Sons of the Wolf (17 page)

"Never."

"Touching ..." Again he was silent, and hope slowed my racing heart to something like its normal rate.

"No," he said abruptly.

"Francis-"

"No. If I don't take you now, I'll never do it. It will be too late. I've given myself away; you won't let me near you another time. ..."

He was holding me, with his careless strength, several inches off the ground. I could not even stand on my own feet; I could only lean helplessly against his breast, pinioned by his great long arms. The change in his voice, now humorless and shaking with pent fury, told me that I had lost all hope of reasoning with him. I could only conclude that he was mad.

"Harriet."

I started, looking up, trying to see his face more clearly in the darkness. There had been another change in his voice-one that set my heart pounding anew.

"Harriet, come with me. I can't drag you screaming-and I don't want to hurt you. Come with me. I promise you won't regret it. I'll explain everything-"

His lips were on my cheek, moving clumsily. I could smell the strong reek of spirits on his breath. I was completely helpless; I could not move even my head, for it was pressed against his shoulder. Knowing it was useless to resist, I resigned myself. . . .

At least that is how I ought to have behaved. What It we women are!

Mind, I am not ashamed of how I felt. Despite Grandmother's horrid hints, I cannot believe that it is wrong respond to the touch of the man one loves. But I do love Francis-I loathe him. That is what I am ashamed the object of my feelings, not the feelings themselves.

I did object-a trifle.

"Francis, don't-Give me time-"

"No time," he said, against my ear. "Now or never, He won't let me. He'll stop me somehow-"

"I'll stop you," said another voice in melodramatic accents. "Now."

I could hardly see him except as a darker shadow, but it had to be Julian. Who else would come to look for me when night fell and I did not return?

"That will be enough, Brother," said Julian coldly. "Harriet-you are not hurt?"

Still suspended from Francis' grasp, I managed to squeak a reassuring negative. Under my breath I hissed, "Let me go at once, Francis!"

I could almost hear him thinking. He would have made two of Julian, but he could hardly attack his brother without releasing me. And I would immediately run screaming for help. He reached the only possible conclusion at the same moment I did.

"I beg your pardon, Harriet," he exclaimed, setting me down on the ground. "Dear me-I fear you misunderstood my little joke. My sense of humor-"

"Is abominable," I said, between my teeth. "And I do not-"

"You don't what?" inquired Francis politely.

"I-nothing."

Francis was trading, quite unscrupulously, on my reluctance to cause trouble. How much Julian had heard I do not yet know, but he could not have seen very much-it was too dark. Yet the younger brother's waiting silence was as sharp as a shout. If I had wept or shouted accusations, heaven knows what he might have done. If Francis were attacked, he would fight back; in his present frame of mind, which I knew only too well, he might do the slighter man serious harm.

I went toward Julian with unhurried steps-but my knees were shaking.

"Thank you, Julian," I said calmly. "Let's go back to the house, shall we?"

I left my rescuer in the hall, where the light was dim; I did not want him to see me clearly. But when I inspected my image in the glass in my room I was surprised to see how few signs there were of those terrible moments. There was a small cut on my lip, but it was on the inside so did not show. It was not until I undressed for bed-which I did at once, being weak with reaction-that I saw the bruises on my upper arms. Luckily they are in places which are not normally visible. I will have to take care to keep Ada out while I am dressing.

What shall I do?

September 22

I shall do nothing. Perhaps I am the one who is mad. Could it really have been only one of Francis' "jokes"?

When I met him this morning at breakfast, he looked me straight in the eye and greeted me as if he had absolutely no recollection of his insane behavior.

I cannot fathom what is happening here. Perhaps all I can do is try to forget it.

September 26

Today was our first intimation that summer is over. The weather has been clear and warm, unseasonably so for this part of the country, I understand. But when I woke this morning, it was to gray skies and a keen wind that whipped the yellowing leaves off the trees. The day suited my mood. I wish some spiritual wind would come and blow away the dead leaves that clutter my brain!

When I went in to Ada I found her still abed. Her looks alarmed me, but she was cool to the touch and insisted she felt no pain, only weariness. This increasing apathy frightens me. If she would only speak to me of what troubles her! But she hugs her sorrow to her as if it were a kind of comfort.

I decided to go out; the house is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to me. We have heard no more of the gypsies, but they are only one of my worries. I decided to ride only as far as the ruins; the ruined cloisters would, I thought, restore some of my peace of mind.

The ride did me good-the first part of it, at least. The cold air seemed to blow some of the cobwebs from my mind, and I became more cheerful. Sooner or later Ada's absurd attachment would fade; soon Francis must leave for Edinburgh. Then Mr. Wolfson and I could resume our pleasant hours together, and perhaps Ada and Julian . . .

I was dreaming, happy and only half aware, as my mount picked its way daintily through the thick grass to the entrance of the court. It knew its way; this is my favorite ride.

The intelligent beast stopped in the gateway, and when I looked up, I saw that someone was there before me. Francis sat on a stone at the foot of the opposite wall. He was deep in thought and, since he faced away from me, it was no wonder that he did not see me.

His manner toward me of late had been impeccable-almost gentle, in fact. But I still had no intention of meeting him alone.

A movement among the grasses attracted my attention and that of Francis. He raised his head alertly but did not rise; perhaps, I thought, he is expecting someone. Then a patch of gray moved among the yellowing green of the weeds and one of the dogs came into view.

I really am not afraid of the dogs. I have been with them many times now, and I know they would never harm me. However, I feel no great affection for them!

I could not see Francis' face but his actions left no doubt as to his reaction to Fenris or Loki, whichever it was. As the dog came toward him, stepping slowly through the drying grass, he bent and picked up a stone.

"Get away, you brute," I heard him say.

The dog stopped. I suppose any animal can recognize a threat, particularly an animal as unpopular as this one. He has probably been stoned before. But there was an uncanny, almost human look on the shaggy thing's face as its eyes traveled from Francis' face to the stone in his hand. The fanged mouth opened wide and the red tongue lolled out. Some dogs look as if they are laughing when they do this. The wolf-dog seemed to sneer. It turned without haste and made its way off, through the doorway mat leads to the cells.

I was trying to think of a way of retreating without attracting Francis' attention when something else moved. And this movement froze my voice and my limbs.

The wall of the ancient courtyard is well preserved. In some places it is ten or twelve feet high. The stones are roughhewn compared with those of the church, and presumably they did not make such attractive building material, so they were left in place when the other buildings were looted. Only the vandalism of wind and weather has marred the courtyard walls, and though the old masonry is crumbled away in many spots, the very weight of the stones holds them firmly in place.

Now a section of stonework three or four stones wide, just above Francis' head, was beginning to move.

It happened very quickly. My vocal paralysis broke; I let out a shriek that brought Francis to his feet and whirled him about in my direction. I will never forget the look on his face when he saw me; heaven knows my own expression must have been wild enough. There was no time for comment or movement-the center stone was poised and ready to drop. One of my frenzied gestures must have told him the truth. He looked up-and me whole top of the wall seemed to collapse.

He moved with a speed I had never thought possible, throwing himself to one side in the only movement that could have saved him. But the movement was simultaneous with the crash of the stones, and the dreadful thunder of their fall and the cloud of dust that rose where they struck momentarily blinded me. I fell off the horse-my newly acquired equestrian skills desert me completely in moments of stress-and ran toward the spot, expecting some indescribable horror.

I found him on the far side of the tumbled pile of rock. He was sitting on the ground. He glanced at me, and at first there was no recognition in his eyes. The shock, I thought; and thanked heaven that there seemed to be no mark of injury.

Then he struggled to his feet, steadying himself with one hand against the nearest block of stone, and I saw that his left arm hung at an odd angle from his shoulder.

"I'm here," I said quickly; my voice was shrill with relief. "It is Harriet, Francis. I'll help you to the house."

I thought he didn't see me. He was glancing wildly around as if looking for something. But when I put out my hand to touch him, he snatched at my arm.

"Here, take my wrist in both hands and hold steady," he said.

I obeyed automatically, but when he pulled away from me, I let go his arm for fear of hurting him.

"God damn you," he said hotly, "hold on, don't let go. Pull."

"No-how can I? You must go to a physician-"

"I am a physician, remember? Hold on, damn you, and pull."

After that I didn't mind hurting him.

Not at first. When I saw his face whiten and the drops of perspiration break out on his brow, I almost let go. He saw my intention and opened his mouth in a wordless snarl, and I dug my fingers in tighter. I heard the sound when the bone went back into place. It made me feel ill; my fingers dropped their hold. Francis went staggering back, fetching up against the wall, and slowly slid down to I a sitting position. He sat there with his long limbs absurdly I extended before him, nursing his shoulder and swearing.

I knew by his language that he was better, and for the first time I had leisure to think over what had happened.

It frightened me half to death.

"Francis," I said, sidling closer to him. "Someone must have pushed those stones."

"Indeed?"

I paid no heed to his sarcasm; there were more serious matters on my mind.

"We must get away from here!"

"Give me a chance to catch my breath, can't you?"

"No, no, there isn't time! He may come back-he may try-"

"Not with you here." Nevertheless Francis got to his feet. He was still white around the mouth, and it was with some difficulty that he thrust his bad arm into the breast of his coat for support.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Do you want my scarf?"

"No. Thank you. Let's be off."

He found his horse, which was placidly cropping the grass outside, and mounted. The effort left him absolutely gray in the face, and I was furious when he insisted on inspecting the area behind the wall from which the stones had fallen. No one was there. The grass was too thick to retain footprints.

"Did not Julian tell you that the gypsies have been seen in the neighborhood?" I asked, as we rode toward the manor.

"No. But I knew."

"Then it was careless of you to go about alone."

"Why, in the devil's name?"

"Revenge-"

Francis snorted.

"Why?" he asked again.

"You thwarted their plot to kidnap Ada."

"Nonsense."

"But, Francis, if not the gypsies, who else could it have been?"

"Harriet-" He caught at my sleeve, halting his horse.

"What is it?"

We sat gazing at one another. The frowning intensity of his look set my heart pounding. I felt that I was on the brink of discovery, that in a moment he would tell me the truth about the mysteries that surrounded his actions.

"My father," he began.

"Oh, Francis, you are breaking his heart. Why can't you be kind to him?"

For a long time he sat without speaking, his face hard. Then he grimaced unattractively and let go of my arm.

"It's cold," he said flatly. "Why are we sitting here?"

I feel badly about it now, but I don't really see what I could have done; all the way back to the manor he made no sound or complaint. But when we were dismounting in the courtyard, he had no sooner set foot on the ground than he fell over in a heap. He would have struck his head quite badly had not David managed to break his fall. The servants got him to bed and I sent someone to Middleham for the doctor. They tell me he is resting comfortably now.