Thirty-Six
Perhaps a mile from the garrison, the bony ridge to the left of the road began to decline and pull back, leaving in its place a high, grassy plateau. This continued largely unbroken to the Castle, due north, ending to westward in a stark precipice that fell for a thousand feet into the churling seas below. At this same point the road began a long, slow loop to the right, at length bending back to meet the fortified drawbridge at the Castle’s eastern gate.
Here Stephen turned off the weathered track, moving up into the lateral plain. Michael plodded on behind him, still bound, his wrists raw and aching. So convincing had Purceville’s performance been before the garrison---so rough and disdainful his treatment of the prisoner---that Michael himself was not certain how things now stood between them. But a short distance from the precipice the Englishman checked his horse and dismounted, approaching him.
“I underestimated you,” said the Highlander. To this the other did not reply, but sternly set to work loosing the bonds.
“This much I did for you,” said Stephen, as the last knot fell away. “What I do from here on is for myself, and for the girl.”
“I ask no more.” Nothing was said about the pistol, which the Englishman did not return. For Michael knew that the time for weapons and fighting was passed. Now there was only the Tower, and the sea.
The two mounted, and rode the remaining distance carefully, the horse weary and unsure beneath them. And soon the hard dark walls of the fortress were sharply outlined against the tattered sky beyond.
Drawing closer still, Stephen guided the reluctant animal to the very edge of the cliffs upon their left. Far below the seas crashed sullenly against the unyielding stone, or hissed dark warnings upon the sands of a shallow inlet. Michael strained his eyes for any sign of the waiting skiff, but distance and darkness defied him.
And soon the great, cornering Tower frowned black and menacing before them. They dismounted, feeling small, perhaps a hundred yards away, in the hollow beneath a wind-riven oak.
Together they advanced on foot, through the cold stubble-grass, until they were halted by the rounded bulge of the Tower itself. Immediately to the right of it a dry, deep-cloven moat had been cut into the stone foundation, encircling the Castle on its three exposed sides. The fourth, to westward, was protected by the fall of cliffs behind.
But the Tower itself needed no such fortification. Two hundred feet high, its thick and unscalable walls showed no opening for at least half that distance, and then only a staggered spiralling of high narrow windows for archers. The only other feature it showed beneath the crowning battlements, were the lizard- and gargoyle-headed drainspouts, which in centuries past had been used to pour boiling oil down upon the heads of would-be attackers, along with a volley of arrows and a shower of stones.
Craning his neck to look up at it, Michael saw neither light nor sentinel, either in the Tower itself, or upon the high, adjacent wall. For none were needed. Sheer physical impassability guarded this bulwark turned prison, where there could be no thought of rescue or escape. The Berserkers themselves had not been able to storm its fastness, and they were five centuries gone and forgotten.
Here at the last, Michael realized the full desperation of his scheme. It would take a near perfect throw to reach the upper windows with one of the projectiles in which he placed such hope. And as Stephen had said, they didn’t even know which cell the women were in. He could not look at Purceville now, who surely must be sneering at his ‘faith’ and naiveté.
So there it was. To have come so far, and overcome such obstacles, only to be defeated in the end by cold, indifferent stone. His whole soul longed to cry out her name in passionate summons. . .but he dared not. For though the walls were blind, surely there were ears within to hear his desperation, and descend upon them like angry birds of prey. Feeling utterly lost, he lifted the great coil from his shoulders, and let it fall in a useless heap to the ground. And hung his head, unable for a time to continue.
But when he raised it again, unvanquished, his eyes caught a gleam of something bright and solid in the grass, as for a moment the moon shone down clear and unobstructed. He moved closer, before the pale light could hide itself once more. Was it possible.....
The ring! He lifted it gently, as if it were a thing of smoke which might dissolve upon his touch. But the slender band remained.
“What is it?” asked Stephen.
“A sign,” replied the Highlander.
And with these words all the hope and urgency of his task returned to him. “It is my mother’s. . .it is Mary’s ring, cast down as a marker from one of the cells above.” He turned again to face the Tower, careful to stand in the exact spot where he had found it. “The way the windows are staggered, it could only have come from the uppermost story. Would that make sense, based on your knowledge of the Tower?”
“Yes,” said Stephen, understanding. “And it would suit my father’s temperament as well. He’ll have done everything possible to intimidate.....”
But Michael was no longer listening. Instead he ran with sudden resolution, back to the startled horse, and removed the saddlebags. Returning again, but this time not so close, he tried to gauge the height and distance exactly, then poured out his bundles on the ground.
* * *
The two women sat huddled together in fear, at the farthest point from the wretched, inadequate door. For as Ballard suspected, they had heard every word of the murderous doings beyond it, including Lord Purceville’s promise that they would not live out the night.
Of all the moments Mary had yet endured, this was undeniably the darkest. To hear one’s death sentence pronounced is a trial few can face. To hear the words spoken by her own father, the man who had brought her into the world, who should have loved and cared for her above all others. . .was a horror so black it nearly clove her heart in two. She hunched together, pale and shivering with fright---unable to act, or even to think.
And yet it was only in that, most desperate of corners, that the true strength of her spirit revealed itself. Her slow-awakened courage, pushed to its final need, became galvanized at the last, not a momentary surge, to be swept away as soon as anger left her, but a permanent foundation, underlying all. The will to live, and to resist the evil that would snuff out that life, rose so strong in her that it was all she could do not to cry out in rage.
Clenching her jaws to keep the lower from trembling, she broke away from the helpless embrace and began to move across the floor on all fours, searching for the blade that she had earlier discarded.
With this, Anne Scott too seemed to gather herself, and perceiving her niece’s intention, began to search for the knife as well. All done in the poor and inconstant light from without, and with the urgency that only threat of death can bring.
It was no easy task. For the uneven paving stones held many cracks, with scattered straw overlying all. But at last Mary’s hand touched steel, and her fingers closed around it.
A moment later two sounds were heard, one almost in answer to the other. First came Ballard’s heavy tread upon the threshold of the landing. Then somewhere in the distance, a startled horse gave voice to its weary confusion.
As if with one mind the women sought each other out. Then locking arms, they turned all senses outward, poised for instantaneous action. Together they heard the rough speech of the men outside the door, at the same time wondering with secret hope what rider had approached the outer walls, where none had come before.
“Where have you been?” growled Purceville angrily. “What did you do with him?”
“Mister Cummings met with an accident. He was in such haste to bring help to his dying master, that he missed his footing and fell headlong down the stairs. Broke his neck. An ugly accident, but natural enough.”
“Good,” said Purceville more calmly. “Good work.” But Ballard would have none of it.
“So the death of these two we can explain,” he said flatly. “But how are you going to explain throttling them bitches?”
“I’m not, Lieutenant, and I suggest you watch your tongue.” He paused, perceiving for the first time the danger of the man before him. Not even his son knew more..... “We throw the bodies out the window, then have them collected by Simon’s men and hurled into the sea. Arthur’s escort will be too unnerved by his death to remember why he came here tonight, if they ever knew. Then tomorrow we put two other women in their place---my former mistress and her mother---who’ll say only what we tell them to say. All done as neat as neat.”
“Well it don’t sound such a sure thing to me,” rumbled Ballard, whose one thought amidst the closing web of treacheries was to have his way with the girl, possibly even steal her away.
“So who bloody asked you!” cried Purceville, drawing a great pistol from the inner lining of his coat. But the sudden outburst brought an answering pain from his chest, and he fell back against the wall for support. Yet he still had fire enough to point the weapon squarely at his subordinate, who had taken a menacing step towards him.
“I catch my breath. . .then we go in, and do it!” Ballard could only glare at him, his hopes for lust slipping away.
The two women, holding whispered counsel of their own, had begun to form plans for an ambush, when a second unexplained sound met their ears. Soft, but infinitely nearer it came: some round and yielding object had struck the floor gently, then bounded a short distance further with a rustle of hay.
Again Mary dropped down on all fours, groping, but this time toward a more definite source. Again her hand met something solid, which she could not at first identify. It seemed to be. . .a ball of twine, wrapped about some heavier object.
“Anne,” she whispered anxiously, rejoining her companion. “It must have been cast through the window. What can it be?”
Holding it up in what poor light could be found, the older woman made out a tiny sheet of parchment wrapped beneath the first few strands, on which some kind of message had been scrawled. She hurriedly worked it out with her fingers, beginning to understand. Recognizing the word ‘rope’, as well as the hand which must have written it, she needed no further explanation.
“It is your way out,” she replied firmly. “Yours. Remember that, both of you. And as you love me, do as I say. You must leave me behind.” With that she moved swiftly to the window, and wrapping the end of the twine securely about her left hand, with her right cast the remaining bundle as hard and as far as she could.
Michael, still at his distance, unsure of success, did not see her. But Stephen could; and sensing the same urgency that had driven the Highlander to sudden action, he called to him in a harsh whisper.
“Michael!”
The slender cord had unraveled perhaps half the necessary length to reach the ground when, catching slightly, it pulled the remaining ball back against the Tower wall. But the force of impact loosed the snag, and the weight of the stone within carried it bouncing and unwinding to the turf below.
Michael, coming forward, still had not seen his mother. But he saw the shrunken ball of twine, reduced to almost nothing, and wasted not an instant.
Seizing the end of the rope, which lay but a short distance off, he tied the thinner cord firmly below the first of the spaced knots, then tugged gently in signal. Only then did he look up to see the female form leaning out, and with frozen breath, watched the life-line beginning to ascend.
Anne Scott held the tensing line away from the wall for as long as she could, till the growing weight of the rope forced her to bring it closer to her body, praying that the twine would not catch and tear against the stone. Mary stood guard behind her, the knife clenched, trying to understand what was happening. Anne Scott stepped back. The rope was in her hand.
“.....I tell you I don’t like it,” snapped Ballard just beyond. “And what if I told you I hadn’t got the key?”
“I’d blow your God damned head off.”
Searching the floor, the widow found the iron hoop through which ancient shackles had once been passed. She put the end of the rope through and tied it fast, tested it with a severe pull, then guided Mary quickly to the window.
“Over the side with you, Mary,” she whispered. “No time for fear. Michael is below with your brother. Yes! Give me the weapon. . .now up into the sill. That’s it. Keep firm hold of the rope, and use the knots to guide you down. Climb swiftly but carefully, then be gone, both of you! I’ll deal with this lot.”
Hardly knowing what had happened, Mary found herself outside the window, clutching a dark rope with all the desperate strength of youth. She tried at first to gain some foothold, then in a moment of panic, to reach up and climb back into the sill. But the groping hand slid away, and the downward momentum twisted her body outward..... She hung by one hand above the void, as a sudden wind ripped across her, and the surf beat hungrily against the rocks far below. Fear choked her nearly to paralysis. But there was something else, there on the solid ground. Two figures stood, one of them.....
Twisting her body and using her legs for leverage, she turned again to face the stone, and with her right hand, once more took firm hold of the lifeline.
Not looking down, breath coming in gasps and limbs trembling, she began to descend, her feet wrapped tightly, tensely sliding from one catch-knot to the next.
When she dared to look again she was halfway down, and Michael was standing beneath her, arms wide as if to embrace the sky.
Anne Scott heard the key being turned in the lock. But for all her determination, the great hulking figure who threw open the door was too fast for her. As she moved swiftly toward him, the knife raised, her motion was checked by a savage blow that felled her at once, and left her all but senseless. The Lord Purceville, with the light behind him had seen her coming, and with his great fist crashed her to the floor.
Moving past her as his eyes strained to adjust to the gloom, he swept the cold shadows of the chamber like a ravening wolf that had lost sight of its prey. For a moment he despaired, as it became clear that the girl was gone.
But then he saw the rope, rising tautly from the floor and over the lip of the sill. Himself not wasting an instant he ran to the window, shifted his bulk, leaned over and out of it. Seeing the girl still descending far below, he swept out his own knife and began cutting into the strands one by one.
Michael was too intent upon the progress of his nearing lover to take in the dark bulge that appeared at the window. Mary never thought to look up, but only continued to descend.
Perhaps twenty feet from the ground she suddenly felt the rope begin to give. Releasing her hands once each, she instinctively pushed away from the wall--- The last strands gave way as she fell back, stifling a scream.
Michael caught her, shielding her body with his own; but the force of impact sent them both to the ground. Together they rose, embracing and in tears. . .until slowly they perceived the danger that awaited them.
And it came not from above, where Lord Purceville knew that any shot was as likely to strike his son as the two lovers. . .but from directly behind them. More sinister than raw violence, because it came from an unguarded quarter, the dark spectre of betrayal rose before them.
Stephen Purceville stood with the pistol at arm’s length, his eyes fastened with twisted vehemence upon the turning form of the Highlander, his passion all the greater for the torment of his soul.
“Stephen!” cried the girl in sudden terror. For in her mind’s eye she recalled the dream: Michael standing blind and helpless, returned from the dark pool of Death, only to find its second emissary standing ruthless and final before him. As in the dream, the messenger of hate knew no entreaty. His eyes and voice were cold as steel.
“I vowed that I would help you win her freedom. That I have done. But I will not surrender her to you. The girl will come away with me, or be buried here beside you.”
“No,” said Michael flatly. “No.”
“I’ll kill you!” cried the betrayer. And the scarlet arm began to stiffen in the firing motion.
But at the very instant he would have shot, Mary stepped before her only love, willing to die to save him.
A moment later the Englishmen was confronted by something more unnerving still. For it was not the love loyalty of another, but his own, unrealized devotion. A cry was heard from above: not a scream, for it contained rage as well as fear. Like a stone from a precipice it fell, and like a stone struck the earth beside him, changing to the horror of his eyes from a formless clot. . .into the writhing figure of a man. His father lay, broken and dying, on the ground.
And from the Tower above came another sound, as if in answer to his pain: a howl of laughter so complete, so devoid of all remorse..... Ballard had come up behind his leaning master and, all other base pleasures denied him, with his own strong and gnarled hands, hurled the aging tyrant to his death.
Casting away the pistol as if itself the instrument of murder, Stephen fell to his knees before his father.
“What can I do!” he cried. And while the man’s tortured movements grew less, the son knew in his heart that this was not the easing of pain, but the end of all struggle, brought by death.
The Lord Purceville had just strength enough to turn his head once, and view the flesh that would outlive his own. But that was all. The life flowed out..... Angelica. I’m sorry.
Too late. He had tried to kill his own daughter. His eyes rolled back, and he was dead.
Stephen’s head shot back in agony, as he released a sound more bestial than human. All was dead for him. He was alone.
But no tears would form, nor did he wish them to. The one emotion that still burned, and seemed capable of sustaining him, was revenge. He rushed blindly back and remounted the horse. And brandishing the sword, rode away toward the gate in a fury, as if the lovers did not exist.
Anne Scott remained prone on the floor, her mind dazed but her senses still aware. She had seen Lord Purceville go to the window, as she had watched his treacherous Lieutenant move behind him. . .and heard the long fall to ruin.
Now she lay very still, as the man remained with his back to her, perhaps in contemplation of what to do next. Moving one arm only, she again found the knife, which had not slipped far from her grasp. And she in turn felt a strong temptation to creep up behind him..... But all around her was the taste of murder and death. And for the love she still bore her children, she could not.
Then Ballard, for reasons known only to himself, turned away and walked past her, out of the cell, and locked the door behind him.
Mary was the first to regain her senses. For a warning bell had tolled somewhere within the Castle, and now an answering shot was heard from the garrison below.
“We’ve got to get out of here, Michael.”
“But my mother.....”
“Go!” came a woman’s voice, descending from on high with the strength and finality of angels. The two looked up to see the widow’s stern form pointing out and away, not in gesture, but command: they were to live, and go on giving.
Michael looked to the ground, to the wasted rope, then into the eyes of the young life entrusted to his care. And for all the pain it cost him, he was left no choice.
“I'll come back for you!” he cried. “I love you!”
And taking Mary by the hand, he led her to a crease in the cliffs, where a knife-slash path led to the sheltered cove far below. There, in that place removed, he could only hope that the fisherman was waiting with a boat.