“What are you doing?” cried Blake, his voice squeaking with fright.
“It’s an old Cornish custom called being put to the cliff,” said Diccon. “And as good a way as I know to rid the world of your worthless self.”
Coville fought and kicked, but Diccon had long experience with such tactics, and his captive was borne relentlessly into the teeth of the gale. Even as they approached the cliff edge another section dropped away landing with a force that sent a great plume of water into the air.
Coville shrieked. “I nigh went over! You want me dead, curse you!”
Half blinded by the wind and rain, Diccon peered downward. They were at the brink now, and Coville was right except that almost they both had gone over and could very well be swept to their deaths at any second. The earth underfoot was fissured and unstable and far below the angry breakers raced in to explode against the cliffs.
Marietta screamed, “Diccon! You’ll fall! Come away, for mercy’s sake!”
“Stay back!” he shouted. “This carrion has murdered Arthur. He deserves to die!”
The wind was so strong that he could scarcely walk, but he forced Coville on until the toes of the man’s boots were over the edge. “Farewell, dear Blake,” he shouted, giving his stepbrother a nudge between the shoulder blades.
“No!” shrieked Coville. “I’ll tell! I’ll tell! For the love of God don’t kill me! Swear you’ll let me go if—”
“Quickly, fool, or you’ll be too late!”
Coville sobbed out, “He’s in … in the priest’s hole.”
“Under the pantry? Liar! It’s empty.”
“No, no!” Babbling in his terror, Coville said, “There’s another. A smaller one. Under the steps to the minstrel gallery. There’s a trapdoor. You—you open it by pushing the bottom step inwards. Now—let me go.” He began to cry. “I beg you, br-brother! Please let me go!”
Diccon had a mental image of those tilting stairs, and the splintered beam that supported them, and his blood ran cold. With a grating curse he pulled Coville back, and sprinted towards the house.
Marietta flew to seize his arm. “Where? Where?”
“In a priest’s hole under the minstrel gallery. Damn him! I’ll need help.” Running on, he shouted over his shoulder, “Hey! Warrington!”
Eric went to his sister. “Did Coville tell?”
“Yes.” Marietta clutched at him as a gust almost swept her from her feet. “He’s in a priest’s hole hidden under the minstrel gallery.”
“Then the poor imp’s as good as killed. That whole section was coming down just seconds ago.”
Steadying herself against him, Marietta pushed back her flying hair and saw Diccon rush into the old wing. The southwest corner was no more. It would be a miracle if the minstrel gallery in the opposite corner of the hall had not already collapsed. She wrenched at Eric’s arm. “Help him, dearest! For mercy’s sake. Help Arthur!”
He hesitated, then ran after Diccon.
Once inside, despite the missing corner of the wall there was a measure of relief from the howling gale. The newly created “window” admitted daylight, and faint as it was on this violent afternoon the ancient hall was brighter than it had ever been. Racing to the south end, Diccon paused, aghast. The minstrel gallery had slewed sideways and teetered on the steps. The supporting beam, weakened when Ti Chiu’s axe had shorn into it, had snapped in two, and the upper half, still attached, hung like a great splintered lance from the sagging gallery.
Blue arrows of forked lightning lit the scene with a brief bizarre glow. The voice of the following thunder was echoed by a sharper roar, and the gallery jolted downward.
Diccon scrambled over the debris-littered floor and threw himself to his knees at the foot of the stairs. He pushed with all his strength at the base of the bottom step, but there was not the least movement. Probably, the great weight on the stairs had jammed the trapdoor. He glanced around. Warrington stood behind him, gazing with wide scared eyes at the wreckage of the gallery that hung poised above them.
“Give a hand here,” Diccon shouted. “Your brother’s underneath this lot!”
He saw the gleam of white teeth clamping onto Eric’s lower lip, and snarled angrily, “Move, confound you! There’s not a second to lose and I can’t budge the step alone!”
Warrington closed his eyes briefly, then knelt, and reached out to help. Together, they strained and shoved, and at last the bottom of the step gave, and folded inward. Lying flat, Diccon could discern a heavy iron chain, but no sign of a secret chamber. He gripped the cold, rusty links, trying not to hear the grinding screeches from the gallery. The chain moved, but it was stiff, as if caught up somewhere, and the effort was exhausting. He glanced up, dashing sweat from his eyes. “Any sign of—a door?”
Warrington was kneeling, gazing up at the looming bulk of the gallery as if hypnotized, his face white with fear. “It’s coming down! We’ll all be crushed!”
“Not if we move fast! I think this chain is jammed somehow. Help me, will you?”
Warrington drew back, shaking his head.
Diccon swore and tugged mightily.
A loud crack, and a stair rail snapped, sending shards of wood flying in all directions. Diccon ducked instinctively, heard a choking scream and caught a glimpse of Warrington galloping back across the hall.
The chain gave suddenly and moved smoothly. The floor under Diccon’s knees began to jerk open. So the priest’s hole was underground. Praise God for that, because if the door had opened from the side in some way it would likely have been blocked by the buckling steps. He heaved at the chain and the opening widened, a stone slab rolling back to reveal a black aperture.
A hoarse, shaking voice arose from the gloom. “I knowed you’d come … Sir G’waine! I knowed you’d come!”
Peering down into that dark hole Diccon couldn’t see the boy. Over the lump in his throat he called, “That’s the spirit, comrade! Can you come here?”
A muffled sob. “He … he tied me up. He said it was a game, but … I don’t like it. Please g-get me out.”
“Right away! I’m coming—”
An ear-splitting rumble; another rain of debris. Diccon wrapped his arms about his head and lay flat, waiting helplessly for the gallery to smash onto him.
A blinding lightning flash. He still lived!
Arthur quavered, “D-Diccon … I’m very frighted. Am I goin’ to-to be dead?”
“Not if I can help it,” said Diccon through his teeth. He swung down into that black hole, and groped about. “Where are you, old Detestable Dag?”
“Here! Here I am. Oh, D-Diccon, thank you for—”
Chunks of stone and wood cascaded down. The darkness became a ravening greyness. Arthur screamed. Frantic, Diccon cried, “Are you hurt, lad?”
A moment, then came that quavering but dauntless little voice, “Not very … bad. What happened? I can feel the wind and—and I’m—getting wet.”
“So am I. The wall’s dropped off I’m afraid.” Diccon could see the boy now, lying on a rough iron bed frame, his small hands and feet tied. ‘Poor little devil,’ he thought. He indulged a second’s blistering evaluation of his step-brother but said lightly, “I think we’d better get out of this.”
With a gallantry that wrung his heart the wan little face tried a smile, then the big eyes looked past him and widened. “What’s … that?”
Diccon turned his head. His bones seemed to melt. The gallery was directly above now, the broken beam hanging from it like a splintered battering ram. As he gazed numbly, it lunged downward.
He grabbed the child. “Don’t worry about that mess up there. I’m going to push you through now. I’ll come after you, but don’t wait for me. Roll as far away as you can.”
He had swung the boy high when the floor heaved upward, knocking him off his feet. Arthur was torn from his arms. Sound was a continuing roar and more and heavier debris rained down, several chunks striking him. Sure that this was death, he scarcely fe
lt their impact and strove desperately to reach the boy. He was unable to move. Something very heavy was across his legs. The priest’s hole was filled with bellowing wind that was blowing the dust away. Blinking dazedly he saw that the entire south wall was no more. Part of the ceiling of the priest’s hole had been ripped off and the opening where the trapdoor had been was bigger now. The minstrel gallery still hung over them, leaning at a crazy angle. It was much closer, but at least the stairs were holding the weight. There was enough space left that he could hoist the boy through, if he could get up, but the severed supporting beam was poised above, as if aimed straight at them. His mouth felt dry. He knew that Arthur watched him and his shouted enquiry elicited a trembling and barely audible, “I’m … all right.”
He wouldn’t be all right for long, thought Diccon grimly. Investigating, he found that a plank, probably from the floor of the gallery, had fallen across his legs. It shouldn’t be this heavy. He tried to lift it, but it gave not an inch, and then he realized that the end was buried under what had been the slab of the trapdoor. He tried again, exerting all his strength until the blood roared in his ears and his eyes dimmed. But it was useless. Panting, he rested for a second.
“Oh, Diccon! Oh, Diccon! You can’t move it! Is that tree coming … down on me?”
The beam was inching closer. Inexorably, inevitably, it would fall and crush them. How infuriating that he’d come so close to getting the boy to safety, only to—
“Diccon? Where are you? Diccon?” Marietta’s dear voice.
“Down here,” he wheezed. “Don’t come too near.”
He heard running footsteps, and then her sudden appalled cry.
“Arthur’s here,” he shouted.
She peeped in at them. He saw stark terror in her eyes, and called, “I’m afraid I’m not much use. Can you—get help?”
She wasted not an instant but nodded and was gone. And watching the slow advance of that murderous beam, he knew the help would have to be very fast and very sure.
“If ever I saw a man so in the habit of getting himself into tight spots!” Jocelyn Vaughan, pale and ill-looking, was gazing down at him.
He managed a grin. “Stand there another minute or two, and you’ll be pushed in here with me, you block!”
“Mac’s coming with the troopers. We’ve signalled him to charge.” Vaughan disappeared.
There followed shouts and a scrambling noise. Then another outburst of shouts; angry now, half lost in a roll of thunder, but definitely angry. He thought in exasperation, ‘Of all times to get into a brawl!’
“Sir G’waine…?”
“Yes, Detestable?”
“When I get to heaven … will I see my mama?”
He couldn’t answer at once, then said huskily, “If the lady is watching you now, she must be very proud.” He stretched out and was able to touch the cold cheek. “Courage, Sir Lancelot.”
“I’m awful glad you’re with me, Sir—” The words ended in a shriek.
Diccon jerked his head around. The jagged end of the beam was sliding straight down; not at him, but at Arthur.
He shouted, “No! Damn you! No!” and in a burst of rage dragged himself onto his side, threw his left arm across that terrified little face, and took tight hold of the iron bed frame now lying on its side behind the boy. “Turn your head the other way, lad! Turn your head!”
Arthur’s face whipped to the side.
Peering about desperately for something to use as a brace, Diccon was momentarily unable to breathe as the beam grazed past his face and jolted onto his outstretched arm. With an effort of will that left him drenched with perspiration he managed not to cry out and to keep his hold on the bed frame.
He heard Marietta’s voice from a great distance, raised in a gasping scream, “It’s fallen through the trap! Oh, my dear God! We must hold it, Joss! We must! Oh, why don’t they come?”
Vaughan called breathlessly, “Hang … on, Trader! We’re holding it … back, best … we can.”
So that was why it hadn’t smashed through bone and sinew. His love and his friend were fighting for them. God grant the help came fast.
A deep and familiar rumble. His heart sank. ‘Not now, Ti Chiu! Have some sense … can’t fight you now!’
Vaughan roared, “Get the hell away from there, you great … Ow!”
The pressure increased savagely. Gritting his teeth, Diccon hung on to the iron frame and consciousness.
“You are down there, Small Cockroach?”
“Come to … gloat … have you?” panted Diccon.
Arthur sobbed, “It’s me, Mighty … Warrior.”
A deep, amused chuckle.
Her voice shrill with grief and hysteria, Marietta exclaimed, “You wicked—evil great brute! Go away and let us try to—”
The beam slid again. Diccon heard a soft, sickening crack and could not keep back a cry of anguish.
Arthur gulped, “You’re bl-bleeding all over me, Sir G’waine! Oh, Etta! Help him! Please, Etta!”
“You just wait, Cockroach,” growled Ti Chiu.
Lightning glared, throwing the tiny room into sharp relief, but to Diccon the details were blurred and indistinct. He couldn’t endure this hideous agony much longer.… Something in his arm had broken, that was sure … but he mustn’t let go. If he could just hang on till Mac came with the troopers.… Just long enough to keep the boy from being crushed. ‘Please God … don’t let me fail him!’ Hang on.… Must hang on.…
* * *
“My name is Avebury.” The voice was cool and businesslike, the face, with its ruddy cheeks and splendid side-whiskers, more suited to a country squire than to a doctor. But the hand that dabbed a cool rag at Diccon’s face was gentle, and the grey eyes were kind. “From what they tell me, you’ve done magnificently,” he went on. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to make you a trifle uncomfortable for a little while, but I expect you’re accustomed to us doctor-chaps.”
Diccon blinked at him and wondered why he was in his former room in the dower house, and how he’d come here. He had a very vague recollection of being lifted, and of Joss complaining that no one would guess he weighed so much, but that was all. His left arm hurt horribly and with pain came memory. He asked in a voice that sounded far away, “How…?”
“A jolly great Chinese fella held the beam back, so they tell me, till your friends got you out.”
“The boy?”
“Is bruised and shaken, poor little lad. And won’t leave your door. Ah, the arm pains you, of course. I’m very sorry, but…”
“But you’re going to … amputate.”
Avebury nodded gravely. “It’s quite hopelessly shattered. I thought you might want to talk to, er—someone, before we get started.”
Diccon felt a chill of fear. “You mean, I may want to say my farewells? Don’t … hide your teeth, Avebury.”
That brought a faintly admiring smile. “You’re a soldier. You know the rules of the game. You’re in fine condition, but you’ve had a great shock and lost a lot of blood, and now, unfortunately, I must—put you through the wringer again.”
“Yes. What are my chances?”
The doctor hesitated.
Startled, Diccon said, “As bad as that? I want the truth, please.”
Avebury said reluctantly, “I’d guess—about seventy-thirty.”
“Against? I see.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “In that case—you’re right, sir, and … I thank you. There are things I want to say. I’d like to see Miss Warrington for a minute.”
The doctor nodded, and went out.
Diccon closed his eyes wearily. Seventy-thirty. Arthur was safe, thank God! And he meant to beat those odds. But he wondered in a detached fashion how he would play his violin with one hand.
There was a gentle fragrance on the air. He looked up. Marietta sat beside the bed, smiling down at him. Her eyes were red, and her lips trembled a little. She said, “I wonder if you can imagine how much—”
He lift
ed his right hand, and found it quite an effort. “Yes, but it’s not necessary. You know how I feel … about the boy. Eric?”
She flinched and blinked tears away. “He—ran. I doubt we shall see him again. And knowing him, I doubt he will ever forgive himself. Papa is—is hit hard, I’m afraid. Diccon—”
He lifted his right hand again, and it was caught in her quick vital clasp. He said, “There is something I must explain. I really haven’t—” He broke off, holding his breath and praying.
Marietta bathed the white, haggard face, and fought against weeping. When his eyes opened he looked dazed, and she lifted his good hand and pressed a kiss on it. “You need not now—or ever—explain anything to me,” she said huskily. “You are—are the bravest of the brave, and I shall always—”
“I must tell you.”
His voice was weaker and once again she was pierced by the lance of terror. “Whatever you wish, my very dear.”
“I want you to know that—that I really didn’t—kill my mama. But I did … steal her. I could be hung or—or transported for kidnapping, do you see?”
She bathed his face tenderly. “I think I have always known that if you did such a thing, it was for a good reason.”
To speak was a great effort, but he persisted doggedly. “Sir Gavin forged my mother’s signature and—and took my inheritance from—from my grandmama. My mother found out. He was afraid she’d tell her friends, so he kept her isolated and … told everyone she was mad. He hired doctors to … treat her. Terrible treatments that nigh killed her. We’d never been very close, but … she is my mother. She was able to smuggle a letter to me, pleading most piteously that … I come and rescue her away, but…” He closed his eyes.
Marietta said gently, “Poor lady. How dreadful. Now please do not talk anymore. I can guess what happened. He was her husband, her next of kin, so legally your hands were tied.”
“Yes. He simply cannot bear any scandal, so he wanted to have her legally”—he sighed—“legally declared insane.”
“It was splendid of you to take such a risk. I’m sure you have her safe and happy somewhere, but you are tired, my love. Do not—”
Lanterns Page 31