by Dudley Pope
The brother put the candle in a corner behind a box, and draped a jacket round it to hide most of the light. Ramage suddenly realized how tired he was, and the cut in his head was throbbing. Just before he slid into a deep sleep he felt a spasm of fear: he had trusted the peasants, but would the next bang on the door herald the arrival of real French troops?
Chapter 7
‘ Commandante! Commandante!' Someone was shaking him. In an instant - thanks to many years' training and several scares in the past couple of days - he was wide awake and felt Jackson spring up beside him. It took a moment to realize where he was, but the inside of the tiny hut quickly came into focus. Strange shadows chased each other across the walls as the candle Nino held in his hand wobbled slightly.
'Oh - Nino, all goes well?*
'No, Commandante - at least, not entirely so.'
‘Why is that?'
‘We have to move from here.'
‘Why - are the French coming?'
‘No, Commandante; but it will be more convenient for us to talk elsewhere.'
'Where do we go?'
'To a place near here.'
Was it a trap? Ramage decided not, since the Italian could have brought back French soldiers who would have seized them as they slept. There was no choice; he would have to go with Nino. Perhaps Nino was going to take them to the refugees...
He and Jackson followed the two brothers along a track which, from the stars, Ramage could see ran almost parallel with the coast. After about fifteen minutes, through a break in the bushes, he could see they had been skirting Lake Burano only a few yards away on the right, and the Tower was just ahead. He quickly slipped his knife, hilt first, up his sleeve.
The moon had moved round far enough to leave the nearest side of the Tower in deep shadow, and it looked so menacing that Ramage could not repress a shiver.
Soon they were beside the Tower and Ramage looked up at it. Curious how the walls sloped in to the bottom of the embrasures and then out again. He leaned against the wall, looked up and saw the reason: slots cut under the embrasures, out of sight until you were right below the wall, allowed the defenders to shoot down vertically while still protected by the parapet.
The entrance was a door almost halfway up the north wall, but the stone steps did not reach the Tower: between the wall and the structure of the steps was a gap eight feet wide, spanned by a temporary wooden platform, like a drawbridge. In case of attack the defenders merely had to remove the platform and no one could reach the door.
As he started climbing the steps he saw the two brothers waiting for him at the top. They must have gone ahead. The wooden platform creaked as he stepped on it - he noted that the noise would give him a useful warning of intruders.
'After you,' he said to Nino, disguising his wariness with politeness.
'Certainly, Commandante,' the Italian said, as if he understood Ramage's caution. Wait while I light a candle.'
As soon as the light began to flicker, Ramage walked inside, The room was huge, like a cavern, occupying the whole length and width of the Tower. Overhead the domed ceiling was at least twenty feet high. He looked round for the staircase leading to the roof, but there was none: only a small door in the wall on his left - the wall facing the lake. Presumably it led to the staircase, so the wall must be double.
Nino put the candle on a small table, which, with a chair, was the only furniture in the room. Ramage saw a large fireplace just to the left of the entrance door and went over to it. There were some pieces of charcoal in the hearth, but, judging from the cobwebs hanging down like miniature fishing nets, it had not been used for a long time.
‘Well, Nino?'
'As I told you, Commandante, there are difficulties. The message you mentioned, Commandante. By chance I met a person who knew something of alabaster but nothing about a little boy and Dante. This person was expecting friends, Commandante, but is worried.'
Ramage guessed the Italian was deliberately not referring to the person's sex. Well, it was many years ago, and there was no particular reason, he supposed, why the Marchesa di Volterra should remember his Dante. But she must remember his mother. Perhaps she was so old her memory had gone. She must be - well, more than seventy now ... A sudden thought struck him.
'This lady of the alabaster, Nino: is she very old?'
Nino's eyes narrowed. 'No, she is not old. On the contrary!’ he exclaimed, as if the idea outraged him.
So the person is a woman, Ramage thought, and she is very young. Therefore the old Marchesa must be dead, and this is her daughter. Yes! Gina... Gianna: that's it: she was younger than himself; pretty too, from what he could remember, but impulsive and unpredictable, and very self-possessed for a child. Wasn't there some bitterness in the family because the old Marchesa had no son? The girl must have inherited the title by some dispensation or other, and those vast estates: hmm, she'll be a handful for a man to handle unless she's changed a lot.
'Nino, perhaps the old lady I refer to is dead and this is her daughter. I cannot be certain.'
'Commandante, name this lady, and tell us yours, or we cannot help you.'
Ramage hesitated: there was sudden tension in the cavernous room: it seemed to reach out from the two brothers, from each dark corner and from the shadowy vaulted ceiling. The Italians, standing by the table, were facing him squarely while Jackson, who had been examining the small door which apparently led to the stairs, quietly turned and watched, recognizing the threatening tone of their voices although not understanding the words.
'Are we having trouble, sir?'
"No, I don't think so.'
Ramage looked at Nino straight in the eyes.
'I give you my name willingly, because it is of no consequence; but' - he searched for a strong phrase - 'but may the Madonna strike you dead if you ever repeat the lady's name. It is - the Marchesa di Volterra.'
'Ah,' the relief was obvious in Nino's voice.
The little door creaked for a moment and was flung wide open. Jackson leapt to one side and as the draught made the candle flicker, putting the room almost in darkness for a few moments, there was a swirl of movement. As the flame recovered, Ramage saw someone almost completely hidden in a long black-hooded cape standing just inside the room.
How it happened, Ramage was not quite sure; but equally suddenly Jackson made a quick cat-like movement which put him behind the hooded figure, the point of his cutlass pressing between the stranger's shoulder blades. He kicked back and shut the door. Ramage was surprised to see how small the stranger was, compared with Jackson.
A hand - a small hand, Ramage noticed - came from among the folds of the cape, and it was holding a pistol: a pistol whose blue steel barrel, shining dully in the candlelight, was pointing straight at his stomach, and which was cocked, ready for firing. He glanced from the muzzle - which in a moment seemed to have grown to the calibre of a cannon - to the stranger's face, but it was hidden in the shadows thrown by the hood. Just as he glanced sideways at the candle, measuring the distance to it, the hooded figure spoke.
'If the gentleman behind me does not remove his sword, I shall be forced to use my pistol.'
The voice spoke in English, but had a heavy accent; it was calm but quite determined; and it was a girl's voice. From sheer relief Ramage started laughing and just stopped himself in time from gesturing to Jackson: a sudden movement might lead the girl to squeeze the trigger....
'Stow the cutlass, Jackson.'
The American sheepishly put the cutlass behind his back. The two brothers did not understand what had been said, but smiled when they saw Jackson's embarrassed movement and heard Ramage's spontaneous laugh: not, Ramage felt, because they saw anything funny in the situation, but their peasant instinct - stronger and wiser than that of more cultured people - told them only maniacs killed while laughing.
However, the girl in the black cape merely took a few steps sideways to avoid having Jackson behind her, and told the two brothers to stand to one side, which they ha
stily did. Getting them out of the line of fire, Ramage noted, because the pistol still pointed unwaveringly at his stomach.
She said: 'Tell your friend to stand beside you.'
'Come over here, Jackson.'
Ramage had an uneasy feeling the girl not only knew how to handle the pistol but would use it without hesitation. But what had gone wrong? For a moment he had thought she must be the Marchesa; yet now ... He wriggled his right forearm slightly to make sure the throwing knife in his sleeve would fly clear, and was thankful he had transferred it there from the sheath in his boot.
Obviously she had been listening at the door - she came in as soon as he mentioned the Marchesa's name. Why the pistol, then? Perhaps Jackson's sudden movement had startled her into producing it. Where were the rest of them? Were the men even now waiting behind that door? Supposing they came in and startled the girl, so that she accidentally squeezed the trigger?
'What,' the girl said icily, 'is this about alabaster and "L'amor che muove il sole"?'
'May I introduce myself: I am Lieutenant Nicholas Ramage of the Royal Navy.' He decided to risk being wrong and continued: ‘I am sorry your mother is dead, madam: she was one of my mother's closest friends. My message was intended for her: the quotation from Dante was one of her favourites - she often made me recite it when I was a boy and I knew she'd recognize me when she remembered it. I thought it safer not to name names...'
'And who, sir, was your mother?'
The voice was still icy: she was not a girl who had an attack of vapours when a servant dropped a wine glass: she was used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Hardly surprising, since she was the head of such a powerful family. But why did she not know his name or remember him? Then he realized she would never have heard his family surname, since Father had inherited the earldom long before they lived in Italy.
'My mother is Lady Blazey. My father is Admiral Lord Blazey. Perhaps you remember me as their son "Nico"?'
The pistol was withdrawn into the folds of the cloak, and with the other hand the girl swept back the hood, shaking her head to tidy her hair. It shone blue-black, like sun on a raven's wing feathers. Then she looked up at him.
His head swam, and it seemed he had to gasp for breath. God, she was beautiful: not paintings-on-the-wall beautiful, but the beauty of a face moulded by strength of character and determination, assurance and courage, and an expression deriving from the confidence of a woman knowing her own beauty and accustomed to being obeyed.
Even by candlelight he could see the finely chiselled features: high cheekbones, large, widely spaced eyes, a small, slightly hooked nose. The mouth - it was a little too wide, with lips a fraction too full, for classic perfection. It was as though a sculptor had deliberately carved a sensuous goddess. Yes! Except for the nose, she might have been the model for - he searched his memory, Siena - no, Florence: Ghiberti's beautiful carving of 'The Creation of Eve' on the east doors of the Baptistry. Had she the naked Eve's same bold, slim, body, the same small, jutting breasts, the same glorious shoulders, flat belly and rounded thighs? The girl's face was certainly a little fuller and more sensuous. Ramage glanced down at her breasts; but the cape ... she might as well be wrapped in a parcel.
'It was fortunate I did not shoot you, Lieutenant Ramage,' she said calmly.
Goddess! he thought, jerked suddenly back to reality. Diana the Huntress, maybe; not one of the peaceful kind. But she was self-possessed and her mind worked like lightning: Ramage realized there had been a moment's hesitation before calling him 'Lieutenant’: she knew an earl's son might have a courtesy title even if not one in his own right; and although he had introduced himself without using it, she was obviously trying to avoid a mistake in the way she addressed him.
'It was doubly fortunate,' he replied, 'since my man had his cutlass at your back.'
'Very well, Lieutenant,' she said, indicating formalities were over. 'This man' - she indicated Nino - 'will fetch the others, and then we will sail in your ship for England.'
The impulsive but self-possessed child had not changed in the transition to womanhood, and Ramage knew that he must grab the initiative from her to avoid the next few days being extremely difficult.
'Madam, there are details to explain before we start.'
"Very well, but please be brief, because we have waited a long time: you are very late.'
Her tone was so patronizing that as anger flooded through Ramage, he realized he now had both the chance and the wish to reduce this girl to more manageable proportions. He indicated the chair beside the table: 'Will you please be seated: I repeat - there are some things to explain.'
He waited until she gathered the cape round herself, nonchalantly placed the pistol in her lap as though it was a peacock-feather fan, and then looked up at him coldly, as if he was a tiresome servant. Then he spoke in a voice that surprised him for its bitterness.
'Madam, to enable me to be here tonight - late as I am - more than fifty of my men have been killed; another fifty have been wounded and taken prisoner by the French; and fifty or more are now rowing for their lives towards Corsica...'
'Yes?' her voice was cold, polite and utterly impersonal: it was as if the cook was proposing the menu for the day.
'Of less importance,' he said bitterly, 'is the fact that I have been forced to surrender one of His Majesty's ships.'
'That can hardly be your fault: you are too young: your Admiral should not trust the command of a ship to a youth.'
He struggled with his temper, aware of the warning signs for one of his blind rages: he was blinking quickly, rubbing the scar on his brow, and in a moment he'd be fighting to avoid mispronouncing 'r’.
'In fact my Admiral did place three officers over me, but they've all been killed. No doubt he will consider the loss of life so far a small price to pay for your safety. I mention all this pettifogging detail only to explain my lateness - and why you and your friends are not going direct to England.'
The girl lowered her head, turning slightly away from the candle, so that her face was in shadow. She was smaller, more frail even, than he'd first thought, and his anger passed quickly, spent like a shout echoing down a valley. For all her outward calm, she was young and probably very frightened and now he was embarrassed at his bitter outburst.
'May I ask why some of the men in your party are not here?'
'There was no need. The peasant was satisfied you were not French, but the message was garbled. We thought it just possible you were trying to identify yourself to one of the party by referring to a past meeting. Obviously "alabaster" could only mean the mines at Volterra, or the Volterra family; but I remembered nothing of a small boy and "L'amor che muove ile sole".'
'Why did you come then, not one of the men?'
'Because the Volterra family were concerned,' she said impatiently. 'As soon as I heard you explaining to Nino I realized you thought my mother was still alive. After that, this man' -she nodded towards Jackson - 'startled me.'
'You did not fear a trap?'
'No, I trusted the judgement of the peasant - his family have worked for us for generations and this' - she waved her hand - 'is my land. Anyway, it would have been difficult for you to trap me because on the way to us he searched all this
area.
'But he didn't find my men!'
'Oh yes he did! You have a boat hidden among the rushes and your sentry is just above, on top of the dunes. He was asleep, incidentally, and so were the five men in the boat.'
Ramage glanced at Jackson, who was clearly making a mental note to deal with the man - and, from the look on his face, obviously wished he could deal with the girl as well.
'If you didn't think it a trap, I hope you trust me now.'
She smiled as if offering an olive branch, and said lightly, 'I do: I hope the rest of the party do, too. Such men are used to the intrigue of Court life: they find it hard to trust anyone, even among themselves.'
'Well, they've no choice: they'll have to trust m
e; and what's more, they'll be under my orders,' he said grimly, to avoid any misunderstanding over the extent of his authority; and to tide him over the uncomfortable silence that followed he added, 'Madam: I am very tired, so forgive me for being short-tempered and a little aspro. I meant that I have my orders concerning their safety and will carry them out as best I can.'
The girl, her olive branch brushed aside, was cold again. ‘You have surrendered your ship. What can you do with this little boat?'
'If your party will forgo comfortable cabins and servants to wait on you, it will take us to meet a ship off Giglio, or failing that, to Bastia. There is water and plenty of bread. By bread, I mean ship's bread, which is a type of hard biscuit. The boat will be crowded: will you explain this to your party?'
'Supposing we are seen by a French warship and captured?
'There's a risk, but not very great.'
'But there is a risk.' It was a statement, not a question.
'Of course there is a risk, madam: of gales, too. Perhaps as much of a risk as being caught by Bonaparte's men if you stay here.'
He found it hard to avoid sounding contemptuous when he added: 'If your companions wish to continue their journey in the boat, I am at your service.'
'And if they do not wish? If they do not like the idea of such a long voyage in such a small boat?'
There was nothing in his orders concerning that - except the Admiral regarded these people as very important, which in a way covered the point.
'The only alternative is for me to leave you here and try to arrange for a warship to pick you up later, but I can't give any guarantee.'
'I will explain this to them,' said the Marchesa. The patronizing tone had gone from her voice; but the self-assurance remained. 'When do you wish to leave?'
'Tomorrow night, as soon as it is dark — I mean tonight, of course: dawn's not far off. By the way, do you know anything about French troops round here?'
'Very little: a few cavalry patrols pass along the Via Aurelia - some have been searching the villages for us.'