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

  “I cannot ... help it,” Vesta murmured, “I am ... humiliated at letting you see what a ... coward I am ... but they ... terrify me.”

  “I would never think you a coward, whatever frightened you,” the Count said. “As I have said, I do not believe that any woman could have been more magnificent when you were ready to die at my hand.”

  Vesta did not answer and after a moment he realised she was crying.

  “What have I said? How have I upset you?” he asked, and now there was a deep concern in his voice.

  “It is ... because you are so ... kind,” Vesta sobbed. “It is easier to be ... brave when I am ... hating you.”

  The Count tightened his arms round her.

  “You have been through so much!” he said gently, “but it is over now. Thanks to you we are alive.”

  He knew she was fighting for self-control and after a few moments she released her hold on his lapel. Drawing a handkerchief from her jacket, she wiped her eyes.

  “I am ... ashamed of ... myself.”

  “There is no need to be,” the Count answered.

  “You have ... said that you think I am ... brave,” Vesta said in a very low voice, “but I am not ... really. I lied to you ... yesterday when I told you I felt ... sick from being on ... land.”

  She gave a little gulp as if it was hard to be honest.

  “It was ... really that I felt ... faint because I was so ... frightened when we rode over the ... barren rocks. I have always been ... afraid of ... heights.” The words sounded piteous and now Vesta hid her face once again.

  “It is extremely brave of you to tell me the truth,” the Count said, “but I must admit I suspected it was that which had upset you.”

  He stared into the darkness and said quietly:

  “We all have an Achilles heel. Perhaps one day you will discover mine.”

  “There is something of which you are afraid?” Vesta asked curiously.

  “Of course,” he answered, “but I have not the courage to tell you what it is.”

  There was silence for a moment and then Vesta faltered.

  “You ... will not ... tell the ... Prince when we reach Djilas that I was ... afraid of the height or that I ... cried just now?”

  “You do not wish him to know?” the Count asked.

  “No, please do not ... tell him,” Vesta pleaded. “Mama told me that it is very ill-bred to show emotion of any sort and that Royalty are always brave, even when anarchists throw bombs at their carriages or fire pistols at them.”

  “And what about the other types of emotion?” the Count asked. “Do you intend to suppress them too?”

  “What sort of emotions?” Vesta asked.

  “Love is of course the most important,” the Count replied.

  There was silence.

  “Mama said,” Vesta answered in a very small voice, “that I must not ... expect love.”

  “And yet you hope for it!” the Count said gently.

  Vesta drew in a deep breath.

  How did he know she wondered that she hoped and prayed that the Prince would love her and she could love him?

  Then she knew that this was not the sort of conversation she should be having with a strange man who was the Prince’s friend and part of his entourage.

  “I am sure,” she answered slowly, “that Mama would think it very ... wrong of me to talk to you in such an ... intimate manner. I know too she would be very ... shocked at our lying here ... together, although I do not see what else we can do about it.”

  As Vesta spoke she eased herself free of the Count’s encircling arms, to move back to her own side of the bed.

  “There are two things I think you should consider,” the Count said, “first that the circumstances in which we find ourselves are definitely exceptional, and secondly that your mother being many miles away could hardly be expected to cope with the rats in this cave.” Even as he spoke, Vesta heard once again the scrabbling that had frightened her before.

  Without thinking, instinctively she threw herself once again against the Count holding on to him, trembling in case the scrabbling noise should come nearer and she should feel a rat run across the bed.

  “Do you think ... there are ... many of ... them?” she whispered.

  Her voice was shaking. Over her head the Count saw a large very thin cat with a long tail silhouetted against the light as it pushed its way past the side of the bearskin into the outer cavern.

  He was smiling as he tightened his arms.

  “You are quite safe as long as you keep close to me,” he said.

  Vesta awoke to find she was alone. She raised her head but there was no sign of him.

  Then she realised it was very much lighter than it had been the night before. The bear-skin was slightly drawn aside and she could see people moving in the outer cave.

  She sat up on the soft bed and realised that the Count was amongst them.

  She could see he was shaving with the razor which she knew he carried in the saddle-bag on his horse, and there were a number of children standing round watching him do it.

  She rose from the bed and saw in dismay that her skirt was badly creased. Standing up she tried to shake it and the petticoats she wore beneath it.

  When the Duchess had purchased the green riding-habit from one of the most expensive habit-makers in London, she had certainly not anticipated it would have such rough usage as it was enduring now.

  At the end of the bed Vesta saw the bundle of her small possessions which the Count must have brought in for her.

  She was glad to have her brush and comb and although there was no mirror this morning in which she could see her reflection, she tidied her hair as best she could.

  ‘It would be useless,’ she thought, ‘to ask for water in which to wash.’

  Besides she had the feeling that the one thing the Count wanted more than anything else, was for them to get away while they were still free to go.

  Picking up her cloak and her bundle, Vesta moved into the big cave.

  At the sight of her instantly there was a rush of women at her side. The mother of the baby came first holding it in her arms, talking excitedly.

  Vesta looked at the baby, first apprehensively, and then with delight. There was no doubt the child was better! It was no longer blue in the face and when she touched his tiny hands, they were quite warm.

  The mother was obviously explaining that it had had several feeds of goat’s milk. Vesta drew her other glove from her pocket.

  She saw the Count was near and said to him:

  “Explain to this woman that she must keep the gloves carefully and use a new finger only when the old one is useless. If the hole grows too big, the baby will get his milk too quickly and it will give him indigestion.”

  The Count conveyed the message and the woman nodded to show that she understood.

  There were a number of other questions which not only concerned the health of the children.

  While the Count was trying to arrange for the horses to be saddled, he kept being fetched back to translate Vesta’s remedies for ailments from which apparently the whole community suffered.

  Vesta had been thinking of what would help the people.

  Now she told the Count that they were to pick garlic and take it in hot milk and honey when anyone suffered from a sore throat or had a cough.

  “And gentian is an excellent tonic for women who are anaemic like the mother of this tiny baby,” she said. “I saw lots of the blue trumpet flowers on our way up the mountain, but tell them the yellow ones are best.”

  The Count smiled.

  “That is one remedy of which I have heard,” he said. “The legend is it was revealed to King Ladislavs of Hungary when he prayed his people might be saved from the plague which was ravaging the country.”

  Vesta’s eyes lit up.

  “That is a lovely story,” she said. “Tell them to slice the root, add a little wine and take a large spoonful before meals. If they keep it cork
ed in a bottle they can take it all through the winter.”

  “We have to go,” the Count said in a low voice. “Tell them one more way of keeping themselves healthy so that they can go on robbing and killing travellers, and then we must say goodbye!”

  “I hope that they cannot understand you,” Vesta said hastily.

  “It is quite safe,” the Count answered. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Birch-bark is also a good tonic,” Vesta said. “I can see that some of the children have eczema and that will help them as it purifies the blood. And Mama always believed it was good internally for older people.”

  The Count told the women what she had said, and then firmly ignoring the further stream of questions which kept pouring from their lips, he drew Vesta to the mouth of the cave.

  “We have to be blindfolded,” he said, “so say goodbye.”

  Vesta held out her hand to the Chief Brigand’s wife whose child she had saved from suffocating. But to her embarrassment the woman went down on her knees and kissed it.

  The other women followed until the Count covered Vesta’s eyes with his cravat as he had done before, and lifting her up in his arms sat her on her horse.

  Then she knew that he too was blindfolded and the men led them forward amid loud cries of farewell from the Chief Brigand.

  There was a sudden yell of anguish from the women.

  “They say that they will never see you again,” the Count translated.

  “Tell them that I will come to them,” Vesta answered, “or that they shall come to me. Say I promise I will not forget them.”

  “Are you sure you want me to say that?” the Count asked.

  “Quite sure,” Vesta replied.

  He obviously repeated with some eloquence what she had told him to say because there was a cry of delight, and although she was unable to see the women, she waved her hand and was sure they were waving in reply.

  They were calling after her until finally her horse carried her out of ear-shot.

  Once again she knew the Count was riding ahead and that she had nothing to do but to follow.

  But now instead of riding in silence, the men were talking, joking and laughing and the Count was joining in.

  Sometimes he talked to them for a long time and they appeared to listen respectfully.

  They rode a long way moving first straight over very rocky ground until they moved a little way downhill.

  Finally the Brigands drew the horses to a standstill.

  “They are leaving us now,” the Count said, “you can take the bandage from your eyes.”

  Vesta obeyed and she saw they were once again amongst trees on a path very like the one from which they had been taken.

  The Count drew some money from his coat-pocket and handed it to the Headman who had been in charge as he had been when they were captured.

  He made a gesture as if he would not take it. But the Count obviously insisted and Vesta was sure that he said it was for the women and children.

  The men all shook hands with the Count. Then he turned to Vesta and said:

  “They wish to pay their homage to you for what you have done for them all. Just sit still, they will not take your hand.”

  Vesta looked at the men wonderingly. They came round to the side of her horse and each one knelt on one knee and kissed the hem of her habit.

  One after another they approached her with their heads down, until the Headman with his squint eye stared at her boldly and she thought with a look of lust in his eyes.

  Yet he too knelt and kissed the hem of her habit, and then with a farewell and a wave of the hands, the Brigands swarmed up the side of the mountain under the trees and in a very few seconds were out of sight.

  Vesta looked after them and then she asked:

  “Why did they ... kiss my ... skirt ... like that?”

  “Already they are canonising you,” the Count replied. “They have seen you perform two miracles of healing and therefore they regard you as a Saint.”

  “They must not think ... that of ... me,” Vesta said. “I am not ... good enough.”

  “One woman said to me, ‘She is an angel from God’ and that is what you looked like in the cave.”

  Vesta looked at him uncertainly. He must be teasing or mocking at her, she thought, but the expression in his eyes seemed serious and sincere.

  The Count drew a deep breath.

  “I have been in many dangerous situations in my life,” he said, “but never one to equal that! And there is only one person I can thank for rescuing me, and that is you. Do you realise, Ma’am, that you have saved us both?”

  “You did not think this morning that they would release us?” Vesta asked.

  “I hoped they would,” the Count replied. “In their own way they have their principles and standards of honour. But Brigands and robbers, as you can well understand, are not entirely predictable.”

  There was a smile on his lips as he added:

  “As we have been so fortunate—let us get out of here quickly!”

  He galvanized his horse into a trot and now they were moving along the path at a greater speed than they had ever moved before.

  In a short while the trees thinned out and now they had occasionally a breathtakingly beautiful view of the valley and even at some points so far ahead that Vesta thought that at any moment she must see the spires and towers of Djilas.

  After riding for several hours the Count drew in his horse to look ahead and said:

  “The Brigands took us some distance out of our way, so I am afraid it is unlikely that we can reach Djilas tonight.”

  “Is there anywhere we can stay?” Vesta asked apprehensively.

  “Yes, there is...” he began.

  Then even as he spoke Vesta who was gazing into the valley ahead of them gave an exclamation.

  “Look! There are men down there!”

  Far away in the distance, where the white road wound between high mountains on either side, it was easy with good eyes to see there were a number of men on horse-back on the road, while others on foot were moving across a field.

  The Count sat staring without speaking.

  “Are they soldiers?” Vesta asked, noticing that something they wore or carried glinted in the sunshine.

  “I do not know,” the Count answered, “but I suggest we take no chances.”

  He moved ahead without saying more and Vesta followed him. She wondered if yet another frightening adventure lay in wait for them.

  In a very short while, however, the Count rode into a deep ravine in which they were completely hidden and guiding the horses through low scrub started climbing.

  Quite unexpectedly they suddenly reached the top and now they started going downhill between trees— not the thick dark firs through which they had ridden the day before.

  There were silver birch, juniper, strawberry trees, myrtle, and once again the purple loveliness of the Judas tree.

  Down they went until turning a little westwards they came upon a cascade of water pouring down the side of the mountain. It was not very wide but full and silver as it fell straight, then splashed over volcanic stones which sometimes formed a pool.

  Now in the warm sunshine Vesta realised that they were once more amongst the flowers and the flowering shrubs.

  There were huge bushes of wild rose and thorny smilax. There was gold and yellow broom, azaleas, rhododendrons and dozens of other shrubs she did not recognise, until suddenly the Count led her on to something resembling an Alpine plateau.

  Never had she realised flowers could be so glowing, so beautiful, so breathtakingly colourful!

  Beside the small plateau the cascade had formed an enormous pool almost like a dam before it flowed over the edge and cascaded once again further down into the valley.

  The Count drew his horse to a standstill and waited for Vesta to catch up with him.

  “I have the idea,” he said, “that I may be able to provide you with luncheon.”

 
“How?” Vesta asked.

  She realised as he spoke that she was hungry. There had only been black bread and goat’s cheese for breakfast. And she had forced herself to drink some goat’s milk although she dared not think of the condition of the cup in which it was brought her.

  “I am trying to remember how we caught trout when I was a boy,” he said. “We used to come camping in these hills, and unless I have lost the knack I think we will both enjoy a fresh trout for luncheon!”

  “Can you really catch one?” Vesta asked.

  “I do not wish you to see me fail,” the Count answered, “so I suggest you leave your horse here and walk a little way down towards the valley. Do not go out of earshot and be careful of snakes. But if you can find a lemon tree or some oranges they would greatly improve our meal.”

  “They would indeed,” Vesta cried excitedly. “And there should be strawberries too! I will put them in my hat.”

  She dismounted as she spoke, and taking off her hat which she had hung once again by its ribbons down her back, she held it upside down like a basket.

  As the sun was very hot she took off her jacket and flung it down on the grass amongst the flowers.

  “You will come if I call?” she asked. “There might be another snake!”

  “I shall be listening,” the Count assured her.

  He too had taken off his coat and was rolling up his sleeves. He had not replaced his cravat when she had drawn it from her eyes.

  As if he knew what she was thinking, he said with an amused smile:

  “Will you forgive me for not being correctly dressed on this particular occasion?”

  Vesta flushed.

  “Yes of course!” she said, and added shyly: “I would not like you to think that I was being ... critical, especially after you were so ... kind as to lend me your cravat as a bandage. I could not have borne the rags they carried to have ... touched me!”

  She paused and then she said:

  “If I seemed prudish when we first met, it was only because I had never seen a ... gentleman with his shirt ... open before.”

  The Count smiled.

  “You are very young,” he said softly, “and yet there is so much wisdom in that small golden head.”