"Don't try to get up. Jesus, Elliot, you look like death.” Colin held him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.
The vicar shook free of it and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.
"Please don't look at me like that,” said Colin. “Say something! Christ, Elliot, you have to know I never would have done this sober."
The vicar stabbed him with cold eyes. “Not now, Colin,” he forced thickly for the swollen jaw. He swayed and Colin's arm shot out to steady him, but he sidestepped the motion and moved toward the door. “I'm going to see if that child is still alive,” he panted, taking cautious, shallow breaths around the pain. “I'm going up to the nursery and see if he's still breathing, or if all that's just gone on here between us was for naught. No—don't come near me. Let me alone awhile, Colin. I don't want to talk about this. Not now."
Colin's posture collapsed and his eyes clouded with shame. “He isn't in the nursery. I saw Harris carry him out of the house toward the stable from the terrace just before you came ‘round."
The vicar nodded and moved past him into the hall. He hadn't taken three steps when another sharp pain stabbed him, and he sagged against the wall in the shadows soothing his burning brow against the cool, damp plaster. After a moment it passed, and he staggered down the stairs and over the gallery toward the entrance hall, anxious for the cool February wind to fan his hot, sore face and fill his lungs, which seemed to have collapsed again for lack of air suddenly. Stepping out into a wind that had swallowed the mist, he stumbled headlong over the frost-crusted drive toward the stable. Inside a lantern beckoned, and he burst through the doors and shut them after him, leaning against them for support.
Harris knelt beside the inert child on a pallet of straw, a blood-soaked rag in his hand, and he upset the bucket of water beside him scrambling to his feet at sight of the vicar's battered face and sagging body slumped against the door bolt.
"Holy Jesus Christ Almighty,” he breathed, running toward him, “'twas the master what done this to you? Holy Christ!"
"Harris . . .” murmured Elliot, taken by another sharp pain in his chest, “is the boy still alive?"
"Aye,” said the stabler, supporting him. “How, I couldn't tell you. He's raw to the bone in them shoulders there—drippin’ blood like a spigot, he is, but he's still breathin'."
"Thank God,” the vicar groaned. “Can you handle it, Harris? I don't want George to see this, or . . . or me, either . . . not here . . . and not . . . not like this."
Another, sharper pain crippled him then, and he doubled over clutching his chest. “Heart,” he breathed, “my heart! Don't tell the master . . . anyone . . . and don't send for George Howard . . . you mustn't!"
"Holy sweet Jesus!” cried the stabler as Elliot sagged against him. Harris carried him to an empty stall well out of the way at the back of the stable, and laid him down gently in the straw. His steady capable fingers removed his loosened collar and opened his blouse. Bending, he listened with his ear pressed close to the sound of the vicar's erratic heartbeat. “Ahhhh, Christ,” he murmured.
Scrambling to his feet, he ran out into the night toward the house, burst into the servants’ quarters, and ran down the corridor calling to Amy at the top of his voice. She was preparing her herbal concoctions for Malcolm in the herbarium off the kitchen. Chilled to the marrow at the desperate sound of the stabler's voice, she sprang into the hallway drying her wet hands on her apron. “What's happened now?"
"Quick—foxglove for the vicar,” he panted. “The master's beat him to a bloody pulp and he's come down out in the stable."
Amy screamed, “His heart?"
The stabler nodded. “Aye, keep your voice down. Make your bloody nostrum and make it quick, woman. And keep your yappin’ mouth shut about it! If he dies, I'll kill your precious master with my bare hands, and I'll go to the gallows with a smile on my face over it, too. You've got my bloody oath to that!"
The vicar was semi-conscious when Harris returned to the stable. Scarcely daring to breathe, he struggled with the searing pain that would have claimed him but for Amy's foxglove tincture. Howard's warning had finally become reality. Drained weak and sore from the beating and the seizure, Elliot lay there in the straw that night while the stabler bathed his wounds and fed him Amy's draught. He slept wrapped in warm quilts brought from the servants’ quarters, while Harris knelt beside the unconscious child working feverishly to keep Colin's neck clear of a noose—a thing that in that moment the stabler could no longer justify.
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Chapter Twenty-two
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A month passed before Malcolm was able to wander off to his favorite haunts again. The wounds were healing under Harris’ care, but ugly scars were inevitable. Deeply gouged, the signature of Colin's wrath would remain behind once the angry sores gave up the scabs that painted his back with a crust of blackened skin from neck to waist.
Colin avoided the child. Though he kept to the house, he kept to himself, taking solace from his brandy and the maids lured into his bed. He remained in ignorance of the vicar's seizure, and Elliot's absence disturbed him. Heartsore over the rift between them he longed to put it right, but he didn't seek the vicar out, as Elliot knew he wouldn't. It was a point of pride. That was just as well, as Elliot saw it. Since he was still unsteady physically, the last thing he wanted was for Colin to see him in the throes of an attack, and he wouldn't trust himself in his company again until all danger of that was past.
It hadn't taken long for George Howard to discover the vicar's injuries. Elliot mounted the steps to his pulpit the following Sunday still bruised and swollen from the full force of Colin's fists. The doctor lingered after the service to examine him thoroughly. Shocked, he railed and spouted much passionate reproof in Colin's direction—not the least of which was a threatened discourse with the constable at his earliest opportunity. It mattered little that the vicar refused to elaborate upon the cause of his condition or admit that Colin had one thing to do with it. One look toward Elliot's battered face was enough for Howard to convict Colin of the crime.
Elliot described the seizure as casually as he could and disassociated it from the rest of his condition, but the doctor wasn't fooled, and that triggered a passionate tirade delivered with thrust enough to cause another one. In the midst of the grim castigation, Howard prescribed a medication for the vicar to keep close at hand should it occur again in future, which, the doctor assured him, was an absolute certainty given the situation.
Elliot hadn't heard the whole of the St. Simeon's horror, nor had he been ready to until the end of the month when he decided to pay a call upon Colin and have the full account at last, but the bleak day dawned thick with mists and he was held back waiting for them to burn off later in the afternoon.
Malcolm wasn't so intimidated by the weather. He was out of the house early, quite at home in the fog tinted blue by the dawn. He returned later in the morning just in time to see Kathleen slipping into Colin's bedchamber as he expected she would, since it was her day to straighten the north wing chambers. A broad smile curled the corners of the boy's lips and his onyx eyes glistened in the shadows. Making no sound, he crept to his uncle's door and leaned close to it listening.
Inside, Colin reclined upon his bed fully clothed, his soft cambric blouse open to the waist, the maid atop him, held fast in his strong arms pulling her close. His fingers deftly loosened her bodice and stripped it away, fondling the smooth, firm breasts beneath. Released from its combs, her long red hair fell over her shoulders to her buttocks, and he groaned as it bound his hands to the soft, freckled skin inflamed by his touch. Bewitched by her ardor, his anxious mouth closed over her own and he rolled her on her back, unbuttoned his trousers, and found his way beneath the folds of her skirts guiding his erection between her thighs.
All at once the door burst open, flung wide in Malcolm's bony hand, and Colin's eyes flashed toward the dark child's half smile and cold di
lated eyes watching them.
Kathleen gasped and covered her breasts with the bed sheet as Colin withdrew himself and sprang toward the doorway hastily fastening his trousers.
Malcolm laughed, bolting down the corridor. Flying over the stairs, he ran through the picture gallery toward the double doors beyond with his uncle close behind. Once outside, the child slammed the doors in Colin's face and fled upon legs taken flight over the heath toward the south moor, concealed behind a blanket of thick, milling fog.
Throwing the doors open wide, Colin ran out into the mist, his narrowed eyes scanning the colorless morning. Far ahead, the dark splotch of Malcolm's hair bobbing through the fog caught his eye where the road parted the heath to the south, and he sprang toward the stable. Minutes later, ignoring Harris’ thunderous reproof, he rode through the gaping stable doors astride Odin, driving him hard over the south moor in the direction he'd last seen the child's lithe shape, but there was no sign of him.
Colin whipped the horse with a furious hand wielding the reins, and Odin's hoofs sent clumps of soft earth flying as he tore over the soggy ground. Crouching in a little hollow just beyond the south road crossing, Malcolm watched the honey-colored animal coming on at breakneck speed driven by Colin's rage. His uncle's white blouse came into view, billowing about him like a full-blown sail in the wind, and he could see the reins flying as Colin slapped the horse's rippling breast and sides.
Hidden in a pocket of mist, the dark, vengeful child held his breath and waited until the galloping animal was almost upon him—until he could smell the pungent odor of lathered horseflesh and feel the tremor of the earth beneath his slender body flattened against it. He looked again. Odin was a scant few meters away. Filling his lungs, he sprang from the hollow with his arms carving wild circles in the air above his head—a bloodcurdling screech of mock terror pouring from his lips—and leaped into the air, then dove, rolled quickly to the side, and crouched low out of the startled horse's path.
The terrified animal reared pawing the misty air and threw Colin out of the saddle with a violent lurch, but he didn't fall clear. His ankle became hopelessly tangled in the stirrup as he careened over Odin's left side toward the heath. The stallion snorted, stomping the ground, but with the sudden jolt of his master's body come down hard shifting the saddle, he reared again and bolted, tearing over the hollow dragging Colin behind.
Thorn hedge and bracken shredded the cambric blouse to tatters over Colin's torso, and it took all of his strength to keep clear of the churning hoofs so close at his side. Twisted around as it was, it was impossible for him to free the foot caught in the stirrup with the weight of his body bearing down as the horse fled, wrenching it tighter against the metal. Brambles and coarse black heather stripped off skin, biting into the raw flesh beneath, while his body bounced along over the uneven ground digging a trench in the spongy bog.
Sinking clenched teeth into the cry on his lips, Colin fought back nausea, and pain threatened to render him senseless. Then suddenly the stallion jerked to an agonized halt. Pitching forward sharply with a piercing shriek, Odin came down hard in a snarled heap of trembling, muscular flesh and wet leather taking Colin with him, meanwhile striking his skull with a high-flying foreleg as he drove it into the ground. Unconscious, Colin lay on his back shackled to the pain-crazed horse while the animal shrieking and struggling frantically writhing on his side, his full weight forced against a shattered hind leg.
Malcolm stole close observing the floundering horse—smiling toward the glazed, bulging eyes and open mouth leaking rivulets of foam. He crept nearer his uncle looking down at the tattered blouse clinging to raw flesh, and the angry lump deeply gashed over his bruised temple. His black eyes shone with excitement, and he moved on several meters to the east where he knelt in the mist and unfastened a wire snare he'd set there for insurance earlier, wrapped tightly around a tall clump of sturdy thorn hedge hidden deep in the milling vapors. Rolling it neatly into a coil, he followed it to a stunted tree on the west and freed it there as well, then tucked it away inside his jacket.
He cast another glance behind at the inert shape of his uncle. Colin was still caught fast in the stirrup with his leg pulled up over the convulsed animal's belly, being tossed each time the stallion wriggled. Smiling, Malcolm turned, parting the mist leaving Odin's agonized whinnies behind him, and stole away toward the cliff through the drifting fog.
* * * *
The vicar arrived in the trap late in the afternoon by way of the footpath to find Colin curiously absent from the house. He decided to speak with Harris about Malcolm's progress while waiting for him to return, and he went around to the stable where he found the stabler grooming Exchequer.
"Ahhh, ‘tis good to see you, sir,” cried Harris, swaggering toward him with the currycomb still in his hand.
The vicar smiled. “How've you been keeping, Harris?” he said.
"Pretty fair, sir, and you?"
"I'm much improved, thanks to you,” said Elliot. “How can I ever hope to thank you for your care—all the way ‘round. You're such a good friend, Harris."
"'Tis ye who are the good friend, sir—to all of us. Ye've give us yer body and soul since the first day ye come here, and I for one won't never forget it, neither."
"How's the boy?"
"He's comin’ along. ‘Twas a hair's breadth from death, he was, I'll not lie to you, sir. He's damn lucky to be alive, and that's the truth."
"He's up and about then, I take it?"
"Aye, and doubtless inta more trouble."
"You wouldn't happen to know where the master is would you? I've come to see him and no one seems to know where he's off to this afternoon."
"Jesus!” growled the stabler. “He come bustin’ in here just before noon bellowin’ and screamin'—had me saddle Odin for him and bolted off over the south moor—bloody near took them doors clean off tearin’ outa here. Half naked, he was, and wild as a bloody lunatic."
"He hasn't come back yet?” breathed the vicar.
"No, sir, he hasn't, and I hope to God he never does, if you want the truth of it, surly cur that he is."
"That was at noon you say?"
"Aye, sir."
"Harris, it's past four. Did you see Malcolm around anywhere when he left?"
"No, sir, I can't say that I did. I seen him out there earlier, though."
"Have you seen him since?"
"Aye, sir, just awhile ago out on that bloody cliff."
The vicar's posture relaxed. “I'm going down by the south road and see if I can find the master. If he should come back meanwhile, tell him I want to speak with him will you, Harris?"
"Aye, sir,” said the stabler, scratching his head in puzzlement.
The vicar hurried out to the trap and drove off over the heath toward the road. The mist had long since been driven away by a crisp wind, and rain clouds painted the gray sky black rolling in off the headlands. He turned the trap onto the highway scanning the moor to the south of it, and moved slowly along with his heart pounding in his ears. Off in the distance he heard Odin's screams over the gale, though he couldn't quite make out what the sound was, and he reined in straining his ears in an attempt to filter it from the howl of the wind. The frantic whinnies came again, but they were still undistinguishable, and he turned the trap off the road and started over the heath in the direction of the sound.
The land rose hiding the fallen pair in the hollow below until he'd nearly reached the crest that sloped down toward it. He saw Odin first, shivering in the tall wet grass that hid Colin from view. Jumping from the trap he hurried down the grade slipping and sliding in the thick, wet brush. Once he reached the bottom he saw Colin tangled in the stirrup. His heart missed its rhythm, and he ran over the gnarled clumps of brush and thorn to his side and dropped down on his knees beside him.
"Colin,” he cried, “oh, my God!"
Unconscious, Colin lay cold and still in a bed of black heather. Caked blood overspread his shoulder and side, and the dee
p, angry gash on his swollen temple.
Elliot loosened his twisted foot from the stirrup and dragged him clear of the kicking horse. “Colin, please,” he begged, shaking him gently. But he lay motionless and pale, sprawled on his back in the scrub.
Scrambling to his feet, Elliot covered Colin's bare chest with his cloak and ran to the waiting trap. Snapping the reins, he drove the mare hard over the heath onto the road and back to the stable.
Harris came running at the sound of his shouts, well before he ever pulled up to the stable doors. “What's happened?” He read catastrophe in the vicar's eyes.
"Harris, come quickly and bring your pistol,” cried Elliot. “Odin's come down in the brake on the south moor. His hind leg is broken—the bone's come clear through, and the master's unconscious—I think he's been dragged. It's bad, Harris."
"Holy Jesus,” breathed the stabler. Snatching his pistol, he shoved it in his belt, leaped upon Exchequer bare back, and tore after the trap toward the hollow.
Minutes later the vicar was on his knees beside Colin again, while the stabler stood over the pain-crazed stallion. Taking dead aim, Harris fired one bullet into the pure white blaze between the animal's mad eyes. Odin lurched, fell back, and lay still in the twilight, submerged in the thick mat of tangled, bent grass and wild heather.
"I knew one day he'd kill the bloody beast,” spat the stabler, jamming the pistol back in his belt. “God help us. What's this here on the poor animal's legs, sir? Looks like somethin’ sliced clean through ‘em like butter—like he hit somethin'."
"Never mind that now, Harris,” cried the vicar. “Go quickly for Howard—it's serious, this, and we can't move him anymore—not ‘til we know how badly he's hurt. Bring George here. I'll wait with the master. Hurry, Harris—please hurry!"
Set in motion, the stabler swung himself up on the stallion and rode hard at a gallop over the south road toward the village while the vicar knelt beside Colin smoothing the wet tangle of hair back from his wounded forehead.
Rape of the Soul Page 29