Thirty-Three
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.
The aristocrat’s hard resolve could not last. Soon he moved as if in
chains, every step a punishment. This man who had begun life so high, gliding easily and arrogantly down the gentle incline, now found himself struggling bitterly just to reach the level ground of final judgment.
Halfway up it was clear that he should go no further. His breath came in tight gasps, as almost unconsciously he clutched at the growing pain in his left arm and shoulder.
Becoming alarmed, his orderly called a halt, and approached his failing master. “Your Lordship must rest,” he whispered emphatically. But the others looked down in sneering silence. As soon as he regained his breath the old man pushed him off, and said harshly.
“We go on.”
“But surely,” said Purceville, in his best native tongue. “’Tis no trouble to stop.”
“We move!” The procession continued, always upward.
Ten steps from the top, Arthur collapsed. Rushing toward him with a look of sudden concern, the Lord Purceville lifted his shriveled form, and carried it like an injured child up to the broad final landing.
“Oh, this is bad,” he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine him. “I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings,” (this was the orderly), “Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary’s heart. I’ll do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move him.” The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the steps.
As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest.
“Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He’ll be nine parts down before he remembers he can’t get out without my key. And he’s half winded as it is.”
“You must not take that for granted!” growled Purceville, himself not immune to the rigors of the climb. “Did you bring the flask as I told you?”
“Of course.” And a look of reproach.
“Then give it to me. Now!”
Ballard glared at him, but the other was not even looking. He lifted the tin from his pocket, and placed it in Purceville’s outstretched hand.
Burning with rage, Henry Purceville took the fine embroidered handkerchief from the breast pocket of the crumpled man. Then soaked it with water, and brought it slowly toward his face.
“What are you going to do?” ejaculated Arthur helplessly. But his voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper, and his imagined safety deserted him.
“This is for the soldiers, your Highness. And for me.” And the son of a sailor stuffed the cloth full into his mouth. Then with one great hand holding the jaw shut, he pinched off the nose with the other, and stopped all flow of air.
The old man could not endure it long. Suffocating, struggling to breathe and break free, his heart gave one last, violent pump, then seized and ceased forever. The life slowly left his body, and his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. Earl Emerson Arthur, was dead.
But a moment later a sound became audible below: the soft rasp of leather on stone. The orderly was returning.
Purceville reached hurriedly into the dead man’s mouth and began to pull out the soiled cloth, but too late. The orderly turned the final arc, his head rising above the floor of the landing. . .and he saw. The scene before him, the events of the entire evening, required no further explanation.
“You--- You’ve killed him!”
And though weary to his very bones, the man whirled and flew down the steps once more. For now his own life was in danger, and the fear of death worked like lightning on his limbs, still young enough to respond. It could not occur to him that he was still trapped inside the tower (as he had realized halfway down), or that all its doors remained locked to him. He only knew that these men would try to kill him, and that he still wanted to live.
“What are you waiting for?” bellowed Purceville at his Lieutenant. “Go after him!” But Ballard stood very still, his eyes narrowing.
“And what about them bitches?” he said, motioning with his head toward the door of Mary’s cell, pierced by the barred window. “They heard the whole of it, too.”
“Fool!” cried Purceville, with deliberate menace. “They’ll not live out the night. Now go!”
Ballard lowered his head, then walked sullenly past his two superiors: the one living, the other dead. He began to descend in pursuit, but his pace was far from running.
After a time he slowed to a walk. . .then finally stopped altogether. He knew the man could not escape him. The thick and impenetrable door sealed him in, and two of his own men guarded the long, unapproachable corridor. No outsider would hear his cries, or come to his aid.
But this was not what made him pause. Things were becoming too complicated, as the old man took more and more chances to protect himself. And what if he failed? Who had been his ‘loyal right hand’ these many years, doing the dirty work, and taking all the risks?
“Toby Ballard,” he muttered. “That’s who. And likely to have my neck stretched for the trouble.” That very day he had killed a King’s messenger---the man Arthur had despatched---for which he might well taste the gallows.
And there was yet one more bitter savor added to the stew: he had developed a weakness for the girl. What he felt for his ‘little prisoner’ could hardly be called love, and he knew that in time she would have to be done away with. But to be killed by him, tonight, before his desire had been met and served..... He sat down on a middle landing, neither high nor low, trying to work it all through in his mind.
For the Lord Purceville had misjudged him. What this man felt for him was not loyalty, but merely a primal respect for his strength, such as any pack animal might feel. And now that strength had begun to fail. Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he’s killed I go my own way. But who was the meanest dog now, and which side would prevail? Arthur was dead, but the power of the Crown.....
These were the things he tried to weigh, knowing that very soon he must decide. And then he must act.