There were tears running down her face and she was saying something in a broken voice over and over again.
Vesta looked at the Count and as she did so a babble of noise broke out in the cave.
The Chief Brigand came towards them. He spoke to the people and they were silent as he burst into a flood of words which Vesta could not understand.
But she could see he was smiling and was bowing towards her.
The woman was still kissing her hand, while the child was being comforted by another woman who had picked him up in her arms.
The Count spoke quietly.
“The Chief says you have saved the life of his only son. He has eight daughters but this is his heir.”
The Count’s voice deepened and Vesta could hear the relief in it as he went on:
“We are no longer his prisoners nor are we to die. We are his guests and there is to be a feast in our honour.”
Vesta looked at him in a bewildered way. Then she swayed slightly and the Count put his arm round her shoulder.
“It is all right,” he said quickly, “it is all over. You have saved us both.”
Vesta took a deep breath and the numb feeling which had made her feel everything was a dream began to pass. Even now she could not realise how near she had been to death.
The women were bustling about receiving instructions from the Chief.
“What is happening?” Vesta asked.
“They will kill a goat,” the Count said, “and if we were near to death before, I can assure you that when we eat it we shall be even nearer.”
He was trying, Vesta knew, to speak lightly to alleviate the horror of what had happened.
“I expect you would like to sit down,” he said, “but this place seems most inadequately furnished.”
He looked round the big cave and then Vesta saw there were seats of a sort placed round the walls and covered with the skins of animals.
But before the Count could lead her to one of them a woman came to her side.
She was young, ugly and dirty, and her hair was straggling down her face. She was very thin and undernourished and when Vesta looked down at the baby in her arms, she thought for a moment it was dead.
It was a very small, emaciated little baby, and its face seemed blue.
“What is she saying?” Vesta asked the Count.
“She asks if you will help her,” the Count answered, “but there is nothing you can do.”
“How do you know there is nothing?” Vesta enquired.
“It would be a mistake to try to do anything,” he replied. “The child will die anyway, and they might say it was your fault.”
“But I must help it if I can. What does she say is wrong?” Vesta asked.
“I have told you to leave her alone,” the Count said sharply. “You have performed one miracle, do not press your luck too hard!”
Vesta straightened herself and moved away from his protecting arm.
“I wish to know what this woman is saying to me.”
She met his eyes as she spoke and once again it was a contest of wills between them.
“Please translate,” Vesta said firmly.
“Are you commanding me?” he asked with a twist of his lips.
“If necessary,” she replied. “Brigands or not, they will be my people.”
“Very well, Ma’am,” he said with a sigh. “If you bring the wrath of the Chief down on our heads again, there will be nothing I can do about it.”
He turned almost impatiently towards the woman.
“She says,” he translated into English, “that the baby is four days old and she has no milk. She asks if you can help her as you helped her sister. She especially wants you to save this baby, as it is a boy too. Now will you admit there is nothing you can do?”
Once again he was jeering at her, Vesta thought.
“Ask the woman if she has been trying to feed the baby.”
The Count did as she asked.
“She says they have spooned some goat’s milk into its mouth, but it will not swallow it.”
“Of course it will not at that age,” Vesta said.
The other women were standing round trying to understand what was happening.
“Tell one of those women,” Vesta said to the Count, “to get some fresh goat’s milk and ask them if possible to put it into a clean pot.”
“I imagine that is very unlikely,” he said dryly.
However he gave Vesta’s instructions to a woman who hurried away.
When she was gone Vesta touched the child’s hands. They were very cold, yet it was alive and still breathing, although she had the feeling it would not be for long.
The woman came back with the goat’s milk. It was warm from the animal. Vesta drew one of her gloves from the pocket of her jacket.
“I want a spoon,” she said to the Count.
One was procured for her and she spooned the milk into the first finger of the glove.
She was watched by the women and now the men began to crowd round as well.
“I hope to God,” the Count said in a low voice, “you know what you are doing.”
Vesta ignored him. The glove was of soft suede and when she had filled the finger with milk, she took a brooch from the front of her blouse and pierced a hole in the tip of the finger.
Then she dipped it into the goat’s milk and pressed it to the baby’s mouth.
For a moment it paid no attention. Its mouth opened and it gave a feeble cry. Vesta pressed the glove a little further in and now the baby’s lips closed on it.
Very feebly it gave a little suck, then it sucked again. It seemed as if everyone held their breath until it was sucking at the glove finger as if at last it had found the food it needed.
It was then that Vesta was besieged! It appeared that everyone in the whole cave wanted her help and her guidance for their children.
The Count created some order out of the tumult, making one woman speak at a time and insisting on the others taking their turn.
“Tell me,” she said to him, “what do these people eat?”
“Meat mostly,” he answered. “Their men hunt in the hills for goat and bear to which they are very partial, and I believe they have a traditional dish made of porcupine.”
“Do they get any vegetables or fruit?” Vesta asked.
“I imagine they see no necessity for them,” the Count replied.
Vesta made him tell the mothers that someone was to go down to the valley and bring back a sack of oranges, and that every child was to have at least one a day.
She told them to eat the wild strawberries, to keep lemons always in the cave and be quite certain that they had enough olives when the harvest was over to see them through winter, so that every child could have a few drops of olive oil every day.
They listened open-mouthed. Then the Count said:
“One of the women, who seems more intelligent than the rest, asks what they can do in the winter when there is no fruit to be had? I imagine the majority of them suffer from scurvy of some sort.”
‘‘Will you tell them,” Vesta replied, “to put a handful of pine needles in a large pot of boiling water. They are to leave it for an hour and then drink five cupfuls of it a day.”
“Are you sure that will be effective?” the Count asked in surprise.
“It was a Russian who told my mother that is what they do in Siberia,” Vesta answered.
He gave the information to the mothers and they nodded their heads. Vesta knew they would follow out her orders.
“They must be able to get honey,” she said to the Count.
“If they bother to gather it there is plenty in the woods,” he answered. “You can imagine with flowers like ours there are swarms of bees in their hundreds.”
“Tell the women the men are not to be cowards and they must collect honey for the children. Say they must jeer at them if they are frightened of being stung!”
The women roared with laughter at this.
> “Tell them the children are to have at least three spoonfuls of honey a day all the year round, and they can put honey into the pine-needle drink if they find it nasty.”
There were so many questions that Vesta began to get very tired, and at last the Count took her by the arm and drew her away to one of the seats near the wall.
“I have told them the Physician’s Consulting Room is closed for the evening!” he said.
The women chattered amongst themselves, obviously accepting his decision, and now they were busy arranging a table in the middle of the room where the feast was to take place.
“How do you know all these things?” the Count asked.
“I told you I was interested in herbs,” she answered.
“I cannot believe that anyone who looks like you would have so much knowledge and save both our lives.”
“It was luck,” she said simply. “The same thing happened to one of my nieces. Her father did exactly what I did to that child and what was stuck in her throat fell out. Afterwards she was perfectly all right.”
“Perhaps we were not meant to die,” the Count said, “not at the moment at any rate!”
“Will they let us ... go?” she asked a little apprehensively.
“We shall have to stay here tonight,” he answered. “The feast will go on a long time and it would be insulting to leave too quickly as it is being given in our honour. Tomorrow I am certain the chief will keep his word and we shall be free.”
“I hope ... so,” Vesta said in a small voice.
The Count put his hand over hers. It was strangely comforting.
Chapter Five
The feast was obviously being enjoyed by everyone from the oldest Brigand down to the smallest child who could feed itself.
Vesta had tried not to look when the goat, which had been roasted whole over a fire outside, was carried in. It looked horrible, she felt, with its head still attached to it.
It was placed in the middle of a long table and the Chief Brigand helped his guests, himself and his immediate family, and then the others hacked away with their knives at whatever portion they fancied.
Vesta looked with horror at the heaped plate of meat which was set down in front of her.
Fortunately she was seated next to the Count who was on the right of their host.
“Chew the meat,” he said softly, “then remove it from your mouth and feed it to the dogs. You will find quite a number of them under the table.”
His eyes twinkled as he went on:
“It may not be good manners, but that is something which is in somewhat short supply amongst our hosts.”
That was certainly true. The Brigands stuffed the meat into their mouths with both hands, chewed it with relish, and belched when it suited them.
They were of course waited on by the women, and Vesta was the only female who was seated all through the meal.
She was glad that she was not near to the Headman with the squint eye who had asked for her as his wife.
She was well aware that during the meal he was looking at her with an expression that made her shudder, and because she was afraid, she moved a little nearer to the Count.
He looked at her as if to enquire what was perturbing her.
“You will not leave me ... alone, will you?” she asked.
He saw the Headman watching them and realised why she was upset.
“You need not be afraid,” he replied quietly, “I promise that he shall not come near you.”
This was reassuring, at the same time Vesta could not help a tremor of fear every time she looked up and realised that the Headman was staring at her, even when he stuffed large portions of the meat into his mouth.
Red wine such as they had drunk at the Inn circulated freely and soon the laughter grew louder. Vesta guessed that it was a good thing she could not understand the jokes, for she was sure they were extremely coarse.
She drank a little of the wine and ate the dark black bread, which despite its somewhat acid taste was quite edible.
She even enjoyed the goat’s cheese which was not as old and hard as the piece she had tried to cook the night before.
At last when she was beginning to feel very tired, the bones which was all that remained of the goat were taken away from the table and Vesta knew with relief that the feast was over.
The Chief said something to the Count and he turned to Vesta to say:
“We are indeed honoured. The Chief and his wife are giving up their own cave to us. I have told them it is unnecessary, but he insists.”
The favour however was not so acceptable when Vesta saw the cave.
It was quite small, leading off the main cavern where they had eaten.
Over the opening there was stretched bear-skin and inside a large bed consisted entirely of the furs of animals piled one on top of another. There were no other furnishings.
Light and air came only from the large cave, until the Chief Brigand’s wife brought in a small flaring torch of birchwood which she thrust into an iron holder set into the wall.
“She says it will burn only for perhaps ten minutes,” the Count said dryly “so we best arrange ourselves for sleep.”
With many good night greetings, the Chief Brigand and his wife withdrew from the cave and the-.bear-skin fell behind them.
Vesta looked at the bed apprehensively. The Count saw the expression on her face and said:
“I think the only hope is to spread out your cloak. I do not fancy the fur blankets and I am sure you do not either.”
Remembering the dirt of the Brigands and of their women, Vesta shuddered.
The Count took Vesta’s thick cloak and laid it over the bed so that the wide hem covered where their heads would rest and only their feet would actually rest on the animal skins.
“It may seem unconventional for us to be here together,” the Count said in a quiet voice, “but I imagine you would not wish me to suggest that I sleep in the main cave?”
Vesta thought of the Headman and the way he had watched her all through the meal and shuddered.
“No ... please ... please, do not ... leave me,” she begged.
“I cannot suggest,” the Count went on, “that I should sleep in a chair all night because there is none. And quite frankly, Ma’am, I do not fancy the floor.”
“No, of course not,” Vesta said. “We can both lie on the bed now that you have covered it with my cloak. There is no question of undressing.”
She shivered as she spoke. After the heat of the outside cave she could now feel the cold which obviously came from the snow on the mountains.
‘We must be very high,’ she thought.
Then feeling a little shy she climbed onto the bed and keeping well to one side of it lay back against her cloak.
“The bed is very soft,” she told the Count. “I wonder how much the furs on which we are lying are worth.”
“Are you thinking of asking for them to be made into a cloak for you?” he teased.
“Indeed not,” Vesta replied. “At the same time I was wondering why the Brigands do not sell some of the furs they acquire and buy furniture.”
“I imagine they are quite happy as they are,” the Count answered, “and think that they are living in luxury. They are not really Katonians—they are Albanians who have fled from their country and the cruelty of the Turkish conquerors to settle here. I have heard about them for years, but fortunately I have never encountered them until now.”
“Have they killed ... many people, as they would have killed ... you?” Vesta asked.
“If travellers wander onto what they consider their territory, I imagine their lives are forfeit,” the Count said. “We were however unfortunate in that they heard my pistol-shot when I killed the snake. Otherwise we might have passed by and they would have had no idea that we were there.”
As he spoke he lowered himself carefully onto the bed as Vesta had done. He lay on the extreme edge of his side of it and there was a large gap between them.
“I should try and sleep,” he said as he settled himself uncomfortably. “I imagine that the Brigands have taken us considerably out of our way and we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
“I am very tired,” Vesta said. “I am sure I will sleep.”
As she spoke she thought of how except, as the Count had said, by a miracle, they might both have been dead at this moment. Where would the Brigands have buried them? Even the thought of their touching her dead body made her shiver.
“Are you cold?” the Count asked.
“Not really,” she answered, “I was shivering at the thought that we might be ... dead.”
“Forget it!” the Count said sharply.
As he spoke the torch flickered and went out leaving only the fragrance of birch-wood.
It was now very dark in the cave except, as Vesta’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she could see beneath the bear-skin a light from the outer cavern.
‘I will try not to think of-what has happened,’ she told herself, ‘but of the flowers, and the sunshine coming through the trees.’
She shut her eyes and tried to forget the Count was lying beside her. Then suddenly there was a faint noise. “What is ... that?” she asked nervously.
“Rats, I expect,” the Count answered.
He spoke casually, but Vesta gave a little scream and turning wildly towards him, clutched hold of his coat and hid her face against his shoulder.
“Do not let ... them come ... near me! Keep them ... away!” she cried frantically.
After a second’s astonishment, the Count put his arms round her.
“It is all right,” he said soothingly, “I will not let them hurt you.”
“They might ... run over ... me,” Vesta whispered, “I cannot ... bear it.”
She was rigid with fear, holding onto his lapel, hiding her face, but was listening intently. Then suddenly she raised her head a little and said accusingly:
“You are ... laughing!”
“Today I thought you were the bravest, most gallant woman I have ever met in my whole life,” the Count said in a deep voice. “You faced death without crying, without a murmur; you stood still when you expected a reptile to attack you; and yet now—you are afraid of a rat!”
The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) Page 8