Sons of the Wolf (25 page)

Yes, but it was dark now and had been for several hours. I cast a startled look at the half-open window, and then I noticed the ledge above, higher than the head of even a tall man. I dragged the chair over to the window and climbed up. The ledge was just wide enough to hold the diary. I left it there; I could think of nothing better.

Then the door. I will not try to summon up my feelings when I put my hand on the door handle. Once was enough to experience that.

, At first I saw nothing outside the door but blackness. Then I realized that I was holding the candle too high; its light dazzled my eyes and failed to illumine the floor. When I lowered it, I saw the dog. It was lying flat on the floor, but it did not look drugged. The massive head had drooped forward onto its outstretched paws, as if it were dozing. I could not see its eyes.

I knew, of course, that if the beast had been unaffected by the laudanum it would have been on its feet before this. But reason is a poor defense against fear. I had to step over the prostrate body in order to reach the stairs, and that one step took every ounce of courage I could summon up. I gathered my skirt up with one hand, lifting it high as if I were crossing a bog, and it was not until a trailing bit of petticoat brushed the dog's ears that I really believed the truth. I had won the first move. One part of my wild scheme had succeeded.

Still I was afraid to take my eyes off the monster, and I nearly fell backward down the stairs in my mindless retreat. It was no small task to descend that narrow, headlong flight with one hand holding the candle and the other trying to keep my skirts from tripping me.

The landing below, with its door, was my first objective. One glance told me that the room must be empty, for there was neither bolt nor lock fixed to the ancient slab of wood, only a rough iron handle like the one on the door of the chamber above. Yet I could not go on without making sure. I gave the door a push, and it swung inward with a screech of rusted metal that sounded like a shout of blasphemy in a temple. Silence and decay were the gods of that ancient place, and noise was a profanation.

The feeble candle flame reached only a few feet into the vast darkness of the room, but I saw enough to know that I had been correct-no one had been in this room for decades, perhaps centuries. It was a copy of the room above, except that this one was bare of furnishings. Dust lay thick upon the worn planks of the floor, and cobwebs festooned the ceiling like low-hanging clouds. I backed out, pulling the door to behind me in an instinctive rejection of the I dark desolation of the room. Turning my back on the dog was bad enough; I knew I could not leave a gaping black hole behind me as well. Anything might come out of that room.

The next part of the descent was even harder because of the wind that whistled up the narrow stairwell. I needed both hands to shield the candle, and twice I came near to stumbling over my skirts. The next floor was the vital one; it was the last of the habitable rooms of the tower, the lowest floor being merely an empty space with doorways leading to the moor and the cells. If Ada were not in this room, I would have to search for her among the cells where Francis was confined. At that moment it seemed impossible that anything as healthy and alive as Ada could be present among those deadly silent stones.

She was there. I knew she must be as soon as I saw the door, for it was fastened-not with an ordinary bolt, but with a chain twisted around the doorhandle and a new heavy iron hook which had been driven into the wood of the doorframe. The splintered wood was so newly wounded that it shone white in the candle flame.

I tried to call her name, but the silence froze my tongue; I could not produce anything louder than a whisper. It was the work of a moment to unfasten the chain but it took me two moments because I did not want to put the candle down. There was rattling and banging enough as I worked, yet no sound from within. That frightened me; I knew Ada must be there, but in what state? Surely not asleep. She must be unconscious, or worse.

Forgetting caution in this new worry, I smacked the door smartly with my fist, and it swung slowly inward. Then, at last, another human voice broke the silence-a wordless, muffled cry of alarm. I raised the candle high and saw her-alive, aware, seemingly unhurt-crouched against the far wall, with both hands extended as if to ward off whoever was coming. She saw me at the same moment and knew me-with the eyes of love, presumably, since I looked like nothing so much as a wild-haired witch, and I must have been the last person on earth she expected to see. Another cry, equally inarticulate but far different in emotion, and she rushed at me. Luckily the commotion extinguished the poor little candle, for I let it fall, unheeded, as I clasped Ada's shaking form in my arms. Whatever had happened to her, she was alive and sane. That was more than I had dared hope for.

After I had controlled my own emotion, I held her away from me and gave her a gentle shake.

"My darling, there is no time for tears. We must get away from here if we can. Tell me first-quickly-are you unhurt?"

"Yes . . ."

"Julian didn't-"

Ada laughed. Her voice was still weak, but the laugh was genuine, and a more incongruous sound never stirred that silence.

"Julian!" she said contemptuously. "Imagine, Harriet, he tried to make love to me-to kiss me! He is strong but not strong enough for that. I kicked him and I bit."

"He left you alone then?" I asked unbelievingly.

"He said-he said a night alone here might change my mind." She shuddered. "It nearly did, Harriet; I was so afraid. And he said he would send his father. When you came, I thought-"

"I know. Thank God you are unharmed. Don't be afraid, Ada."

"But you, Harriet-how did you find me?"

"No time for that story. I did find you, and now we must run. Ada, do you think you could possibly get a horse out of the stables without being seen?''

"I don't know. Why?"

"Listen," I said and shook her more vigorously. "One of us must go to Middleham and get help. If the villagers won't help, ride on to Ripon; you can hire a coach there. Here is money, put it in your pocket. To reach Middleham you must have a horse. The courtyard gates are bolted at night, but the wall is not high; you are agile, you must climb it. The only person in the stable is that poor old dotard Adam who admires you so. You can keep him quiet; bribe him if you must. Get a horse. I don't care how you do it, you must do it," I concluded wildly. "Go to Middleham, David may be there. And watch out for Julian and Wolfson-both of them are abroad tonight, God knows where. I don't fear for you once you are mounted; you can outride either of them. Do you understand?"

"Hush, Harriet, don't cry. I don't understand, but I will do what you say. But you must come with me."

"If we separate, we double our chances," I told her, trying to calm myself. "And I can't go yet. I must try to get Francis away."

"Francis! Where is he?"

"In one of the cells here. I'm afraid he is badly hurt. If those devils find us flown and he is still here, they may-they may-"

"Francis," she repeated. "He followed, Harriet, when Julian carried me from the house. They gave me something in my soup that night. It tasted odd, so I didn't drink it all, but I was half asleep. . . . Julian dropped me when Francis struck him. I couldn't move-I could only lie there watching. Julian was no match for him; he would have won if it had not been for the dogs. I saw him fall-"

"Later," I said. "If there is a later ... If I can move Francis, I will follow you. Perhaps you can get two horses out, but don't come back here-turn the second one loose, and I'll try to catch it. If I cannot, I will go toward Middleham on foot, hide in the trees. . . . Ada, Ada, we must go!"

We had been incredibly fortunate thus far, but I knew the desperate need for haste. I was frantic to get Ada on her way, to return to Francis. But I stopped long enough to do one thing-to replace the chain on the door. Even if I were recaptured-and I had no great hope that I would dare to leave Francis-Ada might succeed if her escape were not discovered immediately.

The wind had risen; it cut like a knife when we stepped out of the tower door. Ada still had Grandmother's sable cloak; she clutched it around her, shivering, and then suddenly whipped it off.

"Here, take it."

"No-"

"I can run faster without it, and I can't ride with it. It may keep you from freezing tonight-you or Francis."

I had just taken the cloak in my arms when from far-off, blended with the wail of the night wind, came the distant baying of a hound.

We turned as one. In the dim starlight I saw Ada's head lift, her nostrils quivering. She was scenting the air like one of her beloved horses. Her face was so pale that it shone like a small moon against the darkness, but when she spoke, her voice was steady.

"The hound is loose and on the scent, Harriet."

"Run!" I shrieked. "Run!"

She took me at my word. I have never seen anyone run as Ada ran that night; she bounded over rocks and hummocks like a deer or a young mare. I stumbled along behind her, hampered by the cloak, to which I idiotically clung; in my mind was some vague notion of throwing myself to the dog, like a tasty bone, to distract him from Ada. But I knew it was useless. The Manor was two miles away; she could never reach it even if the dog took time out to gobble me up. The long-drawn howl came again, louder-much louder.

Midway through, the howl was drowned by another, nearer sound-the wild neigh of an excited horse.

Ada stopped and whirled to face me, her skirts billowing out. We spoke at the same moment.

"Is it . . . ?"

"It is Satan, in the far pasture. Can you . . . ?"

Without wasting time or breath on an answer, she turned and was off again. How she knew where to go, in the darkness and in her panic, I can't imagine; instinct must have led her. I always said, jokingly, mat she was half equine, and after that night I can believe it. She tore her way through weeds and brambles, reached the fence and was over it, tumbling to the ground on the other side in a heap of white petticoats. I was close on her heels, whipped on by the mounting crescendo of the diabolical howling that rose now without stopping for breath.

The wind was a shrieking torrent above, beating at the bare branches of the trees and tearing the fleeing clouds to shreds. It freed the hidden moon from its covering, and in the new brilliance I saw a sight that made me catch my breath.

From far across the field the stallion was racing toward us. Its galloping hooves thudded on the half-frozen ground like drumbeats, and its mane streamed out in the wind. Ada stood like a statue where she had risen, one hand outstretched; her loosened hair hid her face, but the lines of her young body and arms were taut with eagerness. She was reaching out to the wild thing as if to a lover, and I knew that if Ada could reach the horse's back she was safe. If only the dog—

Then I realized that the baying had stopped. When I looked back, I saw why.

The hound had reached the tower. For a time its form was hidden by the masonry, but I knew better than to hope mat it would stop there. When it reappeared it came straight toward us, silent now, moving in great bounds. In a matter of seconds it would be upon us.

The stallion had come to a sliding, crashing halt just under Ada's nose, as if it meant to tease her. Now it was nuzzling into her hands and skirts, seeking the tidbits of sugar she always had for it. The animal knew her, but it was puzzled and excited, aroused by the aura of human fear. It pranced around Ada with dainty little steps, avoiding almost playfully the hands with which she strove to catch its mane. She looked so small beside the animal's muscled height. It struck me with a shock of horror that even if she caught hold of it, she could not possibly mount unless she could persuade it to stand by the fence. And by that time . . .

At that moment the horse scented the dog.

Its handsome head came up, nostrils flaring redly. I forgot that I might startle it into the flight it so obviously contemplated; I ran toward Ada, screaming her name. I doubt that she even heard me. Rising on tiptoe she threw both arms about the horse's arched neck, her body brushed by the dancing hooves-and the animal responded. It stood stock-still, looking down into her upturned face; black mane and golden hair mingled in the stream of the wind.

What followed was absurd and anticlimactic-but as effective as a well-rehearsed acrobatic turn. Somehow I was on hands and knees beside the horse, feeling Ada's little slippers pressing painfully into my shoulder blades; at the same time I threw myself up, lifting her. As I staggered to my feet, swaying like a drunken scrubwoman, I saw her mounted-astride, with a gleam of grubby white stocking showing between the folds of her wide skirts. Both hands were twisted in the horse's mane and her mouth was wide open in-it sounds incredible, but it is true-a shout of laughter.

There are those who, when the danger becomes acute, rise completely out of themselves into a state beyond fear. She must he one of them; she looked like a young maenad or Valkyrie. I am not like that, I can only think of the next danger to be surmounted. I remembered that she had never ridden Satan, that she had neither bridle nor saddle, that he was believed to be unmanageable, a killer; I recalled that a hunting hound may drag down a horse. And with that last thought I saw the hound-a dark bulk clearing the pasture fence not ten feet away.