I dug my heels into my horse’s sides and came up beside the other rider. We were on level ground now, and under the shelter of the trees. He turned his head away, and I thought, How foolish men are! He still doesn’t know I have recognized him. I knew I must leave him to cherish that comforting delusion. He still thought of me as his “little cousin,” too young and irresponsible to be trusted with his deadly secret. I would show him that a woman could keep a secret, and spare him the burden of fearing for my safety.
“Sir,” I said primly.
His eyes flashed with an emotion that might have been amusement as he turned his head toward me, but he made no reply. I persisted.
“You must find a hiding place. If those men report to their officer—”
“Si.” I had spoken French. He replied in the hoarse Italian he had used before. Then he pointed. “You—” The extended finger stabbed emphatically. “You go, there. I—” And his hand swung around in a ninety-degree angle.
“No, I have no intention of leaving you.”
His eyes flashed again, but not with amusement. He raised his hand threateningly. Since I knew he had no intention of striking me, I stood my ground, my chin raised. After a moment he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and rode on.
We must have proceeded for ten minutes, although it seemed much longer. The sky steadily darkened; the leaves hung still in the hush of the imminent storm. The air was hot and close. I found it hard to breathe. The path, such as it was, had disappeared; we twisted through narrow ravines, between the trunks of towering pines, scratched and scraped by the brush.
If the Falcon hoped to discourage me, he did not succeed. My dress was ripped by thorns, stained by berries. Insects bit me, perspiration poured down my face, but I pressed doggedly onward. The straight, unyielding figure ahead of me showed no signs of faltering, but I had not forgotten the promise I had made to the strange man who looked like a bandit and spoke French like a courtier. I would have gone on even without that. I myself had seen the Falcon wounded; the bullet must have passed straight through his body; and he had been on the move ever since, with no time to rest. The approaching storm was a further complication. It would be a bad one; the longer it held off, the greater the ferocity of wind and rain would be. This I knew from my brief experience with Italian weather. The injured man must have shelter from the elements as well as from the ferocity of his foes. But I had no idea where it was to be found.
We were riding through a narrow canyon when a man darted out from behind a rock. He was middle-aged; his long hair was grizzled and his face was half concealed by a bushy beard. I don’t know which of us was the more startled, I or my poor nervous Stella. She reared, and I went sliding off her back. The newcomer ran to help me to my feet. He was a stranger—a peasant, by the look of him—and badly frightened, to judge by his pale face and rolling eyes.
It is amazing what resources the mind can command when it is forced. I was very bad at the local dialect- Now I understood what the man was saying, thanks, in part, to his eloquent gestures, but mostly because of the urgent need to understand.
The soldiers were coming. They had not caught…I did not recognize the name, but I knew who was meant—my former guide. He was still at liberty, but he was closely pursued; he dared not meet us for fear of leading the pursuit in our direction. The horses were now a danger, we must leave them. He would return them to the castle stables. We must proceed on foot.
“But where?” I did not expect an answer. But the answer came—from the Falcon.
“Le tombe,” he said.
I looked around.
Straight ahead, where the ravine widened out, a rounded hill loomed up against the stormy sky. I had thought the terrain was beginning to look familiar. Now I knew where I was. The valley ahead was the valley of the Etruscan tombs. And one of those tombs had a door, whose secret was known only to the members of the family.
“Come,” I said, holding out my hand to him. “Hurry.”
For a long moment he did not move. Then he slid slowly off the horse’s back and fell into a crumpled heap at my feet.
The peasant cried out. The sound seemed to echo in the still air—and I realized that it was not an echo at all. Behind us in the ravine a man had shouted.
“Help me,” I gasped. “Aiuto…” Stopping, I seized the fallen man roughly by one arm and tugged at him. He tried to help me, but it was not until the peasant added his strength to mine that we succeeded in raising the Falcon to his feet.
I had stopped thinking sensibly. All I cared about was reaching shelter with the man I was trying to save. I didn’t care about the horses or the poor unfortunate peasant who was risking his life to save us. I had forgotten my terror of the tomb. Once we reached it. we would be saved.
I never knew the name of the man who helped me that day. He was only an illiterate, untrained peasant, but he was strong and he was loyal. With the wounded man between us, we stumbled on to the mouth of the valley of the tombs.
The sight of that desolate place would have daunted even a confirmed atheist. The livid, rolling clouds closed it in like the roof of Hades; in the eerie light the shapes of the great rounded monuments looked like a city of demons. As we stood there gasping for breath, with the weight of the half-conscious man dragging at us, there was a rustle of movement among the weeds. Something came out—something that shone with a pallid white light….
I let out a sound that was half scream, half hysterical laugh. The spectral form was one of the big white rabbits. Unafraid, it sat up on its haunches, its paws folded demurely over its breast, and stared at us with great liquid eyes.
The sight was too much for my assistant. He had faced the dangers of the rope, the firing squad, without faltering; but this diabolical vision touched the deeper layer of superstitious terror that is stronger than courage. He let out a shriek and fled.
I flung both arms around the limp body of the man whose sole support I now was. His weight made my knees bend, but by a superhuman effort he managed to keep his feet and we staggered on until we reached the mound of the princess.
Here a new difficulty arose. I could not remember where in the vast stone circle the door was located. The mound was at least a hundred feet in circumference and the door was masked by shrubs. I felt as if my arms were about to break off. The Falcon had one arm around my shoulders; as we stood there, it weighed more and more heavily till it pressed me to the ground. He had fainted at last. I huddled there in the prickly grass, with my arms around him, and heard voices at the entrance to the valley.
I was reduced to the precise mental state of a fox, or any other hunted beast. Survival was the only idea in my mind, for myself and for the man whose head rested on my breast. His uneven breathing scorched my skin through the thin muslin of my dress. A jagged spear-length of lightning streaked across the sky. In its brief light, objects stood out with eerie distinctness. The unconscious man stirred, moaning. I thought I had reached the uttermost limits of terror, but that sound assured me I had some distance yet to go. With the strength born of panic, I pressed his face against my breast, stifling his groans. In the abnormal stillness the slightest sound would carry; our pursuers might have heard him, as I was able to hear what they were saying.
Perhaps because it was their common language, they spoke in English. I recognized one of the voices. I had heard it before, the day of my first meeting with De Merode.
“What a horrible place,” he exclaimed. “Are those truly the graves of unbelievers, those great high mounds?”
He spoke loudly, as men will do to cover up their fear, and his companion replied in the same tone.
“So it is said. You are not afraid of the dead, are you, O’Shaughnessy?”
“And was it not my own ancestor, Brian O’Shaughnessy, who fought from midnight to dawn with a great skeleton shape to win the treasure of the kings of Tara? Yet,” the Irishman added in a lower voice, “only a fool would challenge the infernal powers. Lie quiet, all you pagan souls; we’ll not trouble you this night, ‘tis a living man we seek…”
His voice rose suddenly in a shriek, and his companion laughed—but somewhat shakily.
“It’s only a hare, you fool of an Irishman.”
“To be sure, to be sure. ’Tis only in England, that heretic island, that the spirit of a witch may take the shape of a harmless rabbit. Oh, devil take it, Williams, must we go into this place? No one but a fool would seek shelter here.”
“Precisely why it would make an excellent hiding place,” his companion said. “Come along, let’s get it over with. It will rain any moment.”
Dry branches crackled underfoot as they advanced. Another flash of lightning, brighter than the last, split the darkening sky apart. In its glare I saw a shape I knew.
The last five feet to sanctuary were almost the worst of the whole journey. More than once I cursed the inconvenience of female clothing; those dreadful hoops got in the way of every step I took. Only the fact that the soldiers were making as much noise as we kept them from hearing us. But finally my groping hands found the hidden catch and the door swung open. One last burst of strength tumbled the two of us over the threshold. I placed the wooden wedge as I had been shown, and pulled the door back into place.
Chapter 10
