Beauvallet Read online

  The post-road was full of pot-holes, and deep ruts, hard-baked by the sun; at times it was a mere track across the plain, at others it became a rocky mountain pass, where the number of horses had to be doubled to drag the coach up. They slept at inns along the road, but the coach never stopped until it was too dark to go farther, and it was off again betimes in the morning. When Dominica wearily asked the reason of such insensate haste her aunt only smiled, and said: ‘When I rouse myself to undertake such a disagreeable journey as this, my dear, I waste no time over it.’

  The lady beguiled much of the tedium of the journey by sly references to Beauvallet, left behind them. She veiled her words, out of consideration of the listening tirewomen, but Dominica was never in any doubt as to her meaning.

  Dominica, jolted and bumped in her corner of the coach was not at a loss for suitable answers. They came out very pat, and had an edge to them. Dona Beatrice chuckled softly, and pinched the girl's cheek, not at all ruffled.

  This cat-and-mouse play was not to be borne. Dominica made a bid for freedom, and announced her wish to ride part of the way. To sit in a bumping, lurching coach, she said, day upon day, irked her sorely. With her aunt's good leave she would have a horse saddled for her on the morrow, and ride for at least an hour or two.

  ‘How restless you are, my dear!’ remarked Dona Beatrice. ‘By all means do as you please. Young blood cannot be still? But I do not know that it is at all seemly.’

  ‘There will be none to see me, aunt, and I have not been used to be cooped up,’ Dominica said.

  ‘True,’ agreed Dona Beatrice, and disposed herself to slumber.

  On the morrow it was so ordered. Dominica came down from her chamber at the inn in riding-dress, fully prepared to fight for the privilege she claimed. However, there was no need. Dona Beatrice merely said that it was a pity Don Diego was not there to act as escort, and told a groom to stay near his young mistress.

  Dominica carried a heavy heart in her breast, but could still enjoy this spell of exercise and of freedom. There had been little enough riding for her since she had come back to Spain. She remembered long gallops at Santiago, and knew a little of the same joyous feeling of freedom as she had had there. She rode well, had no fear, and led the groom a fine chase at a full gallop. She reined in at last, flushed and wind-tossed, breathed her horse a moment, and went cantering back to meet the lumbering coach.

  Her aunt had had the curtains drawn back, and greeted her with a quizzical look. ‘You are a very Diana, my dear. Were you riding to escape from me?’

  Dominica tucked an escaped curl back under her French hood. ‘No, señora, I doubt it would be of no avail,’ she said frankly.

  She came presently to sit in the coach again, but thereafter it was understood that when my lady willed it so she would ride, and there was always to be a horse procured for her.

  Away from her aunt's side she had leisure to indulge her thoughts. They could not be pleasant. Not even Joshua's stout optimism could allay her fears. She felt herself to be a traitress, flying from Beauvallet in his hour of need, yet Joshua had seemed to think she did well to go, and indeed what could she do by remaining, even had it been possible? If they had chosen to interrogate her she would have fought with all her woman's wit for Beauvallet, but they had not chosen. Oh, if she were a man she would fight for him in other ways than that! Her eyes kindled to the thought, and her hand clenched on her whip.

  If she could believe that Sir Nicholas would escape she might play with the fancy of him in pursuit, even now as she rode from him. She imagined him hard on her heels, spurring on and on, riding down this stately equipage. She could imagine how his sword would flash out, how he would snatch her up, and ride off with her, laughing, triumphant. She had to shake the tears from her eyes; the gay lover was caught and prisoned, and would no more come riding to win her.

  They came within a stage of Vasconosa upon the tenth day. The labouring lackeys swore softly against such haste. ‘One would say the devil was on our heels.’

  Dominica overheard the phrase. If Sir Nicholas had been behind they would be very sure the devil was on their heels, she thought.

  There was a stream to be forded; the coach lurched down the bank, and the shallow waters lapped round the wheels. Dominica's horse chose to jib at the stream, sidled, and backed, but was forced on. She went through, climbed the slope beyond, and reined in to await the coach. There was some trouble over this; the wheels sank into the mud of the stream-bed, and the great horses strained in vain. The men were all about the coach, pushing, gesticulating, arguing. It was decided to rope two saddle horses to the coach.

  There came a thunder of hooves to the north, behind Dominica. She turned her head, and saw a troop riding towards her, ventre à terre. Her eyes narrowed in surprise; the horsemen came nearer, and she saw masked faces. She cried out in swift alarm, wheeled her horse about, and went quickly down the slope to where the coach still stuck in the stream. ‘Bandits!’ she said. ‘A troop of masked men! Get to horse!’

  The men left their task of extricating the coach. Two of the guards sprang into the saddle at once; the coachman got out his musket.

  Dona Beatrice leaned back at her ease. ‘Did you say bandits, dear? I can hardly credit it.’

  ‘Masked men, señora. I know not, but I misliked what I saw.’

  Dona Beatrice looked round at her bodyguard, and yawned. ‘Well, and if you did, my dear, we have guards enough to give them a fine scare. Do not be alarmed.’

  ‘I am not alarmed,’ said Dominica with dignity.

  The troop appeared over the top of the slope, cloaked men, with gauze masks covering their faces. A shot sounded, there was a flash of steel; the bandits came scrambling down the slope to engage with Dona Beatrice's bodyguard.

  Dominica thought there were no more than six of them, but she could not be sure in the mêlée. Her heart beat fast, but there was something about this battle that made her draw her brows together, and look frowningly. There were pistol shots, but no man was wounded; swords flashed, but no man was cut down.

  Dona Beatrice's fan stopped waving. Her eyes were narrow all at once, and behind them her brain was moving quickly. She sat forward with a hand on the side of the coach, watching this odd fray.

  Dominica knew a sudden, inexplicable fear. She brought her horse up close to the coach. ‘Señora – aunt – what is this?’ she asked urgently.

  ‘That is just what I am asking myself,’ said Dona Beatrice calmly. ‘If these men are brigands they act as no brigands did that I ever heard of.’

  A couple of the masked men spurred up to the coach; a hand seized Dominica's bridle. She slashed at the masked face with her whip; the leather thong cut the mask across, and revealed an unshaven chin, a thick nose, and the fast rising weal of the whip-lash. The whip was wrested from Dominica's hands. She cried out to her guards: ‘To me! To me, cravens!’

  They were sheepish, laying down their arms, as though worsted in the fight. Yet there was not a man among them who had taken a hurt.

  Dominica drove her heel in hard, struck at the hand on her bridle. Her horse plunged forward, but her captor jerked it up. ‘Help me, cowards!’ Dominica cried furiously.

  Dona Beatrice had half risen from her seat as though she would descend from the coach. She sank slowly back now, her eyes fixed under their drooping lids on a masked horseman who stood a little apart from the rest. She watched him turn his head to give an order to one of the men. She could not hear his voice, but she had no need to hear it. A woman should know her own son.

  Her hand felt for her fan. Thoughtfully she looked at her niece, being forced on up the slope. A very infamous proceeding. She was surprised that Diego should think of such a scheme. Her shoulders shook slightly; meditatively she bit one finger-nail. Should she put a stop to it or no? She had no doubt that a word from her would subdue Don Diego, but should that word be spoken? This was a crude performance, by her standards, but she admitted she could have thought of no surer way of