Power of the Sword

by Wilbur Smith

  So she settled for a yellow silk evening dress by Coco Chanel. She had worn it before, but in Cape Town, so it was unlikely anybody here had seen it.

  ‘It was expensive enough to bear two airings,’ she consoled herself. ‘Too good for them, anyway.’

  She settled on a pair of solitaire diamond ear studs, not too large to be ostentatious, but around her neck she wore the huge yellow diamond the colour of champagne on a platinum chain. It drew attention to her small pointed breasts; she liked the effect.

  Her hair was a worry, as always. It was full of electricity from the dry desert air. She wished Anna was here, for she was the only one who could manage that lustrous unruly bush. In despair she tried to make a virtue of its disorder, deliberately fluffing it out into a halo and holding it up with a velvet band around her forehead.

  ‘That’s enough fuss.’ She didn’t feel like a party at all. Shasa had left on the mail train as Abe had planned and already she was missing him keenly. On top of that she was anxious to get back to Weltevreden herself and resented having to stay over.

  Abe called for her an hour after the time stipulated on the invitation card that was embossed with the administrator’s coat of arms. During the drive Rachel, Abe’s wife, regaled them with an account of her recent domestic triumphs and tragedies, including a detailed report of her youngest offspring’s bowel movements.

  The administrative building, the Ink Palace, had been designed by the German colonial administration in heavy Gothic imperial style; when Centaine swept a glance around the ballroom, she saw that the company was no better than she had expected. It comprised mainly senior civil servants, heads and deputy heads of departments with their wives, the officers of the local garrison and police force, together with all the town’s prominent businessmen and the big land-owners who lived close enough to Windhoek to respond to the invitation.

  Amongst them were a number of Centaine’s own people, all the managers and under-managers of the Courtney Finance and Mining Company. Abe had provided her with an up-to-date bulletin so that as each came forward diffidently to present their spouses, Centaine was able to make some gracious personal comment which had them glowing and grinning with gratification. Abe stood by to make sure that none of them imposed upon her, and after the appropriate interval gave her the excuse to escape.

  ‘I think we should pay our respects to the new administrator, Mrs Courtney.’ He took her arm and led her towards the reception line.

  ‘I have been able to get a few facts about him. He is a Lieutenant-Colonel Blaine Malcomess and commanded a battalion of the Natal Mounted Rifles. He had a good war and ended with a bar to his Military Cross. In private life he is a lawyer, and—’

  The police band was belting out a Strauss waltz with zeal and gusto and the dance floor was already crowded. As they came up to the tail of the reception line, Centaine saw with satisfaction that they would be the last to be presented.

  Centaine was paying little attention to their host at the head of the line as she moved along on Abe’s arm, leaning across him to listen to Rachel on his other arm who was giving her a family recipe for chicken soup but at the same time Centaine was trying to decide just how early she could make her escape.

  Abruptly she realized that they had reached the head of the line, the very last to do so, and that the administrator’s A.D.C. was announcing them to their host.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Abraham Abrahams and Mrs Centaine de Thiry Courtney.’ She looked up at the man who stood before her and involuntarily she dug her fingernails into the soft inside of Abraham Abrahams’ elbow with such force that he winced. She did not notice it, for she was staring at Colonel Blaine Malcomess.

  He was tall and lean, and he stood well over six feet. His bearing was relaxed without any military stiffness and yet he seemed to be balanced on the balls of his feet as though he could explode into movement at any moment.

  ‘Mrs Courtney,’ he offered her his hand, ‘I am delighted you were able to come. You were the one person I particularly wanted to meet.’ His voice was a clear tenor, with a faint lilt to it that might have been Welsh. An educated and cultivated voice, with modulations which lifted a little electric rash of pleasure on her forearms and at the nape of her neck.

  She took his hand. The skin was dry and warm, and she could feel the restrained strength of his fingers as they pressed hers gently. ‘He could crush my hand like an eggshell,’ she thought, and the idea gave her a delicious little chill of apprehension. She studied his face.

  His features were large, the bones of his jaw and cheek and forehead seemed weighty and massive as stone. His nose was big with a Roman bridge to it, his brow was beetling and his mouth was big and mobile. He reminded her strongly of a younger more handsome Abraham Lincoln. He isn’t yet forty, she estimated, so young for the rank and the job.

  Then she realized with a start that she was still holding his hand, and that she had not replied to his greeting. He was leaning over her, studying her as openly and intently as she was him, and Abe and Rachel were looking from one to the other of them with interest and amusement. Centaine had to shake her hand lightly to free it from his grip, and to her horror she felt the hot rush of blood up her throat into her cheeks.

  ‘I’m blushing!’ It was something she had not done in years.

  ‘I have been fortunate enough to be associated with your family before this,’ Blaine Malcomess told her. His teeth also were large and square and very white. His mouth was wide, even wider when he smiled. A little shakily she smiled back.

  ‘Have you?’ She realized that it wasn’t the most sparkling conversational gambit, but her wits seemed to have deserted her. She was standing there like a schoolgirl, blushing and gawking at him. His eyes were a most startling shade of green. They distracted her.

  ‘I served under General Sean Courtney in France,’ he told her, still smiling. Somebody had cut his hair too short at the temples, it made his large ears stick out. That irritated her – and yet the sticking-out ears made him endearing and appealing.

  ‘He was a fine gentleman,’ Blaine Malcomess went on.

  ‘Yes, he was,’ she replied and upbraided herself, ‘Say something witty, something intelligent – he’ll think you a clod.’

  He was wearing dress uniform, dark blue and gold with a double row of medal ribbons. Since girlhood uniforms had always affected her.

  ‘I heard that you were at General Courtney’s headquarters in Arras for a few weeks in 1917. I was still in the line then; I didn’t go on his staff until the end of that year.’

  She took a deep breath to steady herself and at last managed to get control again. ‘What turbulent days those were, with the universe crashing in ruins about us,’ she said, her voice low and husky, her French accent emphasized a little, and she thought, ‘What is this? What’s happening to you, Centaine? This is not the way it is supposed to be. Remember Michael and Shasa. Give this man a friendly nod and pass on.’

  ‘It seems that I have performed my duties for the moment,’ Blaine Malcomess glanced at his A.D.C. for confirmation and then turned back to Centaine. ‘May I have the honour of this waltz, Mrs Courtney?’ He offered his arm, and without a moment’s hesitation she laid her fingers lightly in the crook of his elbow.

  The other dancers veered away, leaving them an open space as they walked out side by side onto the floor. She turned to face Blaine and stepped into the circle of his arm.

  He didn’t have to move, merely the way he held her told her that he would be a marvellous dancer. Immediately she felt light and dainty and fleet of foot, and she arched her back and leaned out against the circle of his arm while his lower body seemed to meld with hers.

  He took her on one spinning whirling circuit of the floor, and when she matched his every move feather light and swift, he began a complicated series of dips and counter-turns, and she followed him without conscious effort, seeming to skim the ground, yet totally under his control, responding to his every whim.

  When
at last the music ended with a crashing chord and the musicians fell back in their seats sweating and panting, Centaine felt unreasonable resentment towards them. They had not played long enough. Blaine Malcomess was still holding her in the middle of the floor and they were laughing delightedly at each other while the other dancers formed a ring around them and applauded.

  ‘Unfortunately that seems to be it for the moment,’ he said, still making no effort to release her, and his words roused her. There was no longer any excuse for physical contact and she stepped back from him reluctantly and acknowledged the applause with a small curtsey.

  ‘I do think we have earned a glass of champagne.’ Blaine signalled one of the white-jacketed waiters and they stood at the edge of the dance floor and sipped the wine and watched each other’s eyes avidly as they talked. The exertion had raised a light sheen of sweat on his broad forehead and she could smell it on his body.

  They were alone in the centre of the crowded room. With a subtle inclination of her shoulders and head Centaine dissuaded the one or two bolder souls who approached as if to join them, and after that the others stayed back.

  The band, refreshed and eager, took their seats on the bandstand once more and this time launched into a foxtrot. Blaine Malcomess did not have to ask. Centaine set her almost untouched champagne on the silver tray that the waiter proffered and lifted her arms as Blaine faced her.

  The more sedate rhythm of the foxtrot enabled them to continue talking, and there was so much to talk about. He had known Sean Courtney well, and held him in affection and admiration. Centaine had loved him almost as much as she had loved her own father. They discussed the dreadful circumstances in which Sean Courtney and his wife had been murdered, and their mutual horror and outrage at the deed seemed to draw them still closer together.

  Blaine knew the beloved northern provinces around Arras in her native France, and his battalion had held a section of the line near Mort Homme, her home village. He remembered the burnt-out ruins of her family’s château.

  ‘We used it as an artillery observation post,’ he told her. ‘I spent many hours perched up in the north wing.’ His description induced a pleasant nostalgia, a fine sadness to heighten her emotions.

  He loved horses as she did, and was a twelve-goal polo player.

  ‘Twelve goals!’ she exclaimed. ‘My son will be most impressed. He has just been rated a four-goal man.’

  ‘How old is your son?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Very good for a youngster of that age. I’d like to see him in action.’

  ‘That would be fun,’ she agreed, and suddenly she wanted to tell him all about Shasa, but again the music ended and cut her short, and this time he frowned also.

  ‘They are playing very short pieces, aren’t they?’

  Then she felt him start and he released her waist. Though she kept her hand on his arm, the strange elated mood which had gripped them both shattered, and something dark and intrusive passed like a shadow between them. She was not sure what it was.

  ‘Ah,’ he said sombrely. ‘I see she has returned. She really wasn’t at all well this evening but she always was a plucky one.’

  ‘To whom are you referring?’ Centaine asked. His tone had filled her with foreboding and she should have been warned by it, but still the shock of it made her flinch when he said softly:

  ‘My wife.’

  Centaine felt quite giddy for a moment, and she only kept her balance with an effort when she let her hand fall from his arm.

  ‘I would like you to meet my wife,’ he said. ‘May I introduce you to her?’

  She nodded, unwilling to trust her voice, and when he offered his arm again she hesitated before she took it, and this time laid her fingertips only lightly upon it.

  He led her across the floor towards the group at the foot of the main staircase, and as they approached Centaine searched the faces of the women, trying to guess which one it would be. Only two of them were young and none was beautiful, none could compete with her in looks or strength or poise or talent or wealth. She felt a surge of confidence and anticipation replace the momentary confusion and despondency that had thrown her off balance. Without thinking about it she knew she was going into a desperate contest, and she was buoyed up with battle lust and the enormity of the prize at stake. She was eager to identify and assess her adversary and she lifted her chin and set her shoulders as they stopped before the group.

  The ranks of men and women opened respectfully, and there she was, looking up at Centaine with lovely tragic eyes. She was younger than Centaine and possessed of a rare and exquisite beauty. She wore her gentle nature and goodness like a shining cloak for all to see, but her sadness was in the smile she gave Centaine as Blaine Malcomess introduced them.

  ‘Mrs Courtney, may I present my wife Isabella?’

  ‘You dance exquisitely, Mrs Courtney. I have been watching you and Blaine with great pleasure,’ she said. ‘He does so love dancing.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Malcomess,’ Centaine whispered huskily, while inside she raged. ‘Oh, you little bitch. It’s not fair. You aren’t fighting fair. How can I ever win now? Oh God, how I hate you.’

  Isabella Malcomess sat in a wheelchair with her nurse behind her. The ankles of her thin paralysed legs showed under the hem of her evening dress. They were pale and skeletal and her feet seemed fragile and vulnerable in their sequined dancing pumps.

  ‘He’ll never leave you.’ Centaine felt herself choke on her grief. ‘He’s that kind of man – he’ll never desert a crippled wife!’

  Centaine awoke an hour before dawn and lay for a moment wondering at the strange sense of well-being that possessed her. Then she remembered and threw back the sheets, eager for the day to begin. With both bare feet upon the floor she paused, and her eyes instinctively went to the framed photograph of Michael Courtney on the bedside table.

  ‘Michel, I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I love you. I still love you, I always will, but I can’t help this other thing. I didn’t want it. I didn’t look for it. Please forgive me, my darling. It’s been so long and so lonely. I want him, Michel. I want to marry him and have him for myself.’ She took up the frame and for a moment held it to her bosom. Then she opened the drawer, laid the photograph face down upon her folded lace underwear, and closed the drawer again.

  She jumped to her feet and reached for the yellow Chinese silk dressing-gown with the bird of paradise embroidered down the back. Belting it she hurried through to the saloon of the coach and seated herself at her desk to compose the telegraph to Sir Garry in their private code, for the message would be transmitted over the public lines.

  Please urgently forward all intelligence on Lieutenant-Colonel Blaine Malcomess, newly appointed administrator of South West Africa. Reply in code. Love Juno.

  She rang for her secretary and chafed while she waited for him. He came through in a flannel dressing-gown, owl-eyed and unshaven.

  ‘Get that off right away.’ She handed him the flimsy. ‘Then get me Abraham Abrahams on the telephone.’

  ‘Centaine, it’s six o’clock in the morning,’ Abe protested, ‘and we didn’t get to bed until three o’clock.’

  ‘Three hours is enough sleep for any good lawyer. Abe, I want you to invite Colonel Malcomess and his wife to dine with me in my coach this evening.’

  There was a long weighty silence, and the static hissed on the line.

  ‘You and Rachel are invited, of course.’ She filled the silence.

  ‘It’s much too short notice,’ he said carefully, obviously choosing his words with precision. ‘The administrator is a busy man. He won’t come.’

  ‘Get the invitation to him personally.’ Centaine ignored the protest. ‘Send your messenger round to his office and see he gets it. Under no circumstances let his wife receive the invitation first.’

  ‘He won’t come,’ Abe repeated stubbornly. ‘At least I hope to God he won’t come.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she
snapped.

  ‘You are playing with fire, Centaine. Not just a little candle flame, but a great raging bush fire.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine—’ she started, and he broke in on her.

  ‘ – Kiss your own sweetheart, and I’ll kiss mine,’ he finished the childhood law for her, and she giggled. He had never heard Centaine Courtney giggle before; it took him by surprise.

  ‘How appropriate, dear Abe.’

  She giggled again, and his voice was truly agitated when he told her, ‘You pay me an enormous retainer to mind your business for you. Centaine, you set a hundred tongues wagging last night – the whole town will be agog this morning. You are a marked woman, everybody watches you. You just cannot afford to carry on like this.’

  ‘Abe, you and I both know that I can afford to do any damned thing I choose. Send that invitation – please!’

  She rested that afternoon. It had been a late night and she was determined to look her best for the evening. Her secretary woke her a little after four o’clock in the afternoon. Abe had received a reply to the invitation. The administrator and his lady would be pleased to dine with her that evening. She smiled triumphantly, then turned to decode the telegram from Sir Garry which had also arrived while she was asleep.

  ‘For Juno stop. Subject’s full names Blaine Marsden Malcomess born Johannesburg 28 July 1893.’

  ‘So he is nearly thirty-nine years old,’ she exclaimed, ‘and he is a Leo. My big growly lion!’ She returned eagerly to the cable:

  Second son of James Marsden Malcomess lawyer and mining entrepreneur, chairman Consolidated Goldfields and director numerous associated companies, deceased 1922. Subject was educated St John’s College Johannesburg and Oriel College Oxford. Academic honours include Rhodes scholarship and Oriel scholarship. Sporting honours include full blue cricket and half blues athletics and polo. Graduated MA (Hons) Oxon 1912. Called to the Bar 1913. Commissioned 2nd-Lieutenant Natal Mounted Rifles 1914. Service in South West Africa Campaign. Mentioned in despatches twice. Promoted Captain 1915. France with BEF 1915. Military Cross August 1915. Promoted Major and Bar to MC 1916. Promoted Lieutenant-Colonel O.C. 3rd Battalion 1917. Staff of General Officer Commanding 6th Division 1918. Versailles Armistice negotiations on staff of General Smuts. Partner in law firm Stirling & Malcomess from 1919. Member Parliament for Gardens 1924. Deputy Minister Justice 1926–9. Appointed Administrator South West Africa 11 May 1932. Married Isabella Tara née Harrison 1918. Two daughters Tara Isabella and Mathilda Janine.