As the shadows of afternoon grew long, deepening toward sunset,
Michael began the final preparations. Trying to suppress his own
anxiety, he saddled the horse slowly and with care. He stroked its
flanks, checked its limbs and hooves, all the while speaking softly
and steadily. For this animal must not only carry them a considerable
distance, but be silent and disciplined when they arrived.
It was a good mount, he reassured himself, sturdy and well trained.
Whatever its master's faults, he had clearly loved and cared for his
horse.
With a sudden pang of sorrow and exhaustion, he remembered who that
man had been, and to what end he had come. The unfairness of life, the
endless cruelty.....
No. He could not give in. Whatever happened this night, to himself and
the ones he loved, rested squarely on his shoulders. He must act. He
must find a way.
As he finished, and led the mare toward the hut, Stephen stepped out
of it. "You're coming?" Michael asked him, as calmly as he could.
"Nothing has changed," replied Purceville stiffly. "We've got to get
her out. All else comes after."
"Good," said Michael thickly. "Good..... Will you hold her while I
fetch the rope?" The other nodded.
Once inside, Michael slung the long, heavy coil across his neck and
shoulder, then reemerged into the still, expectant air. The time had
come.
He bowed his head in silence, but no words of prayer would come to
him. Instead he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes to the task
that lay ahead. He nodded tersely to his companion. Then began to
descend, with Stephen leading the animal behind.
Upon reaching the branching of ways, it was agreed that neither would
ride until they came down from the rough mountain paths, onto
smoother, more tractable ground. They walked, as distance and Night
closed around them.
* * *
"What is it, Anne? What's wrong?"
"I don't know, Mary. A premonition. . .something." She stood up and
shook herself against the cold, but the feeling remained.
At first she thought to keep it to herself, out of habit, and to
protect the girl. But they had grown so close these long, empty days
in the cell, with little to eat and only the shelter of each other's
bodies to keep them from despair. All barriers had fallen away,
leaving them what in fact they were: two frail and frightened human
beings, surviving both physically and emotionally by sharing the same
warmth, the same breath, the same meager sustenance. She could not
hide anything from her now.
"I feel," she went on, "as if something terrible is going to happen."
"To Michael?" Both understood so many things without words.
"No, Mary, I don't think so. Perhaps to us..... Someone is going to be
murdered, and it will happen in this room."
* * *
The banquet hall was again nearly full, though the air was far from
festive. Both camps seemed to realize that something major had
occurred in the battle between their respective leaders, and to sense
that something further would happen that night. Only Purceville
himself, and the large, rough-looking officer to his right, appeared
unconcerned.
The meal proceeded, largely in silence. Then, as the cloth was drawn,
the Governor rose and began to propose a series of toasts.
There was nothing unusual in this. Rather, it seemed the act of a
genial host, trying to smooth over the obvious tension of his guests.
"Gentlemen, I give you the health of the King.
"Gentlemen, to a strong and united Britain." And so forth.
But after these stock phrases, suitable for such an occasion, his
words began to take on a more personal tone, which bordered at times
on outright sarcasm.
During the first several toasts, Arthur had worn the air of a
righteous man who would not be pacified. But as their nature and
content became more inflammatory, and their number far exceeded
decorum, he became first agitated, then flushed and quite angry. The
latter speeches of Purceville ran something like this:
"Gentleman, to the health of vibrant leaders." To Arthur, an obvious
slur against his age and recurring angina.
"Gentlemen, to the gallant soldiers who conquer and protect, so that
others may live comfortably from their labors." The Secretary had
never been more than a token officer, nor served in a single campaign.
"Gentlemen, to those with the strength and courage to make their own
way in the world." And so on.
Finally the aged aristocrat stood defiantly, and raised his own cup
high. "I see no gentleman
before me," he retorted. "But I will answer his challenge." And he
glared about the room. "To the truth about low-born men. And to those
who will not leave their treachery in darkness, but hold it forth in
the hard light of day."
The gathering, already hushed and apprehensive, now fell silent as a
stone. For unlike his rival, Arthur had made no attempt to hide his
animosity, or to engage in verbal cat-and-mouse.
But Purceville only smiled blithely. "Splendid!" he cried, as if the
remark could not possibly have been directed at him. He drained his
goblet with a flourish, then crashed it gaily back down onto the
table. Anyone who did not know him well (and there were many present
who did not), might have thought him too deep in his cups.
"Well, my friends," he said, a bit unsteadily. "It has been a lovely
evening. But sadly, all things must come to an end.....
"For now there is work to be done. In the name of that same truth
which the Earl so eloquently serves, he and I must be off on an errand
of our own. We are going to interview a lady
." And he raised his eyebrows suggestively, the very portrait of a man
who had lost all restraint. "Lieutenant Ballard will accompany me, as
my faithful right hand in all things. But perhaps Earl Arthur would
feel more secure with a somewhat larger retinue?" Again (to Arthur)
the underlying insult, the slur against his courage and character.
"My orderly officer will be more than sufficient escort for me,"
returned the Secretary. "To record the events of our interview. For I
am sure that I
will have nothing to fear, once the truth is known."
"Bravo," said the larger man heartily. "Your strength and vitality are
an inspiration to us all. Now gentlemen, if you will excuse us."
Purceville himself led the way, as the four-man procession filed out
of the room, leaving behind the light and heat of the banquet hall.
And on toward the back reaches of the Castle.
"I'm afraid it's rather a long way," he said, as they turned the first
corner. "Perhaps the Earl might care to take a short rest?"
"Your audience is gone, Purceville. This is between you and me. I may
not be as young as you; but by God I'd walk to the ends of the earth
tonight!"
"Of course." And after a time. "One last corridor."
When they reached the massive Tower door, Ballard drew out his ring of
keys. Inserting the largest, he turned it roughly in the lock, then
pushed in on the heavy oak barrier with a groan of iron hinges. A dark
opening awaited them.
The company stepped inside, and were enfolded in echoes. To their
right, illumined by a single, recessed lamp, stood the beginnings of
an ancient stairway, cold stone that spiralled out of sight. Ballard
relocked the door behind them, then took up a torch, and lighted it at
the lamp.
"Perhaps you should reconsider, Earl? I'm afraid the ladies in
question reside on the uppermost story."
Arthur ground his teeth in impotent wrath. He had eaten and drunk
obstinately at the meal, as if to prove himself. He had taken the
bait, and dug the hook deep into his flesh. And though now a part of
him smelled the trap, his pride would not let him back down. For the
strong wine had gone to his head, and he believed himself more than he
was.
"I shall go wherever you lead," he said hotly, unable to control
himself. "To bury you, I would descend into Hell itself."
"Very well, Secretary. My second will lead the way with the torch.
Watch your step, and be sure to tell us if you begin to flag along the
way."
Ballard suppressed a grin of pleasure, and began to climb. The others
followed.