‘Daniel,’ he said, still in that surprisingly soft voice, ‘d’ye see what I’ve found? ’Tis worth while to tail behind with a lamp. Never can tell what you’ll be lucky enough to pick up!’
Sara gave an indignant gasp as the driver leapt quickly down from his seat and caught her by the shoulder.
‘Don’t you touch me!’
She made a swing at his stomach with her fist, but he took a step out of reach and exploded into a hoarse burst of laughter. He thrust the lantern he carried level with her face.
‘A lass! A right little beauty too! Seems you’ve picked up a rare ’un tonight, Harry!’ His voice dropped lower. ‘But what’s t’ do with her now we’ve found her!’
‘I reckon,’ the other drawled, ‘that folk who hide about the dykes after dark learn more than’s good for them. We’ll find out more about this one later. Better be moving on.’
And, without another word, he swung the petrified Sara, with the same ease as before, into the back of the waiting cart. She braced herself for the fall against the bare boards, but it was on something soft, something rolled into canvas, that she fell.
‘Carry on, Daniel!’
As the order was given she sat up, and made a despairing attempt to scramble over the side of the cart.
‘You can’t treat me like …!’
She received a push that sent her on her back again. This time she hit her head against the wooden side, and the blow half-stunned her.
‘If you don’t be quiet I’ll put a sack over your head ‒ understand?’
The young man dropped back into his former place behind the cart, and Sara, straining her eyes against the dark, could make out nothing but the swinging light. She lay quietly on the canvas, exhausted and afraid, with no spirit left to fight. She pulled her cloak about her, turning her face away from the stinging rain. There was nothing now but submission to whatever was to follow. Her own strength was feather-weak compared with this young giant’s who strode along behind. Tears of rage and fear came in a rush to her eyes; she fought them down, and lay there, cold, but unmoving, while the cart swung along on its way. At last she felt the wheels grate on rougher ground, and then they rumbled over cobblestones, and were finally still. She sat up and gazed about her.
They had entered a courtyard; stone walls formed three sides of a square which faced out into the blank darkness of the Marsh. Sara could barely discern the outline of some sort of building. The windows were shuttered; there were no lights anywhere. Harry strode past the cart, lantern held high above his head, and hammered upon the door.
‘Look lively, there!’ he shouted.
After a while the door opened, revealing a stout woman who shielded a candle with her hand. Sara’s questioning eyes moved from her to an inn sign, swinging dejectedly in the wind. She read the faded lettering before the lantern was lowered. The Angel!
The young man took a step back towards her.
‘Here, Mother,’ he said, ‘I’ve brought you a parcel of tricks! Come and see what you think of it!’
He swung Sara to the ground, giving her a light push forward. The woman eyed her suspiciously as she stumbled on the doorstep, catching hold of her arm, roughly halting her.
Sara was stung into a fury of irritation by their handling of her. She slapped the woman’s hand away wildly.
‘Leave me alone ‒ both of you! I’ll have the law on you for this.’
The woman took no notice of her whatever.
‘What’s this, son?’ she said. ‘What have you brought …?’ Her voice was as coarse and loud as Nell’s, at Bramfield. It contrasted oddly with the voice of the man she called her son.
He laughed now. ‘Just what I said ‒ a parcel I picked up along the way. Found it by a dyke.’ The idea seemed to appeal to him; he spoke very softly. ‘It seemed to me a lass oughtn’t to be abroad at this time of night ‒ so I took her along with me.’
The woman stepped back from them, alarm on her fleshy face. ‘You brought her here ‒ to The Angel!’
The man’s voice now held a hint of impatience. ‘And why not? I fancied company for supper.’
‘You’re mad!’ the woman snapped. ‘You’re drunk!’
He stepped into the inn, squeezing his large bulk past Sara and slamming his lantern down on the table.
Then he turned angrily to the woman.
‘You keep your opinions to yourself, until they’re asked!’ He made a menacing gesture, and she shrank back against the wall, watching him warily as he let forth a stream of curses at her. She ducked before a blow he aimed half-heartedly at her head.
‘Now move yourself, you lazy trollop!’ he said. ‘Bring some supper ‒ two suppers! Feed up this wench ‒ she looks like a half-starved kitten.’
As she edged cautiously past, he called to her, ‘And remember, I’m the one who says who shall come to The Angel ‒ and who stays out!’
She vanished by a door leading into a long passage.
The young man turned to Daniel, standing alongside Sara. His tones were normal again. ‘See to the cart, Daniel. And if you don’t rub down that horse as I showed you, I promise you you’ll not have an inch of flesh on your back in the morning!’
Then he said pleasantly, ‘Good night, now. See that you get your supper when you’ve finished.’
Daniel went out and closed the door behind him.
Sara had learned by now that it was useless to try to escape, useless to pour out protests into unhearing ears, so she stood quietly while Harry attended to the fire in the stone hearth. He threw on logs from a pile beside it; then he took a candelabrum, lighting its half-dozen candles from the brightening flames. He lit several other candles in separate holders, placing them carefully about. She watched him closely. His movements were light. He was very tall, with huge shoulders bulging, threatening to burst the weathered coat he wore; his fair hair, curling above a young face, was glistening with rain. Now and again he put his hand up and rubbed the moisture which trickled on to his forehead. She was puzzled by this giant of a man, who, although so young, appeared to be the master of The Angel.
He finished his few tasks in a leisurely fashion and kicked at one of the logs on the fire with his foot. Then he swung round, and came towards Sara.
‘Now we’ll see what sort of maid it is who hides by a dyke on a wild night.’
He caught her, pulled her into the light of the candles and the fire, and at the same time pushed back the hood that covered her head. She felt his fingers fumbling with the clasp of her cloak; he drew it from her shoulders, letting it fall in a heap at her feet. For a moment he had nothing to say; he gazed at her silently, and she could read nothing in his face. Then suddenly he caught her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, his eyes raking slowly over her. She twisted, trying to break away, but he held her as easily as if she were a child.
Dismayed by the uselessness of her attempt, she looked wretchedly up at him, and she saw a smile beginning to break on his young-old face. He started to laugh. Sara wondered how many times she had heard that same laugh since he first pulled her from the dyke bank. The laugh and the smile came too readily after an outburst; they seemed totally unrelated to whatever he might be feeling at the moment. She began to wonder fearfully if he were in possession of all his senses.
He released her after a while, giving her a light push so that she sank down on the settle by the fire. He remained standing, saying nothing, but just gazing at her. Presently the woman he had called his mother appeared again, carrying a tray with dishes and tall jugs. These she set down on a table in front of the fire, arranged two places, and then left the room without saying a word. The man took a seat, motioning Sara to one opposite.
She hesitated, until he shouted, ‘Damn you! Do you want to be spoon-fed where you are? Sit down, I say!’
She obeyed him meekly enough now, her eyes fixed upon the food spread on the table. He pushed a steaming plate, bread, and a jug of ale in front of her. She took what he offered, half-afraid that
this might be another of his queer ideas of jesting, and that it might be withdrawn. The food was good, and there was plenty of it; there was more on her plate than she had eaten in a single meal since Sebastian had died. She ate and drank all she wanted, her thoughts turning now and again to the poor fare served to her in the Bramfield kitchen.
Her companion’s appetite was enormous, but, even busying himself eating, he kept his gaze on her.
‘Eat up, girl!’ he commanded, suddenly pointing the leg of chicken he was eating at her plate.
His expression softened slightly. He went on looking at her, then he said, rather gently, ‘You look as if you haven’t eaten for days. Finish that up, and if you want more I’ll give a shout for it.’
Sara needed no further urging. She went on eating, turning her body sideways to the warmth from the fire. It was almost possible, if she kept her eyes away from her strange host, to forget that she was here, in one of the places most dreaded by the honest farmers of the Marsh; she was here supping royally with the man who was landlord of the establishment. But whenever her glance stole back to him, her fears returned. She recalled the whispered tales of The Angel, and, considering the place called itself an inn, was unhappily aware of the deserted room that should have been full of company, of the windows that showed no friendly light to travellers. She remembered also the careful progress of the cart along the road, and Harry’s vigil behind it. Looking at his huge body and unlined face, over which the firelight moved in a kindly fashion, she shuddered to recall the alacrity with which the woman and Daniel had hastened to obey his orders.
He terminated his own meal abruptly by pushing away the dishes. He leaned back in the chair, apparently fully satisfied; he tilted the chair, lifting the two front legs off the ground, rocking himself while he considered her.
At last he spoke. ‘What’s your name?’
She raised her brows. ‘And what business is it of yours?’
He wasn’t at all put out by her tone. ‘Oh, come! I must have a name to call you by.’
‘It’s Mary,’ she said slowly.
‘Mary? Mary what?’
‘Mary … Bates.’
‘Well, Mary Bates, we’ll banter no longer. Why were you hiding by the dyke?’
She flushed at the mockery in his voice. ‘I didn’t know who might be coming along. The Marsh is not … safe … at night.’
‘Ah, I see you are a prudent maid, Mary Bates! Well, that’s a good thing.’ He nodded his head in exaggerated gravity. ‘But what, might I ask, is a prudent maid doing out on the Marsh after dark? Wise folk are at home in their beds.’
She hesitated a moment, then plunged ahead into the ill-prepared story she had devised during the meal.
‘I was on my way to Appledore. I have an aunt who is ill there ‒ she sent word for me to come.’
‘On your way to Appledore, Mary?’ His voice was low, but his eyebrows had lifted noticeably. ‘So late in the evening?’
‘I’ve come from Rye ‒ and I took the wrong road. I’ve never been so far in this direction before.’
‘From Rye, eh? And where do you live in Rye?’
‘I’m in service to Mrs. Linton.’
‘Mrs. Linton? Mrs. Linton? … Never heard of her!’
He brought the front legs of the chair down with a crash. He sprang up, hands on the table, leaning towards her.
‘It’s a pack of lies! And your name is not Mary Bates!’
Then, as quickly as his anger had come, it left him. The humourless smile spread slowly across his face.
‘But I must have a name for you,’ he said, ‘until you choose to tell me your real one. I think I’ll call you Liza. Yes … Liza … I like that. Does it please you to have a pretty new name?’
She said carefully, ‘My name is Mary.’
With incredible swiftness he edged round the table, catching her arm, and pulling her to her feet.
‘Don’t lie to me!’ he shouted.
He shook her violently, with his great hands spread on her shoulders. She pounded impotently against his chest; it affected him no more than if it were the action of a small child. She was full of terror again, and enraged.
‘You beast!’ she gasped. ‘Leave me alone!’ Her teeth clamped together, and she said thinly, ‘I hope you hang for this!’
He roared with laughter. She gazed at him in despairing fury, her fingers arched up gradually to claw at his face, and then they halted, frozen by his next action. He bent lower and kissed her fully on the mouth, his hands drawing her closer. His giant’s strength engulfed her like a torrent, the shock of his kiss numbing her for a few moments. She felt his searching hands upon her body ‒ but, strangely, they were not rough hands. His lips on hers were determined; although she had never been kissed by any other than Richard, she knew instinctively that this was the determination of a man used to having his own way with a woman. Into the numbness of her tired brain, straining to give even an ineffectual resistance to his demands, a spark of life returned. Abruptly she relaxed her struggle, quite passively allowing her body to be pressed against his. She tilted her head back fully to receive his kiss, and, as he bent yet farther over her, her groping fingers encountered his hair. With a gentle motion, which he might take for a caress, she slipped her fingers beneath the fair tangle of his curls. Then she gripped and pulled, bearing down with all her strength.
There was a second of astonished silence. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation of rage, and thrust her from him. The push he gave her sent her tottering backwards, until she fell against the arm of a fireside settle. She crouched there, shaken, and supporting herself with one hand, while she watched him feeling, with surprised anger, the place where her fingers had torn at his hair.
He took a step towards her. ‘My God, I’ll teach you …’
His clawing hand dragged at the sleeve of her dress as he bent to pull her to her feet. It tore away, leaving her shoulder and arm bar. His nails dug cruelly into her skin. He steadied her on her feet before him, and then deliberately raised his arm. With the back of his hand he dealt her a blow across the face.
She cried out, just once, loudly, with the sudden pain and shock.
He held her quite firmly by the shoulder so that she would not fall, and he raised his arm for a second blow. Sara struggled desperately now to break from his grasp. His fingers tightened automatically, and he stepped back from her to have room to swing his arm. In that instant, while he was unguarded, she blindly seized his belt with both hands, and, using this to steady herself, she brought her knee up with a hard jerk into his stomach. He gave a short gasp, and his fingers loosened and slid from her shoulder.
He staggered back a few paces, clutching his stomach, and bending almost double. Sara’s panting breath came painfully; she knew she had done herself very little good, because her blow had merely winded him, and it could not be effective for more than a few seconds. She waited for his next movement.
But he did nothing. His breathing, as he slowly straightened, was loud in the room. Sara stood there, expecting another swipe from his huge hand. But, after a minute, she was astonished to see that the familiar smile was beginning once more to crease his face. His broad, full laugh rang out.
‘My God!’ he laughed. ‘My God … The wench has spirit! And, t’think I’ve given a wildcat shelter under my roof!’
Still laughing, he collapsed into a chair behind him, motioning her to a place on the settle.
‘A wild-cat with yellow hair, eh? Well, Liza, I didn’t think it of you. No, by God, I didn’t!’
He breathed deeply three or four times again.
‘I think I like you, Liza,’ he said, quietly now. ‘Haven’t any use for timid women. Fools, all of them!’ He swung his chair forward, leaning closer to her. ‘But you’re no fool, are you, my pretty?’
Sara didn’t answer. She was beginning to feel the reaction from the desperate effort she had made. She despised herself for letting him see it; it was impossible now to control the fit of
shivering which seized her. She pressed back farther into the corner of the settle. Whatever he chose to do, he could now do at will; she had neither the strength nor the spirit to resist. She looked with hatred at the blue, pale eyes, with the fair curls above them; she quivered with pain where he had struck her face, and knew, without even looking at it, that his nails had drawn blood from her bare shoulder. She hated him for the pain and the indignity of their raffish brawl, but all she could do was to stare at the hands that had inflicted this injury, spread elegantly across the arms of his chair.
‘You were on the way to Appledore, Liza? Well … I’m going that way myself in a day or two. You’ll come with me ‒ I’ll drive you there. And until then, you’ll bide your time here at The Angel.’
She jerked forward in her seat. ‘I won’t stay here! I won’t! You can’t make me!’
‘Can’t I? Oh,’ he went on, grimacing as if her words had wounded him deeply. ‘You’ll not find me dull company ‒ I can promise you that. After all, Liza, what more could a woman of spirit like yourself want, than a man like me? You’ll not be lonely ‒ not with Harry Turner around.’
She listened to him with a cold, fearful heart.
‘And,’ he added, ‘I’ve some book-learning to suit your educated tastes ‒ in case you fancy a little of that sort of entertainment by way of a change from Harry. Upstairs there are books …’
Then he let out another roar of laughter, reading the expression on her face.
‘Are you thinking of that?’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the passage leading to the kitchen. ‘Yes, she’s my mother, all right. But,’ and here he winked, ‘my father is another story! A gentleman he is, and not too proud, either, to come and visit his son now and then.’
Suddenly his face hardened; his closed fist came crashing down on the table.
‘And my God, Liza, I’m more to be proud of than the sons of his lady wife! I’ve more book-learning, I’ll warrant, and a head for business, than those fools’ll ever have. Born soft, all three of ’em. They haven’t done quarter the things I’ve done in my time ‒ and I’ll be richer yet than the lot put together. You mark my words on that!’
Sara Dane Page 7