Beauvallet (30 page)

She gave a short laugh at that. Now she could despise him to the full. A man who would apologise for his villainy, whine at it! ‘Holy Virgin!’ she ejaculated. ‘Is that your excuse, cousin?’

‘My love for you!’ he said, flushing at the contempt in her voice.

‘A rare love, by my faith!’

‘It brooks no hindrance. I am desperate for you. You shall not think harshly of me.’

‘I shall not think of you at all,’ she replied. ‘You are of no account.’

His brows drew close over his nose. ‘I shall show you otherwise, Dominica.’

She yawned.

‘You scorn me,’ he said, ‘but I love you. You have flouted
me, given me sharp words, and cold looks, but I have you now by the strong hand.’

Her eyes flashed; her lips curled. ‘The strong hand! Yours!’ She flicked at it with her glove. ‘My God, I could match you a strong hand which would put yours to shame!’

He coloured. ‘You betray yourself, Dominica. Was Beauvallet's hand so strong then? Did it keep him from capture, and will it keep him from the stake?’

She looked disdainful. ‘You rave. You are ridiculous. Mother of God, but you sicken me!’

‘You will not long say so,’ he answered.

‘What, am I to be rid of you then? I give thanks for a happy deliverance.’

He sneered at her. ‘Who shall deliver you, señorita? Your fine Beauvallet, so neatly caught and prisoned? You will grow weary of waiting for him, believe me.’

‘I do, very easily, señor,’ she returned lightly. ‘But I make no doubt the Chevalier de Guise would be happy to serve me were he free.’

‘Very clever,’ he said, ‘but I sprang your secret the night he was taken. Why persist in this pretence?’

She shrugged. ‘If you have a maggot in your brain, cousin, I see no reason why I should share it.’ She turned her head. ‘I suppose this to be a plot of my aunt's?’

‘Dear cousin, give honour where it is due. The plot is mine alone.’

‘You amaze me, señor. I had not thought you possessed the stomach for so hardy a deed.’

‘I am not so spiritless as you think, perhaps,’ he said quickly. ‘If you are happy to be with freebooters you should like this exploit.’

‘Given any other man to be the abductor, señor, I might,’ she conceded.

He jerked his shoulder up. ‘You gain nothing by such talk, cousin.’

They rode on in silence, farther into the forest to a ride Dominica recognised. She was being taken to the old hunting-lodge belonging to the Vasconosa estate. It seemed to her a crowning insult that he should dare to take her to a house not five miles from where her aunt lay. She fairly gnashed her little teeth over it, and her cheeks flew colours of rage.

They drew up before the door. He lifted her down from the saddle, and, looking round, she saw that the troop had dispersed, only one man remaining to take their horses. Ignominy upon ignominy! She guessed the men to be hildings employed upon the estate, and could imagine what chuckles and sly looks were passing between them at her expense. Anger consumed her; there was no room for fear.

Luis, Don Diego's valet, had come out, bowing to them. He held the door wide; she hesitated a moment, and then brushed past him into the hall of the lodge.

Diego, following her close, found her tapping her foot by the table. ‘Dearest cousin, you are surprisingly beautiful when you are enraged,’ he told her. ‘There is a chamber prepared for you upstairs. I regret I have no tirewoman to offer you, or any change of raiment. But you will find such things as you need, and you have only to call, and Luis will bring you what you ask for.’

‘Your consideration passes belief, cousin,’ she said. ‘I do not purpose to make a long stay, I thank you. I shall be glad to know what you intend by me.’

The valet went discreetly away to the kitchens. Dominica was left facing her cousin, straight and stiff in the middle of the hall.

‘I intend marriage, child, as I think you know.’

‘Is this the way you woo in Spain, señor?’

He came closer. ‘It is the only way to use with such a wild maid as you, Dominica.’

‘You are doomed to disappointment, señor. It is no way to use with me.’

He smiled. ‘You are tired from your long ride, and these alarms you have sustained. Come, child, cry a truce, and let me lead you to your chamber! When you have reposed yourself a little we will talk.’

She ignored his outstretched hand, but turned towards the stairs. She had need to collect herself, to marshal her defences. She saw that she stood in great danger; she would need all her wits about her to evade it, and she was indeed shaken. Moreover, while he thought her safe upstairs she might contrive to escape, she thought. Dona Beatrice might stand back and allow her son to do his worst, but Dominica was fairly sure she would not take a more active part in this villainy. If she could win to her side she would be safe enough.

This hazy idea was soon put to rout. Don Diego, ushering her into a chamber upstairs that gave on to a little garden at the back of the lodge, displayed a key. ‘You will forgive the discourtesy, dear cousin, but I must lock you in. I will come to fetch you at dinner in an hour, if it please you!’

She would not trust herself to speak; her breast heaved. She turned sharply on her heel, and walked into the room.

The door was shut behind her, the key grated in the lock.

She stood still until she heard the stairs creak under Don Diego's retreating footsteps. Then she went in a little dash to the window, and flung it open, and looked out. It was unbarred, and for a sufficient reason. There was no need of bars for the wall of the house fell sheer to the ground some twenty feet below. No friendly creeper afforded a foothold, nor even a rain-pipe. To jump from the window would mean broken limbs, and maybe worse. She stayed panting by it, her fingers gripping the ledge till the nails showed white. It was of no use though to rage, and grind her teeth. Escape did not lie that way.

She turned away from the window, and came back into the room, and took stock of her surroundings. A great bed stood out from one wall, hung with curtains of red damask; arras of tapestry covered the walls; there was a chest, a chair, an escabeau, a table with carved legs, a mirror hung above a second chest, wheron stood a basin and an ewer of silver.

The mirror showed a tempestuous lady, wrath in her face; her hair dishevelled under the French hood, her habit dusty and disordered. Dominica poured water into the basin, and bathed her face and her hands, slowly, abstractedly. A cake of soap was to hand, delicately scented, a towel. She stood rubbing her fingers dry, and looking at her reflection in the mirror, thinking, thinking.

An hour later, Don Diego scratched on the panel of the door. A cool voice bade him enter; he found his cousin seated by the window, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of maidenly resignation. But he knew her too well to suppose her resigned; it did not need the steely flash of her eyes as she raised them to tell him that his cousin was prepared to give battle.

He bowed to her. ‘Dearest cousin, supper awaits you. May I lead you down?’

She rose at once, and came to the door; she even allowed him to take her hand. They went in silence down the stairs and across the hall to a smaller parlour, panelled with mulberry wood. Covers were laid upon a draw-table; Luis stood deferentially waiting behind one of the chairs. She was handed to it, and sat down with what composure she could muster. The curtains had been drawn to shut out the fading daylight, and a cluster of candles on the table lit the room. Outside the silence of the country seemed to enfold the house. Dominica felt very alone, and had to fight down a rising wave of panic.

‘Rude fare, dear cousin, I fear me, but you will forgive it. Luis is an unaccustomed cook.’

She inclined her head. The food was well enough; she supposed this was Don Diego's way of telling her that there was no one but herself and him and Luis in the house. Superfluous information, she thought.

He poured wine into her glass. ‘Will you take some of this wine of Alicante, cousin?’

She looked up quickly, puzzled and searching. The words were oddly familiar, stirred a chord of memory. Her mind flew back; she stared at Don Diego, but she saw instead a laughing face, with eyes of deep wind-swept blue…

‘Do you suppose, señor, that your daughter will take wine from my hands?’…

A tremor shook her. Her eyes shut for a moment, as though to hold the brief vision. She opened them again, and the
Venture
's stateroom slid back into the past. ‘I thank you, cousin,’ she said quietly, and picked up the cup with a steady hand.

She ate sparingly, drank less, and answered in monosyllables Don Diego's easy flow of talk. Sweetmeats were at last set on the table, and some ripe pomegranates from the south. Luis withdrew, and they were alone.

She pushed back her chair a little way from the table, and turned her gaze towards Don Diego. ‘Cousin, I await your explanation.’

He lifted his cup in a silent toast. ‘It is contained in the one short phrase, my dear. I love you.’

‘You have an odd way of showing me, señor, that you – love me. May I not rather suppose that you love my possessions?’

He frowned at that; he had not his mother's frankness. ‘They are as nothing beside your charms, Dominica.’

‘I fear you flatter me, cousin.’

He leaned towards her, stretched a pleading hand across the table. ‘Let us not bandy idle words to and fro, Dominica. Believe I am mad for you!’

‘It does not strain my credence to believe you mad, señor.’

‘I am mad, yes, but for love of you. No, let me speak! You do me wrong when you think me anxious only to possess your wealth. I do not deny that was my first thought. But I did not know you then; you had not cast your divine spell over me. I would wed you were you penniless.’ He saw that she was about to break in on this, and hurried on. ‘There seemed to be no way but this. I took the straight, swift road to my desires. You shall not blame me for that. You are angry now, outraged; I see your eyes flame. Think but a little and you will pity me, understand my seeming madness!’

‘I might pity your folly, señor, but pity will not work on me to wed with you,’ she said.

‘Dominica!’ He tried to take her hand, but it was swiftly withdrawn. ‘I should be loth to use force. You shall learn to love me, even if you hate me now. Put this English pirate out of your head –’

‘Oh, God's mercy, señor, still harping on that fairy tale?’ she exclaimed. ‘You put me out of all patience!’

‘He is sped,’ he insisted. ‘There is no escape for such as he. Set him aside; forget him.’

She looked at him now, almost sternly. ‘Señor cousin, you talk without meaning, but if the Chevalier de Guise were my lover, and he El Beauvallet, I would be faithful to him though he died and I faced death because of him.’

An ugly look leaped into his eyes. ‘You speak very strongly, cousin. There are some things harder to face than death.’

This was coming to grips at last. Battle was joined, and she was glad to have it so. Anything were better than his love-making. ‘Cousin,’ she said, clenching her hand on the table. ‘I am no milk and water maid for your ravishing. I tell you again that there is no power under heaven will make me marry you.’

He leaned back in his chair, nonchalant, keenly watching her. ‘Bethink you of your fair name, Dominica,’ he said gently.

‘I care nothing for it.’

‘No?’ He smiled. ‘Brave words, but you have not thought on it yet, sweet cousin. You show me no mercy, no kindness. Should I then show you any?’

‘I make no doubt you would not,’ she said swiftly. ‘But if you think to wring consent to marriage out of me by such means, you are mistaken, and have not my measure.’

He lifted the wine-cup to his lips, sipped, and held it still, his elbow on the arm of his chair. ‘I can ruin you, my dear,’ he said. ‘If you go from here unwed you can never show your face abroad again.’

‘Do you not think, señor, that if I had to choose between marriage with such as you and a cloister I would not choose the cloister?’

It was plain that he had not thought of that. He set the cup down with a snap, staring at her from under suddenly frowning brows. After a moment he hitched up his shoulder in the way he had, and gave a short laugh. ‘Idle words!’

‘Try me, and you will see, señor.’

He poured more wine, but he did not drink. ‘You think I do not know what heretical notions you hide,’ he taunted her.

She kept her countenance. ‘All that is past. I am a true daughter of the Church, nor could you prove me other. The Church would receive me, and my wealth too, be you very sure.’

‘You do not know what you say.’ He drank deep, and set the cup down. ‘This is to work on me, no more.’

‘You live in a fool's paradise, cousin. There are no lengths to which I would not go for the purpose of frustrating your foul designs. Why, what does the world hold for me that I should cling to it? I am alone, amongst enemies, for such you and my aunt have shown yourselves to be.’

‘There is El Beauvallet,’ he said, and looked intently to see whether she would change colour.

She cast up her eyes, but answered patiently. ‘I humour your whims, cousin. If the Chevalier de Guise were El Beauvallet, and my lover, what would be left to me now but a cloister?’

He sneered at that. ‘Oh, methought he could burst all bars and bolts, this famous pirate!’

‘I suppose you thought so indeed, cousin, since you fled Madrid in such haste,’ she said tartly.

He showed his teeth a moment. ‘Do you imagine these holiday terms serve you, señorita? I would be gentle with you, but you drive me to harsh measures. You are besotted; you do not know in how dire a state you stand. The hour grows late already, my cousin, and there is only Luis in the house. I warrant you he will not hear a cry for help.’

She was afraid, desperately afraid, but no sign of it appeared in her face. ‘You will let your desires ride you to your own undoing, cousin. Work your will on me: you will lose my substance.’

He sprang up. ‘By God, woman, you are shameless!’ he said violently. ‘Is this the bold spirit the New World breeds? Do you hold your honour of so small account? Out on you, I say!’