Sons of the Wolf (14 page)

"How should I know without examining him? He's always been as stubborn as a mule, damn his eyes. The only way I could get a look at him would be to wrestle him down and sit on him while I took his pulse-and that's hardly good medical practice." His hands lifted the reins. "Come along, Harriet, don't dawdle. I'll race you."

His mount leaped into a gallop, glad to have the restraint lifted. I followed, but more cautiously; he couldn't dare me into racing with him. We were at the ruins in a matter of minutes, having covered half the distance during our conversation, and I was surprised to see no black-clad figures anywhere in sight. Ada and I usually sit in the courtyard where fallen blocks of stone make clean, if not comfortable, seats. But today the grass-grown wilderness was deserted.

"Not arrived yet?" Francis asked, as I joined him.

"It would seem so. . . . Yet I am late myself."

"Then where can they be?" He was strangely concerned, and I wondered if, despite his pretended indifference at her refusal, he was really in love with Ada.

"What does it matter?" I demanded curiously. "Nothing could happen to them."

"You're a fool," said Francis impersonally. "An accident can occur to anyone. Where do they usually ride? You know their habits better than I do."

"Why . . . nowhere in particular. But we would see them, the fields are so open. Ada likes to visit the stallion, in the east pasture-"

"What stallion?"

"The black, Satan. Your father had him moved from the stables after he tried to trample one of the grooms. David is the only one who can handle him, but he allows Ada to touch him."

"We're wasting time. The east pasture is next to the ruins; we would have seen or heard them. Where else?"

"I tell you I don't know! Why are you trying to frighten me?"

"For God's sake, girl, I don't give a damn whether you're frightened or not. Could they have gone to the gypsy camp? Ada seemed fascinated by the grubby old witch."

"I suppose they might have. Ada would be afraid to go alone, but with Julian-''

"My brother is about as much use as a babe in arms. Come along."

I caught at his arm as he turned the horse.

"Wait, Francis. What is it that you fear? The gypsies?"

"I don't fear anything," he said impatiently. "But Ada is punctilious about time. If she is not here, something must have happened to detain her. I'm trying to think what, and it is only reasonable to consider all possibilities. Are you coming with me or not?"

I had no time to reply; he was off at a gallop across the fields. I went after him toward the little woods which led to the gypsy camp. We had almost reached the first trees when we heard a woman scream.

Blurred as it was by distance and terror, it was Ada's voice. I recognized it immediately and my horse bolted in a gallop as my hands urged it on. For a second I was ahead of Francis, but he soon caught me up, riding with his usual ungainly slouch. He shot into the woods like a cannonball. I had to slow up; the tree trunks were too close together for I such derring-do, and I have sometimes suspected that ray mare is nearsighted as well as gentle.

So, when I came upon the tableau in the little clearing, Francis was there before me. The sunlight trickled down through the thick leaves, casting a wavering greenish light over the players. There seemed to my frightened eyes to be an army of them, but I suppose there were not more than half a dozen ragged, dark-skinned men. I saw Julian, doubled over, his fair hair hanging over his face, his arms bent high behind him and held by two of the villains. Ada was struggling in the clutches of two others, who sought to lift her and carry her toward the cart that stood nearby.

I tugged at the reins, bringing Fanny to a quivering halt, and Ada's teeth flashed as she sank then into the dirty brown hand that circled her arm. The man threw his head back with a howl, the golden hoop at his ear glittering with the movement. As I struggled to dismount, entangling my feet in the folds of my skirt, I realized that Francis had not moved. The others had not seen him; he was partially hidden by an ancient oak tree. He was still mounted, his hands relaxed on the reins, his face set in a meaningless half-smile. The oddity of it stopped me in an abominably awkward position, half on and half off the horse, and in that moment a new factor entered the play.

It was David, but I did not recognize him immediately. He was simply a thin dark streak as he hurled himself from among the shadows of the trees straight at Ada. One of the onlookers was bowled over and sent sprawling by the fury of his rush and then his hands were tearing, in a kind of frenzy, at the two gypsies who were holding Ada.

It happened so quickly, and his passion was so intense, that he succeeded in detaching one man and throwing him to the ground. The second fellow, a man almost as big and burly as Francis, with a scarlet kerchief twisted about his head, was not so easily disposed of. He had to release Ada in order to deal with David, however. She went staggering, to fall in a heap on the ground. The gypsy's head jerked back, the ends of his kerchief flying, as David's fist struck his chin. His hand went to his sash, and I shrieked a warning. But instead of the knife, whose handle was so evident to me, he pulled out a stout cudgel from his sash and brought it crashing down on David's bare head.

As the boy slumped to the ground, Francis finally moved. He loosened his reins and rode out into the clearing, and that was enough. The tall gypsy in the scarlet bead scarf rolled dark eyes toward the mounted man. Moving with blurred speed, he scooped up the fallen gypsy, threw him over one broad shoulder, and, shouting a command, made off between the trees. The others followed; they seemed to melt into the underbrush. In a second the clearing was empty except for us. Julian had fallen forward when his attackers released him, and the soft mossy ground was strewn with limp bodies, like a battlefield.

I finally got my feet untangled and ran to Ada. Before I could reach her she was up, winded and disheveled but apparently unhurt. She seemed not even to see me. Her wide china-blue eyes were fixed on David, where he lay facedown with a patch of sunlight on his dark hair.

"Don't touch him, Ada," came Francis' voice, as she reached out. His tone was sufficiently peremptory to penetrate Ada's daze. She turned a white face toward Francis as he came striding toward her. He dropped to his knees beside David and his hands began to explore the boy's head.

When they came away, the fingers were stained wine red; I turned away, swallowing the illness of fear and horror.

"He's all right," said Francis calmly. "Just a lump on the head. Damn it, Harriet, what are you standing there for? The silly little ninny is swooning, catch her, can't you? I'm busy."

I ran to them, wonderfully relieved by his diagnosis, and took Ada's limp body from Francis' hands-or hand, rather, for he was holding her half-erect with one arm while the other hand continued to probe at David's head.

"Lay her flat," said Francis without looking up. "She'll be coming around in a minute. Give me a hand here."

I straightened Ada's limbs and arranged her skirt, noting with relief the return of color to her cheeks, even though her eyes remained closed.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Haven't you got a handkerchief or a petticoat or something to tear up? These scalp wounds bleed copiously. Hurry up, damn it, or I'll have to rip up my shirt."

His hand actually went to his collar, and I said hastily, "No, no, just a moment. Here's my handkerchief."

Francis regarded the small white square with unconcealed disgust.

"That will last half a minute. Here's my pocketknife. Rip up your underskirts, or Ada's."

I started to turn up my skirts-after turning my back, of course-but Ada was too quick for me. She sat bolt upright and flung her skirts up as if there weren't a man in sight for miles.

"Give me the knife!" she said and snatched it from my hand. In a few moments she had reduced her upper petticoat to a series of rough strips and Francis, without so much as a look or a thank-you, was binding them around David's head. He turned David over and, with a sudden, seemingly effortless heave, stood up with the thin young body in his arms.

"He can have my horse," whispered Ada, still on her knees.

"How do you propose to put him on it-hanging across the saddle?" Francis scowled at her; then her white-faced misery softened his look into a reluctant smile. "We'll put him in the cart. Climb in, Ada, you can hold his head and keep it from banging about."

Ada climbed into the cart in a tangle of torn skirts. I opened my mouth to remonstrate-I don't believe I knew why, but I sensed somehow that what Francis had suggested was the wrong thing to do. By then it was too late, and in any case there was no use arguing with Francis. Once he had decided to do something, he did it. Seeing that neither of them was paying any attention to me, I got slowly to my feet, feeling dizzy with the shock of it all.

And it was actually not until then-unforgivably-that I remembered Julian.

Sick with remorse, I hurried to him. He was sitting up, his head bent, cradling one elbow in the other hand.

"Did they hurt you?" I asked unnecessarily. "Julian, I'm so sorry. Francis, come here! He's injured-"

Francis, standing by the little donkey which was harnessed to the cart, turned and looked at us over his shoulder. He stood still for a moment. Then he dropped the donkey's lead rein and sauntered toward us. He stood with his hands at his sides, looking down at Julian's bowed blond head.

"What's the matter, Brother?" he asked blandly.

"My arm-" came from Julian, half-inaudibly.

"Broken? Dislocated?"

"For pity's sake, Francis, do something, don't stand there discussing the problem!" I exclaimed.

"Do you want me to do something, Brother?" Francis asked.

His voice was-well, all I can say is that, if anyone made me an offer of help in such a voice, I would have rejected it if every bone in my body had been broken.

I always knew Julian had resources that no one else suspected. His head came up until he was staring directly into his brother's mocking eyes. His face was white and streaked with dirt where it had rested on the ground, and his lips were drawn back over his teeth in a grimace of pain. But his eyes looked like those of his father when Mr. Wolf son was in a rage.

"No, thank you, Brother," he said. His voice was a whisper-with anger rather than weakness, I am sure.

I looked incredulously from him to Francis, from the latter's smiling face to the hands which hung, deliberately lax, at his sides. I remembered those hands moving with swift, knowing precision on David's injured skull. They were not surgeon's hands, as I had always pictured them; they were too big. But they knew what to do.

"You aren't going to help him?" I demanded.

"He doesn't need my help." Francis turned precisely on one heel and went back to the cart. Over his shoulder he called, "You'll have to lead my horse, Harriet. Julian can take Ada's. His own seems to have bolted."

I couldn't think of anything to say.

No, mat is incorrect. I thought of a good many things to say, but I was so choked with rage that my voice would not function.

"Never mind, Harriet." Julian, still holding his arm, smiled at me. "No doubt I will be better off with old Dr. Garth in Middleham. If you could help me up-"

"You can't ride back to the house in that state."

"Yes, I can. Don't worry. I'll take the carriage to Middleham."

He tried to rise and sank back, biting at his lip, as the movement jarred his hurt arm. I pulled at the scarf around my neck. It was tucked well under my collar and I had to unfasten the top buttons of my bodice before I could remove it. It was thick, wide white silk and made an admirable sling. Julian bowed his head so that I could knot the ends at the back of his neck, and as he lifted his head again, smiling at me, I couldn't resist brushing the tangled hair off his forehead. He turned his head so that his lips touched my fingers.

"Thank you, Harriet. Now let's try again."

The cart creaked past us on its way to the manor. Francis was leading the donkey; it needed such inducement, for it obviously would have preferred not to move at all. As I glanced around, Francis gave us a mocking grin and a salute with one upraised hand. Ada did not even see us. Her head was bowed and her hands were cupped around David's face. His eyes, I was relieved to see, were still closed.

Julian waited until they had passed into the trees and were out of sight. I suppose that he didn't want his brother to observe his struggles to rise, and I admired him for it. It was a struggle, certainly; I thought once that he was going to topple over upon me, and by the time he had gained his feet I had both arms around him, trying to brace him without hurting his poor shoulder.

"That does it," he said, through clenched teeth, but sounding fairly cheerful. "Now if we can get me onto that horse . . ."

All at once, for no reason, my eyes filled with tears. They were hot, salty tears, and they stung my eyes. I didn't want Julian to see them, so I didn't raise my head to answer him but stood staring blindly at his cravat. Despite my efforts the tears overflowed; two of them landed on Julian's coat lapel. I don't see how he could have felt them through the thickness of coat and shirt, but he seemed to know at once.