Love Me Forever Read online

  Ame shook her head.

  “You have not heard of me?” the German asked in tones of incredulity. “The finest juggler in Europe? I have played before the Emperor of Prussia, the Czarina of Russia, the Empress of Austria and King Gustav of Sweden. They have applauded me and they have said, ‘Herr Gloeber, there is no one who can juggle like you can’.”

  “How interesting,” Amé commented.

  She was not just being polite. She was wondering what juggling was like. She had heard of jugglers, of course, but she had never seen one.

  “I am very important, very well-known,” Herr Gloeber went on. “You may be surprised that I am here, but these are my friends. Once many years ago before I was famous, these gypsies were kind to me and now that I am rich I have not forgotten them. No, I have a warm heart, everyone will tell you that. ‘Herr Gloeber has a warm heart’ people will tell you. ‘He does not forget his friends for he has friends everywhere, friends in Prussia, Russia, Hungary, Austria, Italy and in France.’ Yes, Herr Gloeber has friends everywhere’.”

  “Now the other horse,” Amé heard the Duke say to the gypsy.

  The chestnut was already fixed with a bridle and a rough saddle was being placed on its back. As the Duke walked away, the juggler moved swiftly to stand in front of him.

  “I will buy your page from you,” he then proposed.

  The Duke glanced at him, as he might have glanced at an insect that had attempted to impede the passage of his foot.

  “My page is not for sale.”

  But Hermann Gloeber was insistent.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, shouting a little in an effort to make the Duke listen. “You think I am not rich enough, that I cannot pay, but I assure you that is not so. I have money, lots of money and I will pay you a good price for your page. He is the type I need in my act to bring on my balls and clubs, to take my cloak and hat from me. Yes, he will do very well. Not that he will not require training, so he is not so valuable as if he was already trained.”

  The small blue eyes looked at Amé as if she was so much merchandise. There was something about him and the way he spoke that frightened her. She moved nearer to the Duke.

  “I have already told you my page is not for sale,” the Duke persisted impatiently.

  “I heard you say that,” the German replied, “but what you say is of no consequence. When I want a thing, I get it. I want your page and, what is more, I intend to have him.”

  He moved towards Amé as he spoke and instinctively her fingers grasped at the dagger which she carried with her in the pocket of her page’s suit. The Duke had his back to the juggler but as if some sixth sense told him what was intended, he wheeled round.

  The juggler was the taller of the two and yet the dignity and strength of the Duke made him seem immeasurably the larger as the two men faced each other.

  “You heard what I said,” the Duke said coldly.

  “I too have spoken,” the juggler replied. “I will give you twenty thousand francs now for your page. There, what have you to say to that?”

  “What I have already said. You are making a nuisance of yourself. Kindly leave us alone.”

  “Gott in Himmel, do you speak to me like that? Me, the great Gloeber, who has been applauded by Kings and Princes and by Emperors and Queens. You will sell me your page or else I will take him by force.”

  “I think not,” the Duke replied.

  He was very quiet and yet, to those who were listening, his voice seemed to reverberate. The excited tones of the juggler had already drawn the attention of other gypsies round the fire. They had turned to see what was happening and now some of the men were sauntering towards them.

  The horses were ready and Amé, afraid, laid her hand on the Duke’s arm.

  “Let’s go,” she said urgently. “Let’s go quickly.”

  She spoke in English, but her meaning must have been very plain to the German, for he screeched out,

  “You think you will get away from here. No you shall trade with me because I wish it. I, the great Gloeber, will not be treated as though I am an impecunious beggar or a person of no consequence.”

  There was no doubt now that the man was in a rage. His face had grown red with anger, there were blue veins rising startlingly on his forehead, his feet were moving and almost appeared to be dancing with impatience and fury.

  It was easy to see now that his was the face of a fanatic, a man whose egotistical conception of himself would lead him into endless trouble because he must always expect to have his slightest whim gratified.

  His success as a juggler had gone to his head as effectively as if he was permanently drunk with some delectable wine and he was intolerable in success.

  Hermann Gloeber had spoken truly when he said that he had played before many of the crowned Heads of Europe. He was in his own way a genius.

  He had started life as an acrobat and it was perhaps because he was such a very large man and appeared somewhat heavy that his juggling seemed even cleverer and more extraordinary than it might have done had he been small and wiry. His hands were large and thick and yet they had succeeded in making many audiences, however distinguished, gasp in astonishment.

  Hermann Gloeber also spoke the truth when he said that he had made a lot of money. In the last five years he had found it difficult to spend even half of what he made. As it happened, he was not interested in women. He liked eating and drinking, he liked gaudy clothes and even more gaudy jewels.

  There was, as it happened, a streak of imagination in him. It was this that made him invent strange tricks and patterns for his juggling. It was this imagination that had made his eyes widen as the Duke and Amé had stepped from the darkness of the wood into the circle of light round the fire.

  Then Amé had spoken and his attention had been drawn to her with a sense of excitement.

  This was something he had never thought of, a boy to speak for his Master. He had listened to Amé’s soft cultured voice, he had liked the way she phrased her words and the gestures of her hand and the soft smile that parted her lips.

  It was then, like a blinding light, the idea had come to him.

  This was what he wanted, a spokesman, someone to administer to him while he, the great Master, would stroll ahead with the air and carriage of a Nobleman. When he made up his mind to buy Amé, Hermann Gloeber never for one instant expected to be rebuffed. Everything, he had found previously, was a question of price. If one paid enough, the other person was always prepared to sell whatever it might be. His only difficulties in the past had been when he had not had enough money to get what he wanted. Now he had money and plenty of it.

  “What is your price?” he now screamed at the Duke. “I ask you, what is your price?”

  As if he now realised that he was dealing with someone who was mad, the Duke spoke quietly.

  “The price of this page is something you could never pay. Not all the wealth of Russia could buy my page from me.”

  There was a little murmur at this from the gypsies. They could well understand a man who valued another human being too highly to be able to translate the price into hard cash.

  For a moment Hermann Gloeber seemed disconcerted and then his eyes narrowed a little. His shrewd brain was working. This man spoke the truth when he said he would not part with his page for money. In Gloeber’s warped worldview that meant he was no Frenchman. What nationality was he? Like a thunderclap he seemed to hear the words in his ear, ‘an Englishman’.

  And were not all those Englishmen sportsmen? Had he not always been told so by those who had visited England? He had not had the courage himself to cross that strip of heaving water but one day he had assumed he might attempt it.

  The angry flush went from Hermann Gloeber’s cheeks and then a smile animated his thick lips.

  “You would not sell him, eh?” he enquired, “but you will fight me for him. It is a wager, you understand? I fight you for him with our fists. That is the way the English fight, with their fis
ts?”

  There was a little cry of excitement this time, it was almost a cheer, but Amé felt as if a cold hand had been laid on her heart.

  “What does he mean?” she asked breathlessly.

  The gypsies closed in. They were making a ring and the Duke was in no doubt at all as to the peril he found himself in. It was not only the English who were sporting, it was men everywhere. The German had challenged him in a manner which could not be ignored. He knew now that it was impossible for him and Amé to get on the horses he had bought and ride away. If they made an attempt, it would be circumvented, he was sure of that.

  He had no desire to fight the German, but there was no question of choice in the matter. He must accept the challenge now or be forced into it. It was getting lighter every moment, the dawn had come, the sun was rising in the East. The Duke knew it only too well, he had seen it at mills in England, he had seen it in Spain before the matadors entered for the bull-fighting, he had seen it at bull-baiting, at cock-fights, he had seen it out hunting.

  It was an expression that came to men’s faces when they saw that there was to be a fight for survival either between men or animals, when often death awaited the defeated and the victor must prove himself at the risk of his life.

  They were waiting, all these people, waiting almost breathlessly and the Duke knew that his answer was predestined. Very slowly he took his hat from his head and unclasped the sapphire buckle of his cloak.

  “Very well, we fight for my page.”

  “We fight!”

  The words echoed by Hermann Gloeber were a cry of triumph and excitement.

  Two gypsies ran forward as he hastily undid his cloak and started to strip himself. The Duke turned aside to speak to Amé. He knew exactly what he was up against. Hermann Gloeber had been trained in a circus and had fought many times in his life. If he could not win by one method, he would win by another.

  “What is ‒ happening, why are you ‒ doing this?” Amé faltered.

  The Duke put his fingers against her lips.

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said softly, “but if by any chance things go wrong, take one of the horses I have bought and return to the Convent. You understand me, return at once to the Convent.”

  “If things go wrong?” Amé whispered against his fingers. “Oh, Your Grace, I cannot bear this. Supposing this monster kills you!”

  “Hush, hush!” the Duke signalled to her. “He will not kill me. I am only taking precautions for your safety. It is very important, remember that.”

  She looked at him and he saw something in her eyes that it seemed to him he had never seen in another woman’s ever.

  For a moment they were both very still. The world was forgotten, the people moving around them, the voices of the gypsies chattering and calling one to another, the excited shouts of Hermann Gloeber, they did not hear them, but stood in a golden enchanted world where they were entirely alone.

  It was Amé who broke the spell between them. Her breath broke on a sob, a small sound, but enough to recall them to the world they were living in. The Duke turned his head.

  Hermann Gloeber was ready, stripped to the waist, his gaudy satin breeches in weird contrast to his bare chest.

  He was a heavy man with big muscles in his arms. His chest was hairy and his fists when clenched were twice as large as the average man’s.

  The Duke began to take off his coat.

  “You cannot do it, you cannot!”

  The words seemed to come with a kind of bitter agony from between Amé’s lips. Her face was suddenly twisted with misery and then, as the Duke looked at her, a faint smile crossed his lips.

  “So faint-hearted? I would have you believe in me.”

  She responded instantly to the challenge. Her whole body seemed to stiffen and her chin went higher.

  “But, of course,” she replied. “Why, you can do anything. How could I ‒ doubt it?”

  “Now I shall win,” the Duke declared.

  She gave a little laugh at that, a laugh choked with tears.

  “I am being nonsensical and ridiculous to suspect that a man like him could beat you? But – but he may hurt you.”

  “I have encountered worse,” the Duke responded.

  He placed his coat and waistcoat in Amé’s hands and now he drew over his head the fine lawn shirt that he wore next to his skin. It was trimmed with priceless lace and the diamonds he had worn at his throat glistened in the first rays of sunshine as he flung it through the air.

  He was not as big or as spectacular-looking as Hermann Gloeber, but there was a solid strength about his stripped body, while the breadth of his shoulders and the hard muscles showing in his arms drew a little murmur of respect from the men watching.

  They had formed a rough ring and now the chief gypsy stepped forward and gave the signal that the fight should begin.

  Hermann Gloeber was, as the Duke anticipated, a spectacular fighter. Bawling and shouting, he rushed at his opponent and made a prodigious swing with his left fist which, had it touched the Duke’s chin, would have laid him out cold on the floor. The Duke had, however, been trained by good Masters.

  He had started fighting when he was quite a small boy. His father had come into the yard one day as he was thrashing a stable lad bigger than himself who had laughed when he had been thrown from his horse’s back. The old Duke had watched the fight and, when it was over, put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “You won more by good luck than good judgment. Your technique is wrong, your footwork faulty. I will see that you have a teacher worthy of the fire that has inspired this fight. But if I give you a teacher, you must promise me one thing.”

  What is that, father?” young Sebastian had asked, speaking with difficulty because his lip was cut and his nose bleeding profusely.

  “You must promise me,” the old Duke said, “that you will fight only with those who are your equal or your superior. I will have no brawling just for the sake of brawling and no cheap victories for the sake of feeling victorious.”

  Sebastian had understood what his father asked of him and the following week one of the best-known pugilists in the country had come to Melyn to teach him.

  When he grew older he enjoyed fighting. At Eton and at Oxford he gained quite a reputation and he was one of the first pupils to enrol at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon in Bond Street.

  But now it was actually nearly ten years since his last fight. He had thought that he had grown too old for it. He found life too full of other entertainments to have time for sparring.

  As the Duke calmly side-stepped the German’s vicious jab, he hoped fervently that he had not grown too soft to put up a creditable performance. He knew that in one particular he was superior to his opponent, although Hermann Gloeber was heavier in weight.

  He was cool and composed. Anyone who lost his temper easily was no use in the boxing ring, therefore there was one thing he must do and do quickly.

  He must make the German lose his temper.

  He summoned to his aid all the skill that his teachers had imparted to him. He ducked and twisted, stopped and doubled back, moving with feet that suddenly seemed to be endowed with wings, to the right and to the left, whichever way Hermann Gloeber was not.

  He feinted and parried and all the time he was playing with his opponent he could feel his breath coming evenly through his lungs. So he was not in such bad training after all. He had made little attempt to hit Hermann Gloeber at this initial stage. The German was going all out for a quick fight and a smashing knockout.

  The Duke managed to keep just out of reach of those ponderous fists. At the same time he knew it would be a fatal mistake to let the gypsies think he was evading the German. To keep at too great a distance would be to lose their sympathy and to make them side with the juggler. It was essential that he should gain that strange and unaccountable support that comes, for no apparent reason, from a crowd watching a fight. The two men may be equal and yet the crowd will side with one or
another of them and nearly always that one wins.

  Hermann Gloeber aimed another smashing blow at the Duke’s face, but he moved just in time and the huge fist shot past his ear. But a moment later the Duke staggered back and the German grappled him in mighty arms and they swayed together close-locked in a clinch. Gasping the Duke broke away and danced out of danger while, encouraged, the German followed him, grunting in triumph, supremely assured, his eyes half-closed, his thick lips drawn in an evil grin.

  Suddenly aggressive, the Duke blocked a left lead, ducked a right swing and drove a powerful right and left into the juggler’s ribs and was away again.

  Surprised and angry, the German cursed and then bored in savagely, taking a stiff left upon his thick head and just avoiding a lightning upper-cut. After this he countered hard and, growing dangerous, sought a chance for one of his deadly tricks of butting head, smashing knee or goring elbow.

  But the Duke, guessing his purpose, avoided these pitfalls and sailed in with another blow, moving round his opponent and watching for an opening. The German hit him on the shoulder, but it was not a well-directed blow and the Duke managed in return to get in a quick punch to Gloeber’s nose. As he did so, one of the gypsies said something that made the others laugh.

  Whatever it was, it incensed Hermann Gloeber. He began to shout out that he had never been beaten before and he was not going to be beaten now.

  He flew at the Duke with a ferocity and a violence that would have intimidated most fighters and would certainly have resulted in their giving ground. The Duke ducked and parried, but refused to give way.

  It was then that Gloeber made his fatal mistake.

  He cursed the Duke again and again and, as he did so, slipped his guard for just one fatal second. It was not likely that in any of the fights he had fought in the past he had come up against a man who could calculate the effect of every blow. He had won then because he was strong and, if the worst came to the worst, he cheated. He had no chance now to use any of his wiles.

  The Duke then shot out his powerful right and landed a beautifully-timed punch on the point of Hermann Gloeber’s jaw. For a moment he seemed to stand still in the air.