by Sandra Heath
* * *
Later that night she sat in her bed, a candle burning beside her and the book of Shakespeare open on her lap. Outside the window the ash tree scratched insistently in the slow breeze, and the moon shone spasmodically from behind the clouds which lay scattered across the sky. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked quietly in the silent room and she looked up from the book to see that it was two o’clock.
She sighed, knowing that she would not be able to sleep. She had not seen Jack to tell him what she intended doing. Oh, this was not how it should be! She lay back against the pillow and stared out of the open window. The curtains were not drawn and stars twinkled in the velvet darkness.
Something made her get out of bed. It was peaceful outside as she looked out. She opened the window and gazed toward Hob’s Tor. There was a light. A fire. Someone had lit a fire on Hob’s Tor in the middle of the night!
She stared, the same feeling of loathing and fear creeping over her as she had experienced when she had ridden down in the valley below the tor. The ash tapped the window, scraping against the glass, which pressed it away from the wall. The air whispered through the branches and she thought she could hear Melissa’s voice, whispering quietly in the night. She stepped back from the window, shaking, but then she shook herself. No, such notions were foolish. A human hand had lit the fire on Hob’s Tor.
She left her room. She would tell Jack.
She knocked quietly on his door and waited. There was silence. He must be asleep. Again she knocked. After a while she turned the handle and went in. His room was in the oldest part of the house and the floorboards were crooked. As she crossed the room the boards creaked and the door of his wardrobe swung open. The curtains flapped idly in the breeze from the open window, moving like stealthy white ghosts. Her heart was thundering now as she drew aside the curtains around the bed. It had not been slept in.
A horse’s hooves clattered on the cobbles of the stableyard below the window and she hurried to look out. A man was leading a saddled horse to the back gates, and once through them he mounted and turned the animal toward Hob’s Tor where the fire still burned brightly. It was Jack—she recognized his face as the moon crept out from behind a cloud to bathe the moor with light.
Chapter Twenty-seven
His solitary figure was silhouetted momentarily before he vanished over the brow of the hill and on to the moor beyond. The flames on Hob’s Tor flared as someone threw fresh wood on them. She knew that she must follow him; she must find out the truth. She closed her eyes briefly at the terrible thoughts which were worrying her now, like the insistent tapping of the ash tree.
There was no time to dress properly. She put on her pale turquoise dressing gown and her shoes and went down the stairs as quietly as she could. The Buddha’s head chinked as she passed and the Elizabethan lady glowered crossly. The other portraits which lined the staircase seemed to watch her passing, and the grandfather clock’s face looked startled in the gloom. It was a quarter past two now and the mechanism of the clock whirred as it began to sound the quarter hour.
Outside the air was mild. The trees stirred in the slight breeze and there was a light in the gatehouse where Martin sat up late carving a love spoon for Janie. He held it out admiringly, pleased with his craftsmanship and with the thought of giving so beautiful a token to his sweetheart. He did not see the shadowy figure slipping across the courtyard toward the stables.
Sarah’s shoes sounded unnaturally loud as she hurried along the path through the kitchen garden, taking the short cut to the stableyard. In the yard she paused. From the quarters at the far side came the sounds of roistering as the lads celebrated the head groom’s birthday. Loud voices sang raucously as the ale was quaffed freely and no one heard or saw as she opened the door of the stalls and went inside.
She had gone past the first few horses before she stopped, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone had noticed her. The singing and laughter went on and someone dropped a jar which shattered noisily and caused a great deal of drunken mirth. There would be a few sore heads in the morning, she thought absently. She fumbled with the catch on the nearest stall and the horse inside moved nervously, turning its head to stare at her.
She led it out and tethered it firmly to a post as she went to bring a saddle. Her fingers would not obey her and she fumbled awkwardly with the leathers and straps until in the end she discarded the saddle altogether. As a child she had ridden bareback and that was the way she rode the best. She led the horse out of the stables and into the yard. Clouds had obscured the moon and everything was darker. The birthday celebrations continued uninterrupted, with even more gusto as a fresh cask was broached and mugs were replenished.
The gate swung open to her touch and she led the horse outside, letting the gate go. It swung to behind her, crashing loudly against its post. She ignored it, mounting the horse and urging it away toward the high moor. Ahead the fire still glowed. It was then she realized that she had taken Melissa’s horse.
* * *
In the silent house Paul awoke with a start. The gate had clattered loudly enough to disturb his sleep. He got out of his bed and went to the window, just in time to see Sarah’s cloaked figure riding away on his sister’s horse. He saw, too, the gyrating flames on Hob’s Tor.
* * *
The track to Bencombe was plainly visible to Sarah as she rode up the hillside. The horse, after its momentary upset at being ridden in so unorthodox a way, had settled down to a steady pace. The moor stretched before her and there was no sign at all of Jack. He could have gone in any direction, but she knew that he had gone to Hob’s Tor.
A screech owl gave voice immediately overhead and the horse’s head came up, but Sarah urged it on, speaking to it gently. The hoofbeats became more muffled as she turned away from the track and set off across the soft turf of the moor. She had a long and dangerous ride ahead of her, but fear drove her on—fear of what she might discover, and a deeper anguish at what she knew in her heart she was about to lose forever.
The wide stream by the stone bridge gurgled quietly in the darkness as she splashed across, the water showering in droplets around her. Time lost meaning for her. She kept Melissa’s horse to a good pace and all the while her eyes searched the moor ahead for any sign of Jack, but the moor was empty.
With a jolt she realized that she was only about a hundred yards from the base of the tor. She reined in, the horse capering around impatiently as she stared up at the flames on the summit of the great hill. As she looked the fire was extinguished as some unseen hand tossed pails of water on the flames. The darkness closed in immediately and Sarah felt suddenly afraid. The moor was all around her, quiet and somber. The moon had vanished behind a heavy cloud and everything was still, apart from the small sounds of the breeze as it swept across the rolling land.
She moved her horse forward slowly. At first the new sound was not distinguishable from that of the wind, but as she at last reached the lip of the valley where the green-cloaked pool lay hidden, she became aware of the whispering which filled the night air. The rocks. The breeze blustered in and out of them and they whispered excitedly, as if repeating a single word over and over again. Sarah’s resolve faltered with those ghostly voices, but as she hovered on the brink of flight she heard other voices, more solid and less unearthly.
“So you came, Monsieur Holland. I thought perhaps you would!” The voice with its French accent was unmistakably Armand’s.
“Armand?” It was Jack.
Sarah slipped from Melissa’s horse and went to stand by its head, gently stroking its velvety nose to keep it quiet. She stared down into the valley, oblivious to the chanting of the rocks high above. She could make out Jack’s tall figure, still mounted, and scrambling down the side of the tor was another figure, smaller and lighter. She could plainly hear the rattling and jostling of the stones and rubble as the second man reached the bottom and walked over to where Jack waited.
“I wished to see you, Monsieur Holland
.”
“Was the Blue Fox your work?”
“But of course.” Armand’s voice was a little puzzled.
“Trefarrin couldn’t have identified anyone; the night was too dark!”
“Mamselle ‘Lissa thought him dangerous. She told me I must do this.”
“When?”
“On the night before I left for France to purchase the horses for you, monsieur. You heard her. ‘Remember your orders, Armand,’ she said. ‘And do it when you return.’’
“I didn’t know what she meant.”
“No, monsieur, I’m certain now that you did not.” There was an odd note in the singsong voice.
“What else did she command you to do?”
“Nothing which need concern you, monsieur.” There was a smile in the voice now.
“There must be no more of this, Armand. Not now.”
“Not now? Why not now?” Armand spoke very softly and Sarah felt the menace in him. She shivered.
“Because—” Jack broke off.
“Because you killed her, monsieur?”
Sarah held her breath.
There was a silence. And then Jack laughed a little. “I killed her?”
“Why yes, monsieur. It had to be you. Oh, how you must have cursed the mist which delayed word reaching you from Plymouth, for you missed me then, didn’t you? You could not turn me away with false messages from her, sending me back to France, to perdition, to anywhere so long as it was not back here where I would discover what you had done. But I came back. I sensed that she had gone, that my lady had been sent from me. I found her grave, monsieur, in the Christian churchyard, so holy and good a place for my poor lady. And then last evening, before sunset, I saw you kissing the little Miss Stratford, smiling at her, touching her. That was why mamselle had had to die, was it not? She was so jealous of your love, so desperate to have you at all times, but you loved another.”
Jack’s horse shifted and Sarah saw that his head was bowed. Then he raised it to look at the Frenchman. “I had to be free of her,” he said quietly. “She was choking me, smothering me, demanding what I could no longer give.”
“Ah, monsieur, with your own lips you condemn yourself. How could you have done this thing to my lady? She loved so much, so inordinately. She poisoned the wife you no longer wanted. She would even have married the foolish Edward for you, to bring you the wealth you needed when your gambling debts mounted to threaten the position you set such great store by. She would have given herself to that marriage, willingly, to aid you, but Sir Peter ended that plan.
“And then the little Miss Stratford seemed to offer hope of the money you had to have, and even then my mamselle agreed. She would have seen you married to another if you still loved my lady. But you killed Monsieur Jameson to defend the honor of the dark-haired miss, and my mamselle sensed that something was wrong, that the little heiress who was merely to provide the fortune was already become something more to you.
“You are a shallow man, monsieur, shallow and vain. You were content to allow my lady to take such terrible risks for you, to plot and scheme and even murder for you. To keep your influence at court and to keep your creditors at bay you would have agreed to anything. You cared nothing for my poor mamselle. The great and enduring passion she gave to you you took so casually. You lay with her, spoke lovingly to her, encouraged her to do what you wanted—until you began to realize exactly what she was doing out of love of you.”
“I didn’t know that she was a witch. I swear I knew nothing of that!”
“Oh, so that’s how you seek to defend yourself. You knew, monsieur, you knew that she was no ordinary woman, that her passions, loves, and hates went beyond normal bounds. You knew enough of her past to know what she was, what she ever will be. You killed my soul and my strength.” His voice was now shrill.
Jack’s face was so still that he might have been made of stone. His tongue passed nervously over his lips then. “If you knew she was dead, why then did you still burn down the Blue Fox?”
Armand was surprised. “Because she had told me to, monsieur, and I always obey her orders. I did all as was planned. I took the red horse which was so like Edward’s, and I saw an end to Trefarrin. I could not fail her again, not after letting Miss Stratford survive Hob’s Brook—she was to have died there, monsieur. I failed too the first time I put the flame to the inn. But then I succeeded.”
The Frenchman’s voice broke a little. “She took me back. She took back the foolish servant who failed her and who had been so afraid to return to her. She needed me still and I did all she asked of me. I came here to the cave, to be here always should she need to contact you, to do any tasks she set. I’ll never fail her again.”
“But she’s dead, you imbecile. She’s gone!”
Armand nodded. “Perhaps that is so, but her last commands to me remain. The first I have done and the fat Trefarrin is no more. There remains only you, monsieur.”
“Me?” Sarah could hear the naked fear.
“Yes. She said that if you loved the dark-haired miss then you were to die for your falseness, you and the woman who stole your heart.” Armand took a pistol from his jacket and leveled it at Jack. “Now I carry out her wishes, just as she intended I should.”
Sarah could bear it no longer. She could not stand there and watch the Frenchman murder Jack before her eyes. She screamed Jack’s name just as the moon swept from behind the cloud and bathed everything with a crystal light. Armand’s hand faltered and he turned toward her. Jack saw her and in the moonlight his face was ghastly. Both men recognized Melissa’s horse, and saw a woman in a turquoise gown which the moonlight turned to emerald green.
Jack gathered the reins of his horse. “Melissa?” His voice was tight in this throat.
Armand stared. “Mamselle ‘Lissa? Ma chère maîtresse?”
The horse leapt away as Jack kicked his heels. “Leave me, Melissa, leave me!” he cried.
Sarah’s knees turned to water as she sank to the ground. “Jack—” she whispered.
Armand suddenly saw the dark hair and knew who she was. The pistol swung toward her but before he could fire, another shot rang out close by and the Frenchman slumped to the earth.
Jack’s horse careered wildly toward the pool, crashing into the dead, brittle branches of the ash tree and throwing him heavily. Sarah lost consciousness as a new voice spoke and strong arms caught her.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Everything seemed so very far away. She was vaguely aware of the angry hissing of the rocks as the breeze sprung up again. What was it they were saying? She sat up slowly, her head spinning.
Paul took her hands. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m all right. Jack—?”
“Will live. Martin has taken him to Bencombe.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “They have a jail there. You know it’s come to that, don’t you?”
She nodded. “And Armand?”
“Armand is beyond mortal justice, Sarah. Jacob Mansley’s parlor is his destination.”
“The undertaker?” She shivered. She had watched the Frenchman die. The shivering would not stop; her teeth chattered and she felt so very, very cold.
Paul pulled her close and put his arms around her. “It’s over now, my love. Everything is finished.”
She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. The discovery of Jack’s part in all that had happened left her drained of all energy. She felt numb and hardly able to think clearly any more.
He stroked her hair softly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
She raised her head. “Because of him?”
“You loved him. I know that.”
“But I feel nothing.” She looked away in bewilderment. “I feel nothing at all, no sorrow, no hurt.”
He smiled faintly, “It’s the shock—”
She shook her head. “I just do not love him or feel anything for him anymore. It’s as if he had never been.”
* * *
D
awn was a stain of dull pearl in the east, shades of lemon and pale pink fingering across the skies. For the first time in that little valley they heard the sound of the birds beginning their morning song. The flowers of the gorse bush were brighter with each passing moment, turning from a soft primrose to a deep blaze of gold.
High above, the breeze wove in and out of the rocks, whispering a single word over and over again. She closed her eyes, holding Paul tight. “I know what they’re saying. Listen—they’re calling her. Can’t you hear them?”
He looked up at the bright, dawn-lit rocks.
Melissa, they whispered to him. Melissa. Melissa.
He pulled Sarah to her feet. “Let’s go from here,” he said. “I’ve had more than enough of this place.”
They went to where the horses were tethered to the gorse bush, and she turned to him. “Hold me again, Paul.” She stretched her hand out toward him.
He kissed her, holding her as if he thought to lose her. “I shall not let you leave Mannerby,” he murmured, kissing her again.
Mannerby. She swallowed and stepped from his arms to untie the reins of Melissa’s horse. Mannerby was her father’s property now, and Sir Peter Stratford would never give it up.
He saw the sadness in her face and said nothing more. They rode out of the valley toward the village, leaving Hob’s Tor behind them in a blaze of fresh morning light, and gradually the sound of the whispering rocks faded until they could hear it no more.
As they reached the incline above Mannerby they heard hoofbeats behind them and turned to see Martin riding along the road from Bencombe.
He reined in, nodding at Sarah. “You are recovered now, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Martin.”
Paul leaned forward in the saddle. “Did you get Holland to the jail?”
Martin’s eyes flickered. “No, sir.”
“What happened?” Paul’s brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“An accident, sir.”