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

  She tried to speak with great dignity but it was rather difficult when they were sitting side by side in the middle of the wood sharing pieces of chicken, and she was conscious that her hair had been blown by the breeze around her cheeks.

  There was a glint of amusement in his eyes before he said:

  “You are very severe, Ma’am.”

  “I am trying to behave ... correctly,” Vesta replied, “and you are not making it ... very easy for ... me.”

  “Then I must apologise in all sincerity,” he answered.

  For once she thought he was not speaking mockingly, and looking away from him she said:

  “I cannot help feeling lonely and a little ... homesick. When the ship sailed away it was my last link with England, and I am trying ... hard to like everything in Katona since it will in future be my ... home.”

  She tried to speak unemotionally but there was a perceptible quiver in her voice. After a moment the Count said in a tone which he had never used to her before:

  “You must forgive me if my attitude has made things more difficult for you than they would have been otherwise.”

  Vesta had always found it hard to bear a grudge when people apologised for anything they had said or done.

  She gave the Count a shy little smile. Then she rose to her feet saying:

  “I will try and find more strawberries. I am sure there must be some over there in the sunshine.”

  She moved away from him and he watched her as she went from the shade of the trees out into the sunshine where she had noticed there were flowers.

  She was right: for nestling beneath their green leaves there was quite a profusion of the small red berries.

  She picked a handful, and when she could hold no more and thought she had best take them back to the Count she turned round.

  She had wandered quite some way from the trees and was standing on a little plateau covered with flowers which descended sharply down to the trees below.

  As she started to walk back towards the wood there was a hissing noise in the grass and in front of her she saw a long black snake.

  She was frozen into stillness, realising she could not move backwards and it would be almost impossible to pass the reptile without it striking at her.

  Almost involuntarily she gave a little cry and realised that the Count had risen to his feet.

  “What is it?” he called.

  The snake was hissing aggressively, and now Vesta thought that to call out might incite it further.

  Vaguely at the back of her mind she remembered it was best not to move when one encountered a snake, but to stand still. She therefore stood rigid, holding the strawberries in her hand, her eyes on the snake.

  It seemed to resent her presence, raising its head, its forked tongue flicking in and out of its mouth, its yellow eyes regarding her balefully.

  She could see the movement of the scales on its back and she had a feeling that at any moment it would dart towards her and strike at her ankle.

  The Count had come to the edge of the wood. He saw at once what was keeping her silent, and with a swiftness she could hardly believe possible he ran to his horse and drew something from the saddle-bag.

  Then he was moving purposefully towards her.

  “Keep still, do not move!” he commanded.

  At the sound of his voice the snake toned its head towards him and then there was the shattering report of a pistol as the Count shot it dead. The noise echoing and re-echoing round the mountains and across the valley.

  Vesta saw its head was shattered but its tail was still thrashing in the air. The Count stepped over it and picking her up swung her over the still writhing reptile to safety.

  He put her down and looked at her pale face.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “It did not touch you?”

  “No ... I am all ... right,” Vesta answered and turning she walked away from him.

  ‘I must not show emotion,’ she told herself severely. ‘I must be calm. He will think it ill-bred if I am afraid of a snake.’

  The sound of the pistol-shot was still ringing in her ears, and when she reached her horse she hung onto the saddle as if for support. The Count came back towards her.

  He went to his own horse and drew from his saddlebag a red silk belt such as she had seen the natives in Jeno wearing.

  He put it on and slipped the pistol into it and she knew it was intended to carry either pistols or a knife.

  The Count came to her side.

  “I should have anticipated there would be snakes at this time of the year,” he said angrily. “It was criminally careless of me, first to let you wander about without warning you, and secondly not to have been wearing a pistol. It will not happen again.”

  “Was that snake ... poisonous?” Vesta asked in what she hoped was a calm voice.

  “As a matter of fact it was!” the Count answered. “There are many snakes in Katona some of them quite harmless, but a bite from one of the black ones sometimes proves fatal.”

  As he spoke he picked her up and put her on the saddle.

  “We had best hurry on towards civilization,” he said. “We have had enough of the other sort these last twenty four hours to last us both for a life-time.”

  He mounted and rode on at a quicker pace. Now the trees were interspersed with rocks and Vesta noticed that the Count seemed to be looking upwards and around him as if he was searching for something.

  As the path grew wider she rode up beside him.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” he answered, “but it is not always wise to draw attention to oneself in this particular region. It has a somewhat unhealthy reputation. A pistol shot can be heard for miles away.”

  “What do you mean by unhealthy?” Vesta asked.

  Then even as she spoke she saw a number of men scrambling down towards them through the trees.

  The Count’s hand went towards his pistol, but even as he touched it he realised there were at least a dozen men advancing towards them and he was outnumbered.

  The men drew nearer and Vesta saw they were roughly dressed in native white cotton tunics and over them sleeveless coats of sheep-skin or fur. They were bare-headed and the majority of them had greasy untidy hair, long moustaches or beards.

  They all of them carried stout poles in their hands and each man had a huge knife stuck into a belt not unlike the Count’s.

  They came nearer until the Count and Vesta who had drawn their horses to a standstill were encircled.

  “What do you want?” the Count asked.

  The man who replied spoke with a dialect which was quite impossible for Vesta to understand. But whatever it was the Count protested hotly.

  “We are travellers doing no harm. All we ask is that we can proceed in peace.”

  Again the man spoke harshly. He was an unpleasant-looking individual, Vesta thought: he had a noticeable squint and a deep scar running from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth giving him almost a grotesque appearance.

  One man stepped forward to take hold of the bridle of Vesta’s horse, another did the same to the Count’s.

  “What is ... happening?” Vesta asked in a frightened tone.

  “They insist on taking us to see their Chief,” the Count replied in English.

  “Their Chief?” Vesta enquired in surprise.

  “They are Brigands,” the Count said grimly. “I am afraid there is nothing we can do but acquiesce to their demands.”

  Two men appeared and drew large dirty handkerchiefs from their belts. One of them advanced towards Vesta. As she shrank back from the thought of him touching her, the Count spoke sharply and raising his hands took his cravat from round his neck.

  “They wish to blindfold us,” he said, “but I have told them that you are my wife and that no-one must touch you but me. I will therefore blindfold you myself.”

  He bent towards her without dismounting and put his cravat over her eyes, ty
ing it behind her head.

  “Try not to be frightened,” he said softly.

  But she knew he was only trying to encourage her and that the position in which they found themselves was likely to be extremely unpleasant if not dangerous.

  She imagined that the Count himself also was being blindfolded, and then she heard his horse led ahead in front of hers and there was nothing she could do but hold onto her saddle and wonder what was going to happen.

  As they went the men said very little amongst themselves.

  Since she could not see them, their silence was more uncanny than if they had chattered away and she had tried to understand what they were saying.

  They left the path on which she and the Count had been travelling and were now climbing steadily up the side of the mountain.

  They were zig-zagging, Vesta thought to avoid trees; but after perhaps half an hour the trees clearly had been left behind because now there was the sound of the horses’ hooves on rock.

  She wondered fearfully whether there was a sudden drop at one side of her such as there had been before.

  The Count did not speak to her, but she was vividly conscious of him being led ahead. Once indeed he did start to talk to the Head man who had given the orders in the first place.

  Vesta recognised the word “money” and guessed that the Count was offering to pay for their freedom.

  ‘It must be for ransom they are taking us,’ she thought.

  The Brigand replied sharply and briefly, and although Vesta did not understand she was sure he had replied that it was up to the Chief to decide what should be done.

  On and on they went, climbing all the time.

  The sun was hot on Vesta’s bare head and on her hands. But now she could feel a cool breeze and was sure that it came from the tops of the mountains.

  ‘We must be very high by now,’ she thought.

  Yet still they climbed, even the ponies grunting a little with the exertion, and some of their escort were breathing heavily.

  Hours must have gone by and still they climbed, until finally there was a sharp word of command, the horses were brought to a standstill and Vesta felt strong hands from which she shrank drawing her from the saddle.

  She stood uncertain and indecisive, wondering whether she could take off the bandage. Then with a sense of relief she heard the Count say:

  “Give me your hand.”

  She groped for his and found it.

  “Will ... they ... hurt us?” she asked, her fingers trembling.

  “I hope not,” he replied.

  She had the feeling that he was unsure and worried.

  They were led forward, Vesta feeling the way with her feet and praying that she would not suddenly trip up and fall. Then someone spoke and the Count said to Vesta:

  “We may take off our bandages.”

  She undid hers quickly and found that at last she was able to see.

  It took her a moment or two to adjust her eyes, not to the sunshine that she had expected, but to the dimness of a cave.

  It was an enormous cavern hewn out of solid rock, dark and grey. It was lit by light coming through a distant opening and two flaring torches.

  What arrested Vesta’s attention more than anything else were the people surrounding them.

  She and the Count were standing in the very centre of the cave and staring at them were perhaps twenty or thirty men and women all dressed roughly in the same style as their captors.

  There were too, she noticed, a number of small, dark-haired, unhealthy-looking children. While the women were so unprepossessing that it was difficult to realise that they were of the same sex as herself.

  But above all her gaze was riveted by a man who was obviously the Chief.

  He was a big man, bigger than the others, and there were grey streaks in his hair. His eyes were bright and shrewd, while his face was deeply scarred as if from many fights and his nose having been broken had been badly set.

  He spoke harshly, but the Count replied coolly and in even tones, and Vesta knew he was explaining that they were ordinary travellers intent on their own business.

  The Count made a gesture towards her and it was clear that he was saying that she was his wife.

  The Chief made a joke at which he laughed heartily, while the Count did not smile. Then the Chief said something to his followers and they murmured amongst themselves.

  One or two of them put their hands towards the knives in their belts and for the first time Vesta was really afraid.

  The Count became very eloquent.

  Now she knew he was threatening, cajoling, pleading, but the answer to everything he said was definitely unsatisfactory. Again Vesta heard the word “money” which she recognised.

  She had the strange feeling that it was not of interest to the Chief.

  Finally when the argument seemed to have gone on for a long time with no satisfactory conclusion, the Count obviously asked if he might explain what had happened to Vesta. The Chief nodded.

  The Count turned towards her and she saw an expression in his face which made her tremble.

  “What do they intend to ... do to ... us?” she asked.

  “I am to die,” he answered. “They say we have violated their territory and therefore they intend to kill me.”

  She tried to speak but no word would come. Then he said:

  “They will spare your life if you will become the wife—which is a polite word for it—of the Head man who brought us here. He is the brother of the Chief.”

  For a moment Vesta could not take in what the Count was saying.

  Then remembering the man with the squinting eye and the scar on his cheek, she said quietly in a voice which surprisingly did not tremble:

  “You will kill me.”

  It was not a question, it was a statement of fact. The Count looking into her eyes answered.

  “Of course.”

  “How will you ... do it?” Vesta asked.

  “They have taken my pistol,” he answered, “but I have a knife in my belt.”

  She drew in a deep breath.

  “There is a place I ... believe between the ... breasts...” she whispered.

  “I know it.”

  “I would not wish to ... scream in front...”

  “No, of course not.”

  She thought to herself this could not be happening. It could not be true! Strangely enough she felt quite calm. It was as if the shock had taken away all feeling and it did not matter that she must die.

  “I will ask them,” the Count said, “if I can say goodbye to you. They will expect protestations of love and dramatics. It is what they themselves enjoy.”

  He turned his head towards the Chief. It took him some time to say what he wanted and the Chief s reply was equally voluble. The Count turned back to Vesta.

  “He has given us three minutes in which to say our farewells,” he said. “What I want you to do is undo your jacket and then put your arms round my neck. You will hide the movement of my hand as I draw the knife from my belt. When I am ready I will kiss you and strike at the same time. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she answered, her eyes on his.

  She undid the buttons of her jacket and then moving close against him she put her arms round his neck.

  It was .the only time she had ever been close to a man and somehow she could not realise it would be the last time as well as the first.

  She could feel the Count’s heart beating and she also knew that as one arm encircled her his other hand was fumbling at his waist.

  She felt him draw something from his belt.

  “We must keep talking,” he said, “they will not understand what we say and they will imagine that we are being affectionate.”

  “How will they ... kill you?” she asked.

  “With their knives,” the Count answered. “When one dies it is of little consequence how it is contrived.”

  “You will be quite ... certain that I am ... dead before they
do ... anything to you?” she whispered. “I could not face being left ... alive ... with them.”

  “I promise that you will die,” he answered. “There will be no pain.”

  The Chief spoke and Vesta knew he was telling them they had little time.

  Everyone in the cave had drawn nearer to them. The men, women and children were all watching and now there was a tense silence as if they savoured the drama taking place.

  “Are you ready?” the Count asked.

  “I am ... ready,” Vesta replied.

  “Then put your lips on mine,” he said and she felt him draw back his hand taut against his chest.

  It was level with her own breast and she knew that in one second the knife would pierce her skin in the spot which, if applied properly, meant instant death.

  She drew in her breath. With her whole being she prayed she would be brave and not cry out.

  ‘Help me ... God!’

  Her arms tightened round the Count’s neck.

  Then a sudden scream shattered the silence in the cave. It was so sharp, so shrill, that almost instinctively both Vesta and the Count turned to see what was happening.

  It was a woman who had screamed and she was pointing not at them but at a child standing at their feet.

  It was a little boy of perhaps eighteen months old, under-sized and emaciated, but at this moment crimson in the face, his eyes bulging from their sockets. It was quite obvious he was struggling ineffectively for breath.

  For a moment everyone stared while the woman screamed and screamed, her voice echoing and reechoing.

  Then swiftly, almost without thinking, Vesta took her arms from the Count’s neck and seizing the child picked him up in her arms and turned him upside down.

  For a moment she held him suspended and then something fell from his mouth to clatter onto the floor.

  It was a pebble!

  The woman had stopped screaming as Vesta had picked up the child, so the sound of the pebble falling on the stone floor was clearly heard by everyone. The woman who had screamed bent forward to pick it up.

  She held it in her hand, and then as Vesta placed the child back on his feet he started to cry—the loud and protesting roar of a small boy who has been frightened.

  His mother ignored him and held the pebble out in her hand for everyone to see. Then she went down on her knees in front of Vesta and kissed her hand.