The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware

by Dennis Wheatley

  Simplon, little suspecting the trick that was to be played on him, joined him shortly afterwards and, side by side, they rode out of the city. When they were some two miles from the walls, they came to wooded country, which suited Roger’s purpose. They had turned down a ride where no-one could see them even from a distance, and were walking their horses. Roger dropped half a length behind his companion, then took a stiletto from under his jacket and dug the point sharply into the rump of the Major’s mount.

  With a spasmodic jerk, the animal reared, gave a loud neigh and bolted with the unfortunate Simplon. Roger had estimated that, the Major having had no warning of what would befall, his horse would cover the best part of half a mile before he could bring it under control. When, with flying hooves, it had sped a hundred yards, Roger turned off into another ride and put his own horse into a gallop.

  Having ridden on for an hour, he pulled up at a place where some big boulders had rolled down a mountain to the side of the road. Among them he changed into his civilian clothes and left his uniform and befeathered hat. Then he pressed forward at the best pace he could expect from his mount, heading for the house in which he had spent his last night before reaching Seville.

  Night fell long before he arrived there. The moon gave sufficient light for him to keep to the right road, but he had some difficulty in finding the house and it was close on midnight when he entered the short, overgrown drive that led to it.

  The place was in darkness, but he hammered with his riding crop on the door until a flickering light appeared and a servant, opening a grille in the door, asked suspiciously what he wanted. On his giving the name he had used on his previous visit, the man remembered him and went to rouse his master.

  When the old gentleman appeared, Roger told him that, on reaching Seville, he had learned that his sister and her husband had been killed by their house collapsing on them, as a result of the bombardment during the siege of the city. As he knew no-one there and had very little money, he had decided that his best course was to make his way back to his native Oporto, where he at least had other relatives and numerous friends. The old man then commiserated with him, gave him a bed for the night and saw to it that he had a good breakfast before setting off again in the morning.

  He spent his second night at a wayside inn, his third in a mountain cave and his fourth in a deserted farmhouse. On the fifth day he was riding again through the scorched-earth country, with the cheerful prospect that, if his luck held, by the following night he would be back in Lisbon. But, alas for those happy thoughts, his luck did not hold.

  Both on his outward journey and during his return, he had taken every possible precaution to avoid other people, however innocent-looking. A score of times, on seeing vehicles, horsemen or peasants approaching along the road, he had quickly turned off into a wood or down a bridle path, where he could remain concealed until any likelihood of danger was past. But on this afternoon he was caught unawares.

  The road he was on wound through a rocky gully. As he rounded a sharp bend in it, two ragged, bearded men with muskets rose from among the rocks, pointed their weapons at him and called on him to halt.

  Had he been in open country, he would have set spurs to his horse and risked being hit as he galloped off. But the two men were no more than fifteen paces from him, so he did not stand a dog’s chance of getting away without being seriously wounded. Cursing below his breath, he pulled up and, at a gruff order, dismounted.

  As he did so, in Spanish mingled with enough Portuguese for the man to understand him, he declared himself to be a Spanish patriot carrying a message from General the Marquis de la Romana to Lord Wellington.

  One of the men was a little runt, but it was he who had spoken for both, and he said, ‘Maybe, comrade, maybe not. We’ll soon find out. You are coming with us.’

  The other man slouched forward and took Roger’s horse by the bridle, while the runt cautiously took a few paces sideways until he was behind Roger and could point his musket at his back. Giving him a quick prod with the barrel, he said:

  ‘Come on. Get moving.’

  To Roger, the three-quarters of an hour that followed seemed never-ending. As he trudged along, he recalled all the accounts he had heard, both from British and French acquaintances, of the terrible fate that befell those who were captured by brigands. That they really cooked and ate people he believed to be a slander; but he had no doubt at all that their hatred for their enemies was so intense that they tortured unmercifully the French soldiers who fell into their hands, and often finished them off by skinning them alive, burning or disembowelling them. He could only pray that his knowledge of Spanish and Portuguese, together with his long-since-perfected ability to lie convincingly would enable him to get away with his life. At the least he could expect to be robbed of his money, and would be lucky if they even left him his clothes.

  The man holding the horse led the way down the steep, rocky road until the gully ended, opening out into country where there were small woods and land that had previously been cultivated. At length they turned oil the road on to a track that ran alongside a coppice. Beyond the trees there lay a by-road and, on the far side, a good-sized country house. As they approached it, Roger guessed that it had been evacuated by its owner and that the brigands had moved in as squatters.

  When they had walked up a short drive, they halted for a moment in front of the house. The runt muttered something that Roger did not catch to the bigger man, who led the horse away, evidently taking it to a stable at the back of the premises.

  They had not bothered to take Roger’s sword from him. Now that he had only one man to deal with was, he felt, the time to use it. But his hand had hardly moved toward the hilt, before the musket barrel was again pressed against the base of his spine, and the runt said:

  ‘Go on. Into the house. You can tell your story to O Diabo dos olhos azuis; and we’ll see what he has to say about it.’

  To whip out his sword at that moment would, Roger felt, have been the last act of his life. There was nothing for it but to obey. Seething with anger and frustration, he walked up the steps that led to a door which stood half-open and, prodded by the runt, crossed a hall into a once-pleasant, but now dilapidated salon.

  There were three other men and two slatternly women there. One of the men was lounging on a sofa, the fine brocade of which was badly stained by spilt wine. Across his lap lay one of the women, with whose plump breasts he was toying. Roughly pushing her aside, he stood up and Roger saw that he was a giant. He was heavily bearded, there was an ugly gap in his front teeth where two were missing, and he had extraordinarily prominent blue eyes.

  ‘Here we are, Diabo!’ the runt cried to him cheerfully. ‘Brought you a bird that should be worth the plucking.’

  Roger promptly burst into speech, again mingling Spanish and Portuguese, but in a manner that ensured he could be understood. With lavish detail he fabricated an account of how General de la Romana had sent him to beg milord Wellington to provide his army with some additional pieces of artillery.

  The giant listened patiently, uttering not a word until Roger had to stop talking after having repeated himself several times, and being unable to think of anything else to say. There followed a full minute of nerve-racking silence, then O Diabo gave a great bellow of laughter and cried:

  ‘Stupid pig. You are a Frenchie, as anyone could see. There’s not a doubt of it. Look at his fine boots and his sword, comrades. They are an officer’s, or ‘I’m a redheaded whore. And they’re his own. The boots fit him like a pair of gloves. Get a fire lit in the coach-house, comrades. We’ll have some fun with this spawn of a louse tonight.’

  14

  The Devil with Blue Eyes

  The blood drained from Roger’s face. His very worst fears were about to be realised. The thought of being scorched until he screamed and screamed in vain made his flesh creep and filled his mind with horror. He felt certain there was not the least possibility that the great brute they called ‘th
e blue-eyed devil’ was either joking or just trying to scare him. This was not Spain, but only owing to a divergence of dynasties. In blood and outlook the Portuguese were closer to the Madridlenos than the Catalans or the Basques. And Spain had been the home of the terrible Inquisition. On the hypocritical pretext that they were saving souls, the priests had burned Jews, Protestants and Moors—thousands of them. Those autodafes, by which the Church had rid herself of her enemies, had been Roman holidays for the people. Great crowds of them had watched poor wretches writhing at the stake. They had obviously delighted in the spectacle, otherwise they would not have stood there enduring the horrible smell of roasting flesh. And now these monsters in human form were about to burn him!

  It took only a few instants for these ghastly thoughts to race through Roger’s brain. Within seconds he had taken his decision. Far better be shot in the back than burned alive; and, if he was quick enough he might kill O Diabo before the ball from the runt’s musket smashed through his spine and made him choke in his own blood.

  Many years of handling weapons and an unusual agility had made him a most formidable swordsman. He was a good twelve feet away from O Diabo, but he thought the odds favoured his chance of spitting the great brute before a bullet in his back brought him crashing to the floor. With one smooth, swift motion his sword came out of its sheath like a ripple of light. As he drew it, he sprang forward, halving the distance between his enemy and himself. His right arm was drawn back behind the blade so that his lunge would have all the force he could put into it.

  Next moment he was within four feet of the giant and had delivered his thrust. But the woman with whom O Diabo had been toying on the sofa was standing with her arm through his. From Roger’s sudden change of expression she must have guessed his intention. With the agility of a ballet dancer, she pirouetted on one foot, bringing herself round in front of her tall lover. The point of Roger’s blade ripped into her shoulder.

  She gave a piercing scream. The impact had thrown her against O Diabo’s chest. Her free arm jerked upward and she flung it round his neck to prevent herself from falling. It was only then that Roger realised he had not been shot in the back. Evidently the runt felt that would be too swift a death for him, and did not want them to be robbed of their sport.

  Roger gave a violent tug on his sword, but it was embedded in the muscles behind the woman’s shoulder and would not come out. Instead, the force of his tug pulled the woman away from O Diabo. Her arm was wrenched from round his neck, and she fell to the floor. As she hit it, Roger’s sword snapped off about nine inches from the point.

  In any case, he would have had no chance to make a second lunge at O Diabo, for the runt had dropped his musket and seized him round the waist. Quick-witted as ever in an affray, Roger lifted the hilt of his sword as though to strike himself in the stomach. On it were the clasped hands of the runt. The heavy hilt came smashing down on them. The runt gave a howl of pain, followed by a spate of blasphemous curses, and let go. At that moment O Diabo was occupied in lifting his woman from the floor and getting her on to the sofa.

  Instantly Roger swung round. The two other bandits had been lounging at the far end of the room near a pair of french windows. As Roger sprang forward to attack O Diabo they had jumped to their feet and come running to the runt’s assistance. On entering the salon, Roger had registered the windows as a possible means of escape. If he could deal with the two men who were now almost upon him, and elude O Diabo, who would be certain to pursue him, there was just a chance that he might get away through the windows.

  His sword was a slightly curved cavalry sabre, and still had two feet of blade. The nearer of the men coming at him was a lanky youth who still had down on his receding jaw. Roger had no time to raise his sword, so brought it swishing round at elbow level. It sliced into the lower part of the youth’s arm. As the blood spurted from the savage cut, he gave a yelp, clapped his hand to the wound and reeled sideways, lurching into his companion, who was just about to strike at Roger’s face with a pike. The collision diverted the blow and gave Roger his chance. He bounded toward the open window.

  Seconds later he heard the crashing of heavy feet. O Diabo had left his woman and was after him. But he still had a chance. He was a very fast runner. If only he could get through the window, he had a good hope of outdistancing his pursuers. Alas for that hope. At that very moment the man who had taken his horse round to the stable appeared outside the window. Sizing up the situation in the salon at a glance, he swiftly drew a thin-bladed dagger and crouched on the threshold barring Roger’s way.

  Unless Roger had rushed upon the man’s stiletto, he would have had to pull up in his wild career, and feint with his broken sword before striking out to cut him down. Even the pause of a moment would, he knew, bring O Diabo on him from behind. But there was still just one hope. The other three men were hard on O Diabo’s heels, so the door of the room, left half-open by the runt, was unguarded.

  Roger swerved toward it. He had one foot in the air and was now sideways on to O Diabo. The giant’s great fist shot out and caught him squarely on the cheek. The blow seemed to jolt every tooth in his head. For a second stars and circles whirled against blackness before his eyes. His sword dropped from his hand. With one foot still in the air, he heeled over and crashed to the ground.

  For four or five heart-beats he lay there. Then, bemused but with the instinct of self-preservation still uppermost, he struggled to get up. Next moment the whole pack was round him. The runt gave him a vicious kick in the ribs, but he shot out a hand and grabbed the bandit’s other leg by the ankle, threw himself sideways and brought the little man down on top of him. Gasping in a deep breath, he raised both hands and got them round the runt’s throat.

  In vain the runt beat at Roger’s face with his bleeding hands. Three of his fingers had been broken by the sword hilt, so pain prevented him from putting any strength into his blows. O Diabo, evidently thinking the little man’s plight amusing, stood back and guffawed; but the bandit’s other comrades came to his assistance. Seizing Roger’s arms they strove to pull them away, and to break his grip on the runt’s neck. Panting now, and with sweat pouring down his face, Roger hung on like grim death, pressing his strong thumbs firmly into the soft flesh below the other’s chin. His mouth had opened and his tongue stuck out. His dark, fear-stricken eyes began to pop. Another minute and he would have been strangled into unconsciousness. But before half that minute had gone Roger felt a hand thrust up between his legs. It was that of the woman he had wounded, using her sound arm. The hand found his testicles, grabbed them and squeezed. A ghastly pain shot up from them into his stomach and seemed to pierce his heart. He gave a scream of agony, let go of the runt’s neck and fainted.

  When he came to, he was still lying in the same place on the floor. His breath was coming in gasps, tears were running down his cheeks and stabs of pain racked his body. His head was splitting and his jaw ached from the blow O Diabo had struck him on the side of the face. For several minutes he lay quite still, endeavouring to decrease the pain by taking only short, shallow breaths. After a while he turned his head, first to one side, then to the other, dimly taking in what was going on in the room.

  O Diabo was again lounging on the sofa, now smoking a long clay pipe. The wounded woman was having her shoulder bound up by the other woman, who had taken no part in the fight. The runt had disappeared, presumably to nurse his injuries, so had the man who had been his companion in the ambush. There remained the two who had been with O Diabo when Roger had been brought into the room. One was a stout, brawny fellow with ginger hair. The other was the youngster whose arm Roger had slashed. He was darker-skinned than the others and had a flattened nose, so was probably half Negro. His wound had already been attended to and his arm was in a sling.

  Both the door of the room and the french windows were still open; but they might have been bolted and barred as far as Roger was concerned. He was in such pain that he found it difficult to concentrate his thought
s and if he had managed to get to his feet he doubted if he would be able to walk, let alone put up a fight.

  After a time O Diabo finished his pipe, got up and crossed the room to help himself to a mug of wine from a jug that stood on a side table. As he passed Roger he noticed that his eyes were open. Kneeling, he raised Roger’s head, put the mug to his lips and said:

  ‘Drink some of this, Frenchie. It’ll put a bit of strength into you.’

  The wine was coarse and sharp, but Roger sucked it in gratefully, thinking meanwhile that this giant with the bright blue eyes could not be altogether evil. But his flickering hope of mercy was short-lived, as the other added, ‘If we can’t get you back into fair shape, you’ll kick the bucket too soon and spoil our evening’s sport.’

  Roger stopped drinking, let his head fall back and groaned.

  ‘Scared a bit, Frenchie?’ the big man grinned, showing the ugly gap in the centre of his upper row of teeth. ‘But we can’t let French pigs live. That would be a sin, according to our priests.’

  For a moment he was silent, then he went on, ‘Still, I’ve got a soft spot for a man who puts up a good fight; and you certainly did that. So I’ll give you a choice of deaths. Shall we burn you, skin you alive or shove a bayonet up your arse?’

  His flesh again creeping with horror, Roger did not reply, gave another groan and closed his eyes.

  Passing his great arms under Roger’s body, the giant lifted him as though he were a child, carried him over to a battered chaise longue and laid him on it. Before turning away, he said, ‘You’ve plenty of time to think it over. Alfonso, that’s the chap you nearly strangled, wants to see you dance, so I said I’d give him an hour or two to pull himself together.’