The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) Read online

“But when he does so he must give up this creature!” the Aide-de-camp cried. “This Turkish woman who has indeed confirmed that the Turks are, and always will be our hated enemies!”

  Again the Aide-de-camp’s voice was passionate and Vesta knew it was because he was enamoured with her.

  She would not have been feminine if she had not realised that every day he was falling more in love.

  Every day he found new excuses to be beside her, to teach her, to talk with her, and yet, because he knew his place, he would never presume to express his feelings.

  “I asked you,” the Captain said, “whether His Royal Highness has agreed to give up Madame Ziileyha?”

  “He implied that he would do so,” the Prime Minister answered, but hesitatingly.

  The Captain and the Prime Minister were old friends, who had known each other ever since they were boys. But neither the Captain nor the Aide-de-camp had any idea that a marriage by proxy had already taken place between Vesta and the Prince.

  That had been kept a close secret. The only people who knew of it outside Vesta’s immediate family were the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, and the Earl of Liverpool.

  Vesta was not surprised when the Aide-de-camp said in a voice which revealed all too clearly his inner feelings:

  “If I had my own way I would turn this ship round and take Her Ladyship back to England! Can you imagine the shock it will be when she learns about Madame Ziileyha, when she realises that the man she is already idealising and making into a hero, is besotted by a mistress who is loathed and despised by every decent citizen in our country.”

  Quite suddenly Vesta had realised she could not bear to hear any more. She had crept past the Saloon and gone to her own cabin to lie face downwards on the bed.

  It could not be true! She must have imagined what she had overheard!

  Just like a pack of cards, the castle she had been building in her thoughts collapsed around her, and then because it had been such a shock, because she could not bear to think of what she had learnt inadvertently, she had tried to forget it.

  She had attempted to force it from her mind, to tell herself that when she arrived everything would be well, as she had dreamt it would be.

  Yet despite herself, Madame Ziileyha, whoever she . might be, was now always present with every thought she had of the Prince.

  “An evil woman” the Prime Minister had called her.

  ‘And am I strong enough,’ Vesta asked herself pathetically, ‘to combat evil?’

  She was so deep in her thoughts as they rode on through the woods, the sunshine making strange patterns of gold on the path ahead, that it was with a jerk she came back to reality and realised that the Count had drawn his horse to a standstill just ahead of her.

  Her own animal trotted up to his side and he said:

  “We have now been riding well over three hours and I think it is wise to give the horses a short rest. What is more, we have now come to a difficult part of our route.”

  “A rest would be very nice,” Vesta answered.

  She saw him dismount and realised that he would in politeness come to her assistance.

  Because she had no wish for him to touch her, she lifted her leg over the pommel and slipped quickly to the ground.

  The Count drew the horses off the path and seeing some grass under the trees they went towards it eagerly. Then he said:

  “Walk a little way with me, I have something to show you.”

  She obeyed him, realising as she did so that the trees were thinning a little until abruptly they came to an end.

  In the brilliant sunshine which almost hurt Vesta’s eyes after the shade of the trees, she saw that immediately ahead of them was a great expanse of bare rocks devoid of any vegetation.

  Stark and barren they rose high on one side of them, and on the other side fell sharply down into the distant valley.

  For a moment Vesta was so surprised that she could only stare, thinking that an avalanche or some natural catastrophe must have caused such devastation.

  Then she realised that it was the glacier formation of past centuries, perhaps aggravated by the snows of the winter, but nevertheless there was nothing new or modern about it.

  Staring at the sunlit stones she saw at the same level on which she stood with the Count, a small narrow path just wide enough for a horse to traverse!

  It was a precarious path, stony and rough, and on one side of it a sheer cliff plunged hundreds of feet downwards to end in a profusion of rocks far down in the valley.

  “Is that ... where we ... go?”

  Even to herself her voice sounded weak and fearful.

  “If you wish to continue on your journey to Djilas,” the Count replied.

  There was something in his tone which told her that he had brought her here deliberately to frighten her. He was not to know, she thought wildly, that she was terrified of heights, that she had always been petrified by them.

  When she was quite small, her sisters had taken her up onto the roof of Salfont Castle, and being much older than she was they had climbed round the turrets and over the battlements and forgotten her.

  An hour later they had found her rigid with fright, unable to move forward or backwards staring with wide eyes at the sheer drop just in front of her.

  Nothing they could say could persuade her to move. She just sat there white-faced and trembling until finally they had fetched her brother, who had carried her in his arms to safety.

  It had been a family joke after that, that Vesta would “never rise very high in the world!” But however much they teased her, Vesta’s fears were very real.

  Sometimes she dreamt that she was standing on a roof and sometimes in her dreams she fell and awoke with a scream.

  She was aware that the Count was watching her face.

  “It is now, if you wish to return, that it would be wise to do so. Once we have passed over the bare rocks and reached the woods on the other side it would be almost too late to go back.”

  His voice became persuasive.

  “If we return now you can sleep in Jeno. Tomorrow I am quite certain we will find a ship which if it cannot take you to England will carry you to Athens where undoubtedly you could join up with the schooner which brought you here.”

  Vesta did not answer for a moment. She was looking at the narrow path over the rocks.

  How could she face it? How could she possibly ride along it with a deep cliff almost inviting her to fall? The horses were presumably sure-footed, but even so they could make a mistake!

  “It would be so much easier to go back,” the Count continued. “I told you it was a difficult journey. But at the moment it is the only route safe from the Revolutionaries.”

  He put out his arm and pointed to the valley below.

  “Look, there is the roadway we should have taken, or rather the one you would have travelled on in comfort and with much state to Baron Milovan’s Castle.”

  Forcing herself with an effort to look down, Vesta followed the direction of his finger and saw far, far away between the mountains rising on either side of it, a twisting road winding its way beside a silver river until it disappeared into the distance.

  It appeared empty and she wondered if in fact there were Revolutionaries forming ambushes on either side of it or advancing towards Jeno to prevent her entering the country.

  Was the whole thing a figment of the Count’s imagination, and was it really necessary for her to endure the dangers of this mountain path?

  At that moment she would willingly have encountered a thousand Revolutionaries rather than journey along the cliff’s edge.

  “Go back.”

  She felt as if the Count had sensed her fear and was deliberately tempting her.

  With an almost superhuman effort she managed to answer him proudly:

  “I have already told you, Count, that I wish to reach Djilas,” she said, “I see no reason to change my mind.”

  She turned away as she spoke knowing she coul
d not bear to look any longer at the barren rocks.

  Walking back into the shelter of the trees, she sat down beneath the great oaks to watch the horses cropping the grass.

  The Count did not follow her and she wondered if he was too annoyed at having failed once again to shake her determination.

  She sat looking into the wood. In the distance she saw a small roe-deer moving between the tree trunks, and she tried to divert her mind from what lay ahead, by recalling the animals that the Aide-de-camp had told her were indigenous to Katona.

  The jackal, porcupine, wild cat, the brown bear, the lynx were, she remembered, some of them.

  “Of course there are eagles,” the Aide-de-camp had said, “some of them very large. As the shepherds will tell you they are dangerous to the young lambs in the Spring.”

  “The Count is dangerous!” Vesta told herself, “he is trying to make me afraid. He is deliberately using every possible means to force me to leave the country.”

  Something strong and proud made her determined that she would not give in to him, and what was more she would not let him see how afraid she was.

  But even so, when they re-mounted their horses and he went ahead onto the narrow rock path, she felt so frightened that she thought she must cry out and beg him to take her back.

  ‘I must not ... look down! I must not ... look down,’ she told herself.

  And because her horse needed no guidance, following faithfully behind the one ridden by the Count, she shut her eyes and began to pray.

  ‘Please God ... do not let me be a ... coward! Please God ... do not let me ... fall! Please God ... keep me safe and ... brave!’

  Her eyes opened for a moment and she realised they had not progressed far. The cliffs edge appeared to be only a few inches from her horse’s feet.

  She shut her eyes again and went on praying.

  Once her animal stumbled. She drew in her breath so sharply, it was like a knife in her breast.

  “Are you all right?” the Count asked looking back over his shoulder.

  His voice echoed round the barren rocks:

  “All right—all right.” Like a ghost it came back to her.

  She could not reply. It was impossible to force any words to her lips. She could not even whisper her prayers, she could only say them in her heart.

  ‘Please ... God, do not ... let me ... fall!’

  It seemed to her as if a century of time passed. The horses plodded on, their hooves ringing out on the loose stones, the jingle of their bridles seeming unnaturally loud.

  Vesta had given up all pretence of doing anything but keep in the saddle. She was holding on to the pommel with both hands, her eyes closed.

  She was so tense that she could hardly breathe, and then when she felt as if her fear encompassed her to the point of suffocation, she heard the Count say:

  “Well, here are the trees again.”

  He spoke lightly, and hardly daring to believe him Vesta half opened her eyes.

  It was true. They were out of the sunshine and into the shadow of the trees all around her.

  It was then as she drew in her breath she knew she was going to faint. She gripped the pommel so tightly that beneath her gloves her knuckles must have shown white.

  ‘How he will despise me,’ she thought. ‘How contemptuous he will be if he is aware how afraid I have been.’

  With an effort and in a voice which even to herself seemed far away, she asked:

  “Could we ... stop for a ... moment?”

  “But of course,” he said courteously.

  She slipped from her horse’s back without waiting to see whether he dismounted and walked away into the trees, moving steadily over the mossy ground until she thought she was out of his sight.

  She was shivering with cold and yet there were beads of sweat on her forehead.

  ‘I ... must put my ... head ... down,’ she told herself, ‘I must put... my ... head ... down.’

  When she was sure that he could not see her, she dropped on her knees and tried to bend her head. She fell forward half unconscious and her forehead struck the ground!

  The shock of it forced away to some extent the suffocating waves of darkness. For a moment she just lay there. Then with an effort she rolled over onto her back and tried to breathe deeply.

  Without realising she had done so she had taken off her hat as she had walked away from the Count through the wood. It had been an instinctive gesture to try and get air.

  Now she could not even remember what had happened since she had dismounted from her horse.

  ‘Breathe ... deeply,’ she told herself, ‘in out ... in out.’

  The darkness was receding but she was still shivering and her fingers felt numb.

  ‘How contemptible it is,’ she told herself, ‘to be such a coward!’

  Why could she not be like other people, like her sisters, who had never been afraid to climb anything?

  And then as she lay there fighting for breath, she heard the sound of footsteps and knew the Count was coming through the wood in search of her.

  With an agonising effort she managed to sit up. Her head was swimming.

  It was difficult to focus her eyes but she stared ahead of her, not turning round as he reached her side.

  “You are all right?” he asked and for the first time there was some concern in his voice.

  “Of ... course,” she answered forcing the words between her lips.

  He took one look at her white face and drew a flask from his pocket. He took off the top which constituted a small cup and filled it.

  “Drink this,” he said.

  She would have argued had it not been almost impossible to speak. Instead obediently she put out one hand, realised it was shaking and steadied it with the other.

  She took the little cup from him and put it to her lips. The brandy seared her throat, but even at the first sip she felt better.

  “Drink it all,” the Count said commandingly.

  She obeyed him because it was easier to obey than to argue with him.

  She could feel the spirit moving through her body like fire. Now her fingers were no longer numb and her hands were not trembling.

  She could feel him towering above her and thought he must be gloating over her weakness.

  “I am ... ashamed to ... say,” she managed to articulate at last, “that I felt a little ... sea sick ... or should it be ... land-sick? My Uncle who is an ... Admiral has always ... told me that it takes him ... forty-eight hours after he ... has been at ... sea a long time to get his ... balance.”

  The sentence was really a triumph. Every word was difficult to enunciate but she managed it.

  “Of course it is quite understandable,” the Count said in a deep voice. “I believe many people feel uncomfortable after a sea voyage, just as Lord Nelson used to be sea sick when he returned to his ship after leave ashore.”

  Vesta handed the Count back the silver cup.

  “I am all ... right ... now,” she said, “and of course ... you will want to ... continue the ... journey.”

  She wondered how she would get to her feet, but he bent down and helped her.

  For once she was grateful that he should touch her and did not hate him for doing so.

  He picked up her hat.

  “You have bruised your forehead,” he said unexpectedly.

  “I ... I ... walked into a ... branch of a ... tree,” Vesta said quickly.

  “It must have had sand on it,” he remarked dryly.

  Then keeping his hand under her elbow he helped her back through the wood to where the horses were patiently waiting for them.

  He picked her up in his arms and lifted her into the saddle.

  “Do you feel well enough to go on?” he asked. “We have not far to go to the Inn where we must stay the night.”

  “I am ... quite all ... right,” Vesta replied proudly.

  “Do you wish to put on your hat?” he asked.

  She realised he had carried
it in his other hand and she had been too bemused to think of it.

  “No, I do not ... need it,” she answered.

  “Then I will take it with me,” he said.

  “Not if ... it is any ... trouble.”

  “It is no trouble,” he replied. “Tell me if you wish to stop again.”

  “Your ... your brandy has cured my ... sickness,” Vesta said. “I am sure I shall be ... all right ... now.”

  She did not dare look at him in case he should see through her pretence. She could not bear him to know that it was only her cowardice and her fear of heights which had made her feel so faint.

  ‘How he would despise me,’ she thought.

  But sea-sickness was something no-one, however important they were, could prevent.

  They set off again. Now the sun was low in the sky and the thickness of the trees made the wood seem dark and mysterious.

  ‘I wonder if there are dragons somewhere in the patches of green darkness,’ Vesta thought.

  When she was a child she had always imagined that dragons lived in fir-woods and had told herself stories about how she was rescued from them by Knights in shining armour.

  But no-one, she thought, would have imagined the Count was a Knight in shining armour. Rather he was like the Devil himself trying to tempt her into shirking her duty and, when she would not be tempted, evoking all the fires of hell to support his vendetta against her.

  ‘The fires of hell,’ she told herself, ‘are the right simile, for I would rather encounter them any day than the ride again along that cliff’s edge!”

  Chapter Three

  Their path now was straight and the woods were dense on each side. Then quite unexpectedly the trees cleared and Vesta saw ahead of them a building.

  It was not a very prepossessing sight, for the building was rough half-timbered and its roof was held down with large stones.

  It appeared at first sight to be derelict: most of the windows had no glass in them and some were blocked with what appeared to be rags.

  Her expression must have shown her surprise, for the Count explained:

  ‘It is an Inn used only by woodcutters and an occasional hunter after bear or chamois. It is the only possible place to rest, and I cannot believe you will relish riding through the night toward Djilas.”