Sword of Honour

by Alexander Kent

She glanced at him. ‘He trusts you, Graham.’

  ‘I am not certain that trust means the same thing to him.’

  She turned, seeing Susanna Mildmay on the arm of a major of the Royal Irish Dragoons. If Avery’s lover had seen her, she did not reveal it.

  Perhaps Avery had been saved from something. But he would never believe it.

  Bethune said, ‘The orders for Adam have been sent.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘We shall always need dedicated captains. It would have been a waste, otherwise.’

  And the other Adam no one knew. The little mermaid ….

  No one knows.

  There was a loud bang on the floor, and a footman announced yet another prominent participant in that campaign which had ended so dramatically at Toulouse, when Napoleon had abdicated.

  She said, ‘You are being watched. People will talk.’

  Bethune shrugged. ‘They will always do that, when there is beauty like yours to envy.’

  She did not have to look at him; his sincerity was obvious.

  ‘Did you find that captain a ship?’

  She spoke to calm herself, more than anything else. She had seen the group by an open window, Bethune’s wife, poised and unsmiling, staring at her.

  Bethune said, ‘I could do nothing for him, even if I had wanted to.’ He glanced at her. ‘Do not concern yourself with them, Catherine. They are friends of mine.’

  Catherine offered her hand. ‘Lady Bethune, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

  Bethune’s wife said, ‘That is a lovely gown. It shows your skin to perfection.’ She gazed at the diamond pendant between her breasts. ‘Yes, to perfection.’ She turned away. ‘More wine, I think.’

  The others seemed affable enough, older officers and their wives, men employed at the Admiralty, or those who had been there when Bethune had first made his mark.

  Catherine flicked open her fan to cool her face. Very dull, she thought. If only Sillitoe would arrive. He, at least, was never dull.

  Bethune’s wife had returned. Close to, and in spite of the expensive gown and jewellery, she was almost plain, and Catherine found herself wondering, not for the first time, how they had met, what had drawn them to one another.

  ‘Something amuses you, Lady Somervell?’

  She said, ‘One hears all the time that there is a shortage of senior officers, in the navy at least. And yet, when I look around me, all I see are generals, and not a few admirals! Is that not strange?’

  ‘Do you have any children? By your marriage, I mean to say?’

  Catherine controlled her anger. Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean. ‘No. Perhaps it is a blessing.’

  Bethune’s wife nodded, her lips tight. ‘It could seem so. But my husband and I believe that children are the foundation of any marriage. In the navy, it is sometimes all one can cling to.’

  Catherine faced her. ‘And love, madam, what part does that play?’

  Surprisingly, the tight lips folded into a smile. ‘I should have thought you could answer that question better than I.’ She raised her hand. ‘Why, my dear General Lindsay, how well you are looking! You are quite recovered, I hope?’

  Catherine sensed, rather than saw, the footman approach with the tray of glasses. She took one, and said, ‘Wait,’ and drank the contents; it was hock, and almost cool, or so it seemed. She replaced the glass on the tray and took another.

  ‘That was most welcome. Thank you very much.’

  If the footman had been another Allday, he might almost have winked.

  Instead, he murmured, ‘It sometimes ’elps, m’lady!’

  Bethune was hurrying toward her.

  ‘Catherine, what has happened?’ He looked over at his wife, who was speaking to a portly officer with as much animation as if he were her greatest friend.

  She answered softly, ‘I should have gone when I heard about Sillitoe.’

  What was the matter with her? She had dealt with far worse, endured far worse, and triumphed. But not without pain. So why could she not hide it now, treat this with the contempt it deserved? An innocent remark, then? Never ….

  ‘I shall speak with her.’ He looked down at her hand on his wrist, perhaps remembering how she had removed her glove for him.

  ‘Say nothing. You have too much to lose.’ She gazed at him steadily. ‘I can understand why Richard cares so much for you. Please, never change!’

  There was more banging on the floor, and it was with some reluctance that the din of voices died down.

  But it was not a footman this time.

  Catherine thought she felt Bethune tense as Admiral Lord Rhodes climbed heavily to the top of a flight of marble stairs.

  ‘Shortly we shall dine, ladies and gentlemen!’ Someone gave a loud handclap, and several of the younger women shrieked with laughter.

  Rhodes did not respond. ‘Just a few words, if I may.’

  One of Bethune’s friends murmured, ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  Rhodes stared around the room, his face shining in the flickering candlelight.

  ‘I may be biased, some claim it is a fault, but I sometimes believe that upon these occasions, and this one in particular, we tend to offer all the laurels to our military friends.’ He paused while Susanna Mildmay’s major gave a cheer. ‘And overlook the achievements of our own service, without which no soldier would put his foot on foreign soil, nor hope to keep it there!’

  This time the cheering was genuine.

  Catherine glanced at Bethune again. He was unsmiling, his face grim, like a stranger’s.

  Rhodes was saying ‘… and, as our naval heroes cannot all be here tonight, let us remember one of our most outstanding and gallant sailors, who serves us still!’

  Catherine felt her heart leap as Rhodes added, ‘Sir Richard Bolitho, Admiral of the Red.’ He reached out, beckoning. ‘So who better? A hero’s lady!’

  Bethune exclaimed, ‘God damn the man!’

  Catherine watched as Belinda Bolitho was guided up onto the stairs. Rhodes started to clap and then others followed, some barely aware of what was happening.

  Then the applause died, but the noise of conversation did not resume.

  ‘Catherine, I had no idea!’ Bethune took her hand in his. ‘Believe me!’

  She looked over at Bethune’s wife. So poised. Smiling now, unlike those around her.

  She said, ‘I shall leave. Make my excuses.’ It was like a nightmare, when none of the words you needed were ever there, when all you wanted to do was run.

  Bethune stared around, his face cold, beyond anger. ‘Sillitoe will be here soon, I am certain of it!’

  She touched his arm, and looked directly into the eyes of his wife.

  ‘Some people have short memories. I do not.’ She curtsied to the others, wanting to scream at them, to spit in their faces. ‘They speak of honour, when they know it not.’ She turned round, her gown hissing against a pillar.

  Bethune said, ‘I shall accompany you to your carriage.’

  His wife called, ‘Graham! We are to go into the great hall!’

  Bethune regarded her with contempt. ‘You used my name! I had all but forgotten!’

  He guided Catherine to the stairway, his hand firmly on her arm.

  ‘I shall take you to your house.’

  She felt the damp heat of the night on her face and bared shoulders, and saw, shining blackly, the Thames.

  ‘No.’ She forced a smile. ‘It seems I am still vulnerable.’ She did not give her hand. ‘But I have a strength which others can never begin to understand.’

  People moved round her and she was aided into the carriage, while another footman ensured that her gown was clear of the door.

  Like this morning … how could it be the same day? Bethune stood watching her, his fists bunched against his sides, then, as the horses nudged forward, he turned abruptly and strode back into the house, with something like hatred in his face.

  The carriage rattled across the cobbles and Catherine stared out of the wind
ow at the passing river. So many views, so many aspects. The house she had just left; Sillitoe’s on that great sweep of the river; and her own at Chelsea.

  Far across the other side of this same river she saw the first lightning. Like the opening shots of a sea fight, reflected as they were in the dark water.

  She gripped her fan until the pain steadied her.

  She said aloud, ‘God keep you safe, dearest of men.’

  Perhaps he would hear her.

  Catherine closed the door and went directly to her room. She heard the carriage clattering away, the driver doubtless glad to be going into shelter before the storm began in earnest.

  She lighted another stand of candles near the bed; the housekeeper would ordinarily have done it, but it was her night for visiting in Shoreditch with her married sister.

  She listened to another pattern of thunder, closer now but not much. Perhaps it might pass over after all. She walked to the window and watched a livid flash of lightning. How quiet the house was; Mrs Tate would be returning at six in the morning to prepare breakfast. As usual.

  She pushed one curtain aside as it hung loose across the window, and with her other hand tugged the combs from her hair and tried to calm herself. But all she could see were the stares, the bewilderment, and the hostility. It had always been there, but she had managed to accept, if not ignore it. Richard must never know. He would not rest until he had dealt with the culprits, high or low.

  The window shivered as another roll of thunder broke the stillness, and in the lightning she saw the first drops on the glass. Perhaps the sound of rain would make her sleep.

  The air quivered again, and she reached out to raise the loose curtain. She saw the river. There would be no boats moving out there tonight.

  She glanced at her reflection in the dappled glass, and felt her heart throb with sudden pain. Her thoughts were gone, scattered in a second. It was real. It was now.

  She turned very slowly, her back to the downpour and flashes of light. The man stood by the half-open door, his face in shadow, only his eyes alive in the flickering candlelight.

  He must have entered the house earlier. Had been intent on robbery, perhaps knowing that she and the housekeeper were not expected to return.

  She said, ‘Damn you, what are you doing here?’ From the corner of her eye, she could see the commode where she kept a small carriage pistol. There was a chance. If only ….

  The man moved suddenly into the circle of candlelight.

  ‘Do not even think of it. I unloaded it, in any case.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘A precaution, you understand?’

  She watched him, one fist clenched, the nails biting into her skin.

  He had a level, resonant voice … a man of some breeding and education. As he moved closer, she saw that his shirt and breeches were well tailored. He was without shoes. She lifted her chin slightly.

  ‘What have you stolen?’

  He pushed the loosened hair from his forehead, and sounded more angry than she might have expected.

  ‘I’m no thief, damn your eyes! It’s you I came to see, my lady!’

  She took two steps away from the window. ‘I can call for help ….’

  He moved so swiftly and lightly that she barely saw it. He was not tall, but he was very strong, as if he were gaining more strength from this violent determination.

  He swung her round and pinioned her arms, his voice insistent across her shoulder. ‘If you scream, it will be your last!’

  ‘Tell me who you are – what you want ….’

  He was muttering to himself, and she could smell gin on his breath. She tried not to show alarm, anything which might provoke him further.

  ‘I saw you looking for the curtain cord just now.’ He laughed softly, and she felt the noose dragged around her wrists. She struggled to free herself, but he pulled it tighter. Expertly. She had seen Richard’s men doing it.

  ‘There now.’ He swung her round to face him. ‘I have heard it said that you are something of a spitfire, but I shall have to forgo that pleasure.’

  She held his gaze, seeing his eyes move over her. It was not possible, but there was something familiar about him.

  She said quietly, ‘Have we met?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Hardly that, my lady. You were too occupied with your admirer Bethune.’

  She watched him, trying to give nothing away. The captain who had been asking Bethune for a favour, or for a ship.

  He was staring at the diamond pendant as if suddenly mesmerised by it: he took it between his finger and thumb and lifted it slightly into the candlelight.

  She said, ‘Please … don’t take it. I’ll give you money ….’

  She did not see him move or raise his arm. The blow seemed to snap her head back with such force that she thought her jaw was broken. She was conscious only of falling, down and down, and yet she was not moving.

  He gripped her shoulders and shook her, his face inches away from hers.

  ‘Don’t you speak like that to me, you whore!’ He slapped her with his free hand, again and again, and then dragged her upright and flung her on to the bed.

  Her head was reeling; there was no pain, only a numbness, a sense of complete helplessness. She felt the bed beneath her, and tasted blood where he had cut her lip. She tried again, a physical striving to hold on to her wits, her understanding. I must not lose consciousness.

  She felt the mattress yield as he sat heavily near her. She could hear the painful breathing again, and when she opened her eyes she saw him crouched on the edge of the bed, his hands thrust into his groin, moving his head from side to side, speaking to himself.

  He turned, and looked at her. ‘I lost my ship because of a whore. Then I saw another chance taken away, because of an act of favour.’ He gripped her shoulder, the fingers bruising her skin. ‘For another Bolitho! Because of another bloody whore!’

  She cringed, waiting for another blow.

  She whispered, ‘It’s not true. They know nothing about it.’

  He was not listening. ‘I was to be his flag captain. I suppose you knew that too?’

  She shook her head.

  What was the matter with him? Was he ill or insane? Nothing made sense.

  He lurched up, and she heard him moving about the room, as if driven by something beyond his control.

  Then he came back and raised her head and shoulders and wedged a cushion beneath them.

  She wanted to shake her head to clear her mind, but some warning sense made her remain quite still. Perhaps he would leave. It was unlikely, but someone might call, even at this hour. She glanced at the window, the rain sheeting down it. She had been standing there, holding the curtain, and he had been here. Watching, waiting.

  His shadow fell over her, and she felt him holding the pendant again.

  He said, ‘They take everything. They lie and deceive. They ruin you.’

  ‘Please leave now, before it’s too late.’

  He began to drag the gown from her shoulders, unhurriedly and deftly.

  She tried to pull away and felt the cord around her wrists tearing at the skin. In a sudden silence, she heard a clasp fall to the floor, and the more insistent tearing of silk.

  She said, ‘Don’t! Please don’t!’

  But he rolled her on her side so that she could not see him, his fingers in her hair, twisting it, making her gasp aloud with pain. She felt him kneeling, pressing against her while he tore at her clothing. He was violently aroused; she felt the warm night air across her legs, his hands on her garters, her stockings, and then hard against her skin.

  She knew she must hold on, even as she knew what was happening, and that it was hopeless.

  She had never been afraid of any man, except her father, but this was different.

  She could feel it like a sickness in her stomach, rising up as if to choke her. Not fear; it was sheer terror. It was rape.

  His hands were everywhere, exploring her, then dragging her round to rid her o
f the last of her clothing.

  She screamed, and felt her head jar back again to the force of the blow.

  He was holding her, his fingers insistent, probing, final.

  There was a great clap of thunder, a single crack which seemed inside the very room.

  She attempted to open her eyes, to move her aching body, but nothing happened. Tiny pictures flashed through her brain, like fragments in a nightmare. The shadow rising over her, the pain, and the sense of choking. Perhaps he had killed her after raping her.

  A voice said, ‘I have her. Cut the cord, man!’

  Another hand holding hers, rough but steady, the blade barely touching her skin as the cord was pulled away.

  She groped, and tried to cover her nakedness, but there was a sheet over her body, and no hands explored her thighs, her hair. A damp cloth dabbed at her mouth and cheek; somewhere, miles away, booted feet thudded on the stairs.

  She opened her eyes, and realised that his arm was round her naked shoulders, holding her, while he cleaned her torn mouth. Sillitoe did not allow himself to relax even when the life returned to her eyes, and she reached up to touch the cloth.

  Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Deal with it. You know what to do.’

  She struggled, but he held her. A man used to women, she thought, who knew how to restrain them ….

  He said quietly, ‘I know a good doctor nearby.’

  She put her hands under the sheet, shaking her head. ‘He did not … I fought him, but I couldn’t ….’

  They must have used the same stealthy manner of entry. Taking advantage of the thunder, they had come straight to this room. Otherwise…. She retched, and he held her until the spasm passed.

  She wanted to ask so much, to discover how he had known what had happened, but all she could say was, ‘Why?’

  Sillitoe took a silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed it with his teeth.

  ‘This will burn, but it will do you good. Don’t touch any of the other bottles and glasses in here, in case he used them.’

  She choked. It was cognac, but the shock of the raw spirit on her cut mouth had the desired effect.

  He said, ‘His name is Charles Oliphant, former captain of what is now Sir Richard’s flagship, Frobisher.’ The hooded eyes were expressionless. ‘Are you certain there was no congress?’