. Let them think she was dozing again.
Around her the buzz of noise i
ncreased in volume and she lost all sense of time, and then she heard Jasper’s voice against her ear. “Come, little sister, it’s time to prepare for your wedding night.”
Samuel moved his cold-numbed limbs and took a swig of brandy from his flask. Then he heard the sound of voices. A wavering light fell across the path beyond his hiding place. Boots crunched on the icy ground.
Two men appeared. At the door of the crypt, one of them reached up. Then the door swung open and the two disappeared with their lantern.
Inside, Hugo came alert at the first sound of the key in the door above. He edged farther back against the wall, although he knew he wouldn’t be visible from below. He listened as the two men lit the pitch torches and the altar candles and their light threw giant shadows up onto the vaulted ceiling.
One of the men was Denis DeLacy. He poured wine into a crystal flagon and drank deeply, his eyes roaming over the bier. He opened one of the little pots and shook a small pinch of herbs onto the palm of his hand. He put his tongue to it and licked, waiting for the crackle to start in his head.
Outside, Samuel waited. Then there were more voices, more light, and a group of men came down the path. A shrouded figure walked in their midst and the lantern caught the glimmer of white beneath the cloak and the deep golden radiance of her hair.
Tension ripped through Samuel with a surge of almost unmanageable fury. He breathed long and slow until he had himself in control again. All but two men entered the crypt.
Those two, pistols in their hands, moved to either side of the entrance, each taking up a position in the thick bushes.
They were awaiting the arrival of Hugo Lattimer.
Samuel waited until the deep night silence of the countryside had reasserted itself after the flurry of arrival. Then he moved. He moved like a sylph made of air, belying his size.
The first man didn’t know what had hit him when the flat edge of a hand chopped at the base of his skull. He went down into the underbrush without a murmur. The second man half turned as the dark bulk of a figure sprang at him. His finger slipped on the trigger of his pistol, a cry, strangled at birth, broke from his lips as the hand chopped at his throat and he went down like his partner.
Samuel eased open the heavy door to the crypt. He slid through the narrowest gap he could manage and then crouched in the shadows at the top of the stairs. He held a pistol in each hand, a wicked double-bladed knife in a sheath in his boot. He could hear the voices from below clearly.
Chloe stood still in the middle of the chamber. Her eyes darted surreptitiously from side to side as she took in her surroundings. This was the place that had created Hugo’s painted devils. The evil miasma of the place rose up from the tombstone slabs of the floor, seemed to writhe out of the stone walls with the serpentine flickering of the pitch torches. This was the place where Hugo had killed her father.
For some reason she wasn’t frightened. The last residues of the drug she’d been given had vanished and she was as clear-headed as she’d ever been. Even her hunger had disappeared, although she was conscious of a void inside her. But it was a void that seemed to create the energy that thrummed in her veins, infusing her mind and body.
When would Hugo come? She had to save him. It was the only thought, the only purpose, and since she had no plans, she must rely on instinct and circumstance as they arose.
Someone was taking the cloak from her shoulders. A rapt silence fell as she stood in her pure white gown with her golden hair, now loosened, falling about her shoulders.
Then Hugo spoke, his voice echoing in the silence. “It seems we finally come to a meeting, Jasper.”
They all looked upward. Hugo, in his shirt-sleeves, swung one leg over the narrow rail of the gallery. He held the two epees in one hand. With a twist of his wrist he sent one of them spinning down.
Automatically, Jasper reached up and caught the hilt in his gloved hand.
In stunned silence but as if under the command of one will, the group of men moved backward against the wall. Chloe was at first thunderstruck, then filled with a wild exultation. Hugo had set his own trap.
Suddenly Jasper laughed. “I wasn’t expecting you to be ahead of me, Lattimer. I forgot that you’re now a model of sobriety and clear-thinking. An oversight—and a pity … as I had your reception so well prepared. However—” He raised his epee in a fencer’s salute. “As you say, we have unfinished business. Let us finish it.”
Hugo swung his other leg over the gallery rail and jumped down. It was a long jump, but he landed easily on the balls of his stocking feet—a man who’d spent many years climbing the rigging of a ship of the line.
“I’ve pistols, if you prefer,” he offered courteously, watching as Jasper also shrugged out of his coat.
“No … no …” Jasper said calmly, bending to pull off his boots. “It should be done according to ritual, as always.”
“And according to ritual, the honor of the woman falls to the victor.”
“Exactly so.”
Chloe understood what was happening; Jasper’s bedtime story had left nothing out, and she knew all the details of the rules and rituals of the Congregation. Hugo was fighting for her as he’d fought for her mother. If he won, then she would never have to take her place in the crypt again. If he lost … but then nothing would matter. If he lost, he would be dead. The duels of the Congregation were always mortal combat.
Crispin was hissing through his teeth, his body very close to Chloe’s. Hugo suddenly turned to look at Chloe for the first time. “Go and stand on the stairs, lass,” he instructed in even tones.
“But I—”
“Do it!”
For once she obeyed immediately, and as she reached the stairs understood the reason for the order. Samuel was standing in the darkness behind her. Hugo was not going to play by the rules. Even if he lost, she would not be abandoned to the Congregation.
The two men saluted each other. Then Hugo said softly, “En garde.” He lunged in a straight thrust and Jasper parried in quarte. The blades met and disengaged.
Chloe watched with a numb and dreadful fascination as the two men danced over the tombstone slabs, their blades glimmering, flashing with an almost impossible speed, moving from one position to another in a rapid series of attacks and counterattacks as they probed for, an opening in their opponent’s guard. It seemed to her that neither man held the attack for more than one engagement, as each attack was parried, the defender became the attacker.
Ten … fifteen … twenty minutes it went on, and it seemed impossible that any man could maintain such speed and accuracy for another second.
Finish it … please God, finish it. The prayer went around and around in Chloe’s head. She could feel their growing fatigue amid the desperate clashing of invincible wills … the desperate purpose that fueled them both … the terrifying knowledge of imminent death.
Then came a moment when Hugo seemed to fall back on one knee, his free hand grazing the floor, then he sprang upright as Jasper’s blade thrust beneath his arm, twisting sideways so the deadly attack met only air. His own blade caught his opponent’s and the ring of steel echoed in the hushed vault. Hugo offered a feint to his opponent’s forearm, and as Jasper jumped back to gather for a reprise, Hugo’s blade came down and under.
Jasper fell to his knees, his blade clattering to the ground. Blood welled from his side.
Crispin with a frenzied hiss leapt forward, grabbing up his stepfather’s weapon. His salute was perfunctory. “En garde.”
Hugo didn’t seem to draw breath. He parried his new opponent’s attack smoothly, moving backward, allowing Crispin to press the attack as he assessed the skill of the younger man. He knew he was exhausted. Just as he knew that for one almost fatal second he had allowed himself to believe he’d won and it was over. Now he had to face the knowledge that it was far from over.
Chloe gasped in horror at this villainous intervention. She gazed around the room, waiting for someone to protest, to call a halt to such an
infamously unfair fight. But they all remained still, watching closely. Denis was licking his lips almost convulsively in his anxiety, and once his eyes darted across to her, predatory and filled with hungry anticipation.
Hugo moved backward, invited a thrust in sixte, counterattacked to Crispin’s left shoulder, lunged as his opponent feinted, and saw the épée snaking into his forearm too quickly to evade. It sliced through his shirt, nicking the skin. It was no fatal strike, but it was a deadly warning.
Chloe’s heart seemed lodged somewhere in her throat, so she could hardly breathe. Her eyes raced around the crypt. Now no one seemed interested in her; their eyes were all fixed on the lethal combat. Jasper had been pulled to the side of the crypt and someone was staunching his wound. His eyes were closed and his labored breathing was an audible accompaniment to the ring of steel on steel.
She began to sidle around the wall until she stood against the strange, damask-covered, candlelit table. She licked the finger and thumb of one hand, slipped the hand behind her, and pinched out the flame of one of the candles. Then slowly she brought the heavy candlestick down to her side. All eyes were still on the two men locked in their mortal struggle.
She inched forward again. Sweat glistened on Hugo’s brow; his face was drawn in a rictus of determination and exhaustion. Both men’s movements were slowing perceptibly, but Crispin maintained the edge, pressing his attack.
Hugo felt now as he imagined Stephen had felt, facing his inevitable defeat at the hands of a younger, stronger man. But Crispin was not stronger … just younger and fresher. He tried to hang on to that, to keep at bay the destructive forces of hopelessness, but the blood was thundering in his head and his lungs screamed for air.
