The post-road was full of pot-holes, and deep ruts, hard-baked by the sun; at times it was a mere track across the plain, at others it became a rocky mountain pass, where the number of horses had to be doubled to drag the coach up. They slept at inns along the road, but the coach never stopped until it was too dark to go farther, and it was off again betimes in the morning. When Dominica wearily asked the reason of such insensate haste her aunt only smiled, and said: ‘When I rouse myself to undertake such a disagreeable journey as this, my dear, I waste no time over it.’
The lady beguiled much of the tedium of the journey by sly references to Beauvallet, left behind them. She veiled her words, out of consideration of the listening tirewomen, but Dominica was never in any doubt as to her meaning.
Dominica, jolted and bumped in her corner of the coach was not at a loss for suitable answers. They came out very pat, and had an edge to them. Dona Beatrice chuckled softly, and pinched the girl's cheek, not at all ruffled.
This cat-and-mouse play was not to be borne. Dominica made a bid for freedom, and announced her wish to ride part of the way. To sit in a bumping, lurching coach, she said, day upon day, irked her sorely. With her aunt's good leave she would have a horse saddled for her on the morrow, and ride for at least an hour or two.
‘How restless you are, my dear!’ remarked Dona Beatrice. ‘By all means do as you please. Young blood cannot be still? But I do not know that it is at all seemly.’
‘There will be none to see me, aunt, and I have not been used to be cooped up,’ Dominica said.
‘True,’ agreed Dona Beatrice, and disposed herself to slumber.
On the morrow it was so ordered. Dominica came down from her chamber at the inn in riding-dress, fully prepared to fight for the privilege she claimed. However, there was no need. Dona Beatrice merely said that it was a pity Don Diego was not there to act as escort, and told a groom to stay near his young mistress.
Dominica carried a heavy heart in her breast, but could still enjoy this spell of exercise and of freedom. There had been little enough riding for her since she had come back to Spain. She remembered long gallops at Santiago, and knew a little of the same joyous feeling of freedom as she had had there. She rode well, had no fear, and led the groom a fine chase at a full gallop. She reined in at last, flushed and wind-tossed, breathed her horse a moment, and went cantering back to meet the lumbering coach.
Her aunt had had the curtains drawn back, and greeted her with a quizzical look. ‘You are a very Diana, my dear. Were you riding to escape from me?’
Dominica tucked an escaped curl back under her French hood. ‘No, señora, I doubt it would be of no avail,’ she said frankly.
She came presently to sit in the coach again, but thereafter it was understood that when my lady willed it so she would ride, and there was always to be a horse procured for her.
Away from her aunt's side she had leisure to indulge her thoughts. They could not be pleasant. Not even Joshua's stout optimism could allay her fears. She felt herself to be a traitress, flying from Beauvallet in his hour of need, yet Joshua had seemed to think she did well to go, and indeed what could she do by remaining, even had it been possible? If they had chosen to interrogate her she would have fought with all her woman's wit for Beauvallet, but they had not chosen. Oh, if she were a man she would fight for him in other ways than that! Her eyes kindled to the thought, and her hand clenched on her whip.
If she could believe that Sir Nicholas would escape she might play with the fancy of him in pursuit, even now as she rode from him. She imagined him hard on her heels, spurring on and on, riding down this stately equipage. She could imagine how his sword would flash out, how he would snatch her up, and ride off with her, laughing, triumphant. She had to shake the tears from her eyes; the gay lover was caught and prisoned, and would no more come riding to win her.
They came within a stage of Vasconosa upon the tenth day. The labouring lackeys swore softly against such haste. ‘One would say the devil was on our heels.’
Dominica overheard the phrase. If Sir Nicholas had been behind they would be very sure the devil was on their heels, she thought.
There was a stream to be forded; the coach lurched down the bank, and the shallow waters lapped round the wheels. Dominica's horse chose to jib at the stream, sidled, and backed, but was forced on. She went through, climbed the slope beyond, and reined in to await the coach. There was some trouble over this; the wheels sank into the mud of the stream-bed, and the great horses strained in vain. The men were all about the coach, pushing, gesticulating, arguing. It was decided to rope two saddle horses to the coach.
There came a thunder of hooves to the north, behind Dominica. She turned her head, and saw a troop riding towards her, ventre à terre. Her eyes narrowed in surprise; the horsemen came nearer, and she saw masked faces. She cried out in swift alarm, wheeled her horse about, and went quickly down the slope to where the coach still stuck in the stream. ‘Bandits!’ she said. ‘A troop of masked men! Get to horse!’
The men left their task of extricating the coach. Two of the guards sprang into the saddle at once; the coachman got out his musket.
Dona Beatrice leaned back at her ease. ‘Did you say bandits, dear? I can hardly credit it.’
‘Masked men, señora. I know not, but I misliked what I saw.’
Dona Beatrice looked round at her bodyguard, and yawned. ‘Well, and if you did, my dear, we have guards enough to give them a fine scare. Do not be alarmed.’
‘I am not alarmed,’ said Dominica with dignity.
The troop appeared over the top of the slope, cloaked men, with gauze masks covering their faces. A shot sounded, there was a flash of steel; the bandits came scrambling down the slope to engage with Dona Beatrice's bodyguard.
Dominica thought there were no more than six of them, but she could not be sure in the mêlée. Her heart beat fast, but there was something about this battle that made her draw her brows together, and look frowningly. There were pistol shots, but no man was wounded; swords flashed, but no man was cut down.
Dona Beatrice's fan stopped waving. Her eyes were narrow all at once, and behind them her brain was moving quickly. She sat forward with a hand on the side of the coach, watching this odd fray.
Dominica knew a sudden, inexplicable fear. She brought her horse up close to the coach. ‘Señora – aunt – what is this?’ she asked urgently.
‘That is just what I am asking myself,’ said Dona Beatrice calmly. ‘If these men are brigands they act as no brigands did that I ever heard of.’
A couple of the masked men spurred up to the coach; a hand seized Dominica's bridle. She slashed at the masked face with her whip; the leather thong cut the mask across, and revealed an unshaven chin, a thick nose, and the fast rising weal of the whip-lash. The whip was wrested from Dominica's hands. She cried out to her guards: ‘To me! To me, cravens!’
They were sheepish, laying down their arms, as though worsted in the fight. Yet there was not a man among them who had taken a hurt.
Dominica drove her heel in hard, struck at the hand on her bridle. Her horse plunged forward, but her captor jerked it up. ‘Help me, cowards!’ Dominica cried furiously.
Dona Beatrice had half risen from her seat as though she would descend from the coach. She sank slowly back now, her eyes fixed under their drooping lids on a masked horseman who stood a little apart from the rest. She watched him turn his head to give an order to one of the men. She could not hear his voice, but she had no need to hear it. A woman should know her own son.
Her hand felt for her fan. Thoughtfully she looked at her niece, being forced on up the slope. A very infamous proceeding. She was surprised that Diego should think of such a scheme. Her shoulders shook slightly; meditatively she bit one finger-nail. Should she put a stop to it or no? She had no doubt that a word from her would subdue Don Diego, but should that word be spoken? This was a crude performance, by her standards, but she admitted she could have thought of no surer way of
reducing her niece to obedience.
She slightly raised her ample shoulders in a gesture of fatalism. Let Don Diego do as he chose; a girl never liked a man the less for being shown the strong hand. She turned her attention to her screaming tirewoman. ‘I beg you will be quiet,’ she said. ‘We are not attacked, and you do no good by that screeching.’
Old Carmelita pointed a shaking finger. ‘Señora, señora, they bear off the señorita!’
‘I am not blind,’ said Dona Beatrice. ‘I can do nothing to the purpose. Pray you be calm.’
The masked riders had closed round Dominica; in another moment they were over the brow of the slope, and had gone out of sight.
One of the guards came to the side of the coach, pushed on by his fellows, and mumbled something inarticulate.
‘I suppose you to know what you are about,’ said Dona Beatrice sharply. ‘Pray do not think me a want-wit. What did Don Diego pay you for this piece of work?’
The man was put out of countenance, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, stammered an unmeaning answer.
‘You are a fool,’ said Dona Beatrice. She had resumed her fanning. A movement of the fan beckoned the coachman forward. ‘Where is my son taking Dona Dominica?’ she said languidly.
‘Señora – it – I do not know,’ said the coachman.
‘You would be better advised to speak the truth,’ said Dona Beatrice.
The coachman looked at her, and seemed to think she might be right. ‘Señora, to the lodge.’
‘Ah!’ said Dona Beatrice. ‘Who else is there?’
‘Señora, none but Luis, the valet.’
‘You shock me,’ said the lady. ‘I think you had better set yourself to pull the coach out of the stream.’
Twenty-one
The riders hedged Dominica closely about, and struggle as she might there was no withstanding the insistent drag on her bridle. She fought desperately to rein in her horse, but the bridle was wrenched from her straining hands. A cut across the quarters made the frightened animal bound forward. Dominica leaned forward in the saddle to strike passionately at the man who led her. He laughed, bade her be still, and pressed on.
She was sobbing with rage, quite powerless, but ready almost to fling herself from the saddle rather than be carried on thus ignominiously. ‘Who are you?’ she panted. ‘What do you want with me? Answer me, you!’
No one replied to her question; she looked round wildly at the masked faces: the blank gaze told her nothing. She looked ahead then, to note the way they went, and found that they had left the road, and were pressing on up a slight hill, towards wooded country.
They had to check their pace; there were boulders in the way, and overhanging tree-branches above their heads. A rough track led through the forest; as far as Dominica could ascertain they were striking north, towards Vasconosa.
A man pushed forward, and came to ride on her other side. Dominica stared at him, saw an elegantly gauntletted hand upon the rein, and smelled the sweet scent of musk. It was not fear that seized her then, but a cold fury that almost bereft her of speech. She struggled for words, rejected what came, and said at last in a voice redolent of scorn: ‘You may unmask, my heroic cousin. I have your measure now.’
He gave a slight laugh, and put up his hand to remove the mask. ‘Fairest cousin, well-met!’ he said, and bowed to her over the saddle-peak.
She spoke through shut teeth. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, señor, you will not say so for long.’
‘I am sure you are much mistaken, sweet cousin,’ he returned, and laughed again.
She pressed her lips together, and rode on in silence. After a while Don Diego leaned towards her, and took her bridle from the man who held it. ‘Let me be your escort, child.’
‘I appear to have little choice, señor.’
They rode on ahead of the troop. ‘You drove me to it, Dominica,’ Don Diego said softly.
She gave a short laugh at that. Now she could despise him to the full. A man who would apologise for his villainy, whine at it! ‘Holy Virgin!’ she ejaculated. ‘Is that your excuse, cousin?’
‘My love for you!’ he said, flushing at the contempt in her voice.
‘A rare love, by my faith!’
‘It brooks no hindrance. I am desperate for you. You shall not think harshly of me.’
‘I shall not think of you at all,’ she replied. ‘You are of no account.’
His brows drew close over his nose. ‘I shall show you otherwise, Dominica.’
She yawned.
‘You scorn me,’ he said, ‘but I love you. You have flouted me, given me sharp words, and cold looks, but I have you now by the strong hand.’
Her eyes flashed; her lips curled. ‘The strong hand! Yours!’ She flicked at it with her glove. ‘My God, I could match you a strong hand which would put yours to shame!’
He coloured. ‘You betray yourself, Dominica. Was Beauvallet's hand so strong then? Did it keep him from capture, and will it keep him from the stake?’
She looked disdainful. ‘You rave. You are ridiculous. Mother of God, but you sicken me!’
‘You will not long say so,’ he answered.
‘What, am I to be rid of you then? I give thanks for a happy deliverance.’
He sneered at her. ‘Who shall deliver you, señorita? Your fine Beauvallet, so neatly caught and prisoned? You will grow weary of waiting for him, believe me.’
‘I do, very easily, señor,’ she returned lightly. ‘But I make no doubt the Chevalier de Guise would be happy to serve me were he free.’
‘Very clever,’ he said, ‘but I sprang your secret the night he was taken. Why persist in this pretence?’
She shrugged. ‘If you have a maggot in your brain, cousin, I see no reason why I should share it.’ She turned her head. ‘I suppose this to be a plot of my aunt's?’
‘Dear cousin, give honour where it is due. The plot is mine alone.’
‘You amaze me, señor. I had not thought you possessed the stomach for so hardy a deed.’
‘I am not so spiritless as you think, perhaps,’ he said quickly. ‘If you are happy to be with freebooters you should like this exploit.’
‘Given any other man to be the abductor, señor, I might,’ she conceded.
He jerked his shoulder up. ‘You gain nothing by such talk, cousin.’
They rode on in silence, farther into the forest to a ride Dominica recognised. She was being taken to the old hunting-lodge belonging to the Vasconosa estate. It seemed to her a crowning insult that he should dare to take her to a house not five miles from where her aunt lay. She fairly gnashed her little teeth over it, and her cheeks flew colours of rage.
They drew up before the door. He lifted her down from the saddle, and, looking round, she saw that the troop had dispersed, only one man remaining to take their horses. Ignominy upon ignominy! She guessed the men to be hildings employed upon the estate, and could imagine what chuckles and sly looks were passing between them at her expense. Anger consumed her; there was no room for fear.
Luis, Don Diego's valet, had come out, bowing to them. He held the door wide; she hesitated a moment, and then brushed past him into the hall of the lodge.
Diego, following her close, found her tapping her foot by the table. ‘Dearest cousin, you are surprisingly beautiful when you are enraged,’ he told her. ‘There is a chamber prepared for you upstairs. I regret I have no tirewoman to offer you, or any change of raiment. But you will find such things as you need, and you have only to call, and Luis will bring you what you ask for.’
‘Your consideration passes belief, cousin,’ she said. ‘I do not purpose to make a long stay, I thank you. I shall be glad to know what you intend by me.’
The valet went discreetly away to the kitchens. Dominica was left facing her cousin, straight and stiff in the middle of the hall.
‘I intend marriage, child, as I think you know.’
‘Is this the way you woo in Spain, señor?’
He came cl
oser. ‘It is the only way to use with such a wild maid as you, Dominica.’
‘You are doomed to disappointment, señor. It is no way to use with me.’
He smiled. ‘You are tired from your long ride, and these alarms you have sustained. Come, child, cry a truce, and let me lead you to your chamber! When you have reposed yourself a little we will talk.’
She ignored his outstretched hand, but turned towards the stairs. She had need to collect herself, to marshal her defences. She saw that she stood in great danger; she would need all her wits about her to evade it, and she was indeed shaken. Moreover, while he thought her safe upstairs she might contrive to escape, she thought. Dona Beatrice might stand back and allow her son to do his worst, but Dominica was fairly sure she would not take a more active part in this villainy. If she could win to her side she would be safe enough.
This hazy idea was soon put to rout. Don Diego, ushering her into a chamber upstairs that gave on to a little garden at the back of the lodge, displayed a key. ‘You will forgive the discourtesy, dear cousin, but I must lock you in. I will come to fetch you at dinner in an hour, if it please you!’
She would not trust herself to speak; her breast heaved. She turned sharply on her heel, and walked into the room.
The door was shut behind her, the key grated in the lock.
She stood still until she heard the stairs creak under Don Diego's retreating footsteps. Then she went in a little dash to the window, and flung it open, and looked out. It was unbarred, and for a sufficient reason. There was no need of bars for the wall of the house fell sheer to the ground some twenty feet below. No friendly creeper afforded a foothold, nor even a rain-pipe. To jump from the window would mean broken limbs, and maybe worse. She stayed panting by it, her fingers gripping the ledge till the nails showed white. It was of no use though to rage, and grind her teeth. Escape did not lie that way.
She turned away from the window, and came back into the room, and took stock of her surroundings. A great bed stood out from one wall, hung with curtains of red damask; arras of tapestry covered the walls; there was a chest, a chair, an escabeau, a table with carved legs, a mirror hung above a second chest, wheron stood a basin and an ewer of silver.