The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (9 page)

Vaguely at the back of her mind she remembered it was best not to move when one encountered a snake, but to stand still. She therefore stood rigid, holding the strawberries in her hand, her eyes on the snake.

It seemed to resent her presence, raising its head, its forked tongue flicking in and out of its mouth, its yellow eyes regarding her balefully.

She could see the movement of the scales on its back and she had a feeling that at any moment it would dart towards her and strike at her ankle.

The Count had come to the edge of the wood. He saw at once what was keeping her silent, and with a swiftness she could hardly believe possible he ran to his horse and drew something from the saddle-bag.

Then he was moving purposefully towards her.

“Keep still, do not move!” he commanded.

At the sound of his voice the snake toned its head towards him and then there was the shattering report of a pistol as the Count shot it dead. The noise echoing and re-echoing round the mountains and across the valley.

Vesta saw its head was shattered but its tail was still thrashing in the air. The Count stepped over it and picking her up swung her over the still writhing reptile to safety.

He put her down and looked at her pale face.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “It did not touch you?”

“No ... I am all ... right,” Vesta answered and turning she walked away from him.

‘I must not show emotion,’ she told herself severely. ‘I must be calm. He will think it ill-bred if I am afraid of a snake.’

The sound of the pistol-shot was still ringing in her ears, and when she reached her horse she hung onto the saddle as if for support. The Count came back towards her.

He went to his own horse and drew from his saddlebag a red silk belt such as she had seen the natives in Jeno wearing.

He put it on and slipped the pistol into it and she knew it was intended to carry either pistols or a knife.

The Count came to her side.

“I should have anticipated there would be snakes at this time of the year,” he said angrily. “It was criminally careless of me, first to let you wander about without warning you, and secondly not to have been wearing a pistol. It will not happen again.”

“Was that snake ... poisonous?” Vesta asked in what she hoped was a calm voice.

“As a matter of fact it was!” the Count answered. “There are many snakes in Katona some of them quite harmless, but a bite from one of the black ones sometimes proves fatal.”

As he spoke he picked her up and put her on the saddle.

“We had best hurry on towards civilization,” he said. “We have had enough of the other sort these last twenty four hours to last us both for a life-time.”

He mounted and rode on at a quicker pace. Now the trees were interspersed with rocks and Vesta noticed that the Count seemed to be looking upwards and around him as if he was searching for something.

As the path grew wider she rode up beside him.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular,” he answered, “but it is not always wise to draw attention to oneself in this particular region. It has a somewhat unhealthy reputation. A pistol shot can be heard for miles away.”

“What do you mean by unhealthy?” Vesta asked.

Then even as she spoke she saw a number of men scrambling down towards them through the trees.

The Count’s hand went towards his pistol, but even as he touched it he realised there were at least a dozen men advancing towards them and he was outnumbered.

The men drew nearer and Vesta saw they were roughly dressed in native white cotton tunics and over them sleeveless coats of sheep-skin or fur. They were bare-headed and the majority of them had greasy untidy hair, long moustaches or beards.

They all of them carried stout poles in their hands and each man had a huge knife stuck into a belt not unlike the Count’s.

They came nearer until the Count and Vesta who had drawn their horses to a standstill were encircled.

“What do you want?” the Count asked.

The man who replied spoke with a dialect which was quite impossible for Vesta to understand. But whatever it was the Count protested hotly.

“We are travellers doing no harm. All we ask is that we can proceed in peace.”

Again the man spoke harshly. He was an unpleasant-looking individual, Vesta thought: he had a noticeable squint and a deep scar running from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth giving him almost a grotesque appearance.

One man stepped forward to take hold of the bridle of Vesta’s horse, another did the same to the Count’s.

“What is ... happening?” Vesta asked in a frightened tone.

“They insist on taking us to see their Chief,” the Count replied in English.

“Their Chief?” Vesta enquired in surprise.

“They are Brigands,” the Count said grimly. “I am afraid there is nothing we can do but acquiesce to their demands.”

Two men appeared and drew large dirty handkerchiefs from their belts. One of them advanced towards Vesta. As she shrank back from the thought of him touching her, the Count spoke sharply and raising his hands took his cravat from round his neck.

“They wish to blindfold us,” he said, “but I have told them that you are my wife and that no-one must touch you but me. I will therefore blindfold you myself.”

He bent towards her without dismounting and put his cravat over her eyes, tying it behind her head.

“Try not to be frightened,” he said softly.

But she knew he was only trying to encourage her and that the position in which they found themselves was likely to be extremely unpleasant if not dangerous.

She imagined that the Count himself also was being blindfolded, and then she heard his horse led ahead in front of hers and there was nothing she could do but hold onto her saddle and wonder what was going to happen.

As they went the men said very little amongst themselves.

Since she could not see them, their silence was more uncanny than if they had chattered away and she had tried to understand what they were saying.

They left the path on which she and the Count had been travelling and were now climbing steadily up the side of the mountain.

They were zig-zagging, Vesta thought to avoid trees; but after perhaps half an hour the trees clearly had been left behind because now there was the sound of the horses’ hooves on rock.

She wondered fearfully whether there was a sudden drop at one side of her such as there had been before.

The Count did not speak to her, but she was vividly conscious of him being led ahead. Once indeed he did start to talk to the Head man who had given the orders in the first place.

Vesta recognised the word “money” and guessed that the Count was offering to pay for their freedom.

‘It must be for ransom they are taking us,’ she thought.

The Brigand replied sharply and briefly, and although Vesta did not understand she was sure he had replied that it was up to the Chief to decide what should be done.

On and on they went, climbing all the time.

The sun was hot on Vesta’s bare head and on her hands. But now she could feel a cool breeze and was sure that it came from the tops of the mountains.

‘We must be very high by now,’ she thought.

Yet still they climbed, even the ponies grunting a little with the exertion, and some of their escort were breathing heavily.

Hours must have gone by and still they climbed, until finally there was a sharp word of command, the horses were brought to a standstill and Vesta felt strong hands from which she shrank drawing her from the saddle.

She stood uncertain and indecisive, wondering whether she could take off the bandage. Then with a sense of relief she heard the Count say:

“Give me your hand.”

She groped for his and found it.

“Will ... they ... hurt us?” she asked, her fingers trembling.

“I hope not,” he replied.

She had the feeling that he was unsure and worried.

They were led forward, Vesta feeling the way with her feet and praying that she would not suddenly trip up and fall. Then someone spoke and the Count said to Vesta:

“We may take off our bandages.”

She undid hers quickly and found that at last she was able to see.

It took her a moment or two to adjust her eyes, not to the sunshine that she had expected, but to the dimness of a cave.

It was an enormous cavern hewn out of solid rock, dark and grey. It was lit by light coming through a distant opening and two flaring torches.

What arrested Vesta’s attention more than anything else were the people surrounding them.

She and the Count were standing in the very centre of the cave and staring at them were perhaps twenty or thirty men and women all dressed roughly in the same style as their captors.

There were too, she noticed, a number of small, dark-haired, unhealthy-looking children. While the women were so unprepossessing that it was difficult to realise that they were of the same sex as herself.

But above all her gaze was riveted by a man who was obviously the Chief.

He was a big man, bigger than the others, and there were grey streaks in his hair. His eyes were bright and shrewd, while his face was deeply scarred as if from many fights and his nose having been broken had been badly set.

He spoke harshly, but the Count replied coolly and in even tones, and Vesta knew he was explaining that they were ordinary travellers intent on their own business.

The Count made a gesture towards her and it was clear that he was saying that she was his wife.

The Chief made a joke at which he laughed heartily, while the Count did not smile. Then the Chief said something to his followers and they murmured amongst themselves.

One or two of them put their hands towards the knives in their belts and for the first time Vesta was really afraid.

The Count became very eloquent.

Now she knew he was threatening, cajoling, pleading, but the answer to everything he said was definitely unsatisfactory. Again Vesta heard the word “money” which she recognised.

She had the strange feeling that it was not of interest to the Chief.

Finally when the argument seemed to have gone on for a long time with no satisfactory conclusion, the Count obviously asked if he might explain what had happened to Vesta. The Chief nodded.

The Count turned towards her and she saw an expression in his face which made her tremble.

“What do they intend to ... do to ... us?” she asked.

“I am to die,” he answered. “They say we have violated their territory and therefore they intend to kill me.”

She tried to speak but no word would come. Then he said:

“They will spare your life if you will become the wife—which is a polite word for it—of the Head man who brought us here. He is the brother of the Chief.”

For a moment Vesta could not take in what the Count was saying.

Then remembering the man with the squinting eye and the scar on his cheek, she said quietly in a voice which surprisingly did not tremble:

“You will kill me.”

It was not a question, it was a statement of fact. The Count looking into her eyes answered.

“Of course.”

“How will you ... do it?” Vesta asked.

“They have taken my pistol,” he answered, “but I have a knife in my belt.”

She drew in a deep breath.

“There is a place I ... believe between the ... breasts...
”
she whispered.

“I know it.”

“I would not wish to ... scream in front...”

“No, of course not.”

She thought to herself this could not be happening. It could not be true! Strangely enough she felt quite calm. It was as if the shock had taken away all feeling and it did not matter that she must die.

“I will ask them,” the Count said, “if I can say goodbye to you. They will expect protestations of love and dramatics. It is what they themselves enjoy.”

He turned his head towards the Chief. It took him some time to say what he wanted and the Chief s reply was equally voluble. The Count turned back to Vesta.

“He has given us three minutes in which to say our farewells,” he said. “What I want you to do is undo your jacket and then put your arms round my neck. You will hide the movement of my hand as I draw the knife from my belt. When I am ready I will kiss you and strike at the same time. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she answered, her eyes on his.

She undid the buttons of her jacket and then moving close against him she put her arms round his neck.

It was .the only time she had ever been close to a man and somehow she could not realise it would be the last time as well as the first.

She could feel the Count’s heart beating and she also knew that as one arm encircled her his other hand was fumbling at his waist.