Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘You have a beautiful baby.’ Tom touched the little face awkwardly and jerked away his fingers when the child squealed again. ‘As beautiful as his mother,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ she said and smiled, then she dropped her voice so that none of the servants could hear her. ‘I must talk to you – not here, but at the first opportunity.’ She turned away quickly and handed the baby to a nurse, while Tom followed his father up the stairs.

  As soon as he was free to do so, Tom went down the passage towards the back stairs, but he had to pass Dorian’s room. He opened the door, stood on the threshold, and felt a nostalgic pang as he looked about the small chamber. It was as his little brother had left it. There were the companies of lead soldiers in pretty painted uniforms arrayed along the window-ledge, and the kite Tom had made for him hanging above the bed. The memories were too painful. He closed the door quietly and went down the back stairs.

  He slipped through the kitchen and stableyards and ran lightly up the hill towards the chapel. It was dark and cool in the vault, just a thin beam of sunlight burning down from the opening in the centre of the domed roof. He saw with relief that the chest containing his grandfather’s body stood against the far wall, beside the stone sarcophagus that had been prepared so long ago to receive it. It had made the long voyage up from Bombay and the Cape of Good Hope safely. He went to the coffin, laid his hand on the lid and whispered, ‘Welcome home, Grandfather. You will be more comfortable here than in that cave in a far and savage land.’

  Then he passed down the line of stone tombs until he reached the one in the centre. He stopped before it and read the inscription aloud: ‘Elizabeth Courtney, wife of Henry and mother of Dorian. Taken by the sea before her full flowering. Rest in peace.’

  ‘Dorian is not here today. But he will be soon,’ he said aloud. ‘I swear it.’

  He went on to the tomb of his own mother, stooped over it to kiss the cold marble lips of her effigy. Then he knelt before it. ‘I am safe home, Mother, and Guy is well. He is in India now, working for John Company. He is married. You would like Caroline, his wife. She is a pretty girl, with a lovely voice.’ He spoke to her as though she were alive and listening, and he stayed beside her sarcophagus until the sunbeam on the stone walls had made its full circuit and at last winked out, leaving the vault in semi-darkness. Then he groped his way up the stairs and out into the dusk.

  He stood and gazed down upon the darkling landscape he remembered so well, but which now seemed so alien to him. Beyond the rolling hills he saw the distant sea. It seemed to beckon to him from beyond the twinkle of lights that marked the harbour. He felt as though he had been away for a lifetime, but far from being content, he felt restless, consumed with the need to move on. Africa was out there, and that was where his heart longed to be.

  ‘I wonder,’ he whispered, as he started down the hill, ‘if I will ever be happy in one place again.’

  As he reached the bottom of the hill the pile of the house was only a dark shadow looming in the evening mists that drifted across the lawns. Tom stopped abruptly below the ha-ha wall as he glimpsed a ghostly figure beneath the outspread branches of one of the old oak trees that stood dark and massive upon the lawns. It was a female figure, dressed all in white, and Tom felt a stir of superstitious awe, for it appeared ethereal and wraith-like. There were many legends of the ghosts that haunted High Weald. When he and Guy were boys their nurse had frightened them with those tales. ‘I’ll not be bettered by any ghost,’ Tom resolved, gathered his courage and strode towards the white girl. She seemed oblivious of his approach until he was almost upon her. Then she looked up, her face frightened, and he saw it was his sister-in-law, Alice. The moment she recognized him she gathered up her skirts and fled towards the house.

  ‘Alice!’ he called and ran after her. She did not look back but increased her pace. He caught up with her on the gravel drive below the façade of the house, and grabbed her wrist. ‘Alice, it’s me, Tom,’ he said. ‘Don’t be alarmed.’

  ‘Let me go,’ she said, in a terrified tone, and looked up at the windows of the house, which were already glowing cheerfully with yellow candlelight.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me,’ he reminded her. ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

  ‘Not here, Tom. He will see us together.’

  ‘Billy?’ Tom was puzzled. ‘What can he do?’

  ‘You don’t understand. You must let me go.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of Black Billy,’ he told her, with youthful arrogance.

  ‘Then you should be,’ she said, pulled her hand free and ran lightly up the steps into the house. Standing in the middle of the carriageway with both hands on his hips, Tom watched her go. He was about to turn away when something made him look up.

  His elder brother stood at one of the tall bedroom windows on the second floor. The light was behind him so he was merely a slim, elegant silhouette. Neither of them moved for a long moment, then Tom made an impatient dismissive gesture and followed Alice into the house.

  Tom was in his bedchamber when he heard a faint sound that was out of place even in the old house with its creaking timbers and windswept roof. He stood still, with his stock half tied, and cocked his head to listen. After a few seconds the sound came again, like a rabbit in a snare, the wail of distress high and plaintive. He went to the window and opened the latch. When he threw wide the shutters the night breeze off the sea rushed in, and the cries were stronger. He recognized them as human. It was a woman’s weeping, punctuated by deeper male tones.

  Tom leaned out of the window. Now he could hear that the sounds came from the floor below, where the main bedchambers were situated. Abruptly the voices fell silent, and he was about to close his window again when he heard the sound of a blow. It must have been a heavy one to carry so clearly, and Tom’s heart tripped as the woman cried out again. This time it was a scream of pain so high and clear that he could not mistake who had uttered it.

  ‘The swine!’ he blurted out, and whirled to the door. In his shirtsleeves, his stock loosening, its ends dangling down his chest, he raced along the passage to the staircase, and bounded down, three steps at a time.

  As he reached the door to his father’s apartment he hesitated. The double doors stood wide open and the curtains of the four-poster bed across the room were drawn aside, so he could see Hal’s figure lying under the embroidered bedclothes. He was propped up on the pillows, and he called urgently to Tom as he passed the open doors. ‘No, Tom. Come here!’

  Tom ignored his summons and ran on to the doors of William’s apartment further down the passage. He tried the handle but it was locked, so he hammered on it with his clenched fists. ‘Open up, damn you, Billy!’ he bellowed. There was a long silence beyond, and he filled his lungs to shout again, when the door opened quietly and William stood in the opening, blocking it with his body so that Tom could not see past him. ‘What is it you want?’ William asked. ‘How dare you come yelling at the door to my private rooms.’ He was also in shirtsleeves, but his face was darkly flushed, with anger or exertion, and his eyes burned with fury. ‘Get away with you, you impertinent puppy.’

  ‘I want to speak to Alice.’ Tom stood his ground stubbornly.

  ‘You have already spoken to her once this evening. Alice is busy. You cannot see her now.’

  ‘I heard someone cry out.’

  ‘It was not here. Perhaps you heard a gull, or the wind in the eaves.’

  ‘There is blood on your shirt.’ Tom pointed at the tiny scarlet specks on his brother’s white sleeve. William looked down and smiled coldly through his anger. Then he brought out his right hand from behind his back and sucked the cut on his swollen knuckle. ‘I caught my hand in the cupboard doors.’

  ‘I must see Alice.’

  Tom made to push past him, but at that Alice’s voice called urgently, ‘Tom, please go away. I cannot see you now.’ Her voice was gusty with tears and pain. ‘Please Tom, listen to my husband. You cannot come in
here.’

  ‘Now do you believe me?’ William asked scornfully. ‘Alice will not talk to you.’ He stepped back and closed the door.

  Tom stood indecisively in front of it. He lifted his hand to knock again, but his father’s voice stopped him. Hal was calling again. ‘Tom, come here. I want you.’

  Tom turned away from the door and went to stand beside the four-poster bed. ‘Father, I heard—’

  ‘You heard nothing, Tom. Nothing.’

  ‘But I did.’ Tom’s voice was tight with outrage.

  ‘Close the doors, Tom. There is something I must say to you.’ Tom did as he was told, then came back to the bed.

  ‘There is one thing you must remember for the rest of your life, Tom. You must never interfere between a husband and wife. Alice is William’s chattel, he can do with her as he wishes, and if you try to step between them he is within his rights to kill you. You heard nothing, Tom.’

  When he went down to supper Tom was still seething with anger. Three places were set at the long polished table, and William was already seated at its head.

  ‘You are late, Thomas,’ he said, and he was smiling, relaxed and handsome, with a heavy gold chain around his neck and a bright ruby brooch hanging on his chest. ‘We sit down to supper at eight o’clock at High Weald. Please try to abide by the custom of the house while you are a guest here.’

  ‘High Weald is my home,’ Tom protested coldly. ‘I am not a guest.’

  ‘That is a matter for debate, but I hold the contrary view.’

  ‘Where is Alice?’ Tom looked pointedly at the empty place on William’s left-hand side.

  ‘My wife is indisposed,’ William answered smoothly. ‘She will not be joining us this evening. Please take your seat.’

  ‘It is passing strange, but I find myself without appetite. There is something hereabouts that has put me off my food. I will not be dining with you this evening, brother William.’

  ‘As you wish.’ William shrugged, and turned his attention to the stemmed glass the butler was filling with red wine.

  In his present mood Tom could not trust himself to spend the night in the same house as his brother. He threw on a cloak and stormed down to the stables. He shouted for the grooms, who came tumbling down the ladder from their quarters in the loft above and saddled one of the horses for him. Tom galloped the first mile, standing in the stirrups and driving his mount on through the night. The night air cooled his rage a little, so he took pity on the horse and reined him in to a trot along the Plymouth road.

  He found Aboli with Luke Jervis in the taproom of the Royal Oak near the harbour. They welcomed him with unfeigned pleasure, and Tom drank the first pot of ale without taking it from his lips or drawing breath.

  At one stage of the evening he climbed the back stairs to a small room, overlooking the harbour, with a pretty, laughing lass who helped him when he lost his balance and steadied him when he almost fell back down the stairs.

  Her naked body was very white in the lamplight, and her embrace was warm and engulfing. She laughed in his ear as she clung to him, and he spent his anger on top of her. Later, she giggled and waved away the coin he offered her.

  ‘I should be the one who pays you, Master Tom.’ Nearly everyone in the town had known Tom since childhood. ‘What a darling boy you’ve grown into. It’s been many a month since my porridge pot was so well stirred.’

  Much later Aboli prevented him from accepting a challenge to arms from another over-refreshed seaman, and dragged him out of the tavern, helped him up onto his horse, and led him swaying in the saddle, singing lustily, to High Weald.

  Early the next morning Tom rode up onto the moors with one of his saddle-bags bulging. Aboli was waiting for him at the crossroads, a dark, exotic figure in the thick mist. He wheeled his horse in beside Tom’s. ‘I think the good burghers of Plymouth would have preferred an attack by the French rather than your last visit.’ He looked sideways at Tom. ‘Do you not suffer still from last night’s alarms and excursions, Klebe?’

  ‘I slept like the innocent child I am, Aboli. Why should I suffer?’ Tom tried to smile but his eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘The joy and folly of youth.’ Aboli shook his head in mock wonder. Tom grinned, put the spurs to his mount and sent him soaring over the hedge. Aboli followed him and they galloped over the brow of the hill to where a grove of dark trees nestled in the fold of ground beyond. Tom pulled up, jumped down, tied his horse to one of the branches, then strode into the field of ancient stones that stood in the grove. They were mossy with age, and legend said that they marked the graves of the old people who had been buried here back in the infancy of time.

  He chose a propitious spot among them, allowing his feet, not his head, to guide him. At last he stamped his heel into the damp turf. ‘Here!’ he said, and Aboli stepped forward with the spade in his hand. He drove the blade deep into the soft earth and began to dig. When he paused for breath, Tom took his turn and stopped when the hole was waist-deep. He climbed out of it and went back to where he had tethered his horse. He unbuckled the flap of his saddle-bag and carefully lifted out a cloth-wrapped burden. He carried it back and set it down on the lip of the hole they had dug. He unwrapped the cloth from the jar. Through the glass, al-Auf glared back at him with one sardonic eye.

  ‘Will you say the prayer for the dead, Aboli? Your Arabic is better than mine.’

  Aboli recited it in a deep, strong voice that echoed weirdly in the dark grove. When he fell silent Tom rewrapped the jar, hiding its grisly contents, and laid it in the bottom of the grave they had prepared for it. ‘You were a brave man, al-Auf. May your God, Allah, pardon your sins, for they were many and grievous.’ He closed the grave and stamped down the loose soil. Then he packed the green sods over it to hide the disturbed earth.

  They went to the horses and mounted. From the saddle, Aboli looked back into the grove for the last time. ‘You killed your man in single combat,’ he said softly, ‘and you have treated his corpse with honour. You have become a warrior indeed, Klebe.’

  They turned the horses’ heads and rode together down the moor towards the sea.

  It was as though Hal Courtney had realized that the hour-glass of his life was dribbling out the last grains of sand. His thoughts dwelt much on death and its trappings. From his bed he sent for the master stone-mason from the town, and showed him the design he had drawn for his tomb.

  ‘I know full well what you want of me, my lord.’ The mason was grey and grizzled, with the stone dust etched into his pores.

  ‘Of course you do, John,’ Hal said. The man was an artist with chisel and mallet. He had carved the sarcophagus for Hal’s father and for all his wives. It was fitting that he should do the same for the master of High Weald.

  Then Hal ordered the funeral of his father to be conducted by the Bishop. His body would be laid to rest at last in the sarcophagus that John, the master mason, had prepared for it almost two decades before.

  The chapel was filled with the family and all those who had known Sir Francis Courtney. The servants and labourers from the estate, dressed in their best clothes, filled the back pews and overflowed into the churchyard.

  Hal sat in the centre of the aisle, in a special chair that the estate carpenters had adapted for him, with high sides to steady him and handles at each corner so that he could be carried about by four sturdy footmen.

  The rest of the Courtney family sat in the front pew. There were a dozen cousins, uncles and aunts as well as the closer relatives. William was in the seat nearest his father and Alice sat beside him. This was the first time she had appeared in public since the night Tom had tried to force his way into their private apartments. She was dressed in mourning black, with a dark veil covering her face. But when she raised the corner of it to dab at her eyes, Tom leaned forward and saw that the side of her face was swollen, a deep cut in her lip was covered with a black scab and an ugly old bruise on her cheek had faded purple and green. She sensed Tom’s eyes on her and hurrie
dly dropped the veil.

  In the pew on the other side of the aisle sat the guests of honour: four knights of the Order of St George and the Holy Grail. Nicholas Childs and Oswald Hyde had come down from London together. Alice’s father, John Grenville, Earl of Exeter, had ridden across from his own vast estates, which bordered High Weald, with his younger brother Arthur.

  After the ceremony, the party returned to the big house for the funeral banquet. The family and the guests of honour ate in the great dining room, while trestle tables groaning with food and drink were set up in the stableyard for the peasantry.

  Hal’s hospitality was so bountiful, the offerings from the cellars of High Weald so copious, that before the afternoon was out two peers of the realm were forced to retire to their rooms to rest. The Bishop was so overcome by the exigencies of his office and the fine claret that he had to be assisted up the main staircase by two footmen, pausing on the landing to dispense blessings on the mourners gathered below to watch his progress.

  The revellers in the stableyard, after freely availing themselves of the pots of foaming cider, took advantage of the hedgerows and haystacks for similar purposes, and others less sedate. Mingled with the snores of the imbibers were the lusty rustle of hay, the giggles and happy cries of young couples otherwise occupied.

  At dusk the four knights of the Order came down from their rooms in various stages of recovery from the mourning banquet, and climbed into the waiting carriages. The small cavalcade left the house, and followed Hal and Tom in the leading carriage back up the hill to the chapel.