King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  “And when he does?”

  She gripped my hand.

  “If he finds what he seeks that will be the end of his hatred.”

  “You mean … the emeralds.”

  “If he had the emeralds he would think he had his share. I am afraid that that is what is in his mind. I am afraid that this … obsession is like a canker in his mind. Dallas, I am afraid of where it will lead him.”

  “Could you talk to him?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s no use. I have tried in the past. I’m fond of you. You must not be hurt too. Everything here seems peaceful on the surface … but nothing is what it seems. We none of us show our true face to the world. You should go away. You should not be involved in this years-old strife. Go home and start again. In time this will seem like a dream to you and we will all be like puppets in a shadow show.”

  “It could never be so.”

  “Yes, my dear, it could be … for that is life.”

  I left her and went back to the chateau.

  I knew I could stand aside no longer. I had to act. How I was not sure.

  Half past six in the morning and this was the call of vendange. From all over the neighbourhood men, women and children were making their ways to the vineyards where Jean Pierre and his father would give them instructions. At least, I told myself, for today there could be no concern for anything but the gathering of the grape.

  In the chateau kitchens according to ancient custom food was being prepared to provide meals for all the workers, and as soon as the dew was off the grapes the gathering began.

  The harvesters were working in pairs, one carefully cutting the grapes, making sure that those which were not perfect were discarded, while the other held the osier to receive them, keeping it steady so as not to bruise the 4 grapes.

  From the vineyards came the sound of singing as the workers joined together in the songs of the district. This again was an old custom Madame Bastide had once told me and there was a saying that “Bouche qui mord a la . chanson ne mord pas a la grappe.”

  I did not work on that morning. I went to the vineyards to watch. I did not see Jean Pierre. He would have been too busy to pay much attention to me, too busy-to pay attention to Genevieve, too busy to hate.

  I felt that I was not part of all that. I had no job to do. I didn’t belong, and that was symbolic.

  I went to the gallery and looked at my work which in so very short a time would be finished.

  Madame Bastide, who was my good friend, advised me to go. I wondered whether by avoiding me the Comte was telling me the same. He had some regard for me, I was sure, and that thought would sustain me a little when I went away. However sad I was I should remind myself:

  But he had some regard for me. Love? Perhaps I was not one to inspire a grande passion. The thought almost made me laugh. If I could see this clearly I should see how absurd the whole thing was. Here was this man: worldly, experienced, fastidious . and there was I: the unattractive woman intense about one thing only, her work, all that he was not! priding herself on her common sense, in which she had shown, by her behaviour, she was sadly lacking. But I should remind myself: He had some regard for me.

  His aloofness was the measure of that regard and he, like Madame Bastide, was saying to me: Go away. It is better so.

  I took the key from my pocket. I must give it to the Comte and tell him how I had found it. Then I would say to him: “The work is almost finished. I shall be leaving shortly.”

  I looked at the key. Jean Pierre had one exactly like it. And he was searching for that lock even as I had.

  I thought of those occasions when I had felt myself observed. Could it have been Jean Pierre? Had he seen me that day in the graveyard? Was he afraid that I should find what he was so desperately seeking?

  He must not steal the emeralds, for whatever he told himself, it would be stealing, and if he were caught. It would be unbearable. I thought of the misery that would come to those people of whom I had grown so fond.

  It would be no use remonstrating with him. There was only one thing to do: find the emeralds before he did. If they were here at all they must be in the dungeons because they were certainly not in the oubliette.

  Here was an opportunity, for there was scarcely anyone in the chateau today. I remembered seeing a lantern near the door of the dungeon and I promised myself that this time I would light it, so that I could explore properly. I made my way to the centre of the chateau and descended the stone staircase. I reached the dungeons and as I opened the iron-studded door it creaked dismally.

  I felt the chill of the place but I was determined to go on, so I lighted the lantern and held it up. It showed me the damp walls, the fungoid growth on them, the cages cut out of the wall, and here and there rings to which the chains were attached.

  A gloomy place, dark, uninviting, still after all these years haunted by the sufferings of the forgotten men and women of a cruel age.

  Where could there possibly be a lock here to fit the key?

  I advanced into the gloom and as I did so was aware of that sense of creeping horror. I knew exactly how men and women had felt in the past when they had been brought to this place. I sensed the terror, the hopelessness.

  It seemed to me then that every nerve in my body was warning me: Get away. There’s danger here. And I seemed to develop an extra sense of awareness as perhaps one does in moments of acute danger. I knew I was not alone, that I was being watched.

  I remember thinking: Then if someone is lurking in wait for me why doesn’t that someone attack me now. But I knew that whoever was there was waiting. waiting for me to do something, and when I did, the danger would be upon me. Oh, Jean Pierre, I thought, you wouldn’t hurt me even for the Gaillard emeralds.

  My fingers were trembling. I despised myself. I was no better than the servants who would not come here. I was afraid, even as they were, of the ghosts of the past.

  “Who’s there?” I cried, in a voice which sounded bold.

  It echoed in a ghostly eerie way.

  I knew that I must get out at once. It was that instinct warning me.

  Now! And don’t come back here alone.

  “Is anyone there?” I said. Then again speaking aloud:

  “There’s nothing there …”

  I didn’t know why I had spoken aloud. It was some answer to the fear which possessed me. It was not a ghost who was lurking in the shadows.

  But I had more to fear from the living than the dead.

  I backed trying to do so slowly and deliberately to the door. I blew out the lantern and put it down. I was through the iron-studded door; I mounted the stone staircase and once at the top of it hurriedly went to my room.

  I must never go there alone again, I told myself. I pictured that door shutting on me. I pictured the peril overtaking me. I was not sure in what form, but I believed that I might then have had my wish to remain at the chateau for ever more.

  I had come to a decision. I was going to talk to the Comte without delay.

  It was characteristic that at Gaillard the grapes were trodden in the traditional way. In other parts of the country there might be presses, but at Gaillard the old methods were retained.

  There are no ways like the old ways,” Armand Bastide had said once.

  “No wine tastes quite like ours.”

  The warm air was filled with the sounds of revelry. The grapes were gathered and were three feet deep in the great trough.

  The (readers, ready for the treading, had scrubbed their legs and feet until they shone; the musicians were tuning up. The excitement was high.

  The scene touched by moonlight was fantastic to me, who had never seen anything like it before. I watched with the rest while the treaders, naked to the thighs, wearing short white breeches, stepped into the trough and began to dance.

  I recognized the old song which Jean Pierre had first sung to me, and it had a special significance now:

  “Qui sont-ils les gens qui so
nt riches? Sont-ils plus que moi quin’ ai rien …”

  I watched the dancers sink deeper and deeper into the purple morass; their faces gleaming, their voices raised in song. The music seemed to grow wilder; and the musicians closed in on the trough. Armand Bastide led the players with his violin; there was an accordion, a triangle and a drum, and some of the treaders used castanets as they went methodically round and round the trough.

  Brandy was passed round to the dancers and they roared their appreciation as the singing grew louder, the dance more fervent.

  I caught a glimpse of Yves and Margot; they with other children were wild with excitement, dancing together, shrieking with laughter as they pretended they were treading grapes.

  Genevieve was there, her hair high on her head. She ^ looked excited and secretive and I knew that her restless glances meant that she was looking for Jean Pierre.

  And suddenly the Comte was beside me. He was smiling, as though he was pleased, and I felt absurdly happy because I believed that he had been looking for me.

  “Dallas,” he said, and the use of my Christian name on his lips filled me with pleasure. Then: “Well, what do you think of it?”

  “I have never seen anything like it.”

  “I’m glad we have been able to show you something you haven’t seen before.”

  He had taken my elbow in the palm of his hand.

  “I must speak to you,” I said.

  “And I to you. But not here. There is too much noise.”

  He drew me away from the crowd. Outside, the air was fresh; I looked at the moon, gibbous, almost drunken-looking, the markings on its surface clear, so that it really did look like a face up there, laughing at us.

  “It seems a long time since we have talked together,” he said.

  “I could not make up my mind what to say to you. I wanted to think . about us. I did not want you to think me rash . impetuous. I did not think you would care for that. “

  “No,” I replied.

  We had started to walk towards the chateau.

  “Tell me first what you wished to say,” he said.

  “In a few weeks I shall have finished my work. The time will have come for me to go.”

  “You must not go.”

  “But there will be no reason for me to stay.”

  “We must find a reason ..: Dallas.”

  I turned to him. It was no time for banter. I must know the truth.

  Even if I betrayed my feelings I must know it.

  “What reason could there be?”

  “That I asked you to stay because I should be unhappy if you left.”

  “I think you should tell me exactly what you mean.”

  “I mean that I could not let you go away. That I want you to stay here always … to make this place your home. I’m telling you that I love you.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “Not yet. There are things we must talk over first.”

  “But you have decided not to marry again.”

  “There was one woman in the world who could make me change my mind. I didn’t even know she existed, and how was I to guess that chance should send her to me?”

  “You are certain?” I asked and I heard the joy in my voice.

  He stood still and took my hands in his; he looked solemnly into my face.

  “Never more certain in my life.”

  “And yet you do not ask me to marry you?”

  “My dearest,” he said, “I would not have you waste your life.”

  “Should I waste it… if I loved you?”

  “Do not say if. Say you do. Let us be completely truthful with each other. Do you love me, Dallas?”

  “I know so little of love. I know that if I left here, if I never saw you again, I should be more unhappy than I had ever been in my life.”

  He leaned towards me and kissed me gently on the cheek.

  “That will do for a start. But how can you feel so … for me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You know me for what I am … I want you to. I could not let you marry me unless you really knew me. Have you thought of that, Dallas?”

  “I have tried not to think of what seemed to me quite impossible, but secretly I have thought of it.”

  “And you thought it impossible?”

  “I did not see myself in the role of femme fatale.”

  “God forbid.”

  “I saw-myself as a woman scarcely young, without any personal charm, but able to take care of herself, one who had put all foolish romantic notions behind her.”

  “And you did not know yourself.”

  “If I had never come here I should have become that person.”

  “If you had never met me … And if I had never met you … ? But we met and what did we do? We began to wipe off the bloom … the mildew you know the terms. And now here we are.

  Dallas, I’ll never let you leave me . but you must be sure . “

  “I am sure.”

  “Remember you have become a little foolish … a little romantic. Why do you love me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t admire my character. You have heard rumours. What if I tell you that a great many of those rumours are true?”

  “I did not expect you to be a saint.”

  “I have been ruthless … often cruel… I have been unfaithful… promiscuous … selfish … arrogant. What if I should be so again?”

  “That I am prepared for. I am, as you know, self-opinionated…. governessy as Genevieve will tell you …”

  “Genevieve …” he murmured, and then with a laugh: “I am also prepared.”

  His hands were on my shoulders; I felt a rising passion in him and I was responding with all my being. But he was seeking for control; it was as though he was holding off that moment when he would take me in his arms and we should forget all else but the joy of being together at last in reality.

  “Dallas,” he said, ‘you must be sure. “

  “I am … I am … never more sure …”

  “You would take me then?”

  “Most willingly.”

  “Knowing … what you know.”

  “We will start again,” I said.

  “The past is done with. What you were or what I was before we met is of no importance. It is what we shall be together.”

  “I am not a good man.”

  “Who shall say what is goodness?”

  “But I have improved since you came.”

  “Then I must stay to see that you go on improving.”

  “My love,” he said softly, and held me against him, but I did not see his face.

  He released me and turned me towards the chateau.

  It rose before us, like a fairy castle in the moonlight, the towers seeming to pierce that midnight-blue back cloth of the sky.

  I felt like the Princess in a fairy story. I told him so.

  “Who lived happy ever after,” I said.

  “Do you believe in happy endings?” he asked.

  “Not perpetual ecstasy. But I believe it is for us to make our own happiness and I am determined that we shall do that.”

  “You will make sure of it for both of us. I’m content. You will always achieve what you set out to do. I think you determined to marry me months ago. Dallas, when our plans are known there will be gossip. Are you prepared for that?”

  “I shall not care for gossip.”

  “But I do not want you to have illusions.”

  “I believe I know the worst. You brought Philippe here because you had decided not to marry. How will he feel?”

  “He will go back to his estates in Burgundy and forget he was once to inherit when I died. After all, he might have had a long time to wait, and who knows, when it came to him he might have been too old to care.”

  “But his son would have inherited. He might have cared for him.”

  “Philippe will never have a son.”

  “And his wife? What of her? I ha
ve heard that she was your mistress.

  It’s true, isn’t it? “

  “At one time.”

  “And you married her to Philippe who you did not think would have a son so that she could bear yours?”

  “I am capable of such a plan. I told you that I am a scoundrel, didn’t I? But I need you to help me overcome my vices. You must never leave me, Dallas.”

  “And the child?” I asked.

  “What child?”

  “Her child … Claude’s child.”

  “There is no child.”

  “But she has told me that she is to have a child … your child.” “It is not possible,” he said.

  “But if she is your mistress?”

  “Was, I said, not is. You began to use your influence on me as soon as we met. Since she married Philippe there has been nothing between us.

  You look dubious. Does that mean you don’t believe me? “

  “I believe you,” I said.

  “And … I’m glad. I can see that she wanted me to go. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.”

  “You will probably hear of other misdeeds now and then.”

  “They will all be in the past. It will be the present and future which will be my affair.”

  “How I long for the time when my affairs are entirely yours.”

  “Could we say that they are from now on … ?”

  “You delight me; you enchant me. Who would have believed I could hear such sweetness from your lips?”

  “I should not have believed it myself. You have put a spell on me.”

  “My darling! But we must settle this. Please… please ask me more questions. You must know the worst now. What else have you heard of me?”

  “I thought you were the father of Gabrielle’s child.”

  “That was Jacques.”

  “I know now. I know too that you were kind to Mademoiselle Dubois. I know that you are good at heart….”

  He put an arm round me and as we walked across the drawbridge he said: “There is one thing you have not mentioned. You do not ask about my marriage.”

  “What do you expect me to ask?”

  “You must have heard rumours.”

  “Yes, I have heard them.”

  “Little else was talked of in these parts at the time. I believe half the countryside believed I murdered her. They will think you are a brave woman to marry a man who, so many believed, murdered his wife.”