“You will make yourself ill, madame. I beg of you to calm yourself.” The colonel rose and came around the table to take hold of the countess’s hand.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried vehemently and wrenched her hand free before falling in a dead faint at the colonel’s feet.
Isabella Costanza could no longer restrain her hysterical mirth, and her trill of pure malice echoed off the walls to be lost in the far reaches of the arching ceiling high above.
At the same time that Marisa lay in a swoon in that remote mountain hideaway, her husband was reading the message delivered to him in his tent just moments earlier by Josefe, the gardener’s son from the Villa Trudenjos. Major Harding and Lord Straeford’s Portuguese interpreter, Raoul Garcia, watched nervously as the general perused the epistle held impatiently before the flickering candle.
The sudden exclamation, “Oh my God!” which was torn from Straeford’s lips sent a thrill of apprehension through the other two men.
“Justin, what is it?” Harding questioned anxiously, coming to his side.
“Dubois!” Straeford called in a strangled voice and jumped from his chair. “That dog from hell!” Justin raved, his face a mask of black rage and hate.
“Good God, man, what is it?” Harding shouted, beside himself with shock and fear.
“Marisa! Marisa!” Straeford stared blindly at Harding, not seeing his friend, but his wife’s face frightened and terrified. He felt physically ill and the color drained from his face.
“Here, Justin, take this,” Harding thrust a tumbler of brandy into his friend’s shaking hand. “Drink it.”
Straeford did as he was bid without thinking and heaved a shuddering sigh as he strove to regain command of himself.
“Now for God’s sake, tell me what has happened,” Harding demanded.
“Colonel Dubois… you know who he is?”
“Yes, the one you wounded at Vimeiro.”
Straeford shook his head vigorously in agreement. “That devil’s spawn has contrived to kidnap Marisa on her way to the Almarez quinta.”
“Kidnap Marisa… but what of Ann? They have her too?” Harding was aghast.
“No, no,” Straeford answered impatiently. “Ann is still in Lisbon. Marisa was traveling alone…”
“But how did Dubois discover that your wife was traveling to Villa Franca? It makes no sense.”
“More sense than you think,” Lord Straeford admitted in a calmer voice, his mind already working ahead of himself. “Isabella Costanza acted the spy. She has been in Lisbon these last months and has kept Dubois informed…”
“Costanza? Not that camp-follower who was Dubois’s woman?”
“The very one,” Straeford replied ruefully. “Our sins find us out, don’t they? My vile past is catching up with me.” Straeford stared hard at his friend and thrust a hand through his black locks. “God!”
“Did they tell you where Marisa is being held? Do they want ransom?”
Justin nodded yes to both questions.
“Ah, now I see what it is all about. Dubois wants you as prisoner in exchange for your wife.”
“Precisely.”
“Where are they holding her?”
“In a convent north of Tomar in the Salvantos mountains…”
“The São Margite?” This came from Lieutenant Garcia, who suddenly burst into the conversation for the first time.
“That’s it, Raoul. You know of it?”
“For certain. I am from Tomar. The Convent São Margite was a fortress of the Knights Templar, but it is now a ruin.”
“Yes, yes. That’s the one. Can you guide me to it?” Lord Straeford broke in eagerly.
“But of course.”
“What are you going to do, Justin?” Harding demanded.
“I’m going there at once. Dubois has given me three days to get there and will permit one other person to accompany me in order that Marisa will have someone to escort her to safety.” Harding tried to interrupt, but Straeford would not allow it. “There is only one passage leading to the convent and he has sentries posted to ensure that I come as I am ordered—without enforcements. There is no choice in the matter.”
“Now hold on, Justin. It’s not like you to act in haste. We must devise a plan…”
“There will be no plan! My wife’s life is at stake! Don’t you understand?” Straeford retorted violently.
“General Straeford, desculpe me, but if you will permit me to speak.” Lieutenant Garcia paused. “There is more than one passageway to the São Margite. If we leave tonight we can be at Vilar Fuentes by early morning…”
“Vilar Fuentes?” Straeford queried.
“Sim. It is but a short distance from São Margite. It is a northern approach seldom used. Only a few local people know of it. We could surprise the French and break into the fortress before they knew what was happening,” Garcia claimed, excitement gleaming in his eyes.
“My God, Justin. Do you hear? The very answer.” Harding joined with Garcia hopefully.
“I dare not risk it. What if they were to discover us? They would kill my wife. No. I dare not.” But there was not total rejection in Justin’s voice, and both Harding and Garcia recognized Lord Straeford’s desire to be convinced of a plan of rescue.
“Justin,” Harding stated firmly, “You must dare… for the countess’s sake. Only think what it would mean to her to lose you at this time in her life. And what guarantee do we have that Dubois really means to let her go once he has you?”
Straeford had no answer for that argument.
Throughout the dark of night, Straeford and Harding, in concert with Lieutenant Garcia, contrived a plan of rescue whose very daring purchased it a measure of success. It was almost certain Dubois’s forces were limited, otherwise he could not have sneaked as far into Portugal as he had. A small band of handpicked light troops should do the trick for the British—a dozen men capable of doing the job of ten times their number. The whole of their plan depended on surprise and swiftness of attack. It was finally agreed that Harding would accompany Justin when he presented himself as hostage to Dubois. They planned their arrival for late in the afternoon of the third day of the stated deadline. The task of escorting Lady Straeford to the safety of Lieutenant Garcia’s family estate near Vilar Fuentes would fall to Major Harding. Once the countess was removed from danger, Garcia and the select detachment would attack. The outcome was in the hands of fate.
By dawn the desperate party was already on its way through a valley in the Serra da Estrela. They traveled by horse through forests of tall pines and scrub oak which impeded their pathway, often forcing them to waste precious time circumventing obstacles. Nevertheless, by dusk of the second night, they had arrived at the foothills of the Salvantos mountains in whose twisting folds lay the Convent São Margite.
Straeford and his men wasted little time once they reached this point. It was Lieutenant Garcia who led the party through the narrow defile between massive boulders that appeared impregnable. To the unpracticed eye there seemed no entrance to the fortress of rock and trees that presented its forbidding façade. But the young Portuguese showed them the place where an opening began behind a boulder that did not press against its neighbors as it appeared to do, but actually stood forward at least six feet, allowing a horse and rider ample passageway behind. From there on, the climb was steep and precipitous, but by no means impossible. From the midnight sky bright with myriad stars, an impassive full moon cast sharp shadows on the stealthy travelers wending their way through the mountain crags.
By midnight, after a particularly perilous passage over switch-back trails, they came to the crest of a ridge that overlooked the Convent São Margite below. The northern wall of the central abbey was actually the back of the mountainside, and it became obvious that no one would expect access to the convent to be possible from the north. Garcia, however, explained that a trail of gradual descent was there among the dense trees and thick brush, and that the men could negotiate it easily
within a half-hour’s time. From their position on the ridge above, the whole of the encampment was laid out for ready observation.
“It appears that their number is no greater than we had anticipated when we started out,” Harding said to Straeford.
“I count a total of three sentry outposts by those fires,” Straeford rejoined.
“They have no fear of discovery. They believe themselves unassailable except from the southern access,” Garcia added.
“What we need is a diversion that will draw the main body to a single point and catch the scoudrels unaware,” Straeford mused.
“They must have a makeshift magazine for ammunition down there…” Harding began.
“And an explosion, senhor,” Garcia broke in eagerly, “it will do the work of a hundred men.”
Straeford agreed. “Once Harding and I are within the convent, lieutenant, I will negotiate to have my wife released and taken to safety. In the meantime you will move undercover and contrive to set up the magazine for the explosion. You must wait only till Major Harding has the countess well out of the’ area before you detonate. I shall endeavor to break free of my captors and join you in the attack. But whatever happens to me, Dubois must be destroyed. That dog must not be loose to menace my wife ever again.”
The British patrol then settled themselves among the rocks and trees atop the mountain crest and snatched a few hours’ sleep until dawn should arrive.
“My lord, behold,” Garcia Whispered, waking the earl from fitful sleep as the sun broke over the eastern ridge of Mount Salvantos. “That wagon beside the small buildings to the east of the chapel—the magazine, no?”
“By God, it must be! Those are powder kegs piled on it. They must be waiting to be unloaded.” Straeford was as excited as his lieutenant.
“Won’t they make a spectacular fireworks when they go off!” Harding claimed joyfully. “Our mission is assured.”
“It looks promising, my friends,” Straeford admitted. “But I wonder where that devil holds Marisa. May his soul rot in hell!”
“Come on, Justin. Let’s get down there so we can arrive by the southern route the way we are expected.”
“You’re right. I want to be inside those walls by late afternoon. Let’s go!”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Straeford and Harding, astride their horses, presented themselves to the sentries at the south portal. The gates swung open, and their horses’ hooves echoed ominously over the cobblestone courtyard leading to the central abbey where Dubois and Isabella stood on a balcony watching their enemy approach. The raven-haired gypsy, her hands on her swinging hips, could be heard laughing derisively as she called out, “Hola, general. Bern vindo! Welcome to the Convent São Margite.”
Lord Straeford glanced neither up nor down, keeping his. stiff gaze straight ahead until he and Harding reined their horses to a stop and climbed down. Two guards emerged from the shadowed porch and searched the Englishmen for arms. Finding none, they led their captives to the audience chamber where Marisa had stood before Dubois just three nights ago.
The French colonel, seated at the oak table as before, studied the sedate approach of his long-awaited enemy. Dubois’s single dark eye glittered with hate and scorn. Isabella, maintaining her arrogant pose, began to laugh again until Dubois hissed her silent.
Harding stood to Justin’s left and felt himself grow cold at the unconcealed hatred radiating from the dark pair. They obviously believed themselves the unassailable victors in this bitter encounter.
There was a long silence before Dubois finally spoke. “So, at last,” he purred. “Did I not promise you we would meet again?”
Justin disdained comment.
“Oh ho. The mighty Lord Straeford does not wish to speak?” Isabella taunted. “Let us hear what he has to say when his fine lady is brought before him.”
“Quiet!” Dubois commanded.
“Bring the countess in,” Isabella demanded, disregarding Dubois’s command. “Let him see for himself that pale, whining creature he calls wife!” she spat.
“Did I not command you to silence?” Dubois roared and slammed his fist upon the table.
Straeford felt his heart sink to his boots at Isabella’s description of Marisa, but he gave no sign of his inner torment.
“You and I are to settle a long-standing debt at last.” Dubois resumed, choosing to play out the scene at his own pleasure. He had waited since Vimeiro to even the score, and many times when confronting his own disfigured image in a mirror, he had promised himself the exquisite pleasure of revenge. His plan had been worth every pain of its devising, and every day of its expectation. The prospect before him was sublime, and not one drop of pleasure would he deny himself.
The colonel stood up abruptly and came to stand in front of Lord Straeford. He knew it would test the Englishman’s endurance to remain impassive in so frontal an attack.
“Your lady, Madame Straeford, you wish to see her?” Dubois questioned smugly.
The earl stared rigidly into the sneering face. He felt Harding grasp his elbow in warning.
“Kill the English pig!” Isabella demanded. “Enough of this game. Run him through his black heart!”
“Did I not command you to silence?” Dubois whirled on Isabella and struck her a stunning blow across the face that sent her sprawling to the floor. “Guard. Throw the bitch out,” he commanded. “Out of my sight, salaud”
Isabella scrambled to her feet, screeching, “No, no! You cannot do this to me. I have as much right as you to be here. It was I who put you on to the trail of this canaille”
“Out of my sight, I say. Take her away.”
“No!” Isabella screamed over and over again as two men struggled with the clawing vixen and dragged her from the room.
Dubois waited until the sound of Isabella’s voice no longer echoed through the corridors before resuming his game of protracted revenge.
“And now, mon général de brigade, perhaps you would like something to drink after your wearying journey…”
“Why don’t we get on with the business at hand.” The earl spoke for the first time; striving to maintain a calm demeanor.
“Oh, but surely you will not deny the amenities? Honor demands you do not refuse the hospitality of one gentleman officer to another, n’est-ce pas?”
Sensing that Straeford’s endurance was running short, Harding attempted to stem the breach and force Dubois to release Marisa to him.
“It is growing late, Colonel Dubois. I would consider it a great courtesy if you were to allow me to get started with Lady Straeford before darkness falls. I must find my way to an unfamiliar destination from here.”
“All in good time, major. All in good time,” Dubois replied, enjoying the sport of vengeance too much to quit just yet. “First you must drink with me.”
“Very well, colonel. I would be happy to partake of some wine—a Madeira or sherry would be welcome,” Harding temporized, beginning to fear the disintegration of their carefully laid plan.
“Non, non, monsieur. Not wine, but brandy—French brandy—the very finest in the realm.” He turned to one of his sergeants-at-arms. “Pour us some brandy. Three glasses. You will drink, Lord Straeford, n’est-ce pas?”
It was a threat, and Justin nodded calmly, though the blood raced violently through his veins. Damn this devil to hell! He would kill him or die in the attempt—only let them get Marisa safely from the scene. He accepted the glass and held it, waiting for the toast he supposed Dubois would make.
“To Napoleon. Vive l’Empereur!”
Neither man raised the brandy to his lips as Dubois downed his, and although they itched to pour the liqueur on the floor, they decided against such an insult. It would have infuriated Dubois all the more.
Then the colonel taunted, “You do not drink, eh? Well, general, you will before this contest is finished. Bring in the countess.”
A terrible silence filled the room as they waited. Dubois never removed his gaze f
rom Straeford. He wanted to see his hated enemy’s pain. Dubois was amply rewarded when the door at the left opened and Marisa entered with a guard on either side. Although she walked unassisted, it was evident that she came forth at the command of nerves steeled to endure great physical stress. She held her head high, but the lady was pale.
For one brief moment, a look of such agony crossed the earl’s face that it must surely have gratified Dubois for the rest of his life. His lordship moved involuntarily in her direction, but Harding again grasped his friend’s arm and held him back.
“Justin,” Marisa whispered softly and would have run to his side except for Harding’s reaction.
“Ma chère comtesse, please be seated,” Dubois offered suavely, choosing the role of the gallant once more.
Marisa shook her head, refusing the chair. Her eyes sought desperately to communicate with Justin, but he would not look her way again, and she held on to her dignity. Her brain was numb with fear.
Justin turned to Dubois, who had seated himself behind the massive oak table, enjoying his role of presiding potentate. The English were completely in his power, and it pleased him to toy further with their fate.
“Well, Colonel Dubois,” Justin spoke levelly, “we have met all your demands. Will you now release my wife into Major Harding’s hands, that she may be safely delivered to her destination before nightfall?”
“But why so hasty, mon general? Are you so anxious to part from your lovely wife already?”
A cold rage thundered in his ears, but Lord Straeford refused to be drawn into the trap Dubois was setting for him. Once he gave in to the desire to smash his fist into that sneering face, they were all done for sure.
“You spoke moments ago of gentlemen officers observing the amenities. I beg to remind you of the bargain made between us as men of honor: Myself for my wife.” There was a gasp of alarm from Marisa, but Justin overrode it and faced his enemy relentlessly. “I am here, sir, as you requested. What says your French honor to the matter? Do you release my wife as you gave your word to do?”
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