by John Burke
Jan’s stern gaze softened. He put an arm round my shoulders and led me away from the wall. I remembered our first meeting and how my arm had been trapped against a wall as we stumbled into it. That was far from here, and so much had happened since that encounter.
‘It has been a shock for you.’
‘What can he possibly want?’
‘What can he want that he must charge upon you, and be unwilling to speak of in front of me?’ Jan stared at the distant trees.
I wondered if I had really seen a second horseman. If there had been such a one, why had he not accompanied Dominic on that wild gallop?
We were in no mood for viewing the monastery, but Jan had been in the middle of making arrangements when Dominic shattered our programme, and it would have been discourteous to abandon the whole thing and ride off. We made a brief tour, with an amiable monk pointing out the beauties of the chapel with its lovely Gothic Madonna and, in contrast, the modern efficiency of the infirmary.
Our minds were not on the lecture. We were glad to be away, on our journey back to Kirchschlag, free to discuss that bewildering incident – though discussion led us nowhere.
‘He may have brought bad news from home,’ I said without conviction.
‘If he were here on a worthy mission, why should he not ride up to my gates and make himself known in a civilized manner?’
The riders were close to the carriage this time. There would be no ambushes and no unforeseen approaches. As we passed the charred remains of the village on the slope, I said:
‘If you hadn’t intervened when you did, he might have spoken to me. Then we would have known.’
‘He might have done more than speak. From where I stood, he seemed bent on killing you – trampling you down.’
‘He couldn’t. Not Dominic. Whatever may have happened –’
‘Such as killing his wife.’ Jan ducked his head to peer up through the window at the hillside. ‘Do you suppose something has come to light in your absence? Fresh evidence – something in which you are involved?’
‘I was not involved. I had no evidence to offer, other than what I gave before we left.’
‘None that you remember. But there must have been some new findings. Facts prejudicial to Dominic Warrington.’
‘That would hardly account for his coming so far.’
Jan sat back. ‘He has come to silence you.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘A man who has killed once finds it easier to kill a second time. Especially when his liberty is at stake. Or his neck.’
I would not believe it. It was too extreme. If in the passion of some terrible moment Dominic had turned on Caroline, that did not mean his fury could go on at white heat.
‘Are you sure you can think of nothing damaging?’ Jan was insistent. ‘Nothing you saw or heard, without realizing it? There must be some key factor – something for which he must silence you.’
It was as bad as being interrogated once more by the Cambridge detective. The same questions, the same implications, the same wretched feeling inside. Once again I was being asked to find memories which would condemn Dominic.
‘Please try to think,’ said Jan. ‘Then we shall know what we have to face.’ Gently he added: ‘When I brought you here I thought you would be safe. I regret I have failed. But I shall not fail to protect you from now on.’
He said no more but left me to my thoughts. They were spinning, dislocated thoughts. From the confusion I tried to sift a solid piece, some small but vital thing which would prove Dominic to be a schemer and a murderer. I conjured up a picture of the Tempest Fen house that hideous evening. I paced through the room again, looking from side to side, forcing it to come to life again.
But Caroline would never come to life again.
That Dominic should have pursued me, should have come this far . . .!
We reached Kirchschlag and safety. But it was a forbidding refuge. I felt imprisoned rather than sheltered.
Was Dominic prowling around outside, a dark killer wolf seeking ways of reaching his prey? I could not imagine what he hoped to achieve. Did he want me simply to disappear in Bohemia, in order to saddle me with the implicit blame of Caroline’s death? I tried to twist such a theory so that it would fit into the pattern of events; but it became all the more twisted and inconceivable. And as to the something about which he wished me to remain forever silent . . . I sought it through my memory until my head was splitting.
At table that evening the Countess saw that we were in different mood from that in which we had set out. She may have suspected an emotional tiff; and so kept tactfully quiet. But half-way through the meal, choked by the indigestible lump of my own thoughts, I came out with an appeal to Jan:
‘If we could get him out into the open, and make it clear that he’s under guard and mustn’t attempt anything stupid, surely we could ask what he wants? Ask him outright.’
‘And you think we would be favoured with an honest answer?’
‘We shall get no answer at all unless we confront him.’
Countess Lomnica looked from Jan’s face to mine.
He said: ‘The man Warrington is in our country. In this neighbourhood. He threatened Leonora today.’
She went pale. ‘But how can he have come here?’
‘Exactly. That is what I ask myself.’ But he seemed to be asking the Countess rather than himself. It was almost an accusation: ‘How did he know where we would be? Who told him of Kirchschlag?’
I thought, suddenly and irrelevantly, of the telegram which had been handed over on our arrival. But was it so irrelevant?
I said: ‘You had no idea at all that he was in Bohemia?’
‘How should I have known?’ His curtness, and the way in which he continued to stare the Countess down, made me even more uneasy. ‘If he got as far as Fasanenburg, which the Talbots may have told him about –’
‘Why should they tell him,’ I interrupted, ‘if he gave the slightest hint of these motives you ascribe to him? They would not put a possible murderer on my trail.’
‘He would not have found it difficult to get round them. But I am sure I did not mention Kirchschlag when I was in Ely. He could have got to Fasanenburg – but how was he directed on from there?’
‘No,’ whispered the Countess. ‘No, I am sure it was not . . . that nobody . . .’
‘He found his way here. With remarkable speed.’
‘Leonora.’ The Countess smiled hopefully. ‘You have written to your mother, naturally.’
‘No letter would have reached England,’ said Jan, ‘quickly enough for Warrington to have learnt the name and set off on this pursuit.’
The Countess said plaintively: ‘But why should he pursue?’
‘That is what we wish to know. Do we not, Leonora?’
I tried again. ‘We won’t find out unless we ask him, face to face.’
‘Which I would not wish you to do alone.’ Jan eyed the blade of his knife. ‘I cannot guess where he is staying, or hiding, or when he may strike again. But he will not remain hidden for long. This is my land. My people will soon let me know where he is. In the meantime, you must not go out unaccompanied.’
I felt a cramp of dismay in my stomach. To be presented with such an obstacle, just as I was nearing the end of my quest!
Somehow I must get round it. I must disobey Jan, who sought only to shield me, and run whatever risks there might be – including the risk of his eventual anger when I had completed my task.
The next morning he asked me to marry him.
*
We were standing together at a window in the long gallery. I had supposed that, like me, he was surveying the spiky horizon of conifers and rock teeth, alert for the first flicker of movement, the first sign of a reconnoitring or approaching horseman. But then, without warning, he said:
‘This is not how I meant it to be. Since fate has chosen, however, to play such a baleful trick, I will speak now. I must speak before you tur
n against this place, and perhaps against me who brought you here.’
‘What should turn me against you?’
‘Turn towards me.’ He touched my shoulder and instinctively I obeyed. ‘Leonora,’ he said, ‘I ask you to be my wife.’
For a moment the still, soundless landscape seemed frozen upon my eyes. The words he spoke did not belong to that world I saw: I could not take them in, they had no meaning.
But his eyes claimed mine and banished the outside world. His two hands were clamped over my right hand.
‘Your wife.’ I murmured it in disbelief, and it became real.
‘You must know it was in my mind before we left England, and has remained in my mind.’
‘I haven’t thought . . . I haven’t had time . . .’
‘Time. And a place in which to think. Time in which to be sure. That is why I brought you to my country. But this misery following you here, leaping out at you – this can spoil so much. I will not let it,’ declared Jan fiercely. He appeared to grow in stature, somehow to loom over me. ‘You must think of this, and of nothing else. I would not force you for the world. But I will not let you be dragged back into unhappiness. I cannot wait, I must ask now. Will you marry me?’
His hands burned around mine. I was aware of their strength and of his inner certainty, as immediate and physical as bone and sinew. And as a man . . . oh, I was all too breathlessly aware of him. As if to disguise his slight lameness – to me as much a part of him as his smile and lilting accent, an endearing personal trait rather than a disability – he had planted his feet well apart, standing as if to lift me from the floor into his arms. To be completely his would be to know complete security: safety from all others and all else. And the perils in the sheer possessiveness of his embrace – the freedoms lost? Perhaps a woman’s petty freedoms would be well lost in the love of such a man.
Yet I did not want to reply; not at once, not taken off guard like this.
Still I could not stand there tongue-tied.
I said: ‘I have not let myself think of marriage.’
‘Then now you must begin.’
‘There is nobody . . .’
‘Nobody?’ he prompted, gentle yet urgent.
‘Nobody to whom I owe more than I do to you.’
‘We are not talking of debts. I know of none. We are talking – I am talking – of love.’
I could tear neither my hand nor my gaze away. ‘It’s too soon,’ I stumbled. ‘After what has happened, I was hoping . . . after everything was clear, after all your kindness to me and . . .’
‘Love,’ he said fervently. ‘Will not that make everything clear? Ah, my dearest. My Leonora. I have put it so badly, I think. We talk about unhappiness, and part of you is still in England when it should be here, and I do not say it loudly enough at the beginning. But I do say it. You are listening? Leonora, I love you.’
Without warning, as swiftly as he had done and said everything these last few minutes, he let go of my hand and reached for my shoulders. Now I was dragged close to him. He thrust my chin back with eager fingers and kissed me. It was an assault, a ferocious attack on my deeper self rather than on my lips. I fought him off, told myself I was not surrendering; but my lips clung to his, and in the storm of desire and fear I did not know whether, truly, I did not wish to be defeated.
When he released me I put out my arm and leaned against the window embrasure.
Jan said: ‘I owe you an apology. But I cannot make it. I cannot say I am sorry, for that would be a lie.’
The hills and trees were stark and unchanging. The snow-laden sky grew darker and more sullen.
‘I’m still a stranger here,’ I said, touching my aching mouth with my fingertips. ‘I can’t make decisions, sensible decisions. Not so far away from everything I know.’
‘The strangeness will soon pass, when we are married.’
‘I can’t be sure of –’
‘There are many things of which you are unsure, yes?’ Jan came to the window beside me. I did not draw away; but prayed that he would not touch me, not put me to the test again. ‘Leonora, you are unsettled. I know it. It was not good in England, and it is worse now. This is not what I planned for you. But I marry you, and protect you, and the uncertainty will be gone. The strangeness, the doubts, all will go. Here in our home, here and now and ever after, I will protect you if you will let me. But if you do not give yourself to me but return to England, will you not be in danger again? Will Warrington not pursue you?’
‘He can’t go on for ever. Somewhere there’s been a grotesque mistake. But it’s wrong that you should be put through all this. It shows’ – I tried a smile – ‘the trouble you’d be taking on yourself, if you took me on.’
‘Trouble which I propose to eliminate at the earliest possible opportunity.’
‘If he shows his hand –’
‘I do not want his hand upon you,’ said Jan, ‘either as enemy or as lover.’
The idea of Dominic as lover was so much a part of the past, a lost daydream, that I almost laughed aloud. And then within a trice I was possessed by a drear ache of desolation. I was by no means cured, yet, of past folly.
I walked away from Jan down the long gallery. When his footsteps came after me he was not hurrying. I blessed him for his tact; then wondered, unworthily, if it were calculation.
As we crossed the little domed vestibule outside the library I paused and said: ‘Please let me be alone. A few hours now, and tomorrow, and . . . I promise, I will let you know.’
‘Leonora.’ He bowed.
‘Jan.’ I tried to make it sound warm; tried to make it say a hundred things without saying anything whatsoever.
That same afternoon I had cause to be glad that, in all sincerity and with no ulterior motive, I had asked for such privacy. Although I had said nothing personally to Countess Lomnica, Jan must have taken her into his confidence, for when we met on the stairs she blinked a diffident little grin at me and went discreetly off into some distant room on her own. Thus there was no one near me when a cart rumbled across the courtyard with two men slouching beside it. One of them gave me such a piercing stare that I knew intuitively he was the messenger I had been awaiting.
I feigned indifference, and glanced at them only a couple of times as they unloaded the carcases of two deer into the game larder set in the outer wall. One of them went indoors, and there was a burst of sociable laughter.
The other stretched as if suffering from a pain in the back, and leaned for a moment against the wall, in an alcove overlooked by few upper windows.
I let my aimless circuit of the courtyard take me close to him.
He touched his cap, a ragged deerskin casque with sprigs of coloured ribbon sewn into it. I said something – to this day I do not recall what it was, and I doubt if it meant anything to him – and he muttered an even less distinguishable reply in what I assumed to be the local patois. Then, when my back was turned to him, he said very quietly but in the clearest, most incisive German:
‘You will be met on the road to the Devil’s Tarn. Tomorrow or the day after, there will be a man waiting. It is the same road as that to St Cyril’s monastery, but you will take the left fork instead of the right. But set out in a different direction and watch that you are not followed.’
‘If I cannot get away –’
‘You must get away. Tomorrow or the next day, someone will wait all day. You must go.’
He moved away and went to join his mate in the kitchen.
*
‘I hoped to see you content here,’ said Jan. ‘Not depressed.’
I sat by the window, yearning out like one of Mr Tennyson’s woebegone maidens. It was mid-morning, I ought to be on my way to that assignation; but how should I ever succeed in getting out of this fortress?
I said pettishly: ‘I didn’t come here to be a prisoner.’
‘It is not I who make you a prisoner.’
The Countess sat glumly in the far corner of the room. Her p
osture suggested that she should be embroidering, working on a tapestry, or even dabbing at a little water-colour on some non-existent easel. My mother would never have been able to sit there with her hands unoccupied. But Countess Lomnica simply intertwined her fingers, faintly cracking one knuckle from time to time, picked up a book, scratched its pages with a fingernail, and put it down again with a sigh.
Like a bored, resentful wardress, I thought.
Poor woman: she had come out of the goodness of her heart, had herself suggested being my companion and taking me away from the sadness of Ely; and now she was just as conscious as I was of the gloom hanging over this place.
Jan struck his thigh impatiently. ‘We shall not be at ease until Warrington has been brought in. Or sent about his business. Until then we cannot talk.’
‘No word has come in from any of your tenants?’ I asked.
‘I must send out myself. Some of my own men from here, a few patrols – we must hunt him down.’
‘You make your men sound like soldiers rather than house servants.’
‘I like to employ men who have served the country well but can no longer continue on active service. Is there anything discreditable in that?’
I lowered my head. ‘Very much the opposite.’
‘We shall find him.’ Jan strode towards the door.
‘You’ll take care? And . . . you’ll not be taking pistols?’
‘We shall take every care.’ He meant it as an answer to both questions.
When he had gone, the Countess and I waited for the sound of horsemen leaving the castle. Within ten minutes there was the jingle of harness and the clop of hoofs across the yard. It died away down the steep slope beyond the gate.
I, too, must get through that gateway.
Standing up and resting my brow against the cold window pane, I could just make out one corner of the courtyard. A man in a heavy overcoat and dark blue cap appeared for a moment, reaching the wall and then turning like a sentry, to disappear again. I felt that if I remained here watching, he would return, disappear, and reappear at precise intervals.
Jan had left a guard to protect me. Perhaps, in the recesses of the castle, there would be more than one.