331. Cupid Rides Pillion, page 1
1 ~ 1658
It was dark in the coach and the flickering taper in the lantern seemed to accentuate rather than relieve the gloom, as the wheels rolled and bumped over the rutted, stony road.
The moon, however, was rising up in the sky, and after a while Panthea thought that she could see only too clearly the face of the man sitting beside her. He had taken off his broad-brimmed hat and was leaning back against the well cushioned seat as if at his ease, but she was well aware that his eyes were turned constantly in her direction.
She made herself as small as she could, so that she appeared to crouch in the corner of the seat making believe, with a hopeless hopefulness, that she was so tiny and insignificant that she might even be overlooked. She even prayed that the darkness might deepen and hide her completely.
He was watching her! She could see the sharp outline of his hooked nose turned away from her, and yet she knew that his eyes searched for hers. There was no need for the moonlight or the guttering candle to reveal to her the lines of his face. She knew the features too well – the tight, cruel, yet sensuous mouth, the square jaw which had a look of brutality, the bushy, longhaired eyebrows, which mounted guard over suspicious, glittering eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Yes, she knew his face as she knew her own – the face that had haunted her dreams and every hour of her waking life for the last two months.
She had been aware, Panthea thought, from the very first that she could not escape him. She had seen the look in his eyes when he entered the hall at Staverley and shrank from it in horror and disgust, but from that first moment it was too late.
She had known, though she hardly dared put it into words even to herself, that his next visit had been but an excuse to see her – then he had come again and again - always with the same excuse, always upsetting her father and frightening the servants into hysterics, so that she alone must remain calm in order to combat and defy him. And she had guessed that he enjoyed torturing them. She had seen it in the faint smile at the corner of his lips, in the depths of his eyes, which watched her as a cat will watch a mouse before it pounces. And then, at last he had spoken what was on his mind.
Almost involuntarily as her thoughts tortured her, Panthea made a convulsive gesture and instantly the man at her side leant forward. He was, for the instant, silhouetted against the window, and she saw his rounded head, the greying hair lank and straight.
“You are cold?”
His voice was very deep.
“N-no, I am warm, thank you, sir,” Panthea replied a little breathlessly.
“We have quite a long journey before us. Are you sure you would not be wiser to put a shawl around your shoulders?”
He reached out as he spoke, towards the coats and shawls that had been placed on the smaller seat opposite the one on which they sat. Panthea’s eyes were on his hands. There were hairs on the thick fingers, and she cried out again with a sudden urgency.
“N-no. I thank you, but I want nothing!”
He leant back again, but his face was still turned towards her.
“You may relax,” he said. “There is no need for any further agitation.”
“You can hardly expect me to think that,” Panthea said with a sudden show of spirit. “In the morning my father will read the note I have left for him. He will be distressed, desperately distressed.”
“He will be glad to know that his son is safe.”
“Yes, he will be glad of that,” Panthea replied, “if indeed Richard is safe! You are sure - absolutely certain - that you can save him?”
“I have given you my word.”
“But as he has already been captured,” Panthea said, “will you be strong enough, or important enough, to release him?”
“I assure you, the power of Christian Drysdale is quite considerable,” was the answer given somewhat drily. “My friendship with the Protector is well known. My ability has never been questioned. I think it will not be hard for me to obtain the reprieve of a young Royalist more fool than traitor.”
Panthea’s chin went up.
“Must one be a fool to be loyal to one’s rightful King?” she asked.
Christian Drysdale snorted.
“Such words are treasonable,” he said. “I must ask you, now that you are my wife, to keep guard on your tongue.”
“Were I twenty times your wife,” Panthea replied, “I should not forget that our rightful King is Charles Stuart and that a usurper sits on the throne of his murdered father.’
She spoke passionately, all fear forgotten, her breath coming quickly between her parted lips. The coach turned a corner and a shaft of moonlight fell full on her face, revealing the exquisite loveliness of her large eyes, separated by the delicate artistry of her tiny, tip-tilted nose, and the way in which the soft waves of her fair hair framed the white oval of her forehead.
It was a lovely face, the face of a child, but the man who looked at it was not touched by its youthful innocence. Instead, his eyes narrowed a little as he reached out his hand towards Panthea’s fluttering fingers.
“We will dispense with such nonsense for tonight,” he said, “and recollect only that you are married to me.”
His voice had an ugly, hungry note in it, and instantly Panthea forgot what she had been saying and remembered only where she was and at whose side she sat. She shrank into the corner of the coach again, hiding herself in the dark shadows as unobtrusively as she had done before, but now it was too late even to pretend herself invisible.
“Come nearer to me,” Christian Drysdale commanded.
Her shoulders were already taut against the corner of the seat, but she pressed them even harder in the desire to obliterate herself. There was a silence between them which seemed to her to be broken by the noisy thumping of her heart.
“Do you hear what I say?” Christian Drysdale repeated. “Have you forgotten your marriage vows so quickly? You promised to obey.”
“I-I am near you,” Panthea faltered.
He laughed a little at that, and she knew that he was enjoying this moment of torturing her, knowing that eventually he must get his way.
“Come nearer,” he repeated.
Panthea drew a deep breath, as if to give herself courage, before she answered.
“I am near enough. I have married you because you have sworn you will save my brother. I have come away with you now at dead of night, without telling my father, because I know he will be ashamed and disgusted at the thought that one of our family should marry a Roundhead. I have done all this, but you cannot – no, you cannot – make me feel anything but hatred for you.”
Her last words were spoken hardly above a whisper, the terror and fear Panthea felt for the man whom she had married seeming almost to stifle her – and now, having spoken, she dared not look towards him, but could only stare blindly ahead.
It was then, as she waited, afraid even of her own bravery, that she heard him laugh, the amused laughter of a man who is completely sure of himself and of obtaining what he desires.
“So you hate me!” he said. “Well, it will amuse me to teach you what love means.”
He put out his hands as he spoke, and at the touch of his fingers Panthea gave a sudden cry, half of despair and half of terror. Then, from beneath the sable and velvet handwarmer on her lap, there came a low growl and a snarl, and suddenly Christian’s hand was hastily withdrawn. He muttered an oath beneath his breath.
“Zounds, but what have you in your lap?” he enquired.
“It is only Bobo . . . my dog,” Panthea faltered.
“The cur has bitten me,” Christian Drysdale exclaimed. “I did not know you had brought him with you.”
“He goes everywhere with me,” Panthea replied.
“He will not come to my house,” Christian Drysdale announced. “I have no liking for animals, and especially not for one that has set his teeth in me.”
“I am sorry if Bobo has hurt you,” Panthea said. “He was protecting me because I cried out.”
“Put the little beast on the floor,” Christian Drysdale commanded.
“He is comfortable enough where he is,” Panthea answered, her hands caressing the dog, who was still growling low in his throat.
“You heard what I commanded you,” Christian said.
“Why should I obey?” Panthea asked. “The dog is mine. I love him and he may sit in my lap as he is always allowed to do.”
Once again she spoke defiantly, yet holding in check her hatred of this man who seemed with every word he uttered to grow more intolerable, more horrible. It was as if her tone and her manner stung him for the first time.
“You shall do as I tell you!” he shouted. “Put the dog on the floor.”
The coach was going uphill, the horses drawing their heavy load steadily and without haste. Panthea sat upright and very still, making no movement to obey her husband. As he waited, she could feel the tension growing between them, and she lifted the little dog in her hands and put her cheek against his head. It seemed as if the caress snapped the last self-control of the man beside her. With a sound that was half an oath and half an expression of unbridled anger, he reached out his hand and snatched the dog from her.
There was a snarl and he winced for a moment as the animal’s sharp teeth buried themselves once again in his finger, and then there was the dull thud of a heavy stick, a cry of horror and agony from Panthea, and the sound of a small, unconscious body being thrown on to the floor of the coach.
“You have killed him! You have
Panthea would have flung herself on to the floor had not Christian’s arms held her back. For a moment, she was quite unaware of anything save the horror and misery of knowing that her pet had been injured.
“You have killed him, you beast!” she cried again, and then was suddenly aware that Christian’s face was very near to hers, that his arm was round her in an almost vice-like grip, and that his other hand – the drops of blood from the dog’s teeth scarlet in the moonlight – was moving upwards so as to hold her chin and lift her face towards his.
“You have killed him,” she moaned, and even as she said the words the meaning of them slipped from her thoughts, for another and more terrifying fear came to her.
“You silly child! I will give you something to think about,” Christian’s voice said, thick and silky now, and then his lips were pressed hotly and firmly on Panthea’s mouth.
She tried to struggle, tried to fight against him, but she was utterly powerless. She felt as if a darkness more terrible and more frightening than anything she had ever imagined in her whole life encompassed her, taking away her breath, possessing her, forcing her down into a pit of despondency, deeper than the depths of hell itself.
She could feel his lips, the very nearness of him, sapping her strength, obliterating even her identity so that she was lost, forsaken and forgotten in a hideous darkness in which she could neither move nor cry out.
She felt she must faint and die from very horror, and yet she did not lose consciousness. Then suddenly, when the agony of mind and body was too much to be borne, there was a sudden jolt. Christian’s arms slackened around her for one moment and she was able to free her mouth from his, gasping for breath. But before she was aware of what was happening, or what indeed had caused her release, the door of the coach was flung open and a voice, sharp and imperative, rang out into the night .
“Stand and deliver!”
She heard Christian mutter some strange words that she had never heard in her life before, but which she knew to be oaths, and then the same clear, commanding voice spoke. “You will oblige me by descending while my man searches the coach.”
Christian began to swear again, but this time a pistol barrel came through the doorway and his voice died away into silence.
“This is an outrage,” he spluttered at length, “for which I will see you hanged.”
“Come out and quickly,” was the reply, and taking up his broad-brimmed hat, Christian Drysdale stepped from the coach into the moonlight.
It was a warm night for February, for the air was still and there was no wind, but there were traces of a recent snowfall on the leafless branches of the trees, and the ground was white save in the darkness of the thick wood that flanked the narrow roadway.
There was a small clearing where they were, and one quick glance was enough for Christian Drysdale to see the predicament into which he had fallen. Both the coachmen had their hands above their heads. The horses were standing still, unable to proceed as across the road in front of them, his face concealed with a black mask, was a highwayman riding a thoroughbred mare. At the door of the coach was yet another gentleman of the road, dismounted with two pistols in his hands, while behind him, untethered yet waiting obedient as if for a command, was a magnificent stallion.
The highwayman facing him, Christian Drysdale saw, was much more elaborately dressed than the man on the horse. His coat of black velvet was beautifully embroidered, his riding boots were of the finest leather, while at his neck a ruff of priceless Venetian lace was pinned with a flashing diamond. For a moment, Christian Drysdale appeared to gasp for breath and then, in a voice that seemed to come snarling uncontrollably from between his teeth, he proclaimed,“White Throat! So it is you again!”
“Your servant, Mr. Drysdale,” the highwayman said with a mocking bow. “I promised you last time we met that it would not be long before we encountered each other once more.”
“You have been following me?” Christian Drysdale asked.
“Shall we say keeping a check on your movements,” the highwayman replied. “As I told you at our last meeting, I have no affection for tax-gatherers, especially when they use their position to persecute the innocent and those who have no one to protect them.”
“You insolent knave! I will make you pay for this,” Christian Drysdale said.
“You made the same sort of threats to me the last time we met, if I remember rightly,” the highwayman smiled. “On that occasion I made a grave oversight. I did not realise that you carried about with you a large part of the taxes you have extorted. This time I shall not be so stupid.”
Christian Drysdale made a sudden movement, but the highwayman stepped forward a pace.
“My pistol is loaded, sir,” he said warningly. Then turning to the two coachmen on the box of the coach, he shouted, “You fellows come down and tie up your master.”
“He be no master o’ ours, sir,” one of the men said quaveringly, in the soft, broad accent of the county. “He hired we ter tak him to the church wi’ his bride and then ter drive ’em oft on their honeymoon.”
“A wedding!” the highwayman cried. “What devilry are you up to now, Mr. Drysdale? I’ll bet a hundred guineas that ’tis something unsavoury if you’ve been planning it. Tie him up!” he commanded as the men scrambled down from the coach. “See to it, Jack,” he added to his masked companion, who rode forward and drove Christian Drysdale before his horse until he came up against the trunk of a tall oak tree.
The second highwayman flung the coachmen a rope and, pistol in hand, instructed them how to rope the cursing tax-collector to the tree.
The man Christian Drysdale had called White Throat watched the little scene for a moment, with a smile on his lips, and then turned towards the coach. He looked inside and found Panthea crouched on the floor, the lifeless body of her small dog cradled in her arms. She was quite oblivious of everything that was going on outside. The tears were streaming down her face, as she felt with delicate fingers the battered skull on which the heavily leaded cane had descended all too heavily.
For a moment, the highwayman looked at her in astonishment, and then sweeping his hat from his head he spoke quietly.
“Can I help you, madame?”
She looked up at him and his masked face seemed not to frighten her. Instead, confidently and with the assurance that she might have shown towards an old friend, she held out the body of her dog towards him.
“Is he quite dead?” she asked, her voice coming brokenly between her lips.
The highwayman took the dog from her and stepped back into the moonlight. He looked at the battered head and then with expert fingers felt for the heart.
“Who dared to do this?” he asked and knew the answer even as he asked the question.
He glanced across the clearing to where Christian, bound to the tree, was telling the frightened coachmen what punishment awaited them when he was free again. Panthea saw his glance.
“My dog bit him,” she explained.
She stepped out of the coach as she spoke, and in the moonlight the highwayman saw she was only a child. Her cheeks were wet with her tears and they glittered on her long dark eyelashes. The moonlight revealed, too, the immaturity of her figure, the short sleeves showing the thin, undeveloped arms and the hands, small and dimpled, which were not yet the hands of a woman. She was very tiny and, as she bent over the little dog he held in his hands, her fair hair fell forward and brushed against the sleeve of the highwayman’s velvet coat.
“I am afraid your dog is dead,” he said very gently.
She gave a little sob, which was choked in her throat, then she reached out and took the lifeless body in her arms.
“Could we . . . could we bury him?” she asked.
The highwayman seemed quite unsurprised at the request.
“Yes, of course,” he said.
He walked round the back of the coach, took a spade from underneath the back axle, where it was kept at this time of year for digging the wheels out of snowdrifts or heavy mud. Then he led the way across the road, and walking through the wood came to a small stream. The moonlight shimmered through the bare branches of the trees. Beneath a silver birch, the highwayman began to dig a deep hole. It took him but a few minutes for the ground was soft, and then, still without a word, he took the dog from Panthea’s arms, laid it in the grave he had made, and covered it quickly with the loosened earth.
