The Ravishing of Lady Mary Ware (25 page)

The other man slouched forward and took Roger's horse by the bridle, while the runt cautiously took a few paces sideways until he was behind Roger and could point his musket at his back. Giving him a quick prod with the barrel, he said:

‘Come on. Get moving.'

To Roger, the three-quarters of an hour that followed seemed never-ending. As he trudged along, he recalled all the accounts he had heard, both from British and French acquaintances, of the terrible fate that befell those who were captured by brigands. That they really cooked and ate people he believed to be a slander; but he had no doubt at all that their hatred for their enemies was so intense that they tortured unmercifully the French soldiers who fell into their hands, and often finished them off by
skinning them alive, burning or disembowelling them. He could only pray that his knowledge of Spanish and Portuguese, together with his long-since-perfected ability to lie convincingly would enable him to get away with his life. At the least he could expect to be robbed of his money, and would be lucky if they even left him his clothes.

The man holding the horse led the way down the steep, rocky road until the gully ended, opening out into country where there were small woods and land that had previously been cultivated. At length they turned oil the road on to a track that ran alongside a coppice. Beyond the trees there lay a by-road and, on the far side, a good-sized country house. As they approached it, Roger guessed that it had been evacuated by its owner and that the brigands had moved in as squatters.

When they had walked up a short drive, they halted for a moment in front of the house. The runt muttered something that Roger did not catch to the bigger man, who led the horse away, evidently taking it to a stable at the back of the premises.

They had not bothered to take Roger's sword from him. Now that he had only one man to deal with was, he felt, the time to use it. But his hand had hardly moved toward the hilt, before the musket barrel was again pressed against the base of his spine, and the runt said:

‘Go on. Into the house. You can tell your story to
O Diabo dos olhos azuis
; and we'll see what he has to say about it.'

To whip out his sword at that moment would, Roger felt, have been the last act of his life. There was nothing for it but to obey. Seething with anger and frustration, he walked up the steps that led to a door which stood half-open and, prodded by the runt, crossed a hall into a once-pleasant, but now dilapidated salon.

There were three other men and two slatternly women there. One of the men was lounging on a sofa, the fine
brocade of which was badly stained by spilt wine. Across his lap lay one of the women, with whose plump breasts he was toying. Roughly pushing her aside, he stood up and Roger saw that he was a giant. He was heavily bearded, there was an ugly gap in his front teeth where two were missing, and he had extraordinarily prominent blue eyes.

‘Here we are,
Diabo
!' the runt cried to him cheerfully. ‘Brought you a bird that should be worth the plucking.'

Roger promptly burst into speech, again mingling Spanish and Portuguese, but in a manner that ensured he could be understood. With lavish detail he fabricated an account of how General de la Romana had sent him to beg milord Wellington to provide his army with some additional pieces of artillery.

The giant listened patiently, uttering not a word until Roger had to stop talking after having repeated himself several times, and being unable to think of anything else to say. There followed a full minute of nerve-racking silence, then
O Diabo
gave a great bellow of laughter and cried:

‘Stupid pig. You are a Frenchie, as anyone could see. There's not a doubt of it. Look at his fine boots and his sword, comrades. They are an officer's, or ‘I'm a redheaded whore. And they're his own. The boots fit him like a pair of gloves. Get a fire lit in the coach-house, comrades. We'll have some fun with this spawn of a louse tonight.'

The blood drained from Roger's face. His very worst fears were about to be realised. The thought of being scorched until he screamed and screamed in vain made his flesh creep and filled his mind with horror. He felt certain there was not the least possibility that the great brute they called ‘the blue-eyed devil' was either joking or just trying to scare him. This was not Spain, but only owing to a divergence of dynasties. In blood and outlook the Portuguese were closer to the Madridlenos than the Catalans or the Basques. And Spain had been the home of the terrible Inquisition. On the hypocritical pretext that they were saving souls, the priests had burned Jews, Protestants and Moors—thousands of them. Those
autodafes
, by which the Church had rid herself of her enemies, had been Roman holidays for the people. Great crowds of them had watched poor wretches writhing at the stake. They had obviously delighted in the spectacle, otherwise they would not have stood there enduring the horrible smell of roasting flesh. And now these monsters in human form were about to burn him!

It took only a few instants for these ghastly thoughts to race through Roger's brain. Within seconds he had taken his decision. Far better be shot in the back than burned alive; and, if he was quick enough he might kill
O Diabo
before the ball from the runt's musket smashed through his spine and made him choke in his own blood.

Many years of handling weapons and an unusual agility had made him a most formidable swordsman. He was a good twelve feet away from
O Diabo
, but he thought the odds favoured his chance of spitting the great brute before a bullet in his back brought him crashing to the floor. With one smooth, swift motion his sword came out of its sheath like a ripple of light. As he drew it, he sprang forward, halving the distance between his enemy and himself. His right arm was drawn back behind the blade so that his lunge would have all the force he could put into it.

Next moment he was within four feet of the giant and had delivered his thrust. But the woman with whom
O Diabo
had been toying on the sofa was standing with her arm through his. From Roger's sudden change of expression she must have guessed his intention. With the agility of a ballet dancer, she pirouetted on one foot, bringing herself round in front of her tall lover. The point of Roger's blade ripped into her shoulder.

She gave a piercing scream. The impact had thrown her against
O Diabo's
chest. Her free arm jerked upward and she flung it round his neck to prevent herself from falling. It was only then that Roger realised he had not been shot in the back. Evidently the runt felt that would be too swift a death for him, and did not want them to be robbed of their sport.

Roger gave a violent tug on his sword, but it was embedded in the muscles behind the woman's shoulder and would not come out. Instead, the force of his tug pulled the woman away from
O Diabo
. Her arm was wrenched from round his neck, and she fell to the floor. As she hit it, Roger's sword snapped off about nine inches from the point.

In any case, he would have had no chance to make
a second lunge at
O Diabo
, for the runt had dropped his musket and seized him round the waist. Quick-witted as ever in an affray, Roger lifted the hilt of his sword as though to strike himself in the stomach. On it were the clasped hands of the runt. The heavy hilt came smashing down on them. The runt gave a howl of pain, followed by a spate of blasphemous curses, and let go. At that moment
O Diabo
was occupied in lifting his woman from the floor and getting her on to the sofa.

Instantly Roger swung round. The two other bandits had been lounging at the far end of the room near a pair of french windows. As Roger sprang forward to attack
O Diabo
they had jumped to their feet and come running to the runt's assistance. On entering the salon, Roger had registered the windows as a possible means of escape. If he could deal with the two men who were now almost upon him, and elude
O Diabo
, who would be certain to pursue him, there was just a chance that he might get away through the windows.

His sword was a slightly curved cavalry sabre, and still had two feet of blade. The nearer of the men coming at him was a lanky youth who still had down on his receding jaw. Roger had no time to raise his sword, so brought it swishing round at elbow level. It sliced into the lower part of the youth's arm. As the blood spurted from the savage cut, he gave a yelp, clapped his hand to the wound and reeled sideways, lurching into his companion, who was just about to strike at Roger's face with a pike. The collision diverted the blow and gave Roger his chance. He bounded toward the open window.

Seconds later he heard the crashing of heavy feet.
O Diabo
had left his woman and was after him. But he still had a chance. He was a very fast runner. If only he could get through the window, he had a good hope of outdistancing his pursuers. Alas for that hope. At that very moment the man who had taken his horse round to the
stable appeared outside the window. Sizing up the situation in the salon at a glance, he swiftly drew a thin-bladed dagger and crouched on the threshold barring Roger's way.

Unless Roger had rushed upon the man's stiletto, he would have had to pull up in his wild career, and feint with his broken sword before striking out to cut him down. Even the pause of a moment would, he knew, bring
O Diabo
on him from behind. But there was still just one hope. The other three men were hard on
O Diabo's
heels, so the door of the room, left half-open by the runt, was unguarded.

Roger swerved toward it. He had one foot in the air and was now sideways on to
O Diabo
. The giant's great fist shot out and caught him squarely on the cheek. The blow seemed to jolt every tooth in his head. For a second stars and circles whirled against blackness before his eyes. His sword dropped from his hand. With one foot still in the air, he heeled over and crashed to the ground.

For four or five heart-beats he lay there. Then, bemused but with the instinct of self-preservation still uppermost, he struggled to get up. Next moment the whole pack was round him. The runt gave him a vicious kick in the ribs, but he shot out a hand and grabbed the bandit's other leg by the ankle, threw himself sideways and brought the little man down on top of him. Gasping in a deep breath, he raised both hands and got them round the runt's throat.

In vain the runt beat at Roger's face with his bleeding hands. Three of his fingers had been broken by the sword hilt, so pain prevented him from putting any strength into his blows.
O Diabo
, evidently thinking the little man's plight amusing, stood back and guffawed; but the bandit's other comrades came to his assistance. Seizing Roger's arms they strove to pull them away, and to break
his grip on the runt's neck. Panting now, and with sweat pouring down his face, Roger hung on like grim death, pressing his strong thumbs firmly into the soft flesh below the other's chin. His mouth had opened and his tongue stuck out. His dark, fear-stricken eyes began to pop. Another minute and he would have been strangled into unconsciousness. But before half that minute had gone Roger felt a hand thrust up between his legs. It was that of the woman he had wounded, using her sound arm. The hand found his testicles, grabbed them and squeezed. A ghastly pain shot up from them into his stomach and seemed to pierce his heart. He gave a scream of agony, let go of the runt's neck and fainted.

When he came to, he was still lying in the same place on the floor. His breath was coming in gasps, tears were running down his cheeks and stabs of pain racked his body. His head was splitting and his jaw ached from the blow
O Diabo
had struck him on the side of the face. For several minutes he lay quite still, endeavouring to decrease the pain by taking only short, shallow breaths. After a while he turned his head, first to one side, then to the other, dimly taking in what was going on in the room.

O Diabo
was again lounging on the sofa, now smoking a long clay pipe. The wounded woman was having her shoulder bound up by the other woman, who had taken no part in the fight. The runt had disappeared, presumably to nurse his injuries, so had the man who had been his companion in the ambush. There remained the two who had been with
O Diabo
when Roger had been brought into the room. One was a stout, brawny fellow with ginger hair. The other was the youngster whose arm Roger had slashed. He was darker-skinned than the others and had a flattened nose, so was probably half Negro. His wound had already been attended to and his arm was in a sling.

Both the door of the room and the french windows were still open; but they might have been bolted and barred as far as Roger was concerned. He was in such pain that he found it difficult to concentrate his thoughts and if he had managed to get to his feet he doubted if he would be able to walk, let alone put up a fight.

After a time
O Diabo
finished his pipe, got up and crossed the room to help himself to a mug of wine from a jug that stood on a side table. As he passed Roger he noticed that his eyes were open. Kneeling, he raised Roger's head, put the mug to his lips and said:

‘Drink some of this, Frenchie. It'll put a bit of strength into you.'

The wine was coarse and sharp, but Roger sucked it in gratefully, thinking meanwhile that this giant with the bright blue eyes could not be altogether evil. But his flickering hope of mercy was short-lived, as the other added, ‘If we can't get you back into fair shape, you'll kick the bucket too soon and spoil our evening's sport.'

Roger stopped drinking, let his head fall back and groaned.

‘Scared a bit, Frenchie?' the big man grinned, showing the ugly gap in the centre of his upper row of teeth. ‘But we can't let French pigs live. That would be a sin, according to our priests.'

For a moment he was silent, then he went on, ‘Still, I've got a soft spot for a man who puts up a good fight; and you certainly did that. So I'll give you a choice of deaths. Shall we burn you, skin you alive or shove a bayonet up your arse?'