"Yes, Sir Richard," said Matty steadily.
"How is her pulse? Has she lost much blood?"
"She is well enough now, Sir Richard. The bandages are firm. Sleep and rest will work wonders by the morning."
"No danger to her life?"
"No, Sir Richard. The cut was jagged, but not deep. The only damage done is to her beauty." Matty's lips twitched in the way I knew, and I wondered how much she guessed of what had happened.
Ambrose Manaton did not look towards the bed. The woman who lay upon it might have been a stranger. "This is their finish too," I thought. "Gartred will never become Mrs. Manaton and own Trecarrel."
I turned my eyes from Gartred, white and still, and felt Richard's hands upon my chair. "You," he said quietly, "have had enough for one night to contend with." He took me to my room, and, lifting me from my chair, laid me down upon my bed.
"Will you sleep?" he said.
"I think not," I answered.
"Rest easy. We shall be gone so soon. A few hours more and it will be over. War makes a good substitute for private quarrels."
"I wonder..."
He left me and went back to Ambrose Manaton, not, I reflected for love, to share his slumbers, but to make sure his treasurer did not slip from him in the few remaining hours left to us before daylight. Bunny had gone with Robin to his room, and this also, I surmised, was a precaution. Remorse and brandy have driven stronger men than Robin to their suicide.
What hope of sleep had any of us? There was the full moon, high now in the heavens, and you, I thought, shining there in the hushed gardens with your pale cold face above the shadows, have witnessed strange things this night at Menabilly. We Harrises and Grenviles had paid ill return for Rashleigh hospitality...
The hours slipped by, and I suddenly remembered Dick, who slept in the dressing room next door to me, alone. Poor lad, faint at the sight of blood as he had been in the past, was he now lying, wakeful like me, with shame upon his conscience? I thought I heard him stir, and I wondered if dreams haunted him, as they did me, and if I wished for company. "Dick...," I called softly. "Dick...," I called again, but there was no answer. Later, a little breeze, rising from the sea, made a draft come to my room from the open window and, playing with the latch upon the door shook it free, so that it swung to and fro, banging every instant like a loosened shutter.
He must sleep deep then if it did not waken him.
The moon went, and the morning light stole in and cleared the shadows, and still the door between our two rooms creaked, and closed, and creaked again, making a nagging accompaniment to my uneasy slumbers. Maddened at last, I climbed to my chair to shut it, and as my hand fastened on the latch I saw through the crack of the door that Dick's bed was empty. He was not in the room...
Numb and exhausted, I stumbled to my bed. "He has gone to find Bunny," I thought. "He has gone to Bunny and to Robin." But before me was the picture of his white, anguished face, and sleep, when it did come, could not banish the memory.
Next morning, when I woke to find the broad sun streaming in my room, the scenes of the hours before held a nightmare quality. I longed for them to dissipate, as nightmares do, but when Matty bore my breakfast I knew them to be true.
"Yes, Mrs. Denys had some sleep," she answered to my query, "and will, to my mind, be little worse for her adventure until she lifts her bandage." Matty, with a sniff, had small pity in her bosom.
"Will the gash not heal in time?" I asked.
"Aye, it will heal," she said, "but she'll bear the scar there for her lifetime. She'll find it hard to trade her beauty now." She spoke with a certain relish, as though the events of the preceding night had wiped away a legion of old scores.
"Mrs. Denys," said Matty, "has got what she deserved."
Had she? Was this a chessboard move, long planned by the Almighty, or were we, one and all, just fools to fortune? I knew one thing--since I had seen the gash on Gartred's face, I hated her no longer...
"Were all the gentlemen at breakfast?" I said suddenly.
"I believe so."
"And Master Dick as well?"
"Yes. He came somewhat later than the others, but I saw him in the dining room an hour ago."
A wave of relief came to me, for no reason except that he was safely in the house. "Help me to dress," I said to Matty.
Friday, the twelfth of May. A hazard might have made it the thirteenth. Some sense of delicacy kept me from Gartred's chamber. Now her beauty was marred, she and I would now hold equal ground, and I had no wish to press the matter home. Other women might have gone to her, feigning commiseration, but with triumph in their hearts, but Honor Harris was not one of them. I sent messages by Matty that she should ask for what she wanted, and left her to her thoughts... I found Robin in the gallery, standing moodily beside the window, his right arm in a sling. He turned his head at my approach, then looked away again in silence.
"I thought you had departed with Bunny to Caerhayes," I said to him.
"We wait for Peter Courtney," he answered dully. "He has not yet returned."
"Does your wrist pain you?" I asked gently.
He shook his head, and went on staring from the window.
"When the shouting is over, and the turmoil done," I said, "we will keep house together, you and I, as we did once at Lanrest."
Still he did not answer, but I saw the tears start in his eyes.
"We have loved the Grenviles long enough," I said, "each in our separate fashion. The time has come when they must learn to live without us."
"They have done that," he said, his voice low, "for nearly thirty years. It is we who are dependent upon them."
These were the last words we ever held upon the subject, Robin and I, from that day unto this. Reserve has kept us silent, though we have lived together for five years...
The door opened and Richard came into the gallery, Bunny at his shoulder like a shadow.
"I cannot understand it," he said, pacing the floor in irritation. "Here it is nearly noon, and no sign yet of Peter. If he left Caerhayes at daybreak, he should have been here long ago. I suppose, like every other fool, he has thought best to ignore my orders."
The barb was lost on Robin, who was too far gone in misery to mind. "If you permit me," he said humbly, "I can ride in search of him. He may have stayed to breakfast with the Sawles at Penrice."
"He is more likely behind a haystack with a wench," said Richard. "My God, I will have eunuchs on my staff, next time I go to war. Go then, if you like, but keep a watch upon the roads. I have heard reports of troops riding through St. Blazey. The rumor may be false, and yet..." He broke off in the middle of his speech, and resumed his pacing of the room. Presently we heard Robin mount his horse and ride away. The hours wore on, the clock in the belfry struck twelve, and later one. The servants brought cold meat and ale, and we helped ourselves, haphazard, all of us with little appetite, our ears strained for sound. At half past one there was a footfall on the stairs, slow and labored, and I noticed Ambrose Manaton glance subconsciously to the chamber overhead, then draw back against the window. The handle of the door was turned, and Gartred stood before us, dressed for travel, one side of her face shrouded with a veil, a cloak around her shoulders. No one spoke as she stood there like a specter. "I wish," she said at length, "to return to Orley Court. Conveyance must be found for me."
"You ask for the impossible," said Richard shortly, "and no one knows it better now than you. In a few hours the roads will be impassable."
"I'll take my chance of that," she said. "If I fall fighting with the rabble, I think I shall not greatly care. I have done what you asked me to do. My part is played."
Her eyes were upon Richard all the while, and never once on Ambrose Manaton. Richard and Gartred... Robin and I... Which sister had the most to forgive, the most to pay for? God knows I had no answer.
"I am sorry," said Richard briefly. "I cannot help you. You must stay here until arrangements can be made. We have more serious matters
on our hands than the transport of a sick widow..."
Bunny was the first to catch the sound of the horse's hoofs galloping across the park. He went to the small mullioned window that gave onto the inner court and threw it wide; and as we waited, tense, expectant, the sound drew closer, and suddenly the rider and his horse came through the arch beneath the gatehouse, and there was Peter Courtney, dust-covered and disheveled, his hat gone, his dark curls straggling on his shoulders. He flung the reins to a startled waiting groom and came straightway to the gallery.
"For God's sake save yourselves! We are betrayed," he said.
I think I did not show the same fear and horror on my face as they did, for, although my heart went cold and dead within me, I knew with wretched certainty that this was the thing I had waited for all day. Peter looked from one to the other of us, and his breath came quick. "They have all been seized," he said. "Jonathan Trelawney, his son, Charles Trevanion, Arthur Bassett and the rest. At ten this morning they came riding to the house, the Sheriff, Sir Thomas Herle, and a whole company of soldiers. We made a fight for it, but there were more than thirty of them. I leaped from an upper window, by Almighty Providence escaping with no worse than a wrenched ankle. I got the first horse to hand, and put spurs to him without mercy. Had I not known the by-lanes as I know my own hand, I could not have reached you now. There are soldiers everywhere. The bridge at St. Blazey blocked and guarded. Guards on Polmear Hill." He looked around the gallery, as though in search of someone. "Robin gone?" he asked. "I thought so. It was he, then, I saw, when I was skirting the sands, engaged in fighting with five of the enemy or more. I dared not go to his assistance. My first duty was to you. What now? Can we save ourselves?"
We all turned now to look at our commander. He stood before us, calm and cool, giving no outward sign that all he had striven for lay crushed and broken. "Did you see their colors?" he asked swiftly. "What troops were they? Of whose command?"
"Some were from Bodmin, sir," said Peter, "the rest advance guards of Sir Hardress Waller. There were line upon line of them, stretching down the road towards St. Austell. This is no chance encounter, sir. The enemy are in strength."
Richard nodded, turning quick to Bunny. "Go to Pridmouth," he said. "Make sail instantly. Set a course due south, until you come in contact with the first outlying vessel of the French fleet. They will be cruising eastward of the Scillies by this time tomorrow evening. Ask for Lord Hopton's ship. Give him this message." He scribbled rapidly upon a piece of paper.
"Do you bid them come?" said Ambrose Manaton. "Can they get to us in time?" He was white to the lips, his hands clenched tight.
"Why, no," said Richard, folding his scrap of paper, "I bid them alter course and sail for France again. There will be no rising. The Prince of Wales does not land this month in Cornwall." He gave the paper to his nephew. "Good chance, my Bunny," he said smiling. "Give greetings to your brother Jack, and with a spice of luck you will find the Scillies fall to you like a plum a little later in the summer. But the Prince must say good-bye to Cornwall for the present."
"And you, uncle?" said Bunny. "Will you not come with me? It is madness to delay if the house is likely to be surrounded?"
"I'll join you in my own time," said Richard. "For this once, I ask that my orders be obeyed."
Bunny stared at him an instant, then turned and went, his head high, bidding none of us farewell.
"But what are we to do? Where are we to go?" said Ambrose Manaton. "Oh, God, what a fool I have been to let myself be led into this business. Are the roads all watched?" He turned to Peter, who stood shrugging his shoulders, watching his commander.
"Who is to blame? Who is the traitor? That is what I want to know," said Ambrose Manaton, all composure gone, a new note of suspicion in his voice. "None but ourselves knew the change in rendezvous. How did the Sheriff time his moment with such devilish accuracy that he could seize every leader worth a curse?"
"Does it matter," said Richard gently, "who the traitor was once the deed is done?"
"Matter?" said Ambrose Manaton. "Good God, you take it coolly. Trevanion, the Trelawneys, the Arundells, and Bassetts, all of them in the Sheriff's hands, and you ask does it matter who betrayed them? Here are we, ruined men, likely to be arrested within the hour, and you stand there like a fox and smile at me."
"My enemies call me fox, but not my friends," said Richard softly. He turned to Peter. "Tell the fellows to saddle a horse for Mr. Manaton," he said, "and for you also. I guarantee no safe conduct for the pair of you, but at least you have a sporting chance, as hares do from a pack of hounds."
"You will not come with us, sir?"
"No. I will not come with you."
Peter hesitated, looking first at him, and then at me.
"It will go ill with you, sir, if they should find you."
"I am well aware of that."
"The Sheriff, Sir Thomas Herle, suspects your presence here in Cornwall. His first challenge, when he came before Caerhayes and called Trevanion, was: 'Have you Sir Richard Grenvile here in hiding? If so produce him, and you shall go free.' "
"A pity, for their sakes, I was not there."
"He said that a messenger had left a note at his house at Prideaux, early before dawn, warning him that the whole party, yourself included, would be gathered later at Caerhayes. Some wretch had seen you, sir, and with devilish intuition guessed your plans."
"Some wretch indeed," said Richard smiling still, "who thought it sport to try the Judas touch. Let us forget him."
Was it his nephew Jack who, long ago at Exeter, said once to me: "Beware my uncle when you see him smile..."
Then Ambrose Manaton came forward, his finger stabbing at the air. "It is you," he said to Richard, "you who are the traitor, you who have betrayed us. From first to last, from beginning to the end, you knew it would end thus. The French fleet never were to come to our aid, there never was to be a rising. This is your revenge for that arrest four years ago at Launceston. Oh, God, what perfidy..." He stood before him, trembling, a high note of hysteria in his voice, and I saw Peter fall back a pace, the color draining from his face, bewilderment, then horror, coming to his eyes.
Richard watched them, never moving, then slowly pointed to the door. The horses had been brought to the courtyard, and we heard the jingle of the harness.
Put back the clock, I whispered savagely, make it four years ago, and Gartred acting spy for Lord Robartes. Let her take the blame. Fix the crime on her. She is the one who will emerge from this unscathed, for all her spoilt beauty. I looked towards her, and saw, to my wonder, that she was looking at me also. Her scarf had slipped, showing the vivid wound upon her cheek. The sight of it, and the memory of the night before, filled me, not with anger or with pity, but despair. She went on looking at me, and I saw her smile.
"It's no use," she said. "I know what you are thinking. Poor Honor, I have cheated you again. Gartred has the perfect alibi."
The horses were galloping from the courtyard. I saw Ambrose Manaton go first, his hat pulled low, his cloak bellying, and Peter follow him, with one brief glance towards our windows.
The clock in the belfry struck two. A pigeon, dazzling white against the sky, fluttered to the court below. Gartred lay back against the couch, the smile on her lips a strange contrast to the gash upon her face. Richard stood by the window, his hands behind his back. And Dick, who had never moved once in all the past half hour, waited, like a dumb thing, in his corner.
"Do the three Grenviles," I said slowly, "wish to take council, alone, among themselves?"
34
Richard went on standing by the window. Now that the horses were gone, and the sound of their galloping had died away, it was strangely hushed and still within the house. The sun blazed down upon the gardens, the pigeons pricked the grass seeds on the lawn. It was the hottest hour of a warm summer day, when bumblebees go humming in the limes, and the young birds fall silent. When Richard spoke he kept his back turned to us, and his voice was so
ft and low.
"My grandfather," he said, "was named Richard also. He came of a long line of Grenviles who sought to serve their country and their king. Enemies he had in plenty, friends as well. It was my misfortune and my loss that he died in battle nine years before my birth. But I remember as a lad asking for tales of him, and looking up at that great portrait which hung in the long gallery at Stowe. He was stern, they said, and hard, and rarely smiled, so I have heard tell, but his eyes that looked down upon me from the portrait were hawk's eyes, fearless and farseeing. There were many great names in those days: Drake, Raleigh, Sydney--and Grenvile was of their company. He fell mortally wounded, you may remember, on the decks of his own ship, called the Revenge. He fought alone, with the Spanish fleet about him, and when they asked him to surrender he went on fighting still, with masts gone, sails gone, the decks torn beneath his feet. The Grenvile of that day had courage, and preferred to have his vessel blown to pieces, rather than sell his life for silver to the pirate hordes of Spain." He fell silent a moment, watching the pigeons on the lawn, and then he went on talking, with his hands behind his back. "My uncle John," he said, "explored the Indies with Sir Francis Drake. He was a man of courage too. They were no weaklings, those young men who braved the winter storms of the Atlantic in search of savage lands beyond the seas. Their ships were frail, they were tossed week after week at the mercy of wind and sea, but some salt tang in their blood kept them undaunted. He was killed there, in the Indies, was my uncle John, and my father, who loved him well, built a shrine to him at Stowe." There was no sound from anyone of us in the gallery. Gartred lay on the couch, her hands behind her head, and Dick stood motionless in his dark corner.
"There was a saying, born about this time," continued Richard, "that no Grenvile was ever wanting in loyalty to his King. We were bred to it, my brothers and I. Gartred too, I think, will well remember those evenings in my father's room at Stowe when he, though he was not a fighting man--for he lived in days of peace--read to us from an old volume with great clasps about it of the wars of the past, and how our forebears fought in them."
A gull wheeled overhead above the gardens, his wings white against the dark blue sky, and I remembered of a sudden the kittiwakes at Stowe, riding the rough Atlantic beneath Richard's home.