The Seventh Scroll tes-2

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The Seventh Scroll tes-2 Page 6

by Wilbur Smith


  up to much at the moment. Last year he suffered a terrible "personal

  tragedy. Lost his wife and two little girls in a motor accident on the

  MU He shook his head. "Awful business. Nicholas was driving. I think he

  blames himself' He walked her out to the Land Rover.

  "So we will see you on the twenty-third," he told Royan as they parted.

  "I expect that you will have an audience of at least a hundred, and I

  have even had a reporter from the Yorkshire Post on to me. They have

  heard about your lectures and they want to do an interview with you.

  jolly good publicity for the department. You'll do it, of course. Could

  you come a couple of hours early to speak to them?"

  "Actually I will probably see you before the twenty-third," she told

  him. "Mummy and her dog are picking up at Quenton Park on Thursday, and

  she has got me a job as a beater for the day."

  "I'll keep an eye open for you," he promised, and waved to her as she

  pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

  The wind was searing cold out of the north.

  The clouds tumbled over each other, heavy 6- and blue and grey, so close

  to earth that they brushed the crests of the hills as they hurried ahead

  of the gale.

  Royan wore three layers of clothing under the old green Barbour jacket

  that Georgina had lent her, but still she shivered as they came up over

  the brow of the hills in the line of beaters. Her blood had thinned in

  the heat of the Nile valley. Two pairs of fisherman's socks were not

  enough to save her toes from turning numb.

  For this drive, the last of the day, the head keeper had moved Georgina

  from her usual position behind the line of guns, where she and Magic

  were expected to pick up the crippled birds that came through to them,

  into the line of beaters.

  Keeping the best for last, they were beating the High Larches. The

  keeper needed every man and woman he could get into the line to bring in

  the pheasant from the huge piece of ground on top of the hills and to

  push them off the brow, out over the valley where the guns waited at

  their pegs far below.

  It seemed to Royan a supreme piece of illogical behaviour to rear and

  nurture the pheasants from chicks I and then, when they were mature, go

  to such lengths to make them as difficult to shoot as the keeper could

  devise.

  However, Georgina had explained to her that the higher and harder to hit

  the birds passed over the guns, the more pleased the Sportsmen were, and

  the more they were willing to pay for the privilege of firing at them.

  "You cannot believe what they will pay for a day's shooting,, Georgina

  had told her. "Today will bring in almost 14,000 to the estate. They

  will shoot twenty days this season. Work that out and you will see that

  the shoot is a major part of the estate's income. Quite apart from the

  fun of working the dogs and beating, it gives a lot of us local people a

  very useful bit of extra money."

  At this stage of the day, Royan was not too certain just how much fun

  there was to he had from the job of beating. The walking was difficult

  in the thick brambles, and Royan had slipped more than once. There was

  mud on her knees and elbows. The ditch ahead of her was half filled with

  water and there was a thin skin of ice across the surface. She

  approached it gingerly, using her walking-stick to balance herself. She

  was tired, for there had already been five drives, all as onerous as

  this one. She glanced across at her mother and marvelled at how she

  seemed to be enjoying this torture. Georgina strode along happily,

  controlling Magic with her whistle and hand signals.

  She grinned at Royan now, "Last lap, over." love. early Royan was

  humiliated that her distress had-been so obvious, and she used her stick

  to help her vault the muddy ditch. However, she miscalculated the width

  and fell short of the far bank. She landed knee-deep in the frozen water

  and it poured in over the top of her Wellington boots.

  Georgina laughed at her and offered her the end of her Own stick to pull

  her out of the glutinous mud. Royan could not hold up the line by

  stopping to empty her flooded boots, so she went on, squelching loudly

  with each pace.

  "Steady on the left! the order from the head keeper was relayed over the

  walkie-talkie radio, and the line halted obediently.

  The art and skill of the keeper was to flush the birds from the tangled

  undergrowth, not in one massed covey, but in a steady trickle that would

  pass over the waiting guns in singles and pairs, giving them the chance,

  after they had fired two barrels, to take their second gun from the

  loader and be ready for the next bird to appear in the sky high above

  them. The size of the keeper's tip and his reputation depended on the

  way he "showed' the birds to the waiting guns.

  During this respite Royan was able to regain her breath, and to look

  around her. Through a break in the branches that gave the drive its

  name, she could see down into the valley.

  There was an open meadow at the foot of the hills, the expanse of smooth

  green grass broken up by patches of dirty grey snow from the previous

  week's fall. Down this meadow the keeper had set a line of numbered

  pegs. At the beginning of the day's sport the guns had drawn lots to

  decide the peg number from which each of them would shoot.

  Now each man stood "at his allotted peg, with his loader holding his

  second gun ready behind him, ready to pass it over when the first gun

  was empty. They were all looking up expectantly to the high ground from

  which the pheasant would appear.

  "Which is Sir Nicholas?" Royan called to her mother, and Georgina

  pointed to the far end of the line of guns.

  "The tall one," she said, and at that moment the keeper's voice on the

  radio ordered, "Gently on the left.

  Start tapping again." Obediently the beaters tapped their sticks. There

  was no shouting or hallooing in this delicate and strictly controlled

  operation.

  "Forward slowly. Halt to the flush of birds."

  A step at a time the line moved ahead, and in the brambles and bracken

  in front of her Royan could hear the stealthy scuffle of a number of

  pheasants moving forward, reluctant to take to the air until they were

  forced to do so.

  There was another ditch in their path, this one choked with an almost

  impenetrable, thicket of brambles. Some of the larger dogs, like the

  Labradors, balked at entering such a thorny barrier. Georgina whistled

  sharply and Magic's ears went up. He was soaked and his coat was a

  matted mess of mud and buffs and thorns. His pink tongue lolled from the

  corner of his grinning mouth and the sodden stump of his tail was

  wagging merrily. At that moment he was the happiest dog in England. He

  was doing the work that he had been bred for.

  "Come on, Magic," Georgina ordered. "Get in there.

  Get them out."

  Magic dived into the thickest and thorniest patch, and disappeared

  completely from view. There was a minute of snuffling and rooting around

  in the depths of the ditch, and then a fi
erce cackle and flurry of

  wings.

  A pair of birds exploded out of the bushes. The hen led the way. She was

  a drab, nondescript creature the size of a domestic fowl, but the cock

  bird that followed her closely was magnificent. His head was capped with

  iridescent green and his cheeks and wattles were scarlet. His tail,

  barred in cinnamon and black, was almost as long again as his body and

  the rest of his plumage was a riot of gorgeous colour.

  As he climbed he sparkled against the lowering grey sky like a priceless

  jewel thrown from an emperor's hand.

  Royan gasped with the beauty of the sight.

  "Just look at them go!'Georgina's voice was thick with excitement. "What

  a pair of crackerjacks. The best pair today. My bet is that not one of

  the guns will touch a feather on either of them."

  Up, and then on up, the two birds climbed, the hen drawing the cock

  after her, until suddenly the wind boiling over the hills like

  overheated milk caught them both and flung them away, out over the

  valley.

  The line of beaters enjoyed the moment. They had worked hard for it.

  Their voices were tiny and faint on the wind as they urged the birds on.

  They loved to see a pheasant so high and fast that it could beat the

  guns.

  "Forward!" they exulted. "over! and this time the line came

  involuntarily to a halt as they followed the flight of the pair that

  were twisting away on the wind.

  In the valley bottom the faces of the guns were turned upwards, pale

  specks against the green background. Their trepidation was almost

  palpable as they watched the pheasant reach their maximum speed, so that

  they could no longer beat their wings, but locked them into a back-swept

  profile as they began to drop down into the valley.

  This was the most difficult shot that any gun would face. A high pair of

  pheasant with a half gale quartering from behind, dropping into the shot

  at their terminal rate of flight, set to pass over the line at the

  extreme effective range of a twelve-bore shotgun. For the men below it

  was a calculation of speed "and lead in all three dimensions of space.

  The best of shots might hope to take one of them, but who would dare to

  think of both?

  "A pound on it!" Georgina called. "A pound that they both get through."

  But none of the beaters who heard her accepted the wager.

  The wind was pushing the birds gently sideways. They started off aimed

  at the centre of the line, but they were drifting towards the far end.

  As the angle changed, Royan could see the men at the pegs below her

  brace themselves in turn as the birds appeared to be heading straight

  for them, and then relax as the wind moved them on. Their relief was

  evident as, one after the other, each of them was absolved from the

  challenge of having to make such an impossible shot with all eyes

  fastened upon him.

  In the end only the tall figure at the extreme end of the line stood in

  their flight path.

  "Your bird, sir," one of the other guns called mockingly, and Royan

  found that instinctively she was holding her breath with anticipation.

  Nicholas Quenton-Harper seemed unaware of the approach of the pair of

  pheasant. He stood completely relaxed, his tall frame slouching

  slightly, his shotgun tucked under his right arm with the muzzles

  pointing at the ground.

  At the moment that the leading hen bird reached a point in the sky sixty

  degrees ut ahead of him he moved for the first time. With casual grace

  he swung the shotgun up in a sweeping arc. At the instant that the butt

  touched I I his cheek and shoulder he fired, but the gun never stopped

  moving and went on to describe the rest of the arc.

  The distance delayed the sound of the shot reaching I Royan. She saw the

  barrels kick with the recoil, and a pale spurt of blue smoke from the

  muzzle. Then Nicholas lowered the gun as the hen suddenly threw back her

  head and closed her wings. There was no burst of feathers from her body,

  for she had been hit cleanly in the head and killed instantly. As she

  began the long plummet to earth Royan heard the thud of the shot.

  By then the cock was high over Nicholas's head. This time as he mounted

  the gun in that casual sweeping gesture he arched his back to point

  upwards, his long frame bending from the waist like a drawn bow. Once

  again at the apex of the swing the weapon kicked in his grasp.

  "He has missed!" Royan thought with a mixture of satisfaction and

  disappointment, as the cock sailed on seemingly unscathed. Part of her

  wanted the beautiful bird to escape, while part of her wanted the man to

  succeed.

  Gradually the profile of the high cock altered as the wings folded back

  and it rolled over in flight. Royan had no way of knowing that his heart

  had been struck through, until seconds later he died in mid-air and the

  locked wings lost their rigid set.

  As the cock tumbled to earth, a spontaneous chorus of heers ran down

  the line of beaters, faint but enthusiastic on the icy north wind. Even

  the other guns added their voices with cries of, "Oh, good shot, sir!'

  Royan did not join in the cheering, but for the moment her fatigue and

  cold were forgotten. She could only vaguely appreciate the skill that

  those two shots had called for, but she was impressed, even a little

  awed. Her very first glimpse of the man had fulfilled all the

  expectations that Duraid's stories about him had raised in her.

  By the time the last drive ended it was almost dark.

  An old army truck came mbling down the track through ru the forest along

  which the tired beaters and their dogs waited. As it slowed they

  scrambled up into the back.

  Georgina gave Royan a boost from behind before she and Magic followed

  her up. They settled thankfully on one of the long hard benches, and

  Georgina lit a cigarette as she joined, in the chat and banter of the

  under-keepers and beaters around her.

  Royan sat silently at the end of the bench, enjoying the sense of

  achievement at having come through such a strenuous day. She felt tired

  and relaxed, and strangely contented. For one whole day she had not

  thought either of the theft of the scroll or of Duraid's murder and the

  unknown and unseen enemy who threatened her with aviolent death.

  The truck ground down the hill and slowed as it reached the bottom,

  pulling in to the verge to let a green Range Rover pass. As the two

  vehicles drew level, Royan turned her head and looked down into the open

  driver's window of the expensive estate car, and into the eyes of

  Nicholas Quenton Harper at the wheel.

  This was the first time she had been close enough to him to see his

  features. She was surprised at how young he was. She had expected him to

  be a man of Duraid's age.

  She saw now that he was no older than forty, for there were only the

  first strands of silver in the wings of his thick, rumpled hair. His

  features were tanned and weatherbeaten, those of an outdoors man. His

  eyes were green and penetrating under dark, beetling brows. His mouth

  was wide and expressive, and he
was smiling now at some witticism that

  the driver of the truck called to him in a thick Yorkshire accent, but

  there was a sense of sadness and tragedy in the eyes. Royan remembered

  what the Prof had told her of his recent bereavement, and she felt her

  heart go out to him. She was not alone in her loss and her mourning.

  He looked directly into her eyes and she saw his expression change. She

  was an attractive woman, and she could tell when a man recognized that.

  She had made an impression on him, but she did not enjoy the fact. Her

  sorrow for Duraid was still too raw and painful. She looked away and the

  Range Rover drove on.

  Her lecture at the university went off extremely well. Royan was a good

  speaker and she knew her subject intimately. She held them fascinated

  with her account of the opening of the tomb_of Queen Lostris and of the

  subsequent discovery of the scrolls. Many of her audience had read the

  book, and during question time they pestered her to know how much of it

  was the truth. She had to tread very carefully here, so as not to deal

  too harshly with the author.

  Afterwards Prof Dixon took Royan and Georgina to dinner. He was

  delighted with her success, and ordered the most expensive bottle of

  claret on the wine list to celebrate.

  He was only mildly disconcerted when she refused a glass of it.

  "Oh, dear me, I forgot that you were a Moslem," he apologized.

  "A Copt," she corrected him, "and it's not on religious grounds. I just

  don't like the taste."

  "Don't worry," Georgina counselled him, "I don't have the same odd

  compulsion to masochism as my daughter.

  She must get it from her father's side. I'll give you a hand to finish

  the good stuff."

  Under the benign influence of the claret the Prof became expansive, and

  entertained them with the accounts of the archaeological digs he had

  been on over the decades.

  It was only over the coffee that he turned to Royan.

  "Goodness me, I almost forgot to tell you. I have arranged for you to

  visit the museum at Quenton Park any afternoon this week. just ring Mrs.

  Street the day before, and she will be waiting to let you in. She is

  Nicholas's PA."

  Ryan remembered the way to Quenton Park when Georgina had driven them

  to the shoot, but now she was alone in the Land Rover. The massive main

 

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