Marianne

CHAPTER ONE The Wedding Night

The priest's hand was raised in blessing and as he uttered the ritual words, all heads were bowed. Marianne realized that she was married. A wave of joy swept over her, almost savage in its intensity, and at the same time she had a sense of absolute irrevocability. From this moment she ceased to belong to herself and became, body and soul, one with the man who had been chosen for her. Yet, though the choice might not have been her own, not for anything in the world would she have wished him other than he was. From the first moment when he had bowed to her, Marianne had known that she loved him. And from then on she gave herself to him with a passionate devotion which she brought to everything she did, with all the ardour of first love.

Her hand, with the brand new ring, trembled a little in Francis's. She gazed up at him wonderingly.

'For ever,' she said softly. 'Until death do us part—'

He smiled, the kindly, rather condescending smile of an adult for an over-enthusiastic child, and pressed the slender fingers lightly before releasing them to hand Marianne to her seat. The mass was about to begin.

The new bride listened meekly to the first words but very soon her mind slipped away from the familiar ritual and returned, irresistibly, to Francis. Her eyes slid out from under the enveloping cloud of lace and fastened with satisfaction on her husband's clean-cut profile. Francis Cranmere, at thirty, was a magnificent human specimen. He was very tall and carried himself with a languid, aristocratic grace which, but for his muscular athletic frame, might have been thought feminine. Similarly, the stubborn brow and the powerful chin resting on the high muslin cravat, counteracted the rather too perfect beauty of features that, for all their nobility, seemed fixed in an expression of perpetual boredom. The white of the hands emerging from lace cuffs, would have done credit to a cardinal but the chest and shoulders moulded by the dark blue coat were those of a boxer.

Lord Cranmere was a man of contradictions, an angel's head on the body of an adventurer. But the whole had an undoubted charm to which few women were impervious. Certainly, for Marianne at seventeen he was pure perfection.

She closed her eyes for a second in order to savour her happiness, then opened them on the altar, decorated with autumn leaves and one or two late blooms amongst which a few candles burned. It had been erected in the great hall of Selton Hall because there was no catholic church for several miles around and even fewer priests. The England of King George III was going through one of its periodical violent bursts of anti-papist feeling and nothing less than the protection of the Prince of Wales had been required to enable this marriage between a catholic and a protestant to take place according to the rites of both churches. An hour before, the priest of the Church of England had blessed the couple and now the abbé Gauthier de Chazay was officiating by special favour. No power on earth could have kept him from blessing his goddaughter's marriage.

It was, moreover, a strange marriage, with no other pomp but these few flowers and candles, the one concession to the solemnity of the day. Around this makeshift altar, the familiar surroundings remained, as ever: the high white and gold ceiling with its hexagonal mouldings, the purple and white Genoa velvet hangings, the heavily gilded furniture and, last of all, the great canvases depicting the imposing figures of past Seltons. All this gave to the ceremony an impression of unreality and timelessness that was strengthened by the gown worn by the bride.

Marianne's mother had worn these things at Versailles, in the presence of King Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette on the day of her marriage to Pierre-Louis d'Asselnat, Marquis de Villefranche. There was a full gown of white satin oversewn with lace and rosebuds, worn over the wide cloth of silver underskirt swollen with panniers and a host of petticoats. The tight, constricting bodice with its square neck line was cut low, revealing a girlish bosom below the necklace made of many rows of pearls, while from the high powdered wig, frosted with diamonds, a great lace veil cascaded like the tail of a comet. This dress, with all its outmoded magnificence, Anne Selton had sent home as a keepsake to her sister Ellis who had treasured it ever since.

Many times, when Marianne was little, Aunt Ellis had shown her that dress. Each time, she had to hold back her tears as she drew it from its cedar wood chest but she loved to see the wonder on the child's face.

'One day,' she would tell her, 'you too will wear this dress. And that will be a happy day for you. Yes, by God, you shall be happy!' As she spoke she would thump her stick on the ground as though challenging fate to contradict her. And it was true, Marianne was happy.

But now, the thumping with which Ellis Selton had been in the habit of punctuating her commands echoed no longer, except in her niece's memory. For a week now, the generous, domineering old spinster had rested in the Palladian mausoleum across the park among her ancestors. This marriage had been her doing. It was her last wish and as such not to be denied.

Ever since that autumn evening when a weary man had deposited in her arms a baby only a few months old, crying with hunger, Ellis Selton had discovered a new meaning in her lonely life. Without effort, the ageing, arrogant spinster had transformed herself into a perfect mother for the orphan. Sometimes she would be overwhelmed by fierce waves of tenderness that woke her in the middle of the night, panting and sweating at the mere thought of the dangers through which the little girl had passed.

When this happened, she would get up, driven by an uncontrollable impulse, and fumbling for her cane, make her way barefoot, her red plaits dangling down her back, into the big room near her own where Marianne lay sleeping. She would stand for a long while by the cot, looking down at the baby girl who had become her one reason for living. Then, as the nightmare fears abated and her heart beat normally again, Ellis Selton would go back to her bed, not to sleep but instead to offer up endless prayers of thankfulness to God for granting an old maid this miracle, a child of her own to care for.

Marianne knew the story of her escape by heart, she had heard it so many times from her aunt. Ellis Selton, although fiercely protestant and anchored firmly in her religious beliefs, could value courage when she saw it. The abbé de Chazay's exploit had earned him the Englishwoman's sincere esteem.

'He's a man, that little papist priest!' was her invariable conclusion to the story. 'I couldn't have done better myself.'

She herself was, in fact, a woman of consuming activity and tireless energy. She was passionately fond of horses and, before her accident had spent the best part of her time in the saddle, riding the length and breadth of her vast estates, inspecting everything with her keen blue eyes which very little was allowed to escape.

As a result, almost as soon as she was able to walk, Marianne was hoisted on to a pony and learned to accustom herself to cold water whether at her washstand or in the river where she learned to swim. Wearing little more in winter than in summer, going out bareheaded in all weathers, hunting her first fox at the age of eight, Marianne's education would have done credit to any boy but, for a girl and more particularly for a girl of her times it was more than a little unorthodox. Old Dobbs, the head groom, had himself taught her to handle weapons and at fifteen Marianne could wield a sword with the very best and shoot the pips out of a playing card at twenty paces.

Yet, with all this her mind had not been neglected. She spoke several languages and had been well taught in history, geography, literature, music and dancing and, above all, in singing, nature having endowed her with a voice whose warmth and clarity was by no means the least of its charms. Far better educated than the majority of her contemporaries, Marianne had become her aunt's pride and joy, and this in spite of a regrettable propensity for devouring every novel that came within her reach.

'She might take her place without shame on any throne!' the old woman was fond of saying, emphasizing her words with vigorous thumps on the ground with her stick.

'Thrones are never very comfortable things,' the abbé de Chazay, to whom these glorious visions of Lady Ellis's were usually confided, would answer, 'but of recent years they have become perfectly untenable.'

His relationship with Ellis had always been violently unpredictable and now that it was all over, Marianne could not help looking back on it with a nostalgia touched with amusement. Lady Selton had been a protestant to her very soul and regarded catholics with invincible mistrust and their priests with a kind of superstitious terror. To her, they still carried with them the slight but unmistakable smell of burning flesh associated with the worst horrors of the Inquisition. Between her and the abbé Gauthier there was an endless and enthusiastic verbal duel in which each did his best to convince the other without the faintest hope of ever succeeding. Ellis flaunted the green banner of Torquemada, while Gauthier fulminated against the cruelties of Henry VIII, the fanatical furies of John Knox and recalling the martyrdom of the catholic Mary Queen of Scotts, launched a virulent attack on the whole Anglican citadel. More often than not, the battle was ended by sheer exhaustion. Lady Ellis would ring for tea which came accompanied, in honour of the visitor, by a decanter of rare brandy. Then, peace restored, the two adversaries would confront one another again in a calmer frame of mind over the card table, each thoroughly pleased with the other and themselves, their mutual esteem intact, if not actually strengthened. And the child would go back to her play with the feeling that all was for the best in the best of all worlds, because the people she loved were at peace with one another.

Despite her aunt's convictions, Marianne had been brought up in her father's faith. If the truth were told, this religious instruction, like those interludes nicknamed by the child 'the wars of religion', did not take place very often. The abbé Gauthier de Chazay's appearances at Selton Hall were brief and infrequent. They did not know how he occupied his time but one thing they did know, that he travelled a great deal in Germany, Poland and even as far as Russia where he stayed for long periods at a time. He was also to be found, from time to time, at the various residences of the Count of Provence who, since 1795 and the death of the Dauphin in the Temple, had become King Louis XVIII. The abbé had lived for a while in Verona, at Mittau and in Sweden. Every now and then, he would make his appearance in England, only to vanish again, always in a hurry, always secretive, without ever saying where he was going. And no one ever asked questions.

With the establishment of the fat king without a kingdom at Hartwell House, the preceding spring, the abbé had seemed to be settled in England for a while. Since then, he made only one short journey abroad. Marianne and her aunt could not help being intrigued by all this coming and going. Lady Selton remarked more than once that it would not surprise her if the little priest turned out to be a secret agent for Rome.

Even so, it had been the abbé she summoned to her bedside as she lay dying rather than the Reverend Mr Harris whom she heartily detested and referred to as a 'damned pompous idiot'. A bad cold, treated by the invalid with her customary supreme contempt, had brought her to death's door within a week. Ellis contemplated the approach of death without flinching, calm and lucid as ever, her only regret that it had come too soon.

'I still had so much to do,' she sighed. 'But whatever happens, I am determined that my little Marianne shall be married a week after I am underground.'

'So soon? I am here to take care of her,' the abbé objected.

'You? My poor friend, I might as well trust her to a puff of wind! One day or other you will be off again on one of your mysterious journeys and the child will be all alone. No, she is betrothed, so get her married. A week, I said. Do you promise?'

The abbé Gauthier had promised. And that was why on this wet November evening in the year 1809, true to his word, he had married Marianne d'Asselnat to Francis Cranmere.

Standing before the altar, wearing a white silk chasuble with gold embroidered lilies lent to him by Louis XVIII's chaplain, Alexandre de Talleyrand-Périgord,[1] the abbé Gauthier de Chazay performed his function solemnly. His tiny, fragile figure in the priestly vestments acquired a kind of dignity enhanced by the slow, impressive gestures. At forty-five, his appearance remained obstinately youthful and only the streaks of white in his thick, dark hair below the tonsure betrayed the passing of time. But Marianne looked at these signs of age with love, dimly aware that they were earned by years of hard labour in the service of others. She loved him dearly, both for what she knew of him and the rest that she guessed and because of this her present happiness was a little spoiled because her dear godfather did not seem to share it. She knew he disapproved of her marriage to an English protestant. He himself would have preferred for her one of the young émigrés in the entourage of the duc de Barry and he was simply conforming to the dead woman's wish. But, besides this, it seemed to her that the abbé de Chazay disliked Francis Cranmere as a man, that he was performing his sacred duty as a priest but performing it joylessly.

The ceremony over, he came towards the couple and Marianne smiled encouragingly at him, as though inviting him to smooth the frown from between his brows and share her happiness. Her own look seemed to say: 'I am happy and I know you love me. Why won't you be happy too?' There was anxiety in the mute inquiry. Now that Aunt Ellis was gone, he was all she had left and she wanted him to enter wholeheartedly into her love.

But the frown did not leave the abbe's brow. He was looking at the young couple thoughtfully and Marianne could have sworn that there was in his eyes a curious mixture of pity, anger and anxiety. There was a silence which rapidly became so oppressive that Gauthier de Chazay became aware of it. His set lips curved into a joyless smile as he took the bride's hand.

'I wish you every happiness, my child. In so far as God wills us to be happy in this world. Only He knows when we shall meet again—'

'You are going away?' the girl asked in sudden alarm. 'But you said nothing to me?'

'I feared to add yet another disturbance to the household and to throw even a slight shadow on your happiness. Yes, I am going to Rome. Our Holy Father has summoned me. But now, I leave you in your husband's hands – I trust they will deal gently with you.'

The last words were directed to the young man. Lord Cranmere jerked up his chin and straightened his elegant back as he met the abbe's eyes.

'I hope you do not doubt it, abbé.' There was the hint of a challenge in his voice. 'Marianne is very young, I am sure she will prove biddable. Why should she not be happy?'

'To be biddable is not everything. There is also affection, indulgence, understanding – love.'

There was in both men's voices a note of barely controlled anger which frightened Marianne. Surely her husband and the priest who had just blessed their union were not going to quarrel right in front of the altar? She could not understand her godfather's scarcely concealed hostility towards the man chosen for her by Lady Ellis. She realized obscurely that this hostility was not religious in origin, that it was directed against Francis himself. But why? What could the abbé have against him? Surely, Lord Cranmere was the most brilliant, brave, attractive, intelligent – whenever Marianne embarked on the attempt to catalogue her new husband's virtues she generally found herself at a loss for superlatives. However, in this instance, she was not called upon to intervene. The abbé de Chazay closed the subject by saying simply: 'I entrust her to you.'

'You may rest easy,' was the dry response.

The abbé turned quickly back to the altar and, taking up the chalice, made his way back to Lady Ellis's old boudoir which had been turned into a temporary vestry. Not that the previous owner had ever had much use for the room as a boudoir, it was usually full of riding crops and hunting gear rather than dainty chairs and cushions.

As though suddenly relieved of some constraint, Francis smiled at his wife and, bending his tall figure slightly, offered her his hand.

'Will you come, my dear?'

Side by side, they began to walk slowly down the length of the big room. As befitted a wedding following so close upon a funeral, there were few people present, apart from the small knot of servants gathered just inside the double doors. But those few guests made up in quality for what they lacked in numbers.

With a firm hand, Francis led his young wife up to the Prince of Wales who, with a few friends, had insisted on honouring the marriage of one of his intimate circle. As she made her deep curtsey to the prince, Marianne found herself wondering that she was not more impressed. The future king had a considerable presence, even a certain majesty, but with the approach of his fiftieth year and the effects of a naturally voracious appetite he was lapsing more and more into obesity while a vinous flush was spreading inexorably over the august features. An aristocratic nose, commanding gaze and sensual lips could not preserve his royal highness from a somewhat comical appearance. Everyone in England, even the innocent Marianne, knew that the prince led a life of debauchery and that he was quite openly a bigamist, having been married first, by inclination, to his mistress, Mary Fitzherbert and afterwards, by necessity, to Princess Caroline of Brunswick whom he heartily loathed.

Such as he was, 'Prinny' smiled benevolently upon the young bride and condescended to incline his ample person to assist her to rise.

'Ravishing!' he pronounced. 'Positively ravishing, Lady Cranmere. By George, if I were not already quite sufficiently well provided for in the way of wives, I do believe I might have stolen you from my friend Francis myself. All my felicitations.'

'I thank your Highness,' Marianne stammered, her ears still full of the delicious sound of her new name. The prince however was already bellowing with laughter at his little joke and this laughter was dutifully taken up by Francis and the three gentlemen clustered round the heir to the throne. These three, Marianne had seen several times before. They were all three boon companions of the prince and Francis was often in their company. They were Lord Moira, Mr Orlando Bridgeman and the king of dandies himself, George Bryan Brummel, his pretty face with the insolent turned up nose perched above the dizzy folds of an exquisite white neck-cloth and surmounted by a negligent array of silken blond curls.

Lord Cranmere, in his deep voice, thanked the prince for honouring the ceremony with his presence and expressed the hope that his Royal Highness would do still further honour to Selton Hall by presiding over dinner.

'No, 'pon my soul!' the prince answered. 'I've promised Lady Jersey to take her to Hatchett's to choose her new carriage. A new carriage is no light matter and it's a long way to London. I must be off—'

'You will leave me, tonight?'

Marianne saw with surprise the lines of displeasure form round her husband's mouth. Was he then so disappointed to lose his royal guest? For her own part, she was only too desperately anxious for all these people to be gone and leave her alone at last with the man she loved. All the young couples in the novels she had read had asked nothing better than to bid their guests goodbye.

The prince's pleasant, rather foolish laugh rang out again.

'Are you so afraid of being left alone, on your wedding night?' That's not like you, Francis – but take heart, not all of me is going. I am leaving you the better part of me. Moira will stay and so will our American. And then you've your pretty cousin?'

This time, it was Marianne's turn to suppress a look of disappointment. Foppish Lord Moira, with his exquisite clothes and a manner so indolent that he seemed more than half asleep, meant nothing to her but she had not had to exchange more than one glance with the person the prince had referred to as the American to know that she disliked him. And then there was the 'pretty cousin', Ivy with her airs and graces. From the very first she had treated Marianne as a raw country miss and flaunted a provoking 'cousinly' intimacy with Francis.

Turning her head away to hide her annoyance while Francis, on the contrary, appeared much reassured, Marianne met the amused eyes of the American himself. He was standing a little way away from the group around the prince, by one of the windows. Hands clasped behind his back, legs a little apart, he looked as though he had only happened to alight there by chance and formed a strong contrast with the other men present. This contrast had been the first thing to strike Marianne when he was introduced to her and she had been ruffled by it, as though the stranger's air of careless unconcern, verging almost on indifference, had been a direct insult to the irreproachable elegance of the others. It was not just his complexion, tanned by wind and weather, that offended her in comparison with the Englishmen with their pink, well fed faces. They were aristocrats, great landowners most of them, he was only a sailor probably owning nothing more than his ship, a ranger of the seas, 'a pirate'. Marianne had dismissed him instantly. It passed her comprehension how the son of an English king, a man who would be king himself one day, could find any pleasure in the company of a man who dared to turn up at a wedding wearing boots. All the same, her dislike had not prevented her from remembering his name. He was called Jason Beaufort. Francis had remarked with his habitual carelessness that the fellow came of a good Carolina family, descended from the French Huguenots obliged to flee to the new world after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, but Marianne suspected her new husband of an excessively complaisant attitude towards anyone accepted by the prince.

'In spite of his looks, he's a gentleman—'

Thus the final judgment pronounced by Francis's handsome lips. Even so, Marianne was none too ready to agree. Although his manners were perfectly correct, she sensed in Beaufort something purposeful and menacing which made her uneasy. Accustomed, early in life, to the fierce pleasures of the chase, she often found herself comparing human beings to the animals she loved but whereas Francis reminded her of a splendid thoroughbred, she saw Jason Beaufort as a hawk. He had the hawk's bold profile, bright eyes and the lean, rangy look that yet gave an impression of dangerous vitality. Even the slender brown hands emerging from cuffs of delicate white lawn recalled the talons of the bird of prey while the look in those bright blue eyes was unnervingly intent. All through the ceremony, Marianne had been uncomfortably conscious of it on her neck and shoulders. She had found herself avoiding those eyes because, for all her native courage, she found it hard to meet them.

He was smiling, just now, as he looked at her. A thin, crooked smile revealing a lightning glimpse of very white teeth. Marianne's hand tightened on her husband's. She hated that slow, appreciative smile which made her feel somehow ashamed, as though the American were able to pierce through the mystery of her clothes and lay bare her girlish body. She actually shivered as she saw him abandon his idle stance and come towards her with his rolling sailor's gait. She looked away, pretending she had not seen the movement.

'May I be allowed to offer my compliments and good wishes?' The American's lazy voice spoke from so close behind her that she seemed to feel his warm breath on her neck.

Good manners obliged her to turn round but she left it to Francis to reply. His white hand clasped Jason's brown one as he exclaimed with a heartiness surprising to Marianne: 'You may indeed, my dear fellow! The good wishes of a friend have a value of their own and yours I know are genuine. We can count on your company?'

'Delighted.'

The blue eyes rested on Marianne's tight face and she thought furiously that he was aware of her dislike and amused by it. However, he had the good manners to go no further and merely bowed as the young couple moved away and turned their steps towards the duc d'Avaray and the bishop de Talleyrand-Périgord, who had come on behalf of Louis XVIII to honour the marriage of a countrywoman both of whose parents had perished in the Terror.

These two were standing somewhat apart, in loftly isolation over by the fireplace, making up by an austere dignity of bearing for their reduced situation as exiles. The simplicity with which both men were dressed formed a strong contrast with the elegance of the Prince of Wales and his friends. Marianne, in her old fashioned dress, made a charming foil to their stiff, outmoded dignity. As the bride made her curtsey to the royal envoys, Francis had the momentary illusion that he was back at Versailles twenty-five years earlier and something of this showed in the involuntary respect with which he bowed. The smooth voice of the duc d'Avaray was already extending the royal felicitations to the young couple, then, turning to Marianne, the old nobleman went on:

'Her royal highness, Madame la duchesse d'Angouleme[2] has been graciously pleased to send to you, my lady, this special token of her esteem. Madame has asked me to give you this, as a remembrance of her—'

He held out a small locket of blue enamel set with brilliants enclosing a fine lock of white hair. When Marianne gazed uncomprehendingly at the strange gift, d'Avaray went on:

'This lock was cut from the head of Queen Marie-Antoinette before her execution. Madame wished you to have it in memory of your noble mother who gave her life for the Queen.'

Colour flooded the girl's face. Unable to say a word, she sank into a deep curtsey leaving it to Francis to express her grateful thanks. Her feelings were, in fact somewhat mixed. These continual reminders of the past at a time when she stood on the threshold of a new life which she passionately hoped would be filled with the love and worship of a single man were more painful than pleasant. To Marianne, her mother was no more than a friendly ghost, the image of a smiling face pictured in an ivory miniature, but on this day the image had grown to the point of obliterating her own personality. There were moments when she wondered if it were really Marianne d'Asselnat and not Anne Selton who had married the handsome Francis Cranmere…

As he led her out into the hall to say their farewells to the prince, Francis glanced at Marianne's hands clasped round the locket.

'An odd present for a young bride,' he murmured, 'I hope you are not superstitious?'

She smiled bravely, thrusting away the momentary cloud.

'What is given in good faith cannot bring bad luck. This gift is precious to me, Francis.'

'Truly? I am glad. But, for the love of heaven Marianne, put the precious locket away in a box and don't wear it. Why do these damned demented Frenchmen always have to be waving the shadow of their frightful guillotine? I suppose it helps them keep alive their grievances and their thirst for revenge. And, I daresay, to forget that Napoleon is in power and they are only reflections of a vanished age.'

'You are very hard on my poor countrymen, Francis. Do you forget how much Madame has suffered? And I find it strange, that you, an Englishman, have a good word to say for the Emperor.'

'I detest Napoleon as much as I pity Madame Royale,' Francis retorted coldly. 'But I cannot approve of those who find it so easy to ignore the facts. But after all, politics seems to me a dry subject for your pretty head. Forget all about the revolution, Marianne, and concentrate on pleasing me.'

Dinner that night seemed to Marianne incredibly long and tedious. There were few guests and little gaiety. Certainly, it bore little resemblance to a wedding breakfast. Besides the young couple there were only the abbé de Chazay, Lord Moira, Jason Beaufort and Ivy St. Albans and the guests had too little in common for lively conversation. The talk, at first commonplace, gradually died away. The abbé de Chazay whose thoughts were no doubt already on his coming journey and the carriage which waited, ready harnessed, at the door, spoke little, the American not at all, contenting himself with observing Marianne with embarrassing attention. Only Francis and Moira talked about horses and hunting. Lady St Albans, following the bride's example, took no part in the discussion.

Ivy's dainty fingers were engaged in the mechanical rolling of little pellets of bread on the damask tablecloth. Marianne wondered why it was she could not bring herself to like this exquisite cousin of Francis.

Apart from her never allowing anyone to forget her connection with Lord Cranmere and her way of treating Marianne like a slightly backward child, Ivy St. Albans was the perfect picture of gracious sweetness. Some years older than Marianne, she was of medium height but her fairylike slenderness and still more the knot of pale gold ringlets which she wore high on her head made her seem taller. She had very delicate features, illuminated by a pair of languishing china blue eyes but although her mouth was as small as all the current canons of beauty could demand, there was something about her which Marianne found faintly shocking. It may have been her smile which had too close a look of Francis, perhaps that irreproachable and utterly feminine elegance which made the young girl feel, beside her, both countryfied and overdressed.

This evening was worse than usual. In her spreading lace-trimmed panniers, Marianne felt like some massive Chinese vase placed next to a fragile Tanara figurine. Her outdated furbelows only served to set off to advantage Ivy's wisp of a clinging muslin gown, the same blue as her eyes, cut low in the bosom to reveal the soft curve of her shoulders and caught in below her breasts by a chain of fine antique cameos that matched the fillet binding her fair curls. A long matching scarf completed an ensemble which, while stunningly simple, owed much of its effect to the perfection of the figure it covered. Ivy St. Albans, like many other Englishwomen, had taken to wearing muslin winter and summer because Napoleon was known to dislike it so much that the ladies of his court were virtually forbidden to wear it.

Marianne could never picture Ivy in anything but muslin. She had been wearing a dress of white muslin when Marianne met her for the first time, that day last summer in Bath. Lady Ellis had dragged a cross and distinctly unwilling Marianne away from her beloved woods with the two-fold object of taking the cure herself and at the same time introducing her niece into society. But the girl had felt instantly out of place amid the elegant crowds thronging the famous spa. There was too much noise, too many people, too much gossip, too many shrill, overdressed women and too many dandies with their bored and insolent airs and their passion for wagers.

And then, one morning as the two women were driving along Milsom Street after making some purchases, Lady Ellis uttered a cry and ordered the driver to stop. A couple were passing by on foot and Marianne's heart beat unaccountably faster. The woman was beautiful, certainly, and the height of elegance in the simple white dress which served to set off a miraculous chip-straw bonnet covered with a froth of delicate lace but Marianne had no eyes for her except to envy her her escort. He was surely quite the finest man that ever was. Moreover, it was to him that Lady Ellis's rapturous exclamation was addressed.

'Francis, Francis Cranmere! My dear child, how good to see you again. Don't tell me you don't recognize me?'

The gentleman's handsome, disdainful mouth had curved into a smile.

'Lady Selton!' He responded instantly, 'could you doubt my knowing you? England is full of women but I'll take my oath there is only one Ellis Selton. Your most obedient, my dear lady.'

Removing the beaver hat he wore so elegantly tilted to one side, he bowed over Lady Selton's fingertips and her niece was able to observe, to her considerable astonishment, that her spinster aunt was quite flushed with pleasure. However, the young man's grey eyes immediately travelled on inquiringly to Marianne and she felt herself instantly purple with embarrassment. In her plain cambric dress adorned, thanks to the clever fingers of her maid, only with a single embroidered panel she felt suddenly horribly dowdy. Any comparison between herself and the lovely stranger was so little to her advantage that she felt ready to die of shame and was incapable of saying anything intelligible when her aunt presented her to: 'My dear Francis, the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends', and then to 'his charming cousin, Lady St. Albans'.

A few words more, an exchange of addresses, and then they parted with promises to meet again. The carriage moved away with Marianne on the verge of tears. All at once, she wanted desperately to make this fine gentleman notice her, to dazzle him with her wit and brilliance, while he had probably seen her merely as some kind of silly schoolgirl. Her aunt had laughed and teased her about it.

'But there,' she added with a sigh, 'I can scarcely blame you, these Cranmeres are irresistible charmers, and Francis is the living image of his father. No man could ever think seriously of competing with Richard Cranmere.'

'Was he so very much admired?' Marianne asked in a small voice.

'Oh, the women were wild about him, every single one – more's the pity—'

The conversation had gone no further. Lady Ellis had lapsed into a reminiscent silence which the girl did not like to interrupt. She had learned later, by means of interrogating Jenkins, the old housekeeper, that her Aunt Ellis had once been madly in love with Richard Cranmere and had hoped to marry him but he had fallen instead for Marianne's mother, Anne, and Anne was already in love with a French diplomat. On her engagement to Pierre d'Asselnat, Lord Cranmere had gone away. His travels had taken him to India and it was there that he had married and that Francis had been born. The young man had returned home some ten years previously to take possession of a small inheritance not far from Selton Hall. At that time he had called frequently on Lady Ellis, drawn to her by their mutual passion for horses. Then, succumbing to the attractions of London, he had sold the little estate which must have formed the bulk of his fortune and they had not seen him since.

'And probably will not see him again until the next chance encounter – in ten years time!' Marianne had sighed.

But she was mistaken. Francis not only called on his old friend in the house she had taken for the season in Bath but, in September, he actually came to Selton Hall.

These visits plunged the young girl into an ecstasy of excitement. To her romantic imagination, Francis became Tristan, Lancelot, the Swan Knight come from distant shores to break the spell which held her captive. No legendary hero could live up to him. Francis was a hundred times more wonderful than all the knights of the Round Table put together, Merlin and King Arthur included. She began to day dream about him, basing an infinity of delight on a look or a smile, and building up reserves of happiness on which to live until his next visit. Francis behaved, in fact, charmingly to her. To her great surprise he would even sit by her now and then and talk to her. He asked her about her life and her amusements and, thinking of his life in London where he kept company with the noblest and most brilliant of the realm, she was ashamed that her conversation was all about dogs and horses and the countryside. She was so greatly in awe of him that one day, when Lady Ellis begged her to sing for Francis she was unable to produce a single note. Her mouth was so dry that no sound came. By nature lively and unselfconscious, in his presence she became shy and gauche. It was true that on that particular evening, Ivy had accompanied her cousin and her fragrant presence was not calculated to boost Marianne's confidence. The lovely cousin with her sophisticated elegance and unfailing sweetness was a sore trial to her nerves. She was like the fairy Vivien – but Marianne had never been fond of Vivien.

Her day of triumph had come out hunting when, for a whole day, she had galloped at Francis's side across muddy fields and through autumnal woods. Ivy, who disliked horses, had followed with Lady Ellis in the carriage. Marianne had Francis all to herself and she thought she would die of happiness when he complimented her on her faultless horsemanship.

'I know few men who ride as well as you,' he told her, 'and no women.'

There was a genuine warmth in his voice and in his eyes that flooded the girl's heart with joy. At that moment he really sounded like a lover. She smiled at him with all her heart.

'I love to ride with you, Francis. I feel as if I could go on like this to the end of the world.'

'Do you really mean that?'

'But – of course! Why should I say it if I did not?'

He made no answer. He merely leaned from his saddle and looked into her face and, for the first time, she was able to meet his gaze without embarrassment. Still he had said nothing but as he moved away he smiled briefly.

'Good,' was all he said. Then, apparently forgetting all about her, he gave his horse its head, leaving Marianne to wonder whether or not she had said something stupid.

After that day's hunting he had vanished for some time, and in any case her aunt's sudden illness had to some extent driven him from Marianne's mind. Then, one evening, two days before her death, Lady Ellis had sent for her niece.

'I know I am dying, child,' she told her, 'but I shall go in peace knowing that I shall not leave you alone.'

'What do you mean?'

'That Francis has asked for your hand and you shall marry him.'

'Mine? But – he has never spoken to me—'

'Stop babbling. I have not much time – he is a man who cannot fail to make you happy. He is twenty-eight now and will be able to give you the guidance and support you need. Besides, in bestowing you on him, I am remedying an unjustice on the part of fate. Francis has no fortune of his own, now he will have ours – he will join you as the master of Selton – and when I am laying there, across the park, I shall be glad to think of my beloved home in your hands, both of you. That way, I shall never really leave you—'

Exhausted from the effort of speaking, Lady Ellis closed her eyes and said no more. Marianne left the room torn between a curious mixture of terror and delight. It seemed fantastic that Francis should want to marry her, a simple country girl, when there were so many women all anxious to please him. It gave her an odd sense of triumph. She felt at the same time very proud and very apprehensive.

'I shall never be worthy of him,' she thought. 'I shall always be doing something improper, and he will think how silly I am—'

It was this fear which returned, intact, to plague Marianne during her wedding dinner. She gazed with mingled joy and pride at Francis, sitting opposite her in the high-backed chair, long empty, that belonged to the master of the house. He sat in it so carelessly and naturally that the young bride was filled with admiration. For her own part, Marianne was all too conscious that she was now occupying the mistress's chair where, all her life, she had been used to seeing her aunt.

Ivy's soft voice broke in on her thoughts.

'I think it is time for us to withdraw, Marianne, and leave these gentlemen to smoke and drink in peace.'

Marianne jumped, realizing suddenly that everyone was looking at her and that the servants had already placed decanters of port and brandy on the table. She got to her feet, blushing in confusion for forgetting the time.

'Of course,' she said. 'We will leave you – I – I think I shall retire – a little tired—'

Already she was beginning to panic. Visibly unsure of herself, she went to bid farewell to the abbé de Chazay who kissed her tenderly, unable to conceal his emotion. Inclining her head to the rest of the company, she let her eyes dwell a little appealingly on Francis as though begging him not to stay too long with his guests. Tonight was her wedding night and it belonged to her alone and no one had the right to rob her of even the smallest moment of it. But Francis merely smiled.

The two women left the room, Marianne feeling that her billowing silk dress sounded like a small typhoon. She could not wait to get it off, to be herself again. When they reached the foot of the stairs she turned to Ivy and found the other woman's blue eyes observing her while a thin smile twisted one corner of her lovely lips.

'Goodnight,' she said with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for leaving you so early but I am very tired and—'

'And you want to go and prepare yourself for the most important night of your life!' Ivy finished for her with a little crow of laughter which the bride found extremely irritating. 'You are right; Francis is not an easy man—'

The directness of this remark brought the colour flooding into Marianne's face but she said nothing. Picking up her wide skirts, she ran upstairs, her lace veil floating comet-like behind her. But Ivy's light, mocking laughter pursued her all the way to the door of her room.

CHAPTER TWO Duel

The room was like a miniature archipelago with lace panniers, the great satin gown, wicker hoops and inumerable petticoats strewn about like a succession of pale islands. Marianne, now wearing only a simple bedgown made of fine lawn edged with lace and trimmed with narrow green satin ribbon, found herself gazing once more at her own familiar image mirrored in her glass. She saw a tall girl regrettably dark for an age which liked its women fair, and with a figure not yet fully rounded out. She had long, shapely legs, small hips and the neatest waist in all England. Her neck was long and slender, supporting an unusual heart-shaped face with high cheek bones and strong, proud features. The eyes, curving a little upwards at the corners to meet the sweep of delicately arched brows, were an elusive sea-green flecked with gold, and, almost as striking as their strange colour was their wilful, challenging expression. Even so, odd as it was, Marianne would have liked her face if it had not been for the big, soft mouth and the pale amber colouring of her smooth skin which gave her a faintly gypsy-like appearance and, in her own opinion, ruined everything. The canons of beauty of the day demanded cheeks all lilies and roses and Marianne was made miserable by her gipsy complexion for which not even her faultless hands or the heavy mass of silky black hair that fell below her hips could make up. Marianne's looks came from her father. Her mother had been all fairness but there was too much of the old stock of Auvergne in the girl's blood, with its occasional reminders of the Moorish knights of Abd-ar-Rhaman, joined to that of a Florentine ancestor. Gentle Anne Selton's British looks had been submerged.

Marianne sighed regretfully, thinking of the languishing eyes of Ivy St. Albans. She tried to restore her confidence a little with the thought that Francis had chosen her, had asked for her hand and surely that must mean beyond doubt that he liked her. Only, he had never told her that he loved her, had never even shown any disposition to make love to her although it was true there had been scarcely time. It had all happened so quickly. All the same, Marianne faced the night with trepidation, as though she stood on the borders of an unknown land, filled with half-suspected pitfalls. The books she was so fond of were generally rather reticent on the subject of wedding nights. The young bride would appear afterwards, blushing with her eyes modestly downcast, but with an invariable inward glow which, for the moment at least, Marianne was at a loss to explain.

She turned from the mirror to smile at Mrs Jenkins who having roundly refused to allow anyone else to attend her 'baby' on this great occasion, was now picking up the scattered garments. She smiled back.

'You look lovely, Miss Marianne,' she said comfortingly, 'and everything will be all right. So don't look so dismal!'

'I am not dismal, Jenkins – only nervous. Do you know if the gentlemen have left the table yet?'

'I'll go and see.'

Mrs Jenkins went out, her arms filled with lace and petticoats, while Marianne drifted aimlessly over to the window. The night was still and black with not a star in sight. Long trails of mist rolled wraith-like across the park. There was practically nothing to be seen but Marianne did not need sight to see in her mind's eye the vast, sweeping dark green lawns of Selton Hall, barely touched as yet by autumn. She knew though that they lost themselves in the distance beneath the heavy shade of centuries-old oaks. Beyond lay the quiet hills and deep woods of Devonshire where she could gallop for days at a time on the track of fox or deer. This was the time, before the onset of winter, that Marianne loved: the misty mornings and long evenings spent around the wood fire roasting chestnuts and, later on, skating on the frozen ponds, silver blades flashing with the exhilarating rush of speed past reed beds white with frost. All these had been the simple joys of her girlhood. Marianne had never known, until tonight, how much she loved the old house and grounds and the English countryside, the red earth and soft hills which had closed like strong arms round an orphan child. Standing on the brink of the night which would give her to Francis, she wished that she could run out once more into the wood, because the trees seemed to communicate to her some deep power against which fear and worry broke in vain. And, just at this moment, she knew that she was dreadfully afraid, afraid of disappointing him, of being thought plain or stupid. If only Francis had taken her in his arms once, just once. If he had only murmured some words of love to give her confidence and overcome her modesty – but no, he had always been polite, even affectionate, but Marianne had never yet glimpsed in the grey eyes of her betrothed that flame of passion she so longed to arouse. No doubt tonight would bring her all these things. The words to sweep her off her feet and the overmastering caresses. Meanwhile, she waited in a state of feverish anticipation which left her mouth dry and her hands icy cold. Surely, no girl was ever half so ready to become her husband's adoring and submissive slave, for Marianne admitted secretly that there was nothing she would not do for love of Francis.

She was, of course, largely ignorant of what was meant by the phrase, 'belonging to someone'. Aunt Ellis was no longer there to tell her, even supposing she herself had ever known, and old Mrs Jenkins certainly could not but she had a vague idea that its effect would be a transformation so complete that her whole being would be altered by it. Would she love the trees and the countryside tomorrow if Francis did not love them too?

A slight creak as the door opened broke into her thoughts. It was Jenkins coming back and Marianne turned quickly from the window to meet her.

'Well' she asked. 'What is happening? Have our guests retired yet?'

Mrs Jenkins did not answer at once. She took off her spectacles and began wiping them carefully. Marianne knew instantly that something was wrong. Jenkins always did that when she wanted time to think before she spoke.

'Well?' Marianne asked again.

'Most of them have gone up, my lady,' the housekeeper said at last, restoring the spectacles to her nose.

'Most? Who is still down there?'

'Your husband – and that foreigner, the man from America.'

Marianne's lips tightened ominously. What business had this American to keep Francis downstairs at an hour when all his thoughts should have been for his young bride? Certainly Jason Beaufort was the last person she wished to hear of just at that moment.

'Are they still at their port?'

'No. They are at cards.'

'At cards! At this hour?'

Mrs Jenkins spread her arms in a gesture of helplessness at Marianne's incredulous expression. The girl opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. Slowly, she turned on her heel and went back to the window. Not even to old Jenkins who had brought her up would she show her disappointment. How could Francis dawdle over a stupid game of cards while she waited for him, trembling with an excitement that tied her stomach in knots and made her feel sick.

'Cards!' she said between her teeth. 'He plays cards while I wait for him!'

A spark of anger had begun to mix with her disappointment. Aunt Ellis had set great store by good manners and she would never have tolerated Francis's playing cards with a friend on his wedding night. It was not done in novels either. It was a small thing, perhaps, but the incident brought home to her just how much she missed her aunt.

'Now he is all I have,' she thought bitterly. 'Surely he must understand that? I – I need him so.'

She shut her eyes tightly to force back the tears. Her anger rose. Patience was never her most shining virtue and now it made her so cross to think of her husband wasting his time with Beaufort that she had to fight back a sudden impulse to rush downstairs and drag him away. It was bad enough that the man had been invited to spend the night in the house at all. It seemed to Marianne that his presence hung over it, if not exactly as a threat, certainly as an incubus. This may have been due simply to her dislike of him but, however much she tried to talk herself out of it, the sense of a shadow looming over Selton Hall remained.

'Won't you let me put you to bed?' Mrs Jenkins spoke hesitantly from behind her. 'It would be best – well more fit for you to be in bed when your Francis comes.'

'When will he come?, Marianne blurted out angrily. 'Will he come at all?'

Her pride and her love were both suffering. She must count for very little in Francis's eyes. But perhaps, after all, his concept of love was very different from a seventeen-year old girl's. But she saw Jenkins looking at her unhappily and relented.

'I'm not feeling sleepy,' she said with an assurance she was far from feeling. 'I would rather stay up. But you, my good Jenkins, you go to bed. I – I shall read for a while.'

To support her words she took a book at random from a small bookcase and, settling herself in an armchair, bestowed on Mrs Jenkins a smile which did not deceive that good woman in the least. She knew Marianne too well not to see through any such attempt to pull the wool over her own or anyone else's eyes. However, thinking it quite right and proper for her young lady to behave with a dignity in which, to Mrs Jenkins way of thinking, her husband was at that moment singularly lacking, the housekeeper did not insist. With a prim 'goodnight, my lady,' she dropped a curtsey, smiled warmly and withdrew.

She was hardly gone before Marianne flung the book into a corner and gave way to scalding tears.

Was it possible a game of cards could take so long? Two hours later Marianne had exhausted every possible outlet for her disappointment and exacerbated nerves. She had walked up and down the room until her feet trembled, gnawed her handkerchief to shreds and wept her heart out until she was forced to wash her face in cold water to remove the traces of tears. Now, dry eyed but with burning cheeks she admitted at last that she was frightened, simply frightened.

What could be keeping him so long? No game of cards could warrant such behaviour on one's wedding night. Perhaps something had happened to Francis. At once, the girl's imagination began building up a succession of improbable catastrophes. He might be ill. She was seized by a mad, childish longing to run downstairs and see what was the matter but some remnants of pride made her pause in the doorway. Suppose Francis were really sitting calmly in the drawing room playing whist? What a fool she would look—

Forcing herself to think calmly, she decided to do the only thing which seemed to her properly dignified and at the same time to offer a little balm to her wounded feelings, lock her door, go to bed, put out the light and sleep or at least pretend to since she knew that underlying her anger was a wretchedness that made the chance of sleep remote.

All around was the silent house. The noises of the sleeping countryside came to her through the open window. The belated shriek of a nightjar sounded somewhere deep in the woods. Marianne went to the door, shot the bolt and, tugging off her dressing gown as she went, hurried into bed. But she had hardly laid her dark head on the lace pillow, after first hurling the one intended for Francis viciously to the ground, when there was a soft tap at the door.

Her heart lurched in her breast and she lay frozen, not knowing what to do. She was torn between resentment, whispering to her to leave the door shut and pretend to be asleep, and love telling her to run to meet him with open arms now that he had come at last. The tapping came again, a little louder. Marianne could bear it no longer. She slipped out of bed, ran barefoot to the door and opened it. Then she stepped back with a gasp of surprise. There, standing in the doorway, was not Francis but Jason Beaufort.

'May I come in for a moment?' the American said. He smiled, revealing a flash of strong white teeth. 'I have to speak to you—'

Suddenly conscious of the extreme thinness of her nightgown, which offered nothing in the way of concealment, Marianne fell upon her robe with a cry of horror and wrapped it hastily around her. Once safely enveloped in its many flounces of lawn and lace, she felt sufficiently confident to face her unexpected visitor. Anger at being so surprised made her voice tremble as she said coldly:

'You cannot be aware of the impropriety of such a visit at this hour, sir, or you would scarcely have ventured to knock on my door. What you have to say must be very grave to justify such behaviour. I am awaiting my husband and—'

'Precisely, and I am here to tell you he will not come – not tonight at least!'

Instantly all Marianne's anxieties returned and she blamed herself bitterly for disregarding them. Something had happened to her Francis! But the American had read her fears in her eyes before she had time to utter them.

'No,' he said, 'nothing terrible has happened to him.'

'Then you have been making him drunk?'

Without waiting for a permission which was not forthcoming, Jason came inside and shut the door carefully behind him regardless of Marianne's frown. He was inside the room almost before she was aware of it. He looked at her and began to laugh.

'Well, what kind of education have you had, my lady, to make you think that only the fact that he was dead drunk would keep a husband from his marriage bed? Where the devil were you brought up?'

'My education is no concern of yours,' she snapped, stung by the American's laughter. 'Only tell me what has happened to Francis and then go!'

Jason made a face and bit his lip.

'Hospitality would not seem to be your strong point either. However, what I have to tell you will take a little time – besides being somewhat delicate. May I?'

With a slight, mocking bow he went and sat down in a large tapestry-covered armchair that stood beside the fire, stretched out his long booted legs comfortably and looked up at the girl.

Marianne stood quivering beside the bed, her arms crossed over her breast, visibly struggling against a growing anger which made her eyes gleam like two hard green stones. The intruder looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, touched despite himself by her obvious youth and perhaps also by some private scruples. She had the animal grace of a young thoroughbred yet at the same time a warm femininity which touched some deep cord in the American. He found himself dwelling with a good deal of pleasure on the tantalizing and delightful vision he had beheld a moment before when she opened the door. But as he looked at her, a kind of rage welled up in him against Francis Cranmere and also against himself for being, through his own fault as much as the Englishman's, in this impossible situation.

At length, his silent scrutiny became too much for Marianne.

'Sir,' she broke out furiously, 'I warn you if you do not leave my room at once, I will have you thrown out, perhaps not by my husband, since you tell me he will not come, but by my servants!'

'If I were you, I would do no such thing. We, that is your husband, yourself and your humble servant are already in a somewhat delicate situation without your making it any worse by causing a scandal in the middle of the night. Leave your servants in their beds and listen to me. Come over here now and sit down. I have told you, I must speak to you seriously and I ask you to hear me with patience.'

All trace of mockery had vanished. The sailor's blue eyes were hard as granite. The words were an order and, automatically, Marianne obeyed. She came slowly and sat down facing him as he had said, forcing herself to be calm. Her instinct told her that something was coming for which she would need all her self control. She took a deep breath.

'I am listening,' she said coldly. 'But be quick. I am very tired—'

'It doesn't show. Listen, Lady Cranmere (he stressed the name deliberately), what I have to tell you may seem strange but I reckon you can stand a shock without flinching.'

'You are too kind. To what do I owe this good opinion?'

Marianne said lightly making an effort to conceal her growing alarm. What could the man be getting at?

'Mine is a hard life and I can judge a person's worth,' Beaufort answered curtly.

'Then be good enough to cut these preliminaries and come to the point. What are you trying to tell me?'

'This. I played cards with your husband this evening—'

'At whist? I know – for several hours, I believe.'

'That is so. We played and Francis lost.'

The girl's lovely mouth curved in faint scorn. Was that all? She thought she knew what the American had in mind. A mere matter of money.

'I do not see how that concerns me. If my husband has lost, then he will pay, of course.'

'He has paid, but that is not all. Will you pay, also?'

'What do you mean?'

'That Lord Cranmere has lost not only everything that he possessed, which was little enough, but also all the dowry you have brought him—'

'What!' Marianne had gone very pale.

'He has lost your fortune, your lands placed in his keeping, and the house itself with all that it contains – and more besides!' Beaufort spoke with a contained fury that frightened Marianne. She stood up but her legs refused to bear her and she had to lean on the arms of her chair. Everything seemed plunged into confusion, she felt as though she was going mad. Even the solid walls of her room seemed to be swaying and lurching wildly.

She had often heard her aunt and the abbé de Chazay discussing, in shocked whispers, the extraordinary passion for gambling which possessed the youth of England, the endless, hectic gaming parties at which fortunes changed hands, the absurd bets on the most improbable things for the sake of which men were willing to stake even their lives. But it had never occurred to her that Francis, so calm and aristocratic, with his extraordinary self possession, might indulge in such follies. It was not true! It could not be true! It was not possible.

She favoured Beaufort with a glance of biting contempt.

'You are lying,' she said as calmly as she could. 'My husband is incapable of such a thing!'

'How do you know? For how long have you known the man you married today?'

'My aunt knew him from a child. That is enough for me.'

'Who can claim to know what moves a woman's heart? I imagine Lady Selton was ignorant of Francis Cranmere's passion for gaming. At all events,' the American went on in a harder voice, 'I have not lied to you. Your husband has just lost all that you possess – and more besides.'

Marianne heard him with growing annoyance. She disliked his easy manner and the steady gaze of his blue eyes but his last words awoke an echo in her mind.

'That is the second time you have said that. I do not understand. What do you mean with your "and more besides" ?'

Jason Beaufort did not reply at once. He could feel the young girl's nerve stretched taught as a bow string, perhaps at that limit of tension that comes before the breaking point. But she had weathered one storm and he liked that. It pleased him to have a worthy opponent.

'Well, why don't you answer me?' Marianne said cuttingly. 'Are you afraid, suddenly, or are you searching for some suitable lie?'

'I was merely wondering,' the American said gently, 'how you were going to take the remainder of what I have to – shall I say, confide.'

'Say what you like, but say it quickly!'

'After Lord Cranmere had lost everything, when he had nothing left to stake, he lost his temper and volunteered to win back all he had lost at one go. He proposed to stake, against all his former property, something infinitely more precious than all…'

He paused again, hesitating to say the words which, in the presence of those clear eyes, seemed suddenly out of all proportion monstrous. And Marianne's throat was so dry with fear that she could find no voice to bid him go on. Her 'what?' was scarcely more than a whisper.

'You,' Beaufort answered quietly.

One single little syllable but it seared into Marianne like a shot from a pistol fired at point blank range. For a moment, she thought that she was going to faint. She stepped back, and back again in an instinctive search for support, groping behind her until her icy hand met the warm, comforting stone fireplace. Now, she knew she was going mad – unless it were he, this insolent creature, he were the madman. But he seemed so cool, so self assured, while she seemed to be falling headlong… A wave of sick disgust swept over her. At least the walls of the house were there, certain and solid under her hands, to lean on otherwise she would have been sure that this was some nightmare. She flung her thoughts in Beaufort's face:

'Either I am mad, sir, or you are. Am I a slave to be sold or bartered at will? Even supposing Lord Cranmere to have been so vile or so rash as to stake the property placed in his keeping today, even then, he can only lose what belongs to him – and I do not belong to him!' The savagery in her tone startled the American.

'In the eyes of the law,' he said, and his voice was more gentle than ever, 'you do belong to him. And let me make it clear, it was not you yourself, or your life he staked, but only this one night. It is this night which now belongs to me. The loss of that vast stake made it my privilege to come to you here, in place of your husband – to exercise his rights.'

No, this was too much! Who had ever heard of such a thing? Not even the abominable Lovelace, the persecutor of the unhappy Clarissa Harlowe whose adventures Marianne had read not long before, would ever have dared to suggest anything so improper! With what sort of creature did this impudent foreigner think he had to do? Marianne drew herself up to her full height and racked her memory with childish fury for some of the more vulgar and incomprehensible insults overheard in the stable yard. She felt as though they would relieve her feelings mightily. When, inevitably, nothing came to mind she was obliged to be content with pointing imperiously at the door.

'Go,' was all she said.

Instead of obeying, Jason Beaufort swung round and gripped the back of a chair, resting one knee on the seat. Marianne saw the knuckles of the brown hand whiten.

'No,' he answered coolly. Then, his eyes held by the pale graceful figure and by the disturbing recollection of the form half-seen not long before, he went on: 'Listen, and try to hear me out without losing your temper. You don't love that pompous selfish fop, you cannot love him?'

'I am not obliged to discuss my feelings with you – and I ask you once again to go.'

The American's jaw tightened. So this chit thought she could impose on him with her queenly airs. Furious with himself, more than with her, he took refuge in anger.

'So much the worse for you!' he said grimly. 'At all events, he's lost you. No woman can go on loving a man who could gamble away her first night of love – not unless she had sunk as low as he. By his consent, you are mine for this full night. Come with me – come away with me – use this night he has relinquished to gain your own freedom! I'll not touch you but I'll take you with me, to my own country, out of his reach – I will make you happy – There before us is the sea to divide you forever from a man unworthy of you—'

'And unite me with another, at least equally unworthy!' Marianne retorted. Gradually, as he became more feverishly urgent, she had been recovering her self possession. For the first time in her life she was discovering power over a man, sufficient at least to disturb this disagreeable American. She gave way to the perfectly natural temptation to abuse it.

'If the chivalrous feelings you possess towards me are genuine sir, then you may prove it very simply…'

Halted abruptly in the midst of his wholly unpremeditated outburst of feeling, Jason Beaufort asked curtly:

'How?'

'By returning the house, land and property which you have acquired by such dubious means. They have been in Lord Cranmere's possession for too short a time for him to have any right to dispose of them. Then, yes, I might think of you not merely without anger but even with friendship. As for my being yours, even for an hour, I think you can scarcely have imagined it?'

A gleam of anger showed in the American's eyes. His hawk-like features seemed to become even harder. He turned his back abruptly, perhaps to shut out the seductive vision of the child woman who had seemed so innocent but was now exhibiting an alarming self possession.

'Impossible,' he said flatly. 'For me, that game of cards was a chance in a lifetime. My ship, the Savannah Belle, was wrecked on your Cornish rocks. Only three of us escaped and everything I had went down with my ship. With the money from your estates I can get another vessel, crew, provisions and cargo. Even so—'

He turned suddenly, a prey to a desire stronger than reason, and fixed her with burning eyes.

'Even so,' he went on hoarsely, 'I'll give you back the house and lands, I'll even be fool enough for that if you will pay the final debt. Give me this night – and the morning I will be gone. You shall keep it all.'

He was moving slowly towards her as he spoke, drawn irresistibly by the graceful elusive white figure. Marianne had a lightening vision of what might follow. An hour in this man's arms and then he would go away and leave her once again mistress of Selton Hall. But these last minutes had taught her to be suspicious and she knew that it would be a long time before she could trust a man again. How could she be sure that when dawn came and once this spasm of desire which even she, young as she was, could read naked and demanding in the man's taut face, was satisfied, how could she know that then he would keep his promise and give up the wealth he claimed to need so badly? A moment ago, he had promised not to touch her if she went with him and now he dared to claim payment of the shameful debt!

All this rushed through her mind as Jason came towards her. He was reaching out to touch her when Marianne recoiled instinctively.

'No!' she cried. 'Take everything there is since you claim that it is yours but you shall not touch me. Not you or anyone! At dawn tomorrow you may drive us out of here, Lord Cranmere and myself, but until then my bed shall be my own.'

The reaching hands fell back. Jason drew himself up with a supreme effort to recover his control. Marianne saw the lean face which, a moment before, had been heavy with passion stiffen into a scornful mask of stone. He shrugged.

You are a fool, Lady Cranmere. All things considered, you and your husband make a noble pair. I wish you every happiness. It will not be long I think before you discover the joys of living from hand to mouth with a man for whom you no longer possess any commercial value. But that's your affair. Keep your Francis since you care for him so much. You may remain here for a few more days until my man of business can take possession of the estate. For myself, I am leaving at once. Goodbye.'

He bent his tall figure in a curt bow, turned on his heel and strode to the door. In spite of herself, Marianne made a move to follow the man who was taking with him, as though it were of no account, all her childhood memories and everything she held dear. She had the heartbreaking thought that Aunt Ellis who had so loved her home would rest now, along with all the other Seltons, on land belonging to a stranger. Yet even then it did not occur to her to beg. Her pride forbade it. Her throat constricted and suddenly she wanted to cry.

'I hate you!' She wailed through clenched teeth. 'You can have no idea how much I hate you! I'd like to see you dead and while I live I shall go on hating you!'

He turned again and looked at her. One corner of his mouth lifted in his mocking smile.

'Hate me as much as you like, Lady Cranmere. I'd a hundred times rather hate than indifference. After all, don't they say that on a woman's lips hatred and love taste much the same? A happy thought – I may as well find out?'

Before Marianne could guess what he meant to do, he had taken three steps across the space that divided them and caught her in his arms. Half-stifled, her head reeling, she found herself imprisoned in a grip of steel, her lips sealed by a hard demanding mouth that bore down relentlessly on hers. She struggled furiously but Jason held her fast, and for all her frenzy to escape there was little she could do. Alternate hot and cold waves seemed to run through her body, mingled with another strange and still more disturbing sensation. Unconsciously, Marianne's struggles grew feebler and ceased. That other mouth was so warm after the chill she had endured and by some miracle it had become suddenly soft and caressing – dazedly, Marianne was aware of a hand stealing up the back of her neck beneath the silken masses of her hair, imprisoning her head. It was like a dream – a not altogether unpleasant dream. And then, abruptly, she found herself released, standing alone while the world swayed about her, weak-kneed with a ringing in her ears. The American's horrible, mocking laughter sounded close by.

'My thanks for your co-operation, but do not forget you still owe me a night. One day, I shall come to claim it. What a pity it would be to miss the chance of making love to such a woman. You are made for it.'

At the sound of the closing door, Marianne, scarlet with shame, opened the eyes which she had closed to shut out the sardonic face of her tormentor. He had gone. She was alone at last but alone as she might have been in the midst of the ruins. Of her world, the world of her childhood, nothing remained. House, fortune, love and all her most cherished illusions destroyed in an instant. All that remained was a few, still-warm ashes soon to be scattered by the wind. The estate would be sold so that one more ship might sail the seas!

A horse's hoofs clattered beneath the window, diminished and died away. Marianne had no need to look to know that Jason Beaufort was gone, fleeing the wreck that he had brought about. Now she, Marianne, must think what to do about the disaster he had left behind.

She sat down calmly in the armchair so recently occupied by the American. Around her, the house was silent once again.

When, half an hour later, she emerged from her melancholy thoughts she felt as though she had been born anew as a result of some painful and unaccustomed new process of gestation. Very little remained of the innocent young Marianne who had plunged headlong with such blind infatuation into the mirages of calf-love.

Now, her only feeling was anger, an anger nothing but vengeance could assuage. This vengeance, Marianne was determined to exact at once. Francis had betrayed her, sold her, degraded her and for that he would pay.

Calmly she slipped out of the frilly gown and gauzy nightrobe for which she no longer had any use and put on instead a dark green riding habit. She twisted her hair into a hasty knot on the nape of her neck and left the room. Out on the landing, she was struck by the heavy, almost brooding silence of the house, an ominous, waiting silence like that of a wood before a storm when all living creatures, beast and tree seemed to hold their breath.

Throwing the skirt of her habit over her arm, Marianne glided soundlessly down the great oak staircase, a slight shadow in a world of shadows. On the last step, she paused. Everywhere was so dark. Where could Francis be? He had arrived at Selton Hall only an hour before the wedding ceremony and no room had been set aside for his personal use.

The girl's quick ear caught the clink of a glass and at once, sure of her direction, she made her way to her aunt's boudoir and opened the door. Francis was there. He was lying back in a big armchair, elegantly shod feet resting on a table covered with green baize which also held a big bronze candlestick, decanters and some glasses. His back was to the door and he did not hear Marianne come in. She paused for a moment in the doorway, looking with fresh eyes at the man whose name she bore. A pang in the region of her heart told her that anger and disappointment had not been enough to kill her love. He fascinated and repelled her, like the curious plant she had seen writhing its libid tentacles in Lord Monmouth's glasshouses at Bath which devoured insects and small mammals. Her love for him was an unwholesome plant which she was determined to tear out by the roots, even if her heart were torn apart for ever in the process. But oh, how it hurt!

With a mixture of pain and fury, she allowed her eyes to dwell once more upon her husband's handsome face, the mouth for whose kisses she had longed, and the slender hand with which just then Francis was idly turning his full glass to catch the firelight. Those hands would never caress her now because she was here with the single intention of killing Francis Cranmere.

Leaving her husband's recumbent figure, Marianne's eyes flicked rapidly round the room and came to rest on a pair of fine Milanese swords which formed part of the decoration of this strange boudoir full of riding whips, weapons and spurs. She had used those swords more than once in practice bouts with old Dobs who had taught her to fence. Noiselessly, she reached down one of the weapons, a strong, slender blade she knew well. Her fingers closed on the hilt and, settling it firmly in her grasp she moved forward without a sound. The blade would pass easily through the padded chair and the thickness of the man's body and Marianne was ready to strike so, from behind, without remorse as the executioner lets fall his axe on the condemned man kneeling at his feet. Hers was the hand of justice. This man had betrayed her, broken her heart. It was right that he should die. She drew back her arm. The sword's point touched the leather upholstery of the chair.

But slowly, she let her arm fall. The blade dropped. No, she had doomed him but she could not strike like this, from behind. She hated him with all the strength of disappointed love but she hated even more the thought of killing like a coward without giving her victim the least chance to defend himself. Her natural honesty recoiled from such a summary execution, even if Francis had deserved it a hundred times over.

The thought came to her: since her conscience demanded that the villain must have his chance, why not force him to fight a duel? Marianne was an expert swordswomen and knew her own strength. She stood a fair chance of beating, and killing even a skilled opponent. And then, supposing Francis proved himself the stronger and overcame her, she would die without regret, taking her shattered love and unsullied chastity to a place where such things no longer mattered.

She stepped out from the shadow of the chair and slashed the air with her sword. At the hiss of the blade, Francis turned his head and stared at her with a real surprise that gave way almost at once to a mocking smile.

'Here's a strange turn-out for a wedding night! What are you playing at?'

Was that all he had to say after his outrageous conduct? He might at least have shown some shame! But no, he was as carelessly at ease as ever! And dared to mock at her!

Ignoring the irony in the question, Marianne mastered her anger sufficiently to say coldly:

'You played for me like a paltry handful of guineas, sold me like a slave! Don't you think you owe me some explanation?'

'Oh, is that all?'

With a weary smile, Francis Cranmere settled himself more deeply in his armchair, set down his glass and clasped his hands across his stomach as though composing himself more comfortably for sleep.

'Beaufort is a romantic. He was ready to stake all the treasures of Golconda against you—'

'Which he did not possess.'

'As you say. But I do believe, if he had lost, he would have been prepared to steal to match your worth. Damme m'dear, you've an admirer there – unfortunately, it was I who lost. But there, there are some days when one is quite out of luck.'

His airy tone whipped up Marianne's anger. Suddenly his handsome, insolently smiling face maddened her beyond bearing.

'And you supposed that I would pay for you?' She said angrily.

'Lord, no! You've plenty of breeding, even if you are half French. I was pretty sure you'd send our American friend to the right-about. And so you did because I heard him riding off and here you are! But what the devil are you doing with that sword, put it down, do, before you have an accident.'

He put out an arm, more sleepily than ever, refilled his glass and carried it to his lips. Marianne noticed with disgust the dark red flush that was beginning to spread over his aristocratic countenance. Already, he was very nearly drunk. She saw him slip his fingers nervously inside his high muslin neckcloth to loosen it. She watched with contempt as he tossed back the last amber drops in his glass before saying curtly:

'Get up!'

He merely raised one eyebrow questioningly.

'Get up? Why should I?'

'I think you can scarcely mean to fight from an armchair.'

As she spoke, she reached down another weapon and tossed it to him. He caught it automatically, incensing Marianne further. Drunk he might be, but not enough to make him clumsy. He lacked even the degrading excuse of sottishness.

Francis was contemplating the bright blade with amused astonishment.

'Fight? Who shall I fight?'

'Me! Come, sir, get up! By making me the object of your sport you have offered me a deadly insult. You shall give me satisfaction. The name I bear does not permit an offence to go unpunished.'

'In future you bear my name, and I have the right to do what I will to my own wife,' Francis cut her roughly short. 'You are mine, body and soul, you and your possessions. You are nothing – except my wife! So now, stop behaving like an idiot and put away that sword. You don't know what you are doing with it.'

Marianne flexed the supple blade between her hands and smiled scornfully.

'As to that, I invite you to be the judge, Lord Cranmere. Besides, the name that I alluded to was not yours. That, I have done with! I reject it utterly! It is the name of d'Asselnat I mean, That name, you have sullied and betrayed in my person. And I swear to you you shall not live long enough to boast of it.'

Francis's mocking chuckle cut short her words. Marianne listened without flinching while he lay back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling, opened his mouth wide and roared with laughter. The man she had seen in this last hour was so different from the one she had imagined that his behaviour no longer even had power to hurt her. For the present, she felt nothing at all. Suffering would come later. Just now, Marianne was still under the effect of the revelation and the anger it had brought. But Francis was chuckling:

'You know, you're unbeatable? It must be your French blood gives you your taste for the dramatic. Anyone who saw you now, like Nemesis got up in green worsted, would die with laughing and refuse to believe their eyes. Come now, m'dear,' he went on carelessly, 'drop all these tragedy airs. They suit neither your age nor your sex. Go back to bed. Tomorrow, we have arrangements to make. Disagreeable ones, I admit, but unavoidable.'

With a sigh of irritation, Lord Cranmere at last hoisted himself from his chair, stretched his long limbs lazily and gave vent to a prodigious yawn.

'A damnable evening! That American had the devil in his fingers. Rolled me up like a bundle of dead leaves—'

Marianne's voice cut through his words.

'Lord Cranmere, I think you have not understood me. I will no longer be your wife.'

'Do you see any help for it? We are properly married, you know.'

'At first I thought of applying to Rome for an annulment, it would not be difficult for the abbé de Chazay to obtain one. But that would not cleanse the honour of my name. And so, I have decided to kill you and become a widow – unless, of course, you should happen to kill me first.'

An expression of profound boredom descended on Francis's perfect features.

'Are you still harping on that? Surely, the woman's mad. Where have you ever seen a man fight a duel with a woman? A woman? With a child! I have already told you, go to bed. A good rest will put such nonsense out of your head.'

'I am past the age of being sent to bed! Will you give me satisfaction, yes or no?'

'No! You may go to the devil, you and your ridiculous French notions of honour! Whatever possessed your mother to marry one of the damned frog-eaters! Truth is, must have been a bit mad herself, I heard the Duke of Norfolk offered for her and—'

He broke off with a cry of rage and pain. Marianne's sword hissed with murderous fury and carved a long weal on Francis's left cheek. He sprang back, clapping his hand to his hurt face and drew it away wet with blood.

'Coward!' She spat at him between her teeth. 'I'll make you fight me! Defend yourself or by the memory of my mother whom you have insulted, I swear I'll pin you to the wall!'

A dark flush of anger swept over Francis's face. His grey eyes flamed. In that instant, Marianne read in them, naked and violent, the lust to kill. Seizing the sword which still lay on the table, he bore down on her, an evil glitter in his eye.

'Have it your own way, damn you!' He muttered.

With one swift movement, Marianne whipped off the long skirt of her riding habit which threatened to impede her movements and stood up in boots and breeches. In an instant, she was on guard. At the sight of those long, slim legs and hips, outlined with anatomical precision by the close-fitting silk, a twisted smile crossed Francis's face.

'Gad, what a shape. And there was I thinking this marriage had nothing more to offer! Why, a moment ago I'd quite made up my mind to kill you. Now, damme if I won't be satisfied with disarming you – or perhaps pinking you – very lightly – just enough to make you properly submissive to the exercise of my conjugal rights. There's nothing like a taste of the whip to tame a filly without breaking her spirit. I like my mounts to have some fire in their veins!'

Even as he spoke, he had engaged. A feverish flush was on his cheeks and a wild light in his eyes. For the first time, Marianne saw revealed the cruelty of that mouth from which she had looked only for kisses. As he fenced, Francis favoured her with a detailed description of what lay in store for her when he had her at his mercy. Confronted with the blazing contempt of this seventeen year old girl, all vestiges of shame or self restraint were stripped from him and sheer hatred made him determined, at all costs, to bend her to his will.

Sunk in her own misery and loathing, Marianne heard without properly understanding, without even really listening to his words. The wonderful picture she had built up of Francis was slowly and finally crumbling away, leaving in its place only a half-drunk man, whose handsome mouth spat out a stream of obscenity. And, insensibly, implacably, overcoming disgust, there came the renewed desire to kill.

But gradually, the odious voice fell silent and at the same time an expression of surprise replaced the anger on Francis's taut features, a surprise that was soon tinged with uneasiness. This slender, dark girl, with the defiant green eyes was fighting with the skill and address of an experienced duellist. There was no opening in that unwavering guard. The slender, bright blade seemed everywhere at once, multiplied a hundred, a thousand times by Marianne's supple wrists. The girl fought like a tigress, continually circling her opponent, changing her guard a dozen times. The foils rang together ominously, meeting faster and faster as Marianne forced Francis Cranmere to a killing pace.

Like all the prince's circle, young Lord Cranmere was a keen sportsman and accounted an excellent blade. All the same, he had his work cut out to defend himself against the lithe green-clad figure darting into the attack from all quarters at once, yet never, for all that, failing to parry adroitly in defence of her own skin. Not a muscle stirred in the lovely face but Francis could tell from the fierce light in her eye how deeply she relished this moment. He had a disagreeable sensation that she was playing with him. At the same time, his throat constricted with sudden desire. She had never seemed to him so lovely, so desirable. The excitement of the fight had put colour in her smooth cheeks, a rosiness on her lips. Her fine linen shirt, soaked now with sweat so that it clung alluringly to her body, was open at the throat, giving promise of the rich swell of her breasts.

Enraged to find himself thus held at bay by one he had regarded as no more than a pretty, love-sick goose and eager to make an end, the sooner to enjoy her, Francis lost his head and began to make mistakes. There was, in addition, the fatigue of a heavy night at cards and the fumes of alchohol misting his brain. Marianne saw this and redoubled her agility. Francis lunged, aiming for a decisive thrust. She parried by a hair's-breadth and then, slipping with a quick, snake-like movement under her adversary's blade, thrust home. Her point buried itself in Francis's breast.

The young man's grey eyes widened with a look of enormous surprise. The sword slipped from his suddenly loosened grasp and clattered to the floor. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came, only a gout of blood which dribbled down his chin. He crumpled where he stood and, slowly, Marianne drew out her sword. She let it fall, without even thinking to wipe it, and went on her knees beside the wounded man. His eyes were already clouding. Her throat tightened and suddenly she wanted to cry. Her hatred had left her now that he was dying.

'You did me a great wrong, Francis – I am avenged. Now, die in peace. I have forgiven you.'

From beneath half-closed lips his eyes sought for her and his hand groped to touch her. A ghost of a smile touched his lips.

'A pity,' he murmured. 'I could – have loved you—'

He closed his eyes with a groan. It was then, as she still knelt by him, Marianne heard a fearful shriek behind her.

'My God! Francis—'

Marianne turned quickly and was just in time to jerk herself backwards to avoid being knocked down by Ivy as she cast herself sobbing onto the lifeless body. She had not heard the door open or seen the other girl enter. How long had Francis's cousin been there? How much had she heard? Marianne looked down at the graceful form, prostrate amid the swirling folds of her white gown, and frowned, wondering at the violence of her grief. Ivy was clasping Francis's body and uttering whimpering cries, like a wounded animal, out of all proportion in Marianne's estimation with the natural grief to be felt for a mere cousin. But she had little time to wonder before Ivy rounded on her, her face streaked with tears and rendered unrecognizable by grief and malice.

'This is your doing, I suppose,' she said fiercely. 'You found out at last that he did not love you, that he could not love you – and so you killed him! It wasn't enough for you to bear his name, to be his wife before the world, to have the right to serve him—'

'Serve him? You are out of your mind!' Marianne's lip curled scornfully. 'The women of my house do not serve! As for this man, I killed him in fair fight! There are two swords—'

'But only one has blood on it! You jealous little French slut, you knew it was me he loved and you could not endure it!'

'He loved you?' Marianne was genuinely astonished.

Ivy St. Albans's lovely face was transfigured with the fearful joy of flinging the searing truth in the teeth of her hated rival.

'He was my lover! For months now we have been united, body and soul. He would have married me, but neither he nor I had money. Then you turned up, you and your old fool of an aunt. It was just what we needed, a pair of silly women who asked nothing better than to drop a fortune at his feet. It was child's play for Francis to win you. Everything went off as he had hoped, better even since the old woman had the sense to die and leave you everything! But then you guessed, didn't you, that he meant to keep you tucked away down here in the country while he lived with me in London, with me and your money! It was that you could not stand—'

Marianne listened in amazement to this eruption of fury and hatred. Horrified, she saw at last the cynical calculation, of which she had been the object, and cold-blooded way in which these two had coolly set about playing on her own innocence and her aunt's goodness. Even more than the insult, which had already been wiped out, it was the contemptuous way this creature dared to speak of her aunt's memory that roused her anger.

'You would not have enjoyed my fortune for long,' she said coldly. 'Your precious Francis lost it all tonight; the little of his own he had left and everything I brought him. The master of Selton Hall at this moment is Jason Beaufort!'

The news struck Ivy like a thunderbolt. Her fine blue eyes dilated, her jaw dropped and a deathly pallor spread over her face.

'All – the whole fortune?'

'All! I have nothing left but my honour, and even that he dared dispose of. He deserved to die, you see! I could have shot him down, from behind, like a mad dog or stabbed him in the back. I gave him a chance. He lost. The worst for him.'

'And for you, also. You killed him, you shall hang!' Ivy screamed, no longer able to contain her fury. 'I shall testify against you! You dared to strike him, you, who should have been too happy just to be his humble slave! But you are forgetting the Prince of Wales. The prince is his friend and he will not let your crime go unpunished. I am here and I will not rest until I have brought you to trial and then I will tell all the lies I need. And the day they put the rope round your neck I shall be there in the front row – to cheer!'

Beside herself with rage, Ivy began calling loudly for help and ran to the hearth to pull the bell that hung there. But, quicker than she, Marianne was before her and as Ivy ran into her she clapped a hand across her mouth.

'Be quiet you little fool! You will wake the whole house—'

Biting savagely at the fingers clamped across her lips, Ivy wriggled herself free and said venomously:

'I mean to wake everyone! Lord Moira will come and he will listen to me! You will be locked up until you can be brought to trial.'

'My servants will defend me.'

'Not against the prince. They are all loyal Englishmen and to them you are only a foreigner, a nasty little Frenchwoman, a papist who has killed her husband! They will believe me—'

Marianne's brain worked quickly. But, though she tried to reassure herself, fear began to gain on her, whispering that Ivy was right. It was true. Respect for the tradition was strong at Selton Hall and for all her servants, except perhaps for Dobbs and old Jenkins, she would be only her husband's murderer. They would forget everything but her French blood and her Catholic faith. If Ivy screamed for help, then she was lost – and Ivy was going to scream, was screaming already—

In her terror Marianne seized hold of the first object that came to hand which happened to be a long duelling pistol that lay on a chest. She grabbed it by the barrel and struck with the butt. The blow caught Ivy St. Albans on the temple and she dropped without even a sigh. But this time her rival wasted no precious seconds contemplating the prostrate figure stretched in its virginal drapery beside the lifeless form of Francis. She did not even pause to find out whether Ivy still lived. She had to escape, and escape with all speed. Already, it seemed to her that she could hear people stirring somewhere in the house. They would come and find her with the two motionless bodies, they might be coming even now – with a shock of horror, she seemed to see the shadow of the gibbet already looming over her.

Without knowing how she did it, she almost staggered from the room, blundering heavily against the furniture, and dashed up the stairs to her room. There, she snatched up the pearl necklace that had been her mother's , the duchesse d'Angoulême's locket and a purse containing a little money and then, shrouded in a big, black hooded cloak, she hurried out again without a backward glance, slipped noiselessly along the darkened gallery to a small stairway built into one of the turrets. From there, she made her way to the stables without encountering a living soul.

CHAPTER THREE The Old Roots

The wind had risen, bringing with it a cold, dense rain that whipped against Marianne's face where she stood, her eyes heavy with tears, gazing at the silent mausoleum where her ancestors lay at rest, but she did not feel it. The night was so dark that the dome and the white columns loomed up, blurred and ghostly, like a mist before her eyes. It was as though the tomb of the Seltons was already receding into the past, falling back into darkness and distance in spite of the girl's desperate efforts to impress each line of it upon her memory. She thought with pain and bitterness that this was all she had left in the world, this acre of land and the marble beneath which her ancestors lay.

Driven by a compelling need to feel less wretched and alone, she pushed open the creaking gate and laid her cheek against the cold, damp stone as, when a little girl in need of love, she had run to hide her face against a grey silk skirt.

'Aunt Ellis,' she moaned, 'Oh, Aunt Ellis – why?'

It was the cry of a lost child, but there was no one to answer. Why had her quiet, sheltered life been suddenly transformed into this irretrievable disaster? Marianne felt all the incredulous terror of a passenger on board ship who suddenly exchanges the safety and comfort of his cabin for the icy tumult of the storm, finding himself snatched from his warm bed and plunged into the sea, clinging to a spar.

But she might as well have tried to warm the cold marble tombs in her arms. All was still, cold and silent. And yet, there was an agonizing pain in trying to tear herself away. Going, she would leave behind her all her childhood and all the happiness she believed that she had known.

But time was short. Back in the direction of the house, voices were already shouting. They must be looking for her even now. Then, suddenly a thick column of smoke rose above the trees and a long flame shot skywards. Marianne moved a few steps away from the mausoleum.

'Fire!' She muttered. 'Selton is on fire—'

What could have started it? Her first impulse, seeing the old house in danger, was to rush back but a sudden grim satisfaction made her pause. Let the noble old house burn rather than see it in the hands of the American! It was better so! Then there would indeed be nothing left of all her memories, nothing but the indelible scar she bore in her heart, and this white marble monument.

Brushing away the tears that ran down her cheeks with an angry gesture, Marianne went to the place where she had left her horse and climbed wearily into the saddle. Her thoughts went back suddenly to her flight from the boudoir. She had no clear recollection of how she had got out of the room but she did recall hearing some kind of dull thud as of a piece of furniture overturned. The candles on the table! Had she knocked them over? Had she been the unwitting cause of the fire? A picture crossed her mind of the two still forms left lying in the room but she thrust them back angrily. Francis was dead. What difference if his body were reduced to ashes. As for Ivy, Marianne felt nothing but hatred for her.

Standing up in the stirrups, she looked back for an instant to where, above the treetops, the roofs of Selton stood etched against the ruddy glow of the fire as though against a bloody dawn. An indistinguishable murmur of voices reached her but, for Marianne, the insubstantial barrier of trees had become a symbol, cutting her off forever from a world already falling into ruins. It was right that it should be so, and, thinking she had wasted enough time, she raised her hand in one last gesture of farewell to the monument and then, digging in her heels, made off at a canter into the woods. The wind of her going filled her ears, drowning out the roar of the fire.

In her present terrible plight, there was only one person who could help her. Her godfather. Marianne knew that if she was to save her neck, she must leave England. The abbé de Chazay was the one man capable of assisting her in this. As ill luck would have it, he was probably off on one of his long journeys. He had told her, the previous evening, that he meant to travel to Rome in answer to a summons from the Pope and, as he kissed his goddaughter goodbye, he had mentioned taking ship at Plymouth the following morning. Marianne, too, must be on that boat.

Fortunately for her, she knew the country well and there was no lane or by-way with which she was not familiar. She travelled by a short cut across country which brought her to the outskirts of Totnes, from where she had nearly twenty miles to cover to reach the great port before the tide but her mount, one of the best hunters in the stables, had strong legs.

There seemed to be a faint lightening of the darkness. The rain had come on more heavily, driving away the mist, and the moon, shining out between thick blankets of cloud, nonetheless gave sufficient light to enable Marianne to see her way without difficulty. Bent over her horse's neck, her hood pulled well down over her eyes, she hunched her back against the downpour, disregarding the water trapped in the sodden folds of her frieze cloak and concentrating wholly upon the route she had to follow.

When at last she caught sight of the ruined towers of an old Norman castle looming in the darkness above a village of straggling white houses, Marianne turned off into the hills that lay on her left and rode full tilt for the sea.

The boy lifted his arm and pointed out into the roadstead.

'Look! That's the Fowey. Just turning into the Sound.'

A wave of despair swept over Marianne. Too late! When, breathless and exhausted, she had fallen rather than dismounted from her horse on the old quay at Plymouth known as the Barbican, the abbé de Chazay had already left. Out there, on the sparkling water plucked by the wind into choppy wavelets, the lugger was plunging gaily out to sea under full sail, carrying with it her last hope.

'You are sure,' she asked the boy without conviction, 'that the French priest was on board?'

He raised his hand and spat with dignity. 'Sure as my name's Tom Mawes! Carried his traps from the Crown and Anchor meself, I did! Take you there, if you like? Best inn in town, right by St. Andrew's Church.'

With a shake of her head, Marianne declined this offer and the boy shrugged and strolled away, muttering under his breath something about 'blasted females' with no proper notions of the reward due to goodwill. Marianne walked on a little way, leading her horse, and sat down on one of the large stone capstans used for tying up vessels. All her strength and courage had drained away. Out there, on the green water, the little ship was slowly disappearing into the pale sunlight of a wintry morning that had clothed the hills around the bay in bluish mist. This was the end. Now, she had not one friend left on English soil, no one to whom she could turn for help. Now, she had only herself to rely on. It was necessary to escape, and to escape quickly, but where could she go?

The deserted Barbican was slowly coming to life. Fishing boats came in and the heaped baskets were swung up onto the stone quay, filled with plaice and sole, still wet and shiny. Granite-coloured crabs waved their black pincers from inside lobster pots and there were great clumps of greenish seaweed studded with deep purple mussels. Housewives hurried by, their starched caps bobbing, bearing great baskets on their arms and casting curious glances at the pretty, tired-looking girl dressed in boy's clothes and holding a blood-horse by the bridle.

At last, their silent scrutiny brought Marianne back to an awareness of herself and she got up, unable to endure the continued bombardment of so many curious glances. At the same time, she realized one simple fact. She was starving hungry. It may have been the sight of all that fish, the intoxicating smell of the sea, the fresh breeze, but whatever the cause, her stomach was crying out for food as only a seventeen year old stomach can. Yesterday, at that dreadful wedding dinner, she had been too agitated to eat much and she had taken nothing since.

Was it really only yesterday that she had married Francis! It seemed an eternity since that wedding ceremony. So, it had needed only a few hours to make her first an outraged wife, then a widow and now a criminal and a fugitive from justice who would soon be hunted down, if they were not already on her track. But when she thought of those who had so cruelly wounded her, no remorse troubled her mind. They had deserved their punishment and in striking them down she had done no more than avenge an insult to her honour, as any man of her family would have done. Only, when she thought of Francis, she was conscious in her inmost heart of a kind of vertigo, as though she stood on the brink of a precipice, and a bitter taste of ashes in her mouth.

With an effort of will, she drove out these gloomy thoughts. Marianne was young and strong and determined with all the force that was within her to overcome the malign fate which dogged her and to do that, it was necessary to remain alive. And, first and foremost, to eat, rest and think. She looked around her, searching for the boy she had spoken to earlier but he had vanished. However, she remembered what he had told her. The Crown and Anchor was the best hostelry in Plymouth and situated not far from St Andrew's Church. And there, rising above the steep pitched roofs, was indeed a Gothic tower which undoubtedly belonged to the former Catholic cathedral. A narrow, twisting street led her towards it and before long, she discerned the ancient timbered facade, gleaming leaded casements and impressive sign of a substantial old inn. Giving her horse into the care of a groom who appeared as though by magic, Marianne entered the inn and descending a few steps found herself in a large and welcoming common room adorned with much gleaming copper and brass with a large table in the centre and a number of smaller tables disposed around it, all covered with clean white cloths. A good peat fire burned in the hearth and a number of lusty serving wenches, their cheeks red and polished in the glow from the fire, tripped about the room bearing loaded trays.

There were few people about as yet and Marianne was able to slip unnoticed into a seat at a small table somewhat in the shadow of the wide chimney piece. From the maid-servant who appeared almost at once, she ordered oysters, a crab, a dish of the clotted yellow Devonshire cream she adored, as well as tea and toast. Then, as the girl sped away in a whirl of crisp petticoats to carry out her order, she tried to take stock of her position. Everything that had happened to her seemed so very improbable. Not even her beloved novels brought any guidance! None contained any situation remotely comparable to her own. She had, to be sure, a little money, but so very little. It would not enable her to subsist for more than a week. Then, she had to find a passport without having recourse to the authorities in the county, and find a boat prepared to face the considerable risks involved in running the blockade which had existed on all traffic between England and France for the past three years. All that would take money, probably a great deal of money. Marianne still had the pearl necklace she had brought with her but if she were to sell that here, quite apart from the dangers involved in such a sale and the questions to which it would give rise, she would have very little left to live on wherever she eventually took refuge, or where fate might decide to place her. And, to tell the truth, it mattered little to the fugitive where the winds might carry her provided they put a sufficient distance between herself and the hangman's noose. So, she must keep the necklace.

Suddenly she thought of her horse. He was a valuable animal and by selling him she might perhaps obtain enough money to pay her passage on some vessel whose master would not be over scrupulous in the matter of payment. At all events, it would be less dangerous than the necklace.

Somewhat heartened by her plans, Marianne did full justice to her breakfast and, by the time she had swallowed the last mouthful of cream, she was feeling very much better. Her clothes had dried. Warmth and nourishment had restored some measure of elasticity to muscles chilled and stiffened by hours on horseback. A gentle drowsiness crept over her and, bit by bit, her eyelids began to droop.

All at once she sat up with a start, wide awake on the instant. A man had come into the room, from the staircase leading to the upper floor where the guest bedchambers lay.

The newcomer was tall, thin and very ugly, grey-faced and hollow chested; he was aged about fifty but looked at least twice that on account of his evidently decrepit state of health. He was followed closely by two servants who hovered anxiously in the way of those members of a superior household whose duty was to be constantly alert to attend to their master. His out-moded garments, red heeled shoes, bob-wig and three-cornered hat suggested the émigré, and so indeed he was. Marianne knew him. Only the day before, he had been present, along with Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Périgord, at her marriage. It was the duc d'Avaray the confidential friend and favourite of Louis XVIII, the Castor to his Pollux, out-of-office Sully to his would-be Henri IV.

Yesterday's ceremony had been interrupted more than once by the duke's cavernous coughing, and he was coughing again now on his slow progress through the coffee room at the inn. It was no secret that the duc d'Avaray was dying of consumption.

He sat down heavily without seeing Marianne at a table close to hers occupied hitherto by a middle-aged man, a steward to all appearances, who rose at his approach. But the first words they exchanged made the girl prick up her ears.

Pushing aside the dish of steaming mutton set on the table with an expression of disgust, the duke sipped his tea slowly and sighed.

'Well, my good Bishop, have you found a vessel?'

'I have found one, Your Grace, though I had a job,' the man answered speaking with a strong Welsh accent. 'The man is a common smuggler, a Portuguese but his ship is seaworthy and sufficiently commodious. He has agreed to carry you as far as Madeira. We sail on tonight's tide.'

D'Avaray's sigh betrayed more resignation than delight.

'Excellent. Now I can only put my trust in the gentle climate of the island. I may perhaps recover.'[3]

Marianne listened to no more. Hope surged up in her. This man was leaving England, he had a vessel and since that vessel was a smuggler her master could not be too particular in the matter of formalities. For her, this meant safety, luck beyond hope which she could not afford to lose. She shrank back in her corner, hardly daring to breath, observing the two men and watching for the right moment to introduce herself. The duke was a sick man himself and could not but feel compassion for her distress. If he were willing, she would care for him, make herself his nurse, his servant – she was prepared to offer any devotion in exchange for a helping hand.

The two men finished their meal in silence then, as the duke ordered a fresh pot of tea, Bishop took his leave, saying he would carry the news to Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Périgord, who had accompanied his friend d'Avaray to the port but was at that moment visiting some émigrés settled in the town. The room had gradually emptied of company and now the duke was alone. Marianne judged that the moment had come. She rose to her feet.

As she stood before him, the old gentleman was seized by another fit of coughing.

'Your Grace – with your permission. It is imperative I speak with you—'

Watery eyes gazed up from a congested face.

'What – d'ye want?' he gasped. 'Go away!'

For answer, she slipped into the seat vacated by Bishop and, pouring some water into a glass, offered it to the duke.

'Drink slowly, it will soothe you. Afterwards, we will talk—'

Mechanically he obeyed. He emptied the glass and, by degrees, recovered his normal complexion. Taking out a large handkerchief, he mopped the sweat from his yellowed brow.

'I thank you,' he said unsteadily. 'What may I do for you?'

Marianne leaned forward so that the firelight fell directly onto her face.

'Look at me, my Lord Duke. Yesterday at Selton Hall, you were present at my wedding. Today, I am lost without your aid.'

Marianne's voice was hoarse with emotion and she almost choked over the last words while the duke's lack-lustre eyes grew round with astonishment.

'Mademoiselle d'Asselnat! Lady Cranmere, I mean. What are you doing here? What has happened?'

'Something very terrible. Yesterday I had a house, wealth, a husband and a name. It is all gone, nothing remains.'

'Nothing? How is this possible?'

'The house is burned down, the fortune lost, the husband dead and the name such as I shrink from—'

Swiftly, righting down her grief, Marianne described for the duke the events of that terrible night. As she spoke, she felt the horror and misery sweep over her again. She was still little more than a child and a child oppressed by burdens too heavy for her to bear. It was a relief to confide in someone even this stranger who did not, however, appear to be greatly struck with compassion. On the contrary, as the tale advanced, Marianne saw to her dismay the gentleman's weary face assume a closed expression while his eyes hardened with suspicion. Clearly, he did not believe her. She tried to add more urgency to her appeal for help but, when she had finished, the duke merely observed shortly:

'A strange tale, to be sure! So you killed your husband in a duel? Who do you think will believe that?'

'Why, you, since it is the truth! He did me a great wrong. I called him out and killed him.'

D'Avaray gave a weary shrug.

'My child, you will have to think of something else. No man worthy of the name would ever cross swords with a woman. Besides, who ever heard of a woman whose sword play was good enough to kill a man in the prime of life? Not since Joan of Arc and you are no Joan of Arc, I presume?'

Stung by the sarcasm, Marianne said bitterly:

'Your mockery is misplaced, my Lord Duke. As God hears me, I swear I have spoken only the truth—'

'Do not swear! I am no believer in oaths. You women use them as you like—'

'Very well, if I am lying, what do you think happened?'

'I will tell you. Your husband staked your fortune and lost it. I have heard sufficient of Lord Cranmere's reputation to accept that that may well be true. But, rather than confessing it to you, he went instead to his cousin. All the world knows he was her lover. You surprised them and, in a frenzy of rage and jealousy you stabbed your husband, struck down his companion and to make doubly sure they would not escape, set fire to the house. After all, it no longer belonged to you—'

'You forget Jason Beaufort – and Lord Cranmere's shameful bargain with him—'

' – A bargain which exists only in your imagination. You needed some justification for your murderous act.'

'He can bear me out. He knows I have spoken the truth.'

'If that is so, you may confidently place yourself in the hands of the law. You have only to send for him. With him as your witness, you may well prove your case—'

'But where is he to be found?' Marianne cried desperately. 'He is a sea captain – a pirate, I daresay – and the sea is very large.'

'If I have understood your story correctly, he is a sea captain without a ship. He must either get another or have one built. Search the English ports and you will find him soon enough.'

'Do you expect me to run after a man I hate, who has taken everything from me and would have taken even my honour? Do you expect me to beg his help, his evidence to clear me of a crime I have not committed?'

The duke rose with an effort and nicked a speck of dust off his old fashioned lace cravat.

'I have no expectations at all in the matter, my child. It is, quite simply your only chance—'

A heavy silence followed. Marianne saw her best hopes disappearing.

'You mean, you will not take me?'

D'Avaray spread his wasted arms helplessly before replying.

'You cannot think it! It is true, I am going for the sake of my health but I am still high in the confidence of his majesty King Louis XVIII. The King's position is such that no breath of a scandal must come near him. And yet you ask me, his friend, me, Antoine de Bésiade duc d'Avaray to give protection to a murderess fleeing from the English justice? It is madness!'

'My parents gave their lives for their sovereign and yet when I, their daughter, ask for help it is denied me. The King is my King as well as yours. I, Marianne d'Asselnat, have a right to claim aid and comfort from him.' There was pride in the girl's voice.

'By your marriage, you are English. The King of France can do nothing for you. What little power he has, he owes to those who are worthy of it!'

Stunned by the old duke's harshness, Marianne felt suddenly very tired, tired to death of this exhausting battle with a man who refused to understand. Determined to make one last, desperate effort, she said hopelessly:

'But if you help me, would he ever know? I do not ask you to take me to Madeira. Only, set me ashore anywhere, even France. What does it matter?'

'It may not matter to you but you forget the hounds of Bonaparte. In France, Madame, I am a proscribed émigré. Merely to approach my country is to risk my head. But if it is your desire to go there, you may easily find some fisherman who deals in contraband, here in this very town, who for a consideration will certainly put you ashore somewhere on the coast of Normandy or Brittany.'

Marianne gave a little shrug.

'What could I do in France? I have no family there any more. But then, nor have I anywhere.'

A sardonic gleam came into the gentleman's red-rimmed eyes. He gave a dry cackle of laughter.

'No family? Oh but you have. I know of two persons at least connected to you by blood.'

'Two? How can this be? No one has ever spoken of them to me.'

'They are little enough to boast of. I should think Lady Selton preferred to forget that part of the family but the fact remains that you have two cousins, one closer than the other, to be sure, but the second a person of some standing!'

'Who are they? Tell me quickly,' Marianne said eagerly, her dislike of the old duke momentarily forgotten.

'Ah, you would like to know. It does not surprise me and, from what I have just learned of you, you should deal very well with both these ladies. One is a poor demented creature, your poor father's cousin. Her name is Adelaide d'Asselnat. She never married and long ago severed all connections with her family on account of her disgraceful opinions. La Fayette, Bailly and Mirabeau were among her friends and there was always a welcome at her house in the Marais for all those wretches responsible for overthrowing the throne of France. She must, I believe, have gone into hiding during the Terror to have escaped the guillotine which devoured the first masters of the revolution as well as its nobler victims. But I presume she must have reappeared and should not be surprised to learn that she had become transformed into one of Bonaparte's most loyal subjects. As for the other – she stands even closer to the Corsican ogre.'

'Who is she?'

'Why, his own wife. Citizeness Bonaparte, whom they call the Empress Josephine nowadays, has for her maternal grandmother a Mary Katherine Brown of the Irish family. She was the daughter of a Selton and married Joseph-François des Vergers de Sanois. Her daughter, Rose-Claire, married Tascher de la Pagerie, whence Josephine.' The duke gave a twisted smile. 'Family history holds no secrets from us,' he added sardonically. 'We have time enough in our exile.'

Marianne was a prey to a host of contradictory feelings. The knowledge of her close connection with the wife of Napoleon gave her no pleasure, quite the contrary, for throughout her childhood she had been used to hearing her Aunt Ellis alternately abusing and deriding the man she never referred to as anything but 'Boney'. Lady Selton had taught her to hate and fear the Corsican oppressor who had dared set himself up on the throne of the martyred king, to blockade England and crush all Europe under his heel. To Marianne, Napoleon was a monster, a tyrant spawned by the hideous revolution which, like a vampire, had sucked the finest blood of France including that of her own parents. She left d'Avaray in no doubt as to her sentiments.

'I have no call to seek help from Madame Bonaparte – but I should be glad to see my cousin d'Asselnat.'

'I am not sure I approve your choice. The Creole is well connected. She has even a few drops of Capet blood in her veins, a little secret unknown to her husband and which may yet cost him dear. While the demoiselle d'Asselnat is only a foolish old woman whose sympathies are scarcely more creditable. Now, permit me to take leave of you. I have matters to attend to.'

Marianne too had risen. Standing, she was a head taller than the duke. She looked down at the sick man whose shoulders were once more in a terrible spasm of coughing.

'For the last time, my lord Duke, will you not take me?'

'No. I have told you my reasons. Permit me to die with nothing with which to reproach myself. Your servant, madame.'

He bowed, so slightly as to make the courtesy an insult. Marianne coloured angrily.

'Wait one moment, if you please!'

Taking from her bosom the locket presented to her the day before, she flung it furiously onto the table.

'Take this back, my lord! Since I am no longer one of you, I have no claim to it! Remember, I am English now and a criminal to boot.'

For a moment, the duke looked at the jewel gleaming on the soiled cloth. He put out his hand to take it, then changed his mind. He looked up and regarded Marianne with mingled pride and anger.

'It pleased her Highness to make this gift in recognition of your mother's sacrifice. To return it would be to offend her. You had better keep it. After all,' he went on with a chilly smile, 'you are at liberty to throw it in the sea if you do not want it. It might even be better so. As for you, may God help you for you will escape neither His anger nor your punishment, not if you flee to the ends of the earth!'

He moved away leaving Marianne angry and mortified as well as bitterly disappointed. Everything she trusted, everything she believed in seemed fated to crumble to dust in her hands. Never she swore, would she forget this humiliation. But, for the present, some other means must be found.

By evening Marianne was once again on the old Barbican. She had sold her horse for a good price and further exchanged her riding clothes for a good plain dress of brown wool and a thick cloak with a deep hood worn over a white linen mob cap, and a pair of stout shoes and coarse woollen stockings. She had never worn such garments before but she felt comfortable in them and very much safer. Her money and the pearls were stowed away in a strong canvas pocket sewn into her petticoat. Dressed like this, she was no longer an object of curiosity and would be able to roam the Plymouth waterfront very much as she liked. Her next task was to find a vessel that would carry her to France. In this, time was against her and every hour that passed increased the danger of discovery and arrest.

Unfortunately, knowing no one in the town made it hard to know whom to approach especially in so delicate a matter as a clandestine passage. For a long time, Marianne walked up and down the quay, watching the comings and goings of sailors and fishermen all around her, often tempted but never quite daring to approach them. She wandered on in no particular direction, oblivious of the cheerful bustle of the harbour. As evening drew on, the wind sharpened. Soon she would have to find an inn to spend the night, somewhere more modest than the Crown and Anchor, but she could not yet bring herself to do so. Tired as she was, she could not help feeling somewhat nervous at the prospect of being shut up for the night between four walls and was besides quite sure she would not be able to sleep.

As she passed Charles II's fort, one of the sentries called after her. With a nervous shiver, she hurried on, hugging her cloak more closely about her. The man laughed and uttered some coarse pleasantry but made no attempt to come after her. She saw the old Smeaton fire tower a little way ahead, its bright light a nightly warning of the dangerous approaches to the great port. Bleak and lonely on its rock, rising above the sand, the beacon with the great iron cage that held the light and its supporting masts looked like nothing so much as a great ball of wool stuck on to knitting needles. The flag hung like a wet sheet from the upper platform, so sodden with rain that the wind barely stirred it. There seemed to be no one about and this loneliness, with the moaning of the wind, gave the place a somewhat sinister aspect. Marianne almost turned back but then she saw an old man sitting on a rock right beneath the grey tower and smoking his pipe. Timidly, she went up to him.

'If you please—' she began.

The old man cocked a bushy eyebrow under the faded red stocking cap, revealing a wickedly bright eye.

'What are you doing out here, at this time of night, my pretty, eh? The sailors from the fort have an eye for a pretty girl and the wind's getting up. Likely it'll blow your bonnet over the windmill!'

There is often a secret, unspoken sympathy between the very old and the very young. The old man's friendly tone gave Marianne confidence.

'I know no one in this town, and I must find someone to ask. I thought that, perhaps you might—'

She did not finish. The old man's eyes had quickened and he was studying her with the keen glance of a seaman, accustomed to noting the minutest variation of sea or sky.

'You are no country maid, though you may dress like one. Your voice gives you away. No matter, my girl. What do you want to know?'

In a low voice, as though ashamed of what she had to say, Marianne told him:

'I must find a vessel to take me across the sea – and I cannot tell who to approach.'

'Why, the Harbour Master, of course! It all depends on where you want to go—'

'To France.'

The old man gave a low whistle which vanished on the wind.

'That's another matter entirely, but even there, the port office may be able to do something for you. You must not think our brave English lads are frightened of Boney and his war dogs. There are still some who run the blockade.'

'But I cannot go to the port office,' Marianne broke in impatiently. 'I have no papers. I – I have run away from my parent's house and I have to get to France.'

The old man thought he understood. He chuckled loudly, winking and nudging her with his elbow.

'Oho, you cunning little rascal! Off to join your sweetheart, eh my pretty? That's why we don't want to be noticed, is it? Frightened the Runners'll be after you to take you home again, eh?'

'Yes, you have guessed. But who will take me?'

'No one without money!'

Modestly turning her back on him, the girl quickly raised the hem of her skirt, fumbled in her canvas pocket and withdrew a shilling which she placed in the old man's hand.

'Here, I have a little money. But for pity's sake, if you know of any sailor or fisherman, even a smuggler who might take me, tell me his name—'

The old man held up the coin to study it then tossed it in his hand with evident satisfaction before thrusting it into his pocket. This done, he returned his attention to the girl and looked at her doubtfully.

'There is one I know,' he said with some seriousness, 'but I'm not sure if I ought to send you to 'un. 'E'd sell 'is own mother for a shilling and for a guinea'd kill her with 'is own hands.'

'I will take the risk. Tell me where I may find him.' A sudden, instinctive caution made her add: 'At all events, I could not give him more than a guinea. That is all I have—'

The old man sighed. He rose and stretched himself with a groan.

'Dang me, old I may be but I'll not let you go alone to find Black Fish. If so be as you've another shilling to quench an old man's thirst, I'll take you and put in a good word for ye.'

'Black Fish?'

'That's what they call 'un. Never heard's right name. But you can trust Nathaniel Naas, I've never met a better sailor – or an uglier!'

Once again, Marianne felt in her pocket and drew out a shilling which she gave to old Nat and a golden guinea which she kept in her hand, being determined not to reveal the whereabouts of the remainder of her treasures to one whom she strongly suspected of being a pirate. The old man pocketed the second shilling and limped away. It was now quite dark and the wind had dropped though a biting cold air still came in from the sea.

'It'll not be warm out there tonight,' the old man said, digging his hands deep in his pockets. 'I'd liefer face a bowl of punch than the breakers in the Sound.'

In single file, they made their way back to the Barbican. Nathaniel Nass stopped beneath a battered sign at the end of the old quay and pushed open the low door of a small tavern. A dim, orange light filtered through the grimy windows. Marianne was met by a nauseating reek of alcohol, fried fish and human sweat, together with a confused babble of drunken voices. Above it all, floated the crude air of a sea shanty. The girl drew back in terror. She had never imagined herself entering such a place. The old man glanced at her dubiously.

'You're quite sure? Shall I go in?'

Marianne clenched her teeth to still their chattering. She was cold and frightened and she wanted to go to sleep. She had reached very nearly the end of her strength. She had to get it over with.

'I am sure,' she whispered.

'Then you just wait there.'

He went inside, leaving her alone in the darkness. The quay was empty now. Lamps had been lit in the houses, conjuring up a picture of families within gathered warmly round the tea table. The girl's heart contracted. She felt suddenly very weak and very much alone. The muscles in her throat tightened and all at once she felt as if she wanted to cry while, at the same time, a tempting voice within her was urging her to give up, to go back and abandon herself to her fate. She felt chilled to her very soul. There were some people, she believed, whose lives collapsed without warning and ceased to have any meaning. Perhaps her life was like that, and no longer worth living. Perhaps it would be better to give herself up. Certainly, she had lost any inclination for the part of a heroine in a romance.

The forest of gently dipping masts in the harbour swam before her eyes. Some had their riding lights alight, like intermittent red stars in the darkness. For a second, Marianne was on the point of taking to her heels and running away but the sound of footsteps prevented her. Someone was coming along the quay and her instinct for self-preservation reasserted itself. She made out the dark figures of two men and drew back, shrinking out of sight into a dark, narrow passage running alongside the tavern.

The iron lantern swinging above the tavern door threw a bright patch of light, barred with a shadow like a cross, on to the cobblestones below and this enabled the girl to obtain a clearer view of the two men strolling towards her at a leisurely pace. One was much taller than the other. He wore long seaboots and was muffled in a black cloak. The other barely reached to his shoulder but made up in plumpness for what he lacked in height, for he was almost as broad as he was long. As far as Marianne could tell, he seemed to be dressed like a country lawyer in a frock coat and beaver hat. He must be the owner of the high, fluting voice which Marianne had heard first. Abruptly, another voice, hard and authoritative, broke in but this time Marianne was able to hear the words. What she heard caused her to listen intently.

'You are certain she is here?'

'She was seen at the Crown and Anchor,' the other, lighter voice answered. 'It was certainly she—'

Icy sweat trickled down Marianne's spine. The words brought back the consciousness of her position and she felt her heart lurch in her breast. Who were these men? Was it imagination or had she heard that deep voice before? In her sudden desire to get a sight of its owner, she almost left her hiding place but, as if he had been aware of her secret wish, the taller of the two men paused beneath the lantern, took something from his pocket and jumping on to a stone mounting block, inclined himself towards the flame, flickering in its metal cage, in order to light a cigar. The light fell full upon his face and Marianne bit back a cry as she recognized the hawk-like profile and restless expression of Jason Beaufort.

Her heart beating wildly, she pressed herself back against the streaming wall of the building and closed her eyes in a childish effort to shut out that terrifying face. She was sure now, it was of herself that he had been speaking a moment before. So, not content with ruining and insulting her, the American had now descended to hunting her down like a common constable.

Anger took hold of her, all the more fierce because she was powerless. She wished now that she had not let him escape! He had deserved death as much as Francis, and yet he lived. From behind the fragile lids of her closed eyelids, she heard the scrape of Beaufort's boots as he jumped down and then, once again, the voice with the faint southern accent which was all too familiar now.

'Well, she'll not go far. She's too easily recognized and clever as she is, she'll not escape for long. The noose is already waiting for her.'

Marianne thought she would faint at this grisly prophesy. There was a sick taste of fear in her mouth. She could almost feel the roughness of the rope around her neck and instinctively she put up her hand to her throat as she tried to squeeze herself back even further into her refuge. If only the wall could have opened and swallowed her up.

Meanwhile, the two men were walking on, moving away from the passage and out of earshot. Had they said anything else? The drumming in her ears had prevented her from registering anything but the diminishing sound of their footsteps. Even when these had died away completely, she still dared not open her eyes so great was her terror of seeing Beaufort's face once again before her. But someone, close by, was calling her.

'Hoy! Little maid, where are you?'

That must be old Nathaniel. Taking a deep breath to calm the frantic beating of her heart, she emerged from her hiding place.

'Here I am.'

The old man smiled, revealing the remnants of some teeth which had long forgotten what it was to be white. He was rubbing his hands, apparently well pleased with himself.

'Come with me,' he whispered. 'I think it'll fadge. Black Fish sails tonight with the tide – wants a look at ye—'

Taking her firmly by the hand, he drew her to the tavern. Marianne suffered him to lead her without resistance and immediately found herself in a lighted room where the atmosphere was like a dense fog, reeking in equal parts of rum and tobacco smoke from the long clay pipes of the drinkers huddled beneath the low ceiling. There were fishermen, sailors in stocking caps and a sprinkling of marines in blue uniforms and hard black hats, all of them, with their girls, drinking shouting and singing at the tops of their voices. In a corner by the soot-blackened hearth, a boy knelt at a big, wooden tub washing the tankards as they were brought to him by a moustachioed serving wench. Marianne's entry in the wake of old Nat provoked an outburst of shouts and coarse jokes. Voices called out from all parts of the room.

'Cor, she's a ripe 'un! Hey, sweetheart, come and have a drink with me?'

'By the guts of old Noll, she's the girl for me! D'ye see those eyes, Sam? Clear as the sea the day after a storm!'

'Stow it, Harry! She's not for your picking. Look at her! I'll wager she's a virgin.'

'No harm in finding out! Here, darling! Over here!'

Hands reached out, striving to encircle her waist, or pinch her bottom. Scarlet with shame and terrified in case there should be someone there who knew her face, Marianne eluded them as best she could. Cursing and shoving lustily, old Nat managed to keep off the boldest but he had no easy job. Marianne clutched her cloak around her and tried to dodge the grasping hands, keeping her eyes on the ground so as not to look at the flushed faces of the men and darkling eyes of the girls. Suddenly, a loud voice thundered above the din.

'Stow that racket! And hands off! Leave the girl alone. It's me she's come to see.'

An enormous man had risen from his seat by the bar at the far end of the room. From the colour of his hair and the thick growth of beard that sprouted from his chin, Marianne guessed that this was Black Fish and forced back a gasp. Old Nat was right, never had she seen anyone so ugly. He was a giant of a man, black haired and swarthy skinned. His broad face, with its shapeless features and wide, fleshy nose, might almost have been flattened by a blow from some gigantic fist. The eyes, so bloodshot as to obscure whatever colour they might have had, spoke of long familiarity with the bottle. His bear-like form was clad in a striped jersey with, over it, a faded red coat which still retained some remnants of gold braid. An ancient cocked hat adorned with an enormous green cockade sat jauntily sideways on his pigtailed head. Loud-voiced and powerful, brandishing the inevitable pipe, Black Fish loomed up through the thick fug that filled the room like some weird and menacing Father Neptune. It was all Marianne could do to keep from crossing herself. But already a vast hairy hand had grasped her arm and was drawing her irresistibly forward. She found herself seated on the form facing old Nat who was chuckling and rubbing his hands.

'Its just as I told ye, lass! He's a right one is Black Fish—'

More frightened than she was prepared to show, Marianne privately considered that this Black Fish bore a striking resemblance to the pirates whose exploits she had devoured with such relish when safely between the covers of a book. The reality was quite a different matter. The man before her had no black patch over one eye or wooden leg but, these details apart, he seemed the living image of a gentleman of fortune. And so ugly! The prospect of finding herself alone at sea with this dreadful man made her shudder. But for the alarming words she had overheard pass between Jason Beaufort and the short stranger, she would probably have abandoned all thought of any closer acquaintance with this terrifying individual. But the American's presence in the city brought the shadow of the scaffold more menacingly close and she had no choice but to escape by any means and in whatever company, even that of the devil himself if need be.

Black Fish was watching her knowingly from beneath his bushy black brow. He leaned heavily across the table and thrust his face into hers.

'Not so keen now to sail the seas with old Black Fish, eh lass?'

Marianne gritted her teeth and forced herself to look her fearful acquaintance in the face.

'I am obliged to go to France. It is a matter of – of life and death!'

The mariner opened his mouth in a roar of laughter, letting out a gust of pungent, rum-laden breath.

'You love your young coxcomb as much as that do you? You can't be afraid if you mean to cross the Channel at the end of November!'

'I am not afraid of the sea and I wish to go to France. Will you take me?'

'That depends. What'll you pay?'

'A guinea.'

'Not much for the risk of a brave man's life. Well, let's see your guinea then at least we'll know you speak the truth.'

For answer, she opened her hand. The lamplight gleamed for an instant on the heavy gold coin with the plump profile of King George III as it lay in her palm. Black Fish reached across and took it. He bit it and gave her a wink.

'Good enough. It's a bargain, my girl. I'll take you. You're lucky, I've business of my own with the French dogs. Your guinea will serve.'

At once, Marianne felt her spirits revive. Now that he had agreed to take her, hope and courage returned and she was able to fight with all her strength against the insidious counsels of despair. She refused to think that this man might betray her or, having taken her money, that he might leave without her. In any case, she was determined not to let him out of her sight.

'Thank you,' was all she said. 'When do we sail?'

'You seem in a mighty hurry – where do you lodge?'

'Nowhere. If we leave tonight, I have no need of a lodging.'

'Very well, we stay here until ten and then go aboard.'

'The tide is not full until midnight—'

'Bright as a button, ain't we! But over inquisitive. I've things to do before we put to sea, my pretty! Here, drink some of this! Proper turnip head you've got on you.'

This proved to be a glass of steaming grog which Black Fish shoved towards his passenger. Marianne eyed the pungent beverage suspiciously. She had never tasted spirits and was on the point of saying so.

'But – I do not know—'

'You don't know but what it mightn't make you ill, eh? Never tried it before?' Bending forward suddenly so that his beard almost touched Marianne's ear, he muttered rapidly: 'Try and drop the flash talk if y' can. Ye'll get yourself noticed—'

Taken by surprise, she gave him a startled glance then seized the glass and bravely swallowed down a draught of the burning liquid. She gasped, choked and began to cough wildly while Black Fish thumped her mightily between the shoulder blades and roared with laughter.

'Takes you back a bit, at first,' he agreed encouragingly. 'But you'll get used to it—'

The worst of it was that this curious assertion proved correct. Once she had got her breath back, Marianne discovered that the grog had power to spread an agreeable warmth through her exhausted body. It flowed down like a fragrant, fiery river. All in all, she found it very good. She took another sip, rather more cautiously this time, to Black Fish's huge delight.

'We'll make a sailor of her yet!' he boomed, smashing his fist down on the table with such force that old Nat, who for some moments past, had been fast asleep and snoring with his head on his arms, sat up with a start. He sat there, blinking helplessly, still half asleep.

'Go home to bed, Nat,' Black Fish told him. 'Time old grandads were asleep. We'll have another jar, me and the lass, then we'll be off.'

Hiking Nat unceremoniously to his feet, he picked up the red hat which had fallen off the old man's head and stuck it on again at random. Then he gave him a push towards the door.

'G'bye, little lass,' old Nat mumbled. 'God speed—'

'That's enough! Off with you, now!' Black Fish cut him abruptly short.

Marianne, too, felt very much inclined for sleep. She was warm now and the rum, as well as filling her with a comfortable sense of well being, was making her very sleepy. Viewed through the soothing veil of alcohol, her terrors faded, leaving only an insuperable weariness. However, she was obliged to sit a whole hour more with drooping eyelids, watching Black Fish consume quantities of rum and smoke pipe after pipe. In all this time, he paid her no attention at all. He sat with his eyes fixed vacantly on some point in the smoke-filled room and seemed to have forgotten his companion altogether. She sat bravely on, waiting patiently for him to give the signal to leave. The crowd about them had thinned. Two or three men were throwing dice while others were gathered round a table listening to the battle yarns of a quartermaster of marines. A drunken sailor in a corner was singing a tuneless refrain and periodically thrusting away a girl who was trying to take him home. Black Fish and Marianne sat on unnoticed. She was beginning to wonder for how much longer this would go on when the black wooden clock struck ten.

On the last stroke, Black Fish hoisted himself to his feet and, still without looking at her, laid hold of his companion's hand.

'Come, it is time,' was all he said.

Their departure occasioned no remark. Once outside the low doorway with its leaded panes, they were caught up in a fierce gust of wind bringing with it a strong smell of the sea. Marianne breathed in deeply with a sudden exhilaration. The wind smacked of freedom. And suddenly, standing there in the inn doorway, she discovered a new meaning to her flight. Her first thought had been undoubtedly to save her life but as she smelt the sea breeze it came to her suddenly that there was a fierce joy in severing the last ties that bound her, leaving her moorings behind, tearing up the old roots and drifting off into the unknown guided only by her own will. Impulsively, she held out the folds of her cloak, letting the wind swell them, as though she would offer herself to be picked up and carried away by it.

Black Fish had been watching curiously. 'Sure you're not frightened?' he asked suddenly. 'It'll be a hard night!'

'I don't care! It's good, this wind! And besides,' she suddenly remembered her role, 'I am happy, I am going to meet—'

'No!' he interrupted her roughly. 'Don't talk to me about your lover! I don't know why you want to go to France, but it is not for a man.'

'How did you know?' she asked him, making no further attempt at denial.

'One's only to look at your eyes, my beauty! Not a spark of love in them! When I looked at them just now, when old Nat brought you to me, I saw just one thing. Fear! That's why I'm taking you, because you are afraid. I've no truck with love. It's a waste of time! But fear now, there's some sense in that. Now come, its time we were off! There's things to do before we put to sea.'

Black Fish spat magnificently, stuffed his pipe in his pocket and ramming his improbable hat down on his head against the wind, set off with great strides along the quay. Marianne followed him, still wondering why this hideous pirate should fill her with such instinctive trust.

CHAPTER FOUR The Stormy Seas

Black Fish's vessel, the Seagull, lay at the far end of the Barbican, not far from the stone set up to mark for all time the berth of the Mayflower before she had set sail across the Atlantic to New England with her cargo of Pilgrim Fathers. Beneath her grimy appearance and chipped green paintwork, she was a handy little sloop with well-caulked seams and a snug cabin into which, on Black Fish's orders, Marianne descended.

'You stay there, and not a sound! We don't want to tell the coastguards we're here.'

He turned his attention to the sails and the little vessel slipped slowly out of harbour. But, to the not inconsiderable surprise of his passenger, instead of making for the open sea, Black Fish turned up the estuary of the Tamar in the direction of the naval dockyard. Curious as to the reason for this behaviour, she crawled on hands and knees out of the cabin and whispered: 'Where are we?'

'I told you I've something to do. Another passenger to take on board. Now, that's enough. One more word and its down to Davy Jones with you!'

He was stowing the sail as he spoke and now produced a great oar with which he began sculling noiselessly but with an effectiveness that did honour to his strength. Now that they had left the beacon behind them, the darkness was complete, only pierced now and then by the distant riding light of some vessel. At night, the tower crowned with its glowing brazier was a fantastic sight, but Black Fish had made a considerable detour in order to avoid the stippled red light thrown on the dark water. Clinging to the rail of the tiny vessel, Marianne breathed in the night air greedily and stared at the ghostly shapes of the hills gliding past with the occasional bright point of light. The sloop worked slowly up the estuary, fighting the current. It was not long to high tide and the swell was already making itself felt in a short, choppy sea. Black Fish must be straining every muscle but he was a man of uncommon strength, well able to do the work of two. Marianne thought that he must also have cat's eyes to find his way in such conditions, although now that her own eyes were becoming accustomed to it, she was able to make out some small shapes.

Abruptly, as they passed the crumbling stonework of an old, disused mole, Black Fish stopped sculling, shipped his oar and tied up to what must have been an ancient ring in the wall. Seating himself in the stern, he cupped his hands about his mouth and mewed three times like a gull, with a realism which astonished Marianne. After that, he seemed to listen for something.

Marianne, full of curiosity, was about to speak, but he waved her curtly to be silent and she subsided meekly.

It was getting colder and there was something forbidding about the darkness and silence of their surroundings. Not far away, a number of dark shapes loomed up looking like a barricade of huge ships lying across the Tamar. Even the slap of the waves had stopped. The monsters lay huge and motionless, a lantern burning here and there, and the water in between them and the sloop looked curiously flat, smooth and thick, like cream. It gave off a faint smell of mud. Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Marianne crept closer to Black Fish and in spite of his prohibition, whispered softly: 'What is it? Where are we?'

Black Fish pointed to the dark shapes.

'The hulks,' he said simply. 'You know what they are?'

Marianne knew, she had heard of the old ships, no longer seaworthy, with their barred ports, that were used as prisons to house those of Boney's sailors who fell into English hands.

'Admirable prisons,' Aunt Ellis had been wont to say with satisfaction, 'only too good for them, I dare say! They say some manage to escape—'

But what were they doing here? Why this mystery? Black Fish was speaking again in a low voice.

'The Europa, the St Isidore, the St Nicholas, each one of them a hell! The French are crammed in there so tight that every night some die of suffocation—'

To her surprise, Marianne heard a note of anger in the big man's voice and she did not hide her astonishment.

'But they're enemies! You ought to be glad. But it seems to grieve you.' The beginnings of an oath escaped Black Fish but he controlled himself at once and only said gruffly: 'I am a seaman, not a jailor, and they too are seamen—'

Suddenly Marianne understood.

'Do you mean – you are going to help one of them to escape?'

'Why not? He is like you, willing to pay. I'm helping you to escape. So keep your questions to yourself. Now, keep your trap shut or you'll have us spotted.'

Marianne did not persist. She was made forcibly conscious that now she was only a girl, like any other, less than others even, because she was obliged to hide and flee. She had no choice but to accept, humbly and in silence, what fate might send her, even to being ordered about by someone who was practically a pirate.

But in a moment, her thoughts were distracted by something very odd that seemed to be happening. Something appeared to be crawling towards them over the water. Marianne could not make out what it was precisely. Again, Black Fish imitated the gull's cry softly beside her and she almost cried out. There was something frightful and terrifying about the blurred form spread-eagled on the water. She pointed with a trembling hand.

'There – do you see?'

'Quiet. It's him.'

Marianne's eyes were by now sufficiently accustomed to the darkness for her to be able to see that the figure was in fact that of a man. She was about to ask another question when Black Fish prudently forestalled her by whispering hastily: 'The hulks are anchored in a muddy creak. We're at the edge of a lake of liquid mud. It's a death trap – if he tries to stand up, the mud will suck him down—'

This time, it was fear that kept Marianne silent. Her heart was in her mouth and her eyes wide with terror as she followed the fugitive's agonizing progress. The first hulk was not very far away but to her the distance seemed immense, and then there was the additional danger that the prisoner's flight would be discovered or of his being overcome by cold in the water. The man must not be recaptured because if he were, she would be taken with him. He must succeed for her own life to be safe. Moreover, in her heart of hearts, she admired the courage of a man, who, to regain his freedom, would risk a hideous death in the slimy depths of that perilous sea of mud.

Black Fish, paying no more attention to her, was bent over the rails, leaning as far out as he could and holding the oar at arm's length.

He gave the gull's cry once more, then Marianne heard him whisper in French: 'Over here, lad. One more heave-there you are!'

There was something so timeless and improbable about the whole of this night that now she was no longer even astonished that a one-time English pirate should express himself with perfect familiarity in the language of Voltaire. It was no stranger than everything else. Nothing, in any of the books that she had read, not even Robinson Crusoe itself, had been anything like this.

She heard the sound of someone gasping for breath, followed by a muffled, wordless cry and then the boat lurched violently. Black Fish came upright hauling after him, as though dredged from the bottom of the sea, something heavy, wet and slimy which he deposited upon the deck where it lay motionless. But for the rattle of the man's breathing, Marianne would have thought him dead. Without wasting a moment, Black Fish took him by the feet and dragged him towards the cabin. Marianne, listening eagerly, overheard a scrap of dialogue, likewise in French.

'Not too bad, was it?'

'No. I've known worse, but we must be away from here – I think a spy saw me go! Oh God, it's cold!'

'Here, wrap this round you. When you're dry, I'll get you some clothes. And take this. There's rum in the flask – then try and sleep. We'll get off now. Tide's all but full.'

In fact, Marianne noticed a tremor of the ship's planking where she lay at the edge of the mud, as though something were working and writhing below. Black Fish reappeared, cast off and shoved the boat away from the old jetty with a strong push of the oar. Not before time. Lanterns were moving like will o' the wisps about the hulk and a light shone out through barred portholes, revealing gesticulating black figures. Soldiers could be seen, trailing their guns. But the sloop, freed from the mud by a lusty stroke of the oar, was already passing behind the crumbling stone jetty, back into the main stream of the Tamar. Black Fish stuck to his oar, rowing like a trojan, and now, with the current in her favour, the light vessel was making a good speed. Marianne watched, fascinated. The man was like some fantastic human machine and thanks to him the heavy ship seemed endowed with an extraordinary driving force. She was just passing the beacon, lying well out in the middle of the estuary, when the gun boomed out behind them. Black Fish cursed without troubling to keep his voice down.

'A thousand thunders! The escape's discovered! We're lucky though, wind's getting up—'

It was doing more than getting up, it was blowing with a force that Marianne found terrifying. Suddenly, the estuary had become huge. The shore line had receded on either hand, leaving a broad expanse of sea, the waves capped with curls of foam. Imperturbably, Black Fish set the sail and took the helm. The sail gave a crack as the wind caught it and swelled triumphantly. The sloop bounded forward, running for the open sea. Once past the final buoys and nothing but the wide waters lay before them. The echo of the gun was lost in the roaring of the wind.

'We've sailed right into a storm—' Marianne shrieked breathlessly.

'This? A storm?' Black Fish laughed. 'You wait till you see a real storm, lass. You won't forget it. This is just a nice little slice of wind to see us on our way, strong enough to make the coastguards think twice about sticking to our heels. And don't come telling me you're frightened. I warned you.'

'I am not frightened!' Marianne declared fiercely. 'And to prove it, I shall sleep here!'

'You'd be better in the cabin.'

'No!'

The real reason was that she could not bring herself to go down there. In the cabin was the unknown man, the escaped prisoner who must be some kind of desperado since he was one of Napoleon's fearful Frenchmen. Marianne was a hundred times readier to face the battering of the wind and even the occasional dollop of sea water than the company of a man whose very presence on board only made her the more conscious of the evils of her own situation. The only distance now between the escaped prisoner and the erstwhile mistress of Selton Hall was in Marianne's own will. And yet, now that she had nothing to do but wait for the approach of the French coast, her accumulated weariness overcame her. She was so tired she could have gone to sleep lying in a puddle. Besides, the unaccustomed heavy fumes of the rum were beginning to make themselves felt.

'As you like,' Black Fish said. 'You can wrap this round you.'

It was a length of sail cloth, coarse to the touch but dry and thick enough to be almost waterproof. Marianne folded it round her gratefully, making a kind of cocoon with herself inside. Then, curled into a ball like a cat in a basket with her head on a coil of rope, she closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep.

The face which Marianne beheld when she opened her eyes was a pleasant one. Clean manly features framed in a short golden beard and grey eyes, at present filled with admiration. For a moment, she thought it must be a continuation of her dream which had transported her temporarily back to Selton which still seemed so close. But the world to which the face belonged was a long way from the quiet English countryside. It was a turbulent, watery world of grey skies with heavy clouds racing as far as the eye could see, of salt spray and icy waves rising and falling in a froth of boiling foam. Towering above this world of water was the massive figure of Black Fish standing at the Seagull's wheel, great hands clamped to the spokes, as huge and outlandish as some sea god from a nightmare.

The man with the fair beard put out a hand and touched Marianne's damp cheek with one finger.

'A woman!' he murmured, as if unable to believe his eyes. 'A real woman! Do they still exist?'

Black Fish's thunderous laugh rose above the roar of the wind.

'They surely do, and a darned sight more of them than is any good for the peace of honest lads like you and me! Take no notice of her, lad.'

'She is pretty, though—'

'She's well enough, but what her lay is, I don't know. Told me some yarn about wanting to go to France to find some boy, but that's a lie, I know. If she's not scared to death, then I'll be hanged. She's scared and running from something, maybe the law – likely she's a thief. With her pretty face, she's prigged some swell cove's dibs, I shouldn't wonder, and now they're after her—'

Throughout this dialogue which took place in French, Marianne had managed to keep silent but to hear herself accused of theft was more than she could bear. Pushing aside the canvas, she burst out fiercely in the same language:

'I am not a thief and I forbid you to insult me! I did not pay you for that!'

Both men gaped at her in surprise and Black Fish almost let go of the helm.

'How's this, you speak French?'

'Why not?' she said haughtily, 'Is there a law against it?'

'No – but you might have said!'

'I do not see why! You did not tell me that you speak it – like a native!'

'That's enough sauce from you, my girl,' Black Fish growled. 'I'd talk a bit less flash, if I were you. There's nothing to stop me taking you by the scruff and pitching you overboard. You seem a funny kind o'mort to me. Whose to say you ain't a spy?'

Marianne was too angry to be frightened.

'No one,' she retorted. 'And if you wish to throw me in the sea, feel free to do so! You will be doing me a service. I regret only that I was mistaken in you. I took you for a smuggler. It seems, however, that you are a murderer!'

'Hell and damnation—'

Black Fish, red with anger, had dropped the helm and was about to throw himself at the girl. At the strong risk of being hurled overboard himself, the fugitive from the hulks cast himself bodily between them and thrust back the giant who stood uncertainly, his fist still raised.

'Nicolas, are you out of your mind? Behave yourself. Can't you see she's only a kid?' Turning to Marianne, he asked her kindly: 'How old are you, little one?'

'Seventeen,' she said reluctantly. Then added almost at once: 'Why do you call him Nicolas?'

The young man began to laugh, showing firm strong teeth.

'Because it's his name. You don't think he was christened Black Fish? And you, what are you called?'

'Marianne—'

'A pretty name,' he said with approval, 'but Marianne what?'

'Marianne nothing! Is it any of your concern? I have not asked you questions!'

He drew himself up and made a ceremonious bow, rendered absurd by the enormous garment Black Fish had found for him to wear.

'I am Jean Le Dru, native of Saint Malo—' he paused and added with a simple pride which did not escape Marianne, ' – and I sail with Surcouf!'

Had he been a king's son, he could not have said it with more pride. Marianne did not know who Surcouf was but, feeling suddenly drawn to him in spite of herself, she smiled and said: 'I had thought you to be one of the Corsican's men.'

He stiffened, frowned imperceptibly and looked at the young woman with narrowed eyes.

'Surcouf serves him and I serve Surcouf. And let me add that when we speak of him, we say the Emperor!'

He turned without further comment and went to seat himself beside the Black Fish. Realizing that she must have wounded him in his convictions, Marianne inwardly cursed herself for a fool. There had been no need for her to show her dislike of the man he spoke of with such ceremony as the Emperor. He was a Frenchman and she in his power for, to her great surprise, Black Fish had not reacted as a loyal Englishman should have done. Throughout the brief contretemps, he had not stirred, content with staring vaguely out to sea. She wondered if Black Fish were really English. The way he spoke French gave some room for doubt.

Left to herself, Marianne tried to retreat once more into her shell of damp canvas and go to sleep but this proved impossible. The vessel was pitching badly in the choppy seas of the Channel and Marianne became suddenly very much aware of the movement. Beyond the rail, the grey waves fell into deep hollows as though the sea would open up beneath the ship, then swelled up again, driven by the wind. The horizon had disappeared. Now there was no land in sight, not even a rock, only the sea birds and the universal grey waters through which the sloop plunged blindly on, her sails strained to breaking point.

Marianne was suddenly overcome by an appalling feeling of nausea. She closed her eyes and let herself go. It seemed to her that she was dying. That everything was falling to pieces around her and her stomach responded to every lurch of the vessel. Never having been sea sick before, she did not know what was happening to her. She tried to stand up, clinging to the rails, but once again the sickness overpowered her and she sank back utterly exhausted on to the deck.

The next thing she felt was two hands holding her and someone lifting her up. Something cold was pressed against her mouth.

'Feeling bad, eh?' the voice of Jean Le Dru said in her ear. 'Drink this, it will do you good.'

She recognized the strong, pungent smell of rum and swallowed some mechanically. But her empty stomach rebelled against the spirit. Abruptly thrusting aside the arm which held her, she opened wide terrified eyes and made for the ship's side with a strangled yell.

For the next few dreadful minutes, Marianne forgot all dignity in the spasmodic heaving of her stomach. She did not even mind the sea which slapped her face wetly, although this helped to revive her. She clung to the rail while Jean, his arm clamped securely round her waist, did his best to stop her falling overboard. When the violent retching subsided a little at last, she sagged like an old pillowcase and would have fallen if the Breton had not caught her. Gently, with almost motherly care, he laid her back on the canvas and covered her as best he could. Black Fish's voice came to her, as though through cotton wool.

'Shouldn't have made her drink. Probably hungry.' 'That's the best bout of seasickness I ever saw,' the other answered. 'I'd be surprised if she could swallow a mouthful—'

But Marianne was past joining in the argument. She was conscious of nothing but the moment's respite granted her by this sudden frightful illness and, hardly daring to breathe, was watching for the smallest sign on the part of her body. The lull was in any case only a short one, for after a few minutes the retching began again and Marianne was once more a prey to seasickness.

With the fall of night, the gale became a tempest and curiously Marianne's sickness grew less. The pitching of the vessel became so violent that it put an end to the nauseating lurching of her stomach. She emerged at last from the depths of misery in which that hellish day had passed but only to meet another kind of horror, this time fear.

When she first crawled out of the small cabin where Jean Le Dru had placed her to be a little out of the wet, it seemed to her that the world was disintegrating around her. Murky clouds scurried across an inky sky beneath which the sea was erupting in all directions. The two men had lowered the sail but still the boat was dancing like a cork in the boiling waters. From time to time, it plunged into a wall of mist so thick that it was hard to tell whether it belonged to the sky or was cast up as spray by the raging sea. They would emerge for a moment, only to rush headlong into another bank of mist. It seemed as though some giant hand took hold of the little sloop and hurled it like a ball through the midst of the storm, now and then dropping it for a moment only to pick it up again and toss it further.

But what frightened Marianne most of all was the faces of the two men. Through the waves crashing over the side, she glimpsed Black Fish, still clinging to the wheel, his back bent against the raging wind. Jean was finishing sewing the sail, fighting against the blinding sea. Both were soaked to the skin but they seemed not to care, though their tense faces betrayed their anxiety.

Black Fish saw Marianne and yelled above the wind.

'Stay in the cabin! You've no business here. You'll get in the way and risk being swept overboard!'

'I can't breathe down there,' she shouted back. 'I'd rather be out here—'

Jean hurried over to her, put his arms round her and tried to force her back inside but she clung to him.

'Please, let me stay with you – I'm frightened, all alone—'

She broke off as a wave hit her. Another followed and she was soaked from head to foot but only clung more firmly to her companion. In the same instant, a cry of terror escaped them both. The mist had parted suddenly revealing a sheer black cliff rising directly ahead. Their cry was echoed by the helmsman.

Jean caught Marianne to him instinctively. Convinced that their last hour had come, she closed her eyes and pressed her face into his shoulder. The young man's arms were so strong and reassuring that she found to her surprise her fear lessened. In a moment or two she was going to die in the arms of a stranger and yet, deep down, it did not seem to matter very much. Perhaps it was even right that it should be so since her life had fallen into this meaningless idiocy. It felt good to be held close against a man's chest and, was she dreaming or was a pair of warm lips pressed to her forehead?

But the crash never came. Black Fish wrenched at the helm and the small boat went about so suddenly that Marianne and Jean lost their balance and tumbled on the deck. When Marianne opened her eyes again the glistening wall of rock was slipping past within an arm's length of the ship's quarter. Behind her, she heard the seaman cursing with a violence in keeping with the fright he had had.

'What was that—?' asked Jean Le Dru.

'The Dover rocks, I think,' Black Fish answered. 'I did not think we were so near. We had a lucky escape!'

To restore himself, he called for the flask of rum, swallowed a large draught and then devoted himself once more to steering the sloop, which, once past the rocks, was heading into a fresh bank of mist and spray. But Jean was worried and showed it.

'How came we near the Dover rocks? They are not on our course.'

'I'm doing my best,' Black Fish growled. 'My compass is all to pieces. I'm steering by guesswork.'

'Then the Virgin and St Anne d'Auray protect us.'

This pious wish was lost in the howling of the wind which just then redoubled its violence. A wave crashed over the side, and Jean led the gasping Marianne firmly back to the tiny cabin. Black Fish alone remained, standing amidst the tempest like Atlas bearing the world on his shoulders.

'Ship ahead! We're saved!'

There was both triumph and relief in Black Fish's voice. He was echoed by Marianne and Jean. For hours they had been running blindly before the storm. The Seagull's case had been desperate. Not many cables' lengths from the dread Dover rocks, an underwater reef had damaged the rudder. They had tried to hoist the sails but these were carried away when the mast collapsed before a gust of exceptional force. Since then, the vessel had drifted, blind and helpless, at the mercy of the untrammelled waves. The worst moment for Marianne had been when she saw Black Fish leave the helm to come and sit with Jean and herself. She had grown used to seeing the enormous sailor as a kind of ocean god, as much a part of his vessel as of the sea itself. The boat was soundly built and yet the storm had battered it savagely, the man seemed indestructible and yet he too was beaten. In her wretchedness, she could not help saying: 'Is there no hope?'

Black Fish shrugged. 'What else can I do?' he said gruffly. 'Row? You can try it if you like but I've done all I can. Now, it's in the lap of the gods.'

He pulled his sodden and ridiculous hat down over his eyes irritably, as though he meant to sleep, but his eyes, beneath the dripping brim, were watchful. He was the first to spot the stern lights of a vessel which in their present situation was a blessing from heaven.

'We are saved,' Marianne repeated, her nerves too much on edge to feel much relief. 'Saved!'

But Jean was less optimistic.

'Wait and see what vessel she is first,' he growled. 'They may be pirates and refuse to take us aboard. We're not much in the way of a prize. Or they may be English and send me back to the hulks.'

But Marianne could not believe that the captain of any vessel could be so heartless as to send three luckless passengers aboard a fishing boat coolly to their deaths on such a black and dreadful night. Eyes smarting from the salt and so wet through that she could no longer even imagine what it was to be dry, she gazed with passionate intensity at the twin stars dancing in the murk, reminding her of the big ships she had seen in Plymouth Harbour, as stout and comforting as a warm inn at the end of a wintry frozen forest. How she longed to escape from this hell of wind and water, the cold and fear! In this moment of great peril, she was once again a terrified child, grasping at the least protection, the smallest help, the slightest hope, only so she might be less cold and frightened.

'The wind's driving us towards her,' Black Fish said. He was clinging to the halyards and peering into the darkness. Almost at once, he gave another, louder shout.

'We must be near a harbour. I can see another light to starboard.'

He broke off with a gasp while Marianne flung herself into Jean's arms with a shriek of terror. The darkness had lightened suddenly and in that instant the shape of a huge reef slipped by to starboard at an alarming rate, followed by another. The rudderless sloop was driving forward like the wind and the lights of the vessel ahead were drawing nearer at a dizzying rate. Soon, its shape could be seen, dark against the sky. Then all at once, a sliver of moonlight slipped between the clouds and lighted on the boiling waters, revealing the tragic outline of a big merchantman yawing drunkenly amid the battering of the hissing, foaming waters beneath her. Her tall sails hung like wet rags uselessly from masts like black and naked trees. At the same time, huge glistening rocks, carved in fantastic shapes, appeared for an instant and were gone, rocks whereon danced the second light which Black Fish had taken for the entry to a harbour. Jean Le Dru's shriek nearly burst Marianne's eardrum.

'Wreckers!'

He shook his fist wildly at the coast with its deadly trap, his whole body trembling with anger. Marianne felt him shaking against her, vibrating like the vessel itself, and her instinctive liking for the boy increased. His indignation communicated itself to her own heart, just as Jean's nervous excitement was something she felt in every fibre of her own body. Curiously enough, at that moment, such is the bond of the common danger, the escaped prisoner from the hulks and the daughter of the Marquis d'Asselnat were as one.

Jean was speaking again, spitting out his words. 'They fasten a lantern to a cow's horns and lead it up and down the shore to make doomed ships believe they see another vessel. That is what happened to the big merchantman and his lights drew us. They are vultures, devils!'

In her unconscious need to soothe her brother in terror, Marianne tried to conceal her own fears because she sensed that Jean would need all his strength and quickness for what was to come and also because it was important to her that he should still be a solid rock to lean on. Staring at the vague outline of the coast, she asked: 'What coast is this, do you know?'

It was Black Fish who answered in a voice as calm as though the danger no longer concerned him.

'It is one of the most dangerous places on the coast of Brittany. They call it Paganie, "pagan land", and it is true that its inhabitants are fiercer than any pagan. It is a cruel, desolate spot, relying on the sea for everything. The people make sure it gives them what they need.' There was a sudden gentleness in his voice as he added: 'I think, lass, this time it is death.'

It was true, the little boat was caught up in a whirl of hissing spray. Around the three unfortunates as they clung to one another, the sea roared in the rocky cove but another, more terrible noise rose above the sound of the tempest. In the same instant, fires sprang up on the shore, throwing a tragic light over the sea. Screams and shouts rent the night, mingling with the crackle of burning wood. The huge bulk of the merchant ship seemed to rear up and fall back with a sound like thunder. A wave, higher than the rest, had cast her, belly-down on a jagged reef and what Marianne and her companions had heard was the sound of her hull splitting. Marianne could see small black figures clinging to the vessel's bridge and spars. She saw other figures armed with torches running back and forth on what must be a small beach. Then she saw no more because the sloop in her turn was rushing to her doom and terror overcame her. Marianne had been preserved until that movement by the tragic grandeur of the sight but now she fully realized her own mortal danger. She stared with eyes of horror at the black waters foaming so close, waters which in a few minutes more would close over her.

Still clinging to Jean, she crossed herself earnestly, muttered a prayer and had a brief thought for her Aunt Ellis whom she now went to join and even for Francis and Ivy. Were human quarrels carried over into the next world? It hardly seemed to matter. What mattered was that she should be forgiven for the twofold crime she had unwittingly committed. Next, she made up her mind to close her eyes to shut out the terrible scene of the shipwreck, and that she would never open them again. But first, she glanced up at the young man whose arms were round her. He was standing like a statue, head held high and his face might have been carved out of marble as he stared at the doomed vessel. Marianne felt his body trembling against hers. But then he became aware of her movement and looked at her like one awakening from a dream. It was only an instant. Then he was gripping her shoulders.

'And of course, you haven't the faintest idea how to swim? You've never learned! They don't teach girls that kind of thing where you come from—' There was a kind of desperate violence in his voice.

'But – yes, I learned to swim. In a river, certainly, not in this—' She jerked her head towards the raging sea and shuddered.

'If that is true, you may yet escape,' said Black Fish's loud voice beside her. But Marianne was beginning to understand all that was meant by that word, swim, and felt as much terror as though she had never learned. She clung to Jean with all her strength.

'I can swim – but I'm frightened! I'm so frightened! Don't leave me, I beg of you, don't let me go – without you, I am bound to die.'

A softness came into the boy's tense face. Faced with the terror of this child, he forgot his own fear and thought only of protecting her. There was such beauty in the supplicating eyes, such loveliness in the face raised to his that all at once, he felt in himself the strength of twenty knights. Impulsively, he clasped her to him.

'No, I will not let you go! I will hold you tight. I'll hold you so close that the sea shall not get you—'

'No rash promises!' Black Fish growled. 'Once in the water, its every man for himself but the devil's in it if between us we can't get her out of this – always supposing we can get ourselves out of it.'

But Jean was not listening. Impelled by the unconscious desire which had sprung up in him at the moment when he first looked on Marianne, he had set his lips on hers and for a brief moment, Marianne forgot her fears in the sweet tenderness of that kiss. In the same instant, the sloop lifted as though about to take wing, keeled over to one side and fell back with a dreadful tearing sound. Marianne and Jean were flung into the sea with such violence that their arms were torn apart and to her horror, Marianne found herself alone amid the white topped waves.

Deafened and blinded, she sank at first like a stone but then her will to live and animal instinct of self-preservation came to her rescue. Without quite knowing how, she struggled to the surface at last, half drowned, her nose and ears filled with water, but alive. To her surprise, she saw that she was much closer to the shore. A big wave rolled her over, mercifully cutting short her view of the terrifying spectacle before her. Men were running in all directions, shouting wildly. Some, completely naked in spite of the cold, plunged into the water armed with long gaffs which they used to draw the debris from the wrecked ship within reach. It was like a vision of hell and somewhere at the back of a mind half dead with terror and fatigue, Marianne found herself thinking that what she saw might well be devils.

Once again, she found herself able to breathe, and looked round wildly for her companions. Once again, a mountain of foam bore down on her and swallowed her. The sea tossed her to and fro like a cockle shell, now bearing her in towards the shore, then carrying her out to sea again only to bring her back once more. It was as though the waves were trying to batter her to pieces, the better to absorb her into their watery depths. Perhaps after all, that was what death was?

Then, suddenly, came searing pain, tearing at Marianne's right thigh. She gave one agonized shriek and then lost consciousness.

When she opened her eyes, it was to find herself in the power of demons. She was being roughly pulled about by two men, one feeling her all over while the other tore off her clothes. She felt the cold sand under her bare back and the burning pain in her side where the gaff must have wounded her in drawing her ashore but scarcely had she opened her eyes than she closed them again in horror at what she had seen. Two men were bending over her. They had long hair and the eyes that glittered in their filthy, hairy faces were the eyes of wild beasts. The one engaged in stripping off her clothes was stark naked, his huge muscular body covered in black matted hair. They were growling like animals, ripping off everything they could find about her and a kind of blind instinct told her that her only chance was to counterfeit death. She was so cold that it was almost true. But the two robbers were not interested in her condition, only in her garments. She heard the gurgle of triumph as they found the canvas pocket where she kept her modest wealth. They began talking together in a rough speech which she did not understand but she guessed that they were arguing over the pearls, the gold and the locket. What these men were taking was all the little she had left in the world and yet Marianne found it did not even make her want to cry. She was too cold and bruised and frightened to be aware of anything but her immediate physical sensations and could only pray with all her might that the men would be satisfied with robbing her and go away and leave her on the beach.

One other thought she clung to, that of her companions in misfortune, Jean and Black Fish. Where could they be? They were seamen, familiar with the worst of storms and must have come to land at the same time as herself or sooner. But she sensed that she was alone. If they still lived, they would not have abandoned her at the mercy of these dreadful men! Jean had promised to look after her. He had kissed her, as though he truly loved her – yes he must be dead. And it seemed to Marianne that she had nothing left in all the world.

Timidly, she half opened her eyes. The two men were standing a few yards away from her, still arguing, but the scene beyond was like something out of a nightmare. The wreckers were busy dragging chests and bales of all descriptions up on to the sand. All about were bodies thrown up by the sea, those of the seamen from the merchant vessel, some already dead, others perhaps still living but only to be finished off without mercy by the wreckers with knives or bludgeons. Further out on the rocks, lay the dying ship, a great hole in her side.

Marianne caught herself thinking idiotically of accounts of shipwrecks she had read in days gone by. They had been nothing like this. She thought of the heroine of Paulet Virginie, preferring death to the idea of taking off her dress. How stupid! Wasn't she herself half naked at the mercy of these men?

As her wits returned, she saw that the sea had thrown her up at one end of the beach. There were rocks close by, rocks among which it might be possible to hide. Absorbed in their booty, the two robbers seemed to have lost interest in her and it was so cold, here in this icy wind.

Very slowly, she began to crawl but however slight the movement, it was noticed. The two men were on her in a second and Marianne found herself pinned helplessly to the ground. With eyes wide with horror, she saw one of the men, the one who still wore some clothing, take from his belt a long cutlass which flickered redly in the glow of a nearby fire. He was already bending down holding the cutlass to her throat when a figure leapt out from among the rocks. Caught off his balance from behind, the man rolled over on the sand. At once, his attacker was upon him and the two men began a savage struggle in which the robber's knife gave him the advantage of Jean Le Dru. The other ruffian was still holding Marianne down so that she could only watch the fight helplessly. But though helpless she was full of hope. If Jean had escaped from the sea and was here on the beach fighting for her, why should not the giant Black Fish also reappear. That would considerably increase their chances.

Jean was bigger than his adversary and must have made up for a good deal in sheer strength but even so, his spell on the hulk Europa and, more recently, his fight for life against the sea, had weakened him to such an extent that it was soon apparent both to the girl and to her guard, who showed his delight by a series of animal grunts, that the robber would soon have the upper hand. And still Black Fish had not appeared. With a rush of pity and terror, Marianne realized that all was lost. The other man was already on top, and kneeling on his chest while Jean tore vainly at the hands around his throat which were slowly choking him. In her terror, Marianne cried out in French.

'For pity's sake! Do not kill him!'

An evil laugh was the only answer but, like an echo of the girl's despairing cry, an icy voice commanded:

'Enough! Let the man go, Vinoc!'

Obedience was instant. Jean Le Dru found himself released while the two robbers retreated, cringing fearfully. The man who had appeared out of the shadows like some ominous night bird was evidently the chief of the wreckers. He was a tall man, dressed in a peasant's sheepskin coat and baggy canvas breeches caught in tightly at the knee, and black felt hat, and his hair hung in short plaits on either side of his face but above these rustic garments, a great black cloak hung from his shoulders, stout leather gauntlets protected his hands and his features were concealed by a black velvet mask. All that could be seen of his face was a strong mouth whose corners drooped in an expression of perpetual disdain and unusually brilliant eyes of some indefinable colour. Seeing those eyes rest thoughtfully upon her, Marianne flushed scarlet with shame and huddled with her arms across her breast in an attempt to hide her almost complete nakedness in the shadow of the rocks. With the frigid smile which never reached his eyes, the unknown shrugged off his black cloak with a quick movement and, tossing it to her, spoke to the two men.

'Take her!' he ordered. Then, pointing to Jean Le Dru who stood before him, still shaking from his fight, he added carelessly: 'Kill him.'

Marianne hastily wrapping herself in the cloak which, she noticed, had about it a smell of verbena totally unexpected in a wrecker, was about to protest but Jean was before her.

'If that is your verdict, why did you stay the fellow's murdering hand a moment ago?' he cried bitterly.

'A reflex. The woman's scream perhaps. And you fought well. I wished to see who you were—'

'Nothing – or no one, as you like! A Frenchman, a Breton like yourself. That is why I do not understand why you would kill me.'

Marianne followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt everything that happened to her was fated to have the incoherence of a bad dream. Was it really she, Marianne, sitting here on a rock on a storm ravaged Breton beach, dressed only in a cloak lent by a robber, guarded by wreckers, while a man in a black velvet mask argued about life and death with a prisoner escaped from an English hulk? When she was a little girl, old Jenkins, who loved stories, had told her a host of fabulous tales about the adventures that had befallen poor wretched souls in olden times who were dogged by persistent ill luck. She had heard, too, of the fearful things which had taken place in this land of France ever since the people had run mad and drowned their aristocracy in a bath of blood, and an ambitious Corsican clambered on to the Imperial throne. All this she had been told, and much more she had read but she would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be suddenly confronted with life in the raw and remain unchanged. Little by little, Marianne felt her scruples crumbling away, and all her former weakness and false modesty disappearing. Such things seemed stupid and meaningless.

But Jean and the masked stranger had not finished speaking.

'No witnesses and no survivors, that's the first rule in this business—'

'Some business! Wrecking—'

'Don't dismiss it so lightly. It's a good living and, in these times, that is something to think of. After all, I am offering you a chance. Swear to serve me faithfully as one of us and I will spare your life. Stout hearts are not so easy to come by.'

Jean shrugged with unconcealed contempt.

'Serve you? How? For work of this kind,' he indicated the ravages on the beach, 'all you need is thieves and murderers, not sailors. I am a sailor, one of Surcouf's men!'

Once again Marianne heard the note of pride in his voice and it made her curious. Who, she wondered was this Surcouf for Jean to be so proud of him? However, it seemed the masked man knew who he was well enough. His fists clenched and his voice came thinly through set jaws.

'The Sea Fox, eh? "Baron Surcouf"? Bonaparte's henchman? You have just signed your death warrant, my lad! Besides, I've wasted enough time with you. Do your work, men—'

'No!'

Unable to help herself, Marianne sprang forward impulsively, her aching head held only one idea, to save the life of the man who had fought for her when he might have stayed quietly in his hiding place among the rocks and watched her die, the man who had guarded and protected her in danger and who, when it seemed that death was on them, had kissed her – she clung with both hands to the masked man's arm and thought sprang to her mind that she might as well have clutched an iron bar.

'No, do not kill him! He's lying – he does not know what he is saying. He serves not Surcouf but me! He would not say so for fear of revealing who I am but I cannot see him die because of me.'

'You?' the stranger said with a lift of his eyebrows. 'Who then are you?'

'An aristocrat, like yourself – for you are noble, are you not? Your voice and your speech declare it—'

To save her life she could not have said what made her say it. But whether divinely or diabolically inspired, her words had certainly succeeded in gaining the stranger's attention and something told her she had not been mistaken. A spark of curiosity showed in the man's eyes.

'It may be so. Know, however that men call me simply Morvan. But you have still not told me who you are.'

'My name is Marianne d'Asselnat. My father and mother went to the guillotine for trying to save the queen.' Suddenly she remembered Madame Royal's curious gift and added urgently: 'Tell your men to give you what they took from me. You will find there, as well as a little English money and my mother's pearls, a blue enamel locket containing a lock of white hair. It was given to me by the duchesse d'Angoulême and the hair belong to the martyred queen!'

Marianne was amazed, as she heard herself speaking, that it all came so naturally. She had slipped effortlessly into the voice and accent of a fanatical royalist even though, in the inn at Plymouth, she had turned her back upon the émigrés who, in the person of the duc d'Avaray, had rejected her. But it seemed quite fair to use them in order to save the life of one who served Napoleon – and of course the unknown but undoubtedly celebrated Surcouf!

It seemed that she had almost won her point. Morvan beckoned imperiously to the two men who had been standing a little way off holding Jean and waiting passively for the order to kill him. A few brief words in the strange rough speech which must be the Breton dialect and Vinoc, scowling to himself, handed over to his chief the jewels stolen from Marianne. Morvan took the pearls and put them in his pocket without a word, then he strolled over to one of the fires, holding the locket in his hand. The glow of the flame fell on his grim face with its black mask behind which the eyes burned like hot coals. Marianne threw a quick, anxious glance at Jean. She was afraid he might have heard the rather unorthodox way in which she had defended him. But he had heard nothing. He was leaning back against a rock with his eyes closed in an attitude of utter weariness, still flanked by his guards, simply waiting for his fate to be decided.

Now Morvan was coming back. This time, as he approached Marianne he uncovered and bowed with unexpected grace, his black hat sweeping the sand.

'I crave your forgiveness, Mademoiselle d'Asselnat, for this discourteous welcome. Believe me, I could not know that you were in this wreck. If you will take my arm, I shall be honoured to conduct you to my house where you may rest yourself – and we shall have some speech together.'

Delighted to have won even a moment's respite, Marianne did not stop to ask herself what he meant to talk about.

'And my servant?' she asked, before accepting the proffered arm. 'I hope you mean to pardon him?'

A smile which Marianne judged far from pleasant appeared below the black mask.

'But naturally. He shall follow us but his rash words have made him suspect and he must be watched. Do not take offence at this.'

The two robbers, both of whom were now dressed, brought Jean Le Dru forward, almost dragging him for he was clearly at the end of his strength. Morvan glanced keenly at the young man then gave his orders in a low, distinct voice.

'Take him back to the manor. His life is spared. He is only a lackey, in the service of the young Marquise d'Asselnat, who comes from our exiled princes. But he had lied to me and must be punished. Lock him in the tower.'

Marianne was overcome with fresh terror at these contemptuous words, realizing that Morvan was trying to provoke Jean into a denial. In fact the young man had flushed angrily and was struggling to free himself. He was going to deny it, he was going to repudiate her and then Morvan would have him killed without a moment's hesitation. Marianne ran to him and clasped his hands as hard as she could.

'Be quiet, Jean – it is no use lying. I have told this gentleman what I had to tell him because it would have been stupid to throw away your life for nothing.'

He opened his mouth to cry out but the pressure of the small hands became more insistent and Jean merely shrugged and cursed.

'Very well, mademoiselle. I daresay you are right and I'm only a fool!'

But the look he gave her was not only devoid of any gratitude but so heavy with contempt that Marianne shivered. Now that Morvan had seen fit to proclaim her as an envoy of the exiled princes, she realized that in Jean's eyes she had become an enemy. A royalist spy, and the comradeship born of danger was dead. She was bitterly hurt without quite knowing why but Morvan was watching her and she made herself turn away in order to avoid rousing further suspicions. An aristocrat should not be unduly concerned about a servant. As it was, he remarked when she slipped her hand into the proffered arm: 'You take good care of your servant, my dear. I wonder if I was right to let him live. You set such store by it—'

Realizing that her pleas would not help Jean and that on the contrary, she was bound to play the part she had assumed right to the end, Marianne merely shrugged in her turn and answered:

'Faithful servants are rare, especially for an exile. Now, Monsieur Morvan. I should be glad if you would conduct me to your house. I am tired and perished with cold.'

She said no more and allowed the wrecker to lead her to his unknown dwelling but inwardly she was full of trepidation. She placed little trust in this man who, while admitting his rank, had not unmasked for her, a man who killed in cold blood, a wrecker who could plunder and steal and who had slipped her pearl necklace into his pocket quite unconcernedly. All she hoped to gain was a little time to rest and food for her exhausted body. But she had no illusions about what must follow. As soon as she was better, she would make her escape, taking Jean with her, he no doubt to rejoin his famous Surcouf, she to try and find what little family she had left.

The wreckers had been keeping the plunder from the wreck about the fires on the beach but there was still a good deal of debris floating between the ship, now three quarters submerged, and the shore. Men were still plunging into the water, in the grip of a frenzied and unremitting lust for gain. But the storm was abating and already the tide was on the turn. The thunder of the waves which, only a moment before, had been breaking on the rocks in great fountains of spray, gave way to a degree of calm in which the men's frenzy also abated. The waters began to go down and, at the same time, a greyish light touched their surface and spread over the sky. Dawn was not far off and Morvan, moving slowly up the beach with Marianne, paused to sniff the air and, taking a silver whistle from his pocket, blew three short, piercing blasts which had the effect of stopping his men in their tracks. He raised his arm and pointed to the sky. Regretfully, the wreckers left the water and made their way to the fires where they set about loading the chests and bales on to their shoulders. The corpses were left where they lay. Marianne passed quite close to one of them and closed her eyes to shut out the poor, sightless face. If she valued her life, she dare not let the man beside her see how deeply he appalled her. Little by little, she was learning the hard way that most cruel of all lessons, that if she were to survive, she would have to lie, cheat and use all her wits to do so. It was a lesson she would never forget. With the exception of the poor young man now being dragged along behind her and possibly of Black Fish whose giant corpse must still be floating somewhere in the receding waters of this hateful bay, her first contacts with men in this wide world had brought her nothing but disgust and a profound contempt. In future, she meant to emerge victorious from any further brush with them, at least so far as the still untried limits of her strength allowed.

A mizzling rain began to fall from skies of unrelieved dark grey. The fires were out and the growing daylight glimmered on wet, seaweed covered rocks. Somewhere inland, a cock crowed hoarsely. Marianne's feet stopped sinking into sand and trod on hard ground covered with dry grass. This, then, was Brittany.

CHAPTER FIVE Morvan the Wrecker

The manor house belonging to the man who called himself Morvan lay at the end of a hollow road, at this season deep in mud, between high banks crowned with gorse and stunted ash trees which turned it into a long, greenish tunnel; a crumbling sixteenth century façade flanked by turrets. Some way off, in a dip in the ground, was a small village made up of a few low cottages with walls of grey granite and roofs of heavy thatch. The sea was close by, overhung by ragged cliffs that, to the south, curved back sharply inland to form a narrow estuary. Out on the heath, a pair of standing stones like lonely sentinels kept their gloomy vigil among the gorse and whin bushes while on the summit of a nearby hill the remains of a stone circle lay in the short grass, waiting endlessly for the return of a sun worship now gone for ever. But of all this, in the livid light of a rain-sodden dawn, Marianne saw little. She was too frozen and exhausted to notice anything but the bed which Morvan conjured out of the wall by opening a wooden panel carved in intricate, lacy patterns. The mattress was stuffed with seaweed, the blankets rough wool and the sheets raw, unbleached linen but she threw herself down on them as gratefully as a hunted animal and fell instantly asleep.

When she awoke at last from the deep, dreamless sleep which had possessed her, Marianne saw that it was dark again. Candles were burning in silver sconces, a fire roared up the soot-blackened chimney and before the ancient stone hearth an old woman in a black gown and white cap was busy laying out some clothes on a bench while she watched the great cauldron of water set on to boil. Her face had the sunken look of those whose teeth have gone and there was something uncomfortably witch-like about the dark shadow thrown by the flames on to the old-fashioned coffered ceiling. Her jaw moved continuously above the froth of ribbons fastening her bonnet.

The wooden bed creaked as Marianne sat up. The crone turned colourless eyes on her beneath wrinkled, tortoise lids.

'You can be stirring now. Here's clothes for you and hot water to wash.'

The old woman's peremptory tone nettled Marianne, accustomed to the quiet deference of her own servants.

'I'm hungry,' she said sharply. 'Get me something to eat.'

'Time enough,' the old woman told her calmly. 'Dress yourself and join the master. If he means you to eat, you will eat.'

She hobbled out of the room, leaning on a knotted stick, taking no further notice of the girl. Marianne scrambled over the fretwork side of her strange bed and found herself standing on a bench from which she could step down on to the floor of beaten earth which still showed, here and there, some remnants of coloured tiles. The room itself was of noble proportions and some traces of gilding glinted here and there among the plentiful cobwebs on the ceiling. But it contained no furniture beyond three of the curious cupboard-beds, their walls carved in primitive but oddly attractive designs, the benches by which they were reached and those by the hearth on which, in addition to the clothes, stood a basin, some soap and towels. The old woman had built up a roaring fire in the hearth and Marianne was able to wash in great comfort. She did so with a good deal of pleasure and finished by washing the sand and salt out of her hair, throwing bowlful after bowlful of dirty water out of the tiny window without a thought of where they might be landing.

At last she felt clean again. She twisted her hair into thick braids and wound it round her head, then turned her attention to the clothes provided for her. She was surprised to find them remarkably grand for any peasant woman. The gown was leaf green damask trimmed at the hem with gold embroidery and there was a small satin apron of the same green edged with lace. A big lace shawl and a muslin cap shaped like a small hennin, with a pair of dainty, buckled shoes, completed the outfit. Marianne's pleasure as she put it on was truly feminine. Taking down the old mirror which hung in a corner, she contemplated herself in it with some satisfaction. The dress might have been made for her. The velvet bodice sat well on her slender waist and the green silk matched her eyes. Draping the Irish lace shawl gracefully round her shoulders, she pirouetted lightly and made for the door.

The two rooms leading out of the large bedchamber showed the same state of dilapidation and neglect, with bare walls showing here and there a glimpse of frescoes in which pallid figures wandered among peeling fields, great overmantels with broken carvings, a complete absence of furniture and abundance of cobwebs so thick they hung like cloudy drapery from the ceiling. For a moment, Marianne wondered if Morvan had brought her to a wholly deserted house but then the sound of voices reached her through a half open door. She went towards them and pushed the door open wider.

The room which met her eyes might just as easily have been the dining room of the great house, by reason of its immense table, the chapter house of a monastery, on account of its vaulted ceiling and the massive, black wooden crucifix on the end wall, or simply a warehouse, from the quantities of chests, bales and packages of all descriptions that lay about on the ancient studded leather armchairs and innumerable stools. A great many of these parcels had been ripped open, revealing lengths of silk or woollen cloth, bales of cotton, bags of tea and coffee, tanned hides and a host of other things, all the more or less recent spoils of wrecks washed up by the sea. But Marianne had scarcely a glance for all this because, right in the midst of all the confusion, a blistering argument was in progress between the chief of the wreckers and a very pretty girl dressed in much the same costume as herself except that her dress was rose pink satin and her shawl of chinese silk embroidered with apple blossoms.

That they were quarrelling was clear only from their angry voices because the words were in the Breton language of which Marianne could not understand a word. She saw, however, that the girl was nearly as dark as herself with a fine pink and white complexion and an expression in her hazel eyes of quite unbelievable hardness. She also noted, with some surprise, that while Morvan had removed his hat, he still wore his black velvet mask. But by this time, the girl had heard someone come in. She swung round and, seeing Marianne, turned her anger against her.

'My dress!' she exclaimed furiously, this time in excellent French. 'You dared to give her my dress – and my shoes, and my beautiful Irish shawl!'

'I did indeed,' Morvan answered her coldly without giving himself the trouble of raising his voice, 'and I shall dare a great deal more Gwen, if you continue to scream in that way. I cannot bear people to scream—'

He was sprawled negligently in a chair, one leg hooked over the arm, playing with what seemed to be a brand new gold-mounted riding whip.

'I shall scream if I like!' the girl retorted. 'That is my dress and I forbid you to give it to her.'

'It was mine before it was yours, since every stitch I gave you. You were half naked when I found you outside the prison in Brest, waiting to see your lover hanged, a thief like yourself – everything you've got on your back you owe to me, my girl. This, and this – and this too!'

With the end of his whip, Morvan lifted the gold chain round the girl's neck and flicked the lace at her sleeves with a contempt that made Gwen shake with fury. When he began to lift her skirts, she slapped them down and screamed at him:

'You gave me nothing, Morvan! What I have, I've earned. It's my share of the loot – and the price of the nights I've given you. As for that one—'

She turned to Marianne as though she meant to take her clothes back then and there but was stopped in her tracks when the other girl said coolly:

'I am sorry, believe me, mademoiselle, if I have unwittingly borrowed your garments, only consider how unfortunate had I been obliged to appear before this gentleman – ' a brief toss of her head indicated the wrecker,' – dressed only in a blanket. I can only add that if you will be good enough to find me some others, I will gladly restore these to you.'

These mild observations acted on Gwen like a shower of cold water. The anger left her face and was replaced by astonishment. She stared at Marianne with new eyes then, after a moment's silence, muttered ungraciously: 'Oh very well! Keep them for now since you've no others. But,' her voice became sharply practical, 'try not to spoil them.'

Marianne smiled. 'I'll do my best,' she said. Gwen's words had told her a good deal and this, with the fact that her lover had been a thief, suggested that she was a peasant girl fallen on hard times. Marianne felt an odd kind of sympathy for her. In the past few days, she too had learned the meaning of fear, suffering and physical wretchedness. In Plymouth harbour she would have done almost anything to save her life and to escape from Jason Beaufort. Besides, this Morvan seemed decidedly unpleasant. There was something in Gwen's voice when she spoke to him that put Marianne instantly on her side out of feminine solidarity. The wrecker may have been aware of this because he sat up suddenly and waved Gwen away.

'Go now. I must talk seriously with this young woman. I will see you later.'

Gwen obeyed, without hurrying. She made her way over to the door, hips swaying under the Chinese shawl, but as she passed Marianne dropped him a wink, heavy with meaning.

'Seriously? She's too well stacked for that! I know you, Morvan. Get a pretty girl within reach, and you can't keep your hands off her. Take care, that's all. If you give her my place as well as lending her my clothes, you'd better watch out for her health – and your own. Have fun!'

Pulling a face at Marianne who felt her earlier sympathy evaporating fast, she swept out with the airs of an outraged queen. But the interlude had at least given Marianne a chance to recover her self-command and now she was able to contemplate the chief of the wreckers without a qualm. He was, after all, only a man and Marianne had determined that no man would ever get the better of her again. Jason Beaufort's kiss, as well as his improper proposal to her, followed by Francis Cranmere's dying words and then by the looks and actions of Jean Le Dru had made her suddenly aware of her own female charm and of the power they gave her. Even the girl who had just gone out, even Gwen had in her vulgar way paid tribute to her beauty. She had said that she was 'well stacked'. Marianne was none too sure of the precise meaning of that curious phrase, but it seemed to be complimentary.

Seeing that Morvan remained slumped in his seat, playing with his curiously braided hair, and did not offer her a chair, she drew one forward for herself and sat down.

'If we are to talk seriously,' she said composedly holding her hands on her silk apron, 'then let us talk. But what are we to talk about?'

'You, myself, our business – I imagine you have a message for me?'

'A message for you? From whom? You forget that I was cast up here by the sea, I was not coming here of my own will. Since I did not anticipate the honour of your acquaintance, I cannot see how anyone should have given me any word for you.'

For answer, Morvan took from his pocket the blue enamel locket and swung it gently from his fingers.

'The person who gave you this cannot have sent you merely for the pleasure of visiting Brittany in winter.'

'Why should you think anyone sent me, or that I was coming to Brittany? One lands where one can in such a storm! That memento, I owe to my parent's sacrifice. You would do me a kindness by returning that and my mother's pearls. They have no business in your pocket.'

'We'll talk of that later,' Morvan broke in with a smile which made his mask look still more sinister. 'For the moment, I want an answer. Why have you undertaken this perilous crossing at the very worst time of year? No young woman of your name and breeding would undertake such a journey unless she were one of the king's amazons at least – or had a mission!'

Marianne had been thinking fast while Morvan was speaking. She was well aware that her best chance of safety lay in the air of mystery which surrounded her. To tell Morvan the story of the events which had destroyed her world and her illusions would be the greatest folly. While he believed her on the same side as himself, Morvan would treat her well. The idea of a mission was a good one to hold on to. Unfortunately Marianne had never met the exiled royalty and had few contacts among the émigré population apart from Monseigneur Talleyrand-Périgord and, to her regret, the duc d'Avaray. Of course, there was her godfather but she had no proof of the abbé de Chazay's travels being in the service of the right king. God's service would be reason enough.

Through the holes in his mask Morvan's cold eyes were studying the girl. She had not noticed that silence had fallen between them while she was thinking. The wrecker repeated his question.

'Well, this mission?'

'Supposing I have one – and it is possible – it is no concern of yours. I see no reason to confide in you. And further more,' here she allowed a note of insolence to creep into her voice, 'even if I had a message for you I could scarcely give it to you since I do not know who you are.'

'I have told you. I am called Morvan,' he said arrogantly.

'That is not a name. And I would remind you that you have not yet been civil enough to show your face. To me, therefore,' Marianne concluded, 'you are simply a stranger.'

A gust of wind flung open one of the windows, sending it banging back against the wall and whirled through the room lifting the papers which lay on the tables. Morvan rose with a sigh of irritation and went to close it. On his way back, he paused to snuff a candle which was smoking, then came and stood squarely in front of Marianne.

'I will show you my face if I think fit. As for my name, it is long now since I had any but Morvan. I am known by that name, over there,' he added with a nod in the direction from which came the murmuring sound of the sea.

'I have nothing to say to you,' Marianne answered him coldly, 'except to ask you to return what is mine, in other words my possessions and my servant, and let me go on my way – when you have given me something to eat, that is, for to tell you the truth I'm starving.'

'And we shall sup very shortly. I did but wait for you. Let us settle our business first, however. I cannot eat with something nagging at me.'

'I can at any time. So let us get this over if you please, and ask whatever questions you wish.'

'Where are you going?'

'To Paris,' Marianne said with all the satisfaction of one telling the simple truth.

'Who are you going to see? The Red Herring? Or the chevalier de Bruslart? Although I doubt the latter's being in Paris.'

'I don't know. They would find me. I don't know who I have to deal with.'

Now it was Morvan's turn to look thoughtful. But Marianne could guess what he was thinking. He must be reasoning that a girl so young and inexperienced could not be the bearer of any perilous message and, in any case, would be unlikely to know its real worth.

Having reached this conclusion, he smiled at her, that wolfish smile which Marianne hated instinctively.

'Very well. I am willing to accept that and shall not force you to betray your secret – which might have unpleasant consequences for us both. But your coming is a blessing of which I should be foolish not to take advantage.'

'Take advantage? But how?'

'It is like this: I have already sent two messengers, one to the King at Hartwell House, the other to London, to the comte d'Antraigus. Neither has returned and for months now I have had no orders or instructions. I was getting desperate when the sea deposited you here like a miracle. You are a god-send! You could scarcely expect me to let you run away again without first giving me a little help?'

The tone was soft, almost carressing but Marianne forced back a shudder. There was something cat-like in this man and she liked him better when a spitting fury than with velvet paws. However, she managed to conceal her thoughts.

'How may I help you?'

'Easily. By remaining here, as my – guest,' an infinitesimal pause before the word, 'and queen of this sad house. Meanwhile, I shall see to it that your servant, the man by whom you set such store and who seems to me to have the air of something more than a mere servant, is sent back to England. He will go, with a proper escort, to the King – or to Madame Royale. Her Highness must have a great regard for you to have given you this precious locket. She will not be indifferent to the fact that you are detained here, unable to assume your mission, until I obtain satisfaction from the princes, or at least an answer to the question I have asked.'

Morvan was watching her reactions closely and Marianne needed all her self-command not to show her dismay. Yet the wrecker's plan contained nothing to delight her. Jean Le Dru would never consent to carry through the part she had forced on him if it meant a return to England and the hulk that awaited him in Plymouth or Portsmouth. He would tell the truth and would then be in imminent danger of having his throat cut by Morvan's men. And if Morvan were ever to suspect what she really was, a murderess fleeing from the rope, her own life would not be worth much more. Morvan was just the man to hand her over, bound hand and foot, to the English law if he thought it would serve his turn. She had to part company with this dangerous individual and the sooner the better. But meanwhile, it was vital to gain time and, when Morvan asked: 'Well? What do you think of my offer?' she was able to reply quite calmly and even summon up a smile.

'I think it is an interesting idea and one we might examine further at more leisure – when we have eaten for instance—'

Surprised, perhaps at her ready acceptance, Morvan gave a crack of laughter and offered his arm with a bow.

'You must indeed be very hungry. And you are quite right. My arm, my dear, and let us recoup our strength somewhat.'

The room in which meals were taken in Morvan's house bore no resemblance to a banqueting hall. It was simply a large kitchen with a floor of beaten earth. A granite fireplace of monumental proportions took up the whole of one side and inside it, in a niche in the soot-blackened wall, was a stone bench on which an old man, with grey hair straggling from under a battered hat, sat meditating with his chin on a knotted stick. At the far end, beneath the narrow window, a long box table, flanked by two settles, was set at right angles to the wall. On it were bowls and dishes made of a red earthenware and, next to them, a big wicker dish cover was attached by a long cord to a pulley fastened to the ceiling. The only light in the long, low room came from the flames in the hearth and from a pine torch stuck medieval-fashion into an iron ring in the wall. There was a strong smell of wood smoke. Apart from the old peasant dozing in the chimney corner there were only four people in the kitchen when Morvan entered with Marianne on his arm: the old woman she had seen when she woke up and was now busy with a large pan on the fire, Gwen and the two men whose acquaintance Marianne had made under such unpleasant circumstances on the beach. No one spoke. Gwen merely stuck her nose in the air and took her place at table with the rest.

Sitting beside her and facing the three men, Marianne could not help asking why Jean Le Dru was not present and where he was.

'Because in my house, as in other noble households, the servants do not eat with the masters. These – er, gentlemen,' he added in a mocking voice, indicating Vinoc and his companion, 'are my lieutenants. Your servant is lucky enough to be served in his own quarters – he is locked in the barn.'

With this explanation, Marianne was obliged to be content as Morvan began immediately to say grace. No respectable household would have bowed their heads more piously over their plates than the three wreckers and the girl Gwen. Deciding that in future nothing should surprise her, Marianne did the same, after which they addressed themselves to the meal in a silence befitting so noble a subject as food.

This too was of a kind quite unfamiliar to Marianne. A thick soup made of parched oats and a few pieces of bacon so fat that Marianne could not think of eating it, was followed by potatoes baked in the ashes. Seeing the others break them open on the edge of their bowls and then dip each spoonful in the cold milk of which there was a plentiful supply, she copied them and found it delicious. The buckwheat pancakes sprinkled with plenty of sugar which came next were good as well and she drank several bowls of milk. Only Morvan drank wine.

From where she sat, Marianne could see into a small room, like a store room, opening out of the wall next to the fireplace. Inside, under the now darkened window, stood an outsize table covered with a white cloth. Sitting cross-legged on this table was a small, wizened man. His skin was almost yellow, his hair dark and lank, his hands white and agile. A huge heap of materials of all colours had been pushed to one side, while this curious creature was busily engaged in putting away vast quantities of pancakes smothered in thick cream with which the old woman was plying him with unexpected goodwill. Marianne could see that they were talking a good deal but could not hear what was being said. However, since she was too young to contain her curiosity, she asked:

'Who is that man in there, eating among all the materials?'

'The tailor, saving your presence,' Morvan answered without looking round. 'It is the custom here to have such people to the house to cut and sew garments. They are clever with their hands and perform wonders. If you wish him to make you a gown, I shall be happy to present him to you.'

'Why does he eat alone in that little room?'

'Because he is the tailor, saving your presence!'

This time, Marianne looked at him wide eyed. Could he, by any chance, be laughing at her?

'Why do you keep saying "saving your presence"?' she said with a touch of insolence. 'How peculiar!'

'Because a tailor, saving your presence, is not a man and therefore one should ask pardon when mentioning him. That does not, however, detract from his skill. This one, his name is Perinnaic, an artist in his way—'

No, Morvan was decidedly not laughing at her. He made the explanation calmly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Moreover, Marianne did not miss the venomous glance cast at him by the occupant of the small room. Perinnaic must have heard what was said about him. Morvan had not troubled to lower his voice. Gwen raised hers sharply.

'He is a real artist,' she announced. 'He is sought all over Brittany and you should be proud that he consents to work in your muddy great barn when all the grand houses are after him.'

Morvan gave a short laugh.

'I was forgetting! Men may cordially despise the tailor, saving your presence, but the women adore him. I suppose you will be the same.'

Marianne said nothing but her eyes dwelled thoughtfully on the little man who had finished his meal and was once again working away earnestly with fine gold thread at some embroidery he was doing on a black velvet garment. What interested her was not so much the man's skill as the hatred she had glimpsed briefly in his eyes. Feelings of that kind directed towards Morvan were bound to strike a sympathetic cord in her. She made up her mind to ask for a dress, simply as a way of approaching Perinnaic. And with her mother's pearls in his pocket, Morvan could well afford to buy her one!

The meal ended with a further blessing. Marianne rose and, without waiting for permission, made her way over to the tailor's little retreat. He did not look up at her approach but Marianne found herself instantly spellbound. Perinnaic's thin fingers worked with extroardinary dexterity, creating on the black velvet a delicate tracery of strange, spiralling patterns that seemed to spring direct from his own whimsical imagination. Marianne was too much a woman not to admire the work wholeheartedly and still too much a child not to put her admiration into words.

'You are a very great artist!' she said softly and with real feeling, quite forgetting that the man would probably not understand her words. He looked up, however, possibly in response to something in her voice. Something approaching a smile warmed his shrivelled face but only for an instant. Perinnaic's lashless eyelids dropped again at once and Marianne heard Morvan's insolent voice behind her.

'Decidedly, no woman can resist anything to do with clothes. Tomorrow, you shall choose a length of stuff and be measured. Oh, don't worry, it will be enough for him to take a length of your arm.'

Without troubling to thank him, Marianne went on immediately to tell him of her wish to see Jean Le Dru. She wanted to assure herself, that he was being properly treated. Unfortunately, Morvan was unimpressed by such concern. He merely told her in a bored voice that she need feel no anxiety for her servant, he was being well treated as she could see for herself from the size of the meal old Soizic was at that moment loading on to a large tray. But he had no intention of allowing his guest to converse freely with her "highly suspicious" servant.

'We shall see him together, tomorrow morning,' he concluded, 'when we inform him of what we would have him do. What can you have to tell him now that will not wait? It is dark, the day is done now and it is time to rest.'

'I am not sleepy,' Marianne snapped. She had slept all day and was now suffering at least as much from impatience as from real anxiety. She had to see Jean alone and explain to him what she wanted him to do to ensure the safety of them both. Pulling the precious Irish shawl more tightly round her shoulders, she went on, a little defiantly: 'What am I supposed to do? Crawl back into that cupboard thing I sleep in I suppose?'

Morvan laughed.

'You have no fancy for our box-beds, I see, but they can be very cosy when the air bites cold. However, since you are not sleepy, what would you like to do? You might take a walk but the night is dark and cold—'

'Thank you! But I have no desire for a second view of those poor murdered wretches on the beach.'

'You take me for a child, my dear. It's little enough we see of the coastguard and customs men in these parts, I agree they stand somewhat in awe of our rude manners, I believe, but one never knows. The drowned have been thrown back into the sea, the others properly buried. We did not kill so very many, you know.'

The last words were spoken in an ironic tone which made Marianne want to slap him.

Rather than arouse his suspicions, she agreed when he proposed a game of chess. At his command, an exquisite marquetry table was brought into the homely kitchen. Arranged upon it was a set of sparkling chess men made of silver and crystal and certainly very old. These were followed by two fragile armchairs upholstered in pale silk which were placed before the fire.

'This is the warmest place in the house,' Morvan explained taking one of the chairs and offering the other to Marianne. 'There is my own room, but the chimney smokes and one freezes there. Besides—' He gave a slow smile and his teeth gleamed wolfishly below the mask, 'we are as yet insufficiently acquainted for another, more enthralling game I might propose. Until proved otherwise, you are the guest sent by God – and, of course, by their Highnesses.'

'I seem to think,' Marianne retorted blandly, 'that it takes two to play that game – and you would find me less willing to engage in it than in this. I should, on the other hand, be very willing to see you at last remove your mask. I dislike that velvet face.'

'You would dislike what it conceals still more,' he answered harshly. 'If you must know, my pretty babe, I am disfigured. An unlucky sabre-cut at Quiberon yet, even then, I came out of that carnage alive and think myself lucky I escaped so lightly. So, let us leave my mask where it is and have our game.'

Chess had been the abbé de Chazay's passion and Marianne had played the game as long as she could remember. Patiently, in the course of endless games she had developed her sense of strategy. She played well, with a speed and boldness that could disconcert even a skilful player. But tonight, her mind was not on the game. Her eyes scarcely saw the glittering pieces touched to gold by the dancing light of the fire, her ears were so busy straining to catch all the sounds of this unfamiliar house. Gwen had disappeared as though by magic. The old woman, Soizic, had gone off with her tray. Almost at once, the sound of her wooden shoes was heard outside the kitchen window. There must be an outer door somewhere not far away leading to the barn where Jean was imprisoned. The two "lieutenants" had shuffled out with an awkward "goodnight all", and shortly afterwards the little tailor had also made his way across the kitchen, carrying his candle, on his way to whatever hole had been allotted him to sleep in.

Now that he. was no longer sitting down, Marianne saw with pity that he was a gnome-like creature with stunted legs much too short for a body whose development, apart from a tendency to be hunchbacked, was normal. He gave the players as wide a berth as possible and muttered his goodnight humbly enough but once again Marianne caught that glance of pure hatred directed towards Morvan.

Last of all, the old man in the chimney corner hobbled away, half asleep, and then the only sounds were the crackle of logs in the hearth and Morvan's rather heavy breathing. Little by little, the silence became oppressive. The mask and the angle at which his chair was placed left the wrecker's face in shadow, and Marianne had the unpleasant feeling that she was playing against a phantom; only the hands moving the pieces on the squares and violet-wood, seemed alive. It was a good hand, of almost feminine whiteness, the fingers long, perfectly formed and sensitive. Their colour apart, Marianne had seen another pair of hands like those, quite recently. They reminded her of Jason Beaufort's hands and the memory was not a pleasant one. On Morvan's however, Marianne's keen eyes were able to make out the faint mark of a star-shaped scar at the base of the third finger. She had always been fascinated by hands and by the strange, evocative power they had to conjure up a host of images. She had been fond of studying people's hands. These hands suggested something quite different from nights spent lurking in ambush on storm-lashed rocks, waiting for luckless vessels to fall into the trap – they suggested—

The hand was abruptly withdrawn and Morvan's coldly courteous tone dispelled his adversary's musings.

'Your mind is not on the game, my dear. That is my bishop you were about to move. Perhaps you are more tired than you thought? Would you rather we stopped for tonight?'

Marianne grasped at the chance he offered. She had better things to do tonight than to play chess. And so with a rueful smile she agreed that she did feel a little sleepy. Morvan rose, bowed and offered his arm.

'After such a night as you have passed, it is not surprising. I will take you to your room.

The fire had burned down to a red glow and the cold had crept into the long, bare room but there were new candles in the silver sconces and the bed in the carved wooden alcove had been freshly made. A long cambric shift was laid out on the coverlet. But Marianne had no thought of going to bed. She began by throwing some logs on the fire and the flames burned up, bright and clear, driving away the gloomy shadows. That done, she went straight to the window and dragged aside the ragged curtain that covered it. She found to her fury that it was firmly barred and fastened with the aid of a padlock. It seemed that Morvan left nothing to chance. A wave of depression swept over her. She would never manage to get to Jean and tomorrow would bring disaster to them both. But how was she to get out? Morvan was almost certain to have locked the door and in fact that infalliable recording device of memory was already telling her that she had heard the dry click of the key in the lock.

She went over to the door just the same, though without conviction, and lifted the latch but let it go again immediately. Someone on the other side was stealthily turning the key in the lock. Marianne drew back instinctively as, without a sound, the door swung open. The tailor's pale face loomed out of the shadows.

He put his finger quickly to his lips to still Marianne's exclamation of surprise.

'Ssh! May I come in for a moment?'

She beckoned silently, noticing that the odd little man spoke perfect French. He limped across to the panelled wall that concealed the cupboard bed and opened the doors. Then, having assured himself that they were empty, he turned back to Marianne who was watching him with astonishment.

'On the right of the barn door,' he whispered, 'you will find a hole in the wall. That is where they keep the key—'

'Thank you,' said Marianne, 'but how am I to get out of the house? Even my window is barred.'

'Yours, yes, but not the others and, in particular, not that of the room where I work. It will be a tight fit, but you are not large, and the barn is just opposite.'

There was a moment's silence. Marianne stared at the little hunchback in amazement. His small eyes were twinkling like stars and he seemed suddenly highly delighted.

'Why are you doing this?' she asked. 'You know I mean to escape – and you are putting yourself in danger.'

'Not at all. He will think that Madam Jealousy let you out. After all, who should notice a tailor – saving your presence? And for my reasons – say I like playing tricks on folk that are too cocksure – or that I have my own reasons for hating the Lord Morvan! Go, quickly—'

'Thank you again – but I owe you my freedom—'

'Not yet. I am not certain you will get away – or not unless you go alone.'

'What do you mean?'

'Nothing. You will see. But whatever happens, I will come back before daylight and lock this door, whether you have returned or not. Then, all will be safe. And, take my advice and leave that light shawl behind. Even in the dark, you could be seen.'

Letting fall the heavy lace, Marianne went quickly to one of the beds, stripped off a brown blanket and wrapped it closely round her. She was trembling with cold and excitement. She turned to Perinnaic again.

'How can I thank you for what you are doing for me?'

'Easily!' The smile on his face was replaced by a look of sudden ferocity. 'See to it that Morvan's head rolls and I shall be repaid a hundredfold!'

Marianne repressed a shudder at the twisted hatred that showed in the hunchback's face.

'I don't see how I can do that. I don't even know his face—'

'Nor I. But he is absent very often and I know he goes to Paris. There, he must surely discard his mask. Try and find out who he is – and, if you succeed in sending him to the scaffold he has eluded for so long, then know you will have avenged countless unhappy souls! Go quickly now, I have talked too much and words are perilous.'

Marianne glided swiftly out of the room. Periannaic had given her a taper in a crude holder to light her but she remembered the way to the kitchen perfectly and soon found herself in the big, still warm room. The fire was still alight and judging that this would give her light enough, Marianne put out her candle and left it on the overmantel. She made her way into the little room, climbed on the table and set about opening the window, praying to heaven that it would not creak too much. To her great relief, it opened easily. Marianne leaned out.

It was a black night and the wind was blowing strongly but her eyes soon grew accustomed to it. Immediately facing her, she was able to make out a large squat building that could only be the barn. Quickly pushing out the encumbering blanket, she wriggled her slender body through the tiny opening. It was only just big enough and she scraped herself painfully in the process but the will that drove her was stronger than the pain. Then she was standing outside. The ground was hard with frost and the grass quite dry so that her feet did not get wet, but even so it was not very warm and Marianne was glad to wrap the blanket round her again. She hurried over to the barn, her light shoes making no sound. There was no one in sight and she had little fear of meeting anyone. She knew already from the way old Soizic had grumbled at having to take the prisoner's supper out to him that the Bretons were not fond of going out after dark for fear of encountering the ghosts of the dead.

She reached the barn and felt for the key but she had to stand on tiptoe to reach the narrow crack between two stones. At last her fingers closed on the cold metal. Even then, however, it was not easy to discover the lock. Her hand shook with excitement and her heart beat as though it would leap out of her breast but when the key finally slipped into place she found that someone must have oiled the lock recently because it turned easily and without making a sound. Somehow, Marianne found herself inside, blown in with a gust of wind. She had to lean on the door with all her strength to close it. Overcome by excitement, she closed her eyes and once again had the feeling that all this was somehow unreal and absurd, as though she were playing a part.

From somewhere inside the barn a voice spoke. 'So you've come? It's about time, I was just going to blow out my candle.'

Comfortably ensconced in a heap of straw, Jean Le Dru sat with folded arms looking at Marianne. The candle she saw was still alight although almost burned down. It was stuck to the tray beside the remains of the meal. She understood however why Perinnaic had told her that if she meant to escape she would have to do so alone. Jean seemed to have suffered no ill treatment. Far from it. He had obviously been allowed to wash because his fair hair shone like gold and the beard had gone from his chin. He had been given dry clothes as well but there was a broad iron band around his ankles linked by a heavy chain to a massive ring embedded in the masonry of the wall. There must be a key to unfasten that chain, but Marianne had not got it.

Her face was such a picture of disappointment that Le Dru began to laugh.

'Yes, your friends have anchored me good and fast. But maybe, if they've given you a key I can see in your hand they've been good enough to give you the one that opens this little trinket as well?'

She shook her head. 'They're are not my friends,' she said unhappily. 'I found out where they hid this key – I was hoping that we could escape together, tonight.'

'Escape? Why do you want to escape? Aren't you happy here? I saw you trotting off like an honoured guest on the arm of that masked devil and, I will say, they've got you up like a princess. A Bretonne princess, of course, but then, in my view they're the best of all! And there's no denying it suits you. You look quite lovely in it.'

'Stop teasing me! We are not in a drawing room. We must find some way to escape, I tell you, or both of us are lost!'

'I am, at any rate. As for you, although I don't quite see how you are in danger my dear – marquise, is it? I am not stopping you running about the countryside on this charming night. For my own part, with your permission, I am going to sleep. It's not so bad here in this straw, all things considered. So I'll just wish you a good journey. Don't forget to shut the door when you go. There's a devil of a wind!'

'But you don't understand!' Marianne wailed almost in tears.

She went down on her knees beside him. 'I am not what these people think.'

'Not an aristocrat? Who do you think will believe that? One's only to look at you.'

'It is true, I am an aristocrat, but I am not an agent of the king. Ever since I came, they have talked about nothing but conspiracy, the princes' agents and the Emperor's spies, but I don't understand a word of it. I know nothing about it – nothing, I swear to you!'

In her desperate longing to convince him, she had clasped her hands in a childish gesture of supplication. He must believe her. He must be her friend again, as he had been last night in the storm. She needed his man's strength so badly! And now, his beardless face made him look so unbelievably young, much closer to her than he had been before. There was something open and clean about him which was both attractive and reassuring. Running out of argument, she said in a small, frightened voice which all unknown to herself, touched a chord in the boy's locked heart.

'You see – I'm only seventeen.'

The grey eyes which had been so cold a moment before, softened suddenly. Stretching out his arm, Jean folded the girl's clasped hands in his one big one and drew her forward until she was sitting on the straw.

'Now,' he said quietly, 'tell me what made you run away from England. You were running away, weren't you?'

She did not answer immediately, uncertain whether or not to tell him the truth. Her experience with the duc d'Avaray had shown her how fantastic and unconvincing her story sounded. On the other hand, she needed Jean too much to wish to deceive him. If she made up a story, he would know somehow that she was not telling the truth. And besides, she had had enough of lying. Abruptly her mind was made up.

'I killed my husband in a duel on our wedding night!'

'What?'

Marianne realized that she had succeeded in breaking through the shell of mocking indifference with which Jean surrounded himself. She saw, with a degree of innocent pride, his eyes widen and appear to change colour. She was vaguely conscious that he was altering his estimation of her. His lips barely moved as he said softly:

'Do you know what you are saying?'

'I know,' she said sadly, 'it does sound incredible but it is true.'

Encouraged by the instinctive trust which he inspired in her and by a deep longing to confide in someone at last, she told him all about the terrible events of her wedding night. She kept nothing back, and told her story with an honesty to which the Breton's own uncompromising nature responded. She knew he would not turn away from her and when, at the end, he nodded and put out one finger timidly to stroke her cheek, she was sure of his sympathy.

'Pity you're a girl. You'd have made a splendid boy! Held your own anywhere! But now, tell me why you are in danger and why you have to escape from here? What has that masked man done to you?'

'Nothing yet,' she assured him, touched by his concern, 'but we must find some way of leaving here, both of us, because we can do nothing alone. Meanwhile, I have come to ask you to stick to the same story. The chief of the wreckers thinks that—'

She embarked on the tale of her dealings with Morvan. Jean listened, as before, but this time when she stopped talking the warm glow had gone out of his eyes. He sat thoughtfully hugging his knee.

'If I take ship again for England, its back to the hulks! And this time, God knows when I will get out. Supposing I ever do get out!'

'But of course you can't go back! It is just a matter of gaining time. If you agree, I'll manage to delay things for a few days, perhaps even a few hours will be enough to give us time to escape. Yes, tomorrow night should do it. I have a friend in the house and before then I should have found out where they keep the key to this chain and then we can both escape! But if you tell him the truth when he asks, nothing can save us!'

Jean turned his head slowly and at the sight of his set face an icy trickle seemed to run down Marianne's back. Did he still not trust her? He was looking at her as though he would see through to her very soul. She was about to speak, put forward further arguments, but he silenced her.

'How far can I trust you? You stand for everything I hate, everything I am fighting against. If this is a trap, I shall be lost without Black Fish. And I am needed. No – you can escape, go now, tonight, and leave me. I'll manage somehow!'

'Indeed I will not! I will not go without you. Especially since you do not trust me. If I did, then you would certainly be lost! Morvan would slit your throat first thing in the morning without more ado.'

'And you are really determined to save me? Why?'

Why, indeed? To tell you the truth Marianne could not have said clearly yet it seemed quite natural in her own mind. Their flight together from Plymouth, the dangers they had passed through had in some way bound them together. Jean's behaviour, his protectiveness and affectionate comradeship had found a way to her heart. She would have scorned to escape alone, leaving him helpless in Morvan's power. But if he did not understand this himself, she could not explain it.

Jean was evidently waiting for her answer. He had moved closer and she could feel his breath on her neck. Very gently, he cupped her face in his hand and turned it towards him, as though to read her thoughts in her expression. Marianne looked into the questioning blue eyes. His lips quivered a little as he persisted.

'Answer me, little girl. Why do you want to save me? Is it out of pity?'

'Oh, no! Not pity! But – friendship perhaps—'

'Oh, only friendship—'

He seemed disappointed. His hand moved lingering over Marianne's neck, caressed the curve of her shoulder and came to rest on her arm, as though loth to let her go altogether. Afraid that she had hurt him she asked:

'Aren't you glad I am your friend? We have been through so much together – and you saved my life on the beach when those men would have killed me.'

'That was nothing. I could not stand by and see you slaughtered like a sheep before my eyes. Any decent man would have done the same.'

'Yes, but I think that decent men are rare. But anyway, it is settled. I stay with you.'

Jean made no answer. Silence fell between them, a silence so deep that Marianne seemed to hear her own heart beating. It was warm in the barn and the hand lying on her arm was warm, too. She could feel the warmth through her sleeve and without quite knowing why, found it oddly comforting.

The candle flame was guttering. It would not burn much longer but Marianne found she did not want to go. She sensed that there was nothing more to say that, although he had not said it in so many words, Jean had agreed, but still she was content to linger.

Outside, the wind was howling round the barn but there, in the hollow of the straw, all was warm and cosy, a haven of peace in the midst of a tormented world, but Marianne had to force herself not to look at the chain which bound Jean. She had read a story once about a girl very much in love visiting the man she was to have married, in prison on the night before his execution. She had forgotten the name of the story but tonight reminded her of it a little. To be sure, there was no gallows waiting outside but at any moment, a word from Morvan could turn one of his men into an executioner.

Jean's hand crept up again to her shoulder. She turned her head and saw him looking at her with eyes that were strangely bright. His voice, when he spoke was husky.

'I am glad you are my friend but – I had hoped for something more – I had hoped you liked me a little. When I kissed you on the boat, you didn't mind.'

She opened wide astonished eyes.

'But of course I like you! Especially now that I can see your face. And I liked it when you kissed me. It – it made me feel brave again.'

'And supposing – I were to do it again?'

She felt his arm go round her waist to draw her to him but instead of answering, she only smiled and closed her eyes, waiting for his kiss. It was true, she did like him. He smelled of the sea, from which they had both come. His eyes were as blue as the sky and very soft. They were gazing at her tenderly, a hint of anxious pleading in their blue depths. Perhaps he loved her? He was the first young man who had ever dared come near her, with her own consent, for she discounted Jason Beaufort's stolen kiss. But this man in chains whose trembling lips were now close to her face stirred and troubled her all at once. She wanted him to be happy. Tomorrow he would risk his life again for her sake and she wanted to give him a little happiness in return. She let him kiss her, let him draw her down into the straw and even slid her own arms round his neck to make him keep on kissing her.

At one moment he left her lips and began to cover her face and neck with little, quick kisses, light as butterfly wings yet which drew from her a long, shuddering sigh which Jean did not miss. When he fastened on her lips again, he grew more daring and began gently to unfasten her bodice. Panting a little, her head on fire, Marianne did not resist. She felt on the threshold of some great and already overwhelming discovery. Her feminine instinct whispered to her that her body held some incredible surprises in store for her.

Her thoughts went back briefly to Francis Cranmere. His should have been the hands to awaken her to these new and strange sensations. Even through the turmoil of her senses, she realized that she was on the point of giving to this stranger something which by rights belonged only to a husband and yet oddly, she felt neither shame nor scruples. She was living now outside her past life, outside any normal existence. Why not give to Jean what the American, Beaufort, had so boldly demanded, what no woman could be sure of keeping once a man had made up his mind to take it from her by force or cunning? The wretched Clarissa Harlowe whose sad history Marianne had devoured in secret, had been given a sleeping draught by the unworthy Lovelace in order that he might wreak his will on her. Marianne was not entirely sure what wreaking one's will involved, but she was sure that Jean would need no potions to achieve his ends. Dimly conscious of the ties of flesh binding men and women, she felt no will to resist. His caresses were so gentle and roused such delicious sensations in her! Then, he seemed to grow delirious, muttering broken words she only half understood, and interspersing them with more and more burning kisses. It was quite the most thrilling experience that could happen to any girl and whatever happened next must be marvellous indeed—

Then, abruptly, the magic spell was broken and there was only crude, painful reality. Marianne screamed but Jean did not even hear. He had been starved for too long and now he fell on her, carried away by a hunger and a passion he could no longer control. Gone was the tender lover, gone the soft caresses and, in their place, an agonizing pain and a man who seemed like one possessed. Frantic with horror, she tried to struggle free, but he held her fast. She tried to scream and he stopped her mouth with another kiss, but the magic had departed. Now, Marianne endured it with muscles tensed and straining nerves. Then, quite suddenly, it was all over and, as if by magic, she was free.

Too stunned to move, she lay looking up at the dusty roof beams struggling with disappointment and a longing to burst into tears. So this was love? This, nothing more nor less? In that case, she could not understand why they made so much fuss about it in novels and why so many women and girls ruined themselves for its sake. It was nice to begin with, but, all things considered, not really very rewarding. All she had now was this vague feeling of disgust coupled with a strong sense of frustration. No, never in her whole life had she been so disappointed.

A gentle finger stroked her cheek and at the same time she heard Jean laugh softly.

'Why don't you say something? You made me very happy, you know. I'll not forget. And besides that I'm glad I was the first.'

'How did you know?' Marianne said sulkily.

This made him laugh outright.

'What a little girl you are! It is something a man knows at once. Now, you must get back inside. The candle is nearly out and it is better your absence should not be noticed. Besides – I'm abominably sleepy!'

She propped herself on one elbow but the sight of his cavernous yawns only added to her disappointment. In her view, only a great deal of tenderness could have removed the disagreeable impression she had received. He was nice, but that was all and now she sensed he wanted to be left in peace.

'Tomorrow, then—' she said dully, 'what will you do?'

He smiled teasingly and winked.

'You're a cool customer! Don't worry I'll do what you want. I owe you that—'

He sighed luxuriously and curled himself into a ball then, having arranged his chain so as to cause the minimum of inconvenience, he folded his arms and shut his eyes.

'Sleep well—' he added sleepily.

Marianne sat back on her haunches and stared at his sleeping figure in bewilderment. Really, she thought resentfully, men were the oddest creatures. A moment ago this one had been all fire and flames, half mad with love – and now, barely minutes afterwards, there he was sleeping peacefully having forgotten her very existence. Was there anything in this to justify the secretive smile and air of inward triumph common to brides in books after their wedding nights? Always, excepting the unfortunate Clarissa Harlowe who, having slept deeply throughout, was not even aware of what had happened to her. There did not seem to Marianne to be much reason to give themselves such airs! For her own part, she had quite made up her mind not to repeat the experience in a hurry, not even to please Jean! Oh no!

The candle put an end to Marianne's musings by going out altogether. All she could do now was go back to the house and climb into her bed in the cupboard. She sat still for a moment until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark and then got up, hunted for the key which she had put down somewhere near the candle and then left the barn, closing the door carefully behind her and putting the key back in its hole.

Outside, the night was darker than it had been. A high wind was blowing that tugged at her blanket and almost threw her to the ground. For a moment, she was tempted to make her escape then and there, alone, but she suppressed the thought bravely. It was not Jean's fault after all, if she did not find lovemaking very enjoyable and besides, if she were honest, she had to admit that she had to some extent asked for what had happened. In any case, she was bound to Jean by their mutual plot against the wreckers. A pact was a pact.

Turning her back on the tempting heath, Marianne regained her room by the same way that she had left it and got into bed.

She had hardly pulled the covers over her head when she heard the almost imperceptible sound of the key turning in the lock. The hunchback tailor had kept his word.

CHAPTER SIX The Man of Goulven

When, the next morning, Jean Le Dru was discovered to have fled, Marianne felt as though the skies had fallen on her head. She had taken advantage of a brief spell of sunshine to walk out on to the stretch of bare heath land lying between the manor and the sea. The greasy peasant soup, which was all that was provided by way of breakfast, proved highly indigestible and Marianne felt a strong desire for fresh air. The fragrant tea and crisp toast of Selton Hall seemed a long way away. All thought of them was driven out of her head, when Morvan's cry of wrath rent the quiet morning air.

She did not understand at first what had happened. She was sitting at the foot of one of the strange sandy stones that were dotted about the countryside, watching the calm sea as it lapped lazily against the rocks where seaweed lay in bright green patches. A few patches of timid blue showed between great banks of white cloud against which the flying gulls were half invisible, and down in the hollow of the little bay, a few chimneys were smoking peaceably alongside the boats drawn up on the pebbles.

Some women and children were making their way down to the beach, armed with long boathooks and rakes with which, at low tide, they scraped the seaweed off the rocks and brought home the long, shiny ribbons that were the only wealth of this god-forsaken land.

After the passion of the night before, Marianne was glad to sit dreaming over this scene of beauty and tranquillity. As a result, when she saw Morvan coming towards her, her first feeling was one of irritation. Could the man not let her alone for a moment? The next moment he was on her, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

'Come back inside – you have deceived me, lied to me – well, you'll not do it again.'

'Do what again? Are you mad? What have I done now?' Marianne cried, stung to quick anger. 'And first of all, let me go!'

She wrenched her arm away. Morvan, forced to let go suddenly, staggered and almost fell. But Marianne could see, that under his ridiculous mask, his face was unusually red. His hands were clenched as he rounded on her again.

'Your precious servant! Whose loyalty you swore by! Well, he's run away and left you!'

Now it was Marianne's turn to stagger. She had expected anything, but not this and did not attempt to hide her shock.

'Run away?' she echoed. 'But – it's not possible! He couldn't.'

She was on the point of saying: 'He couldn't do that to me,' but she bit back the words. But Morvan was already going on.

'I thought so too and I took every care. I had him chained up in the barn. But this morning, when Soizic took him his food, she found the bird flown, the door wide open and the chain sawn through!'

Marianne was hardly listening.

'It's impossible,' she said again blankly. 'Impossible!'

Boiling with anger at such black treachery, she was struggling desperately to remember everything she could. The previous night's events passed through her mind with merciless clarity. Le Dru had been asleep when she had left him, and so deeply asleep that she could have sworn not even a thunderclap would wake him. The chain was unbroken and when she left she had locked the door carefully and put the key back in its place. At that moment, she was quite certain Jean had no means of escape; if he had, he would have told her, and agreed to escape with her at once as she had asked. Her next thought was for the tailor. But Perrinaic had told her that if she meant to escape, she would have to do so alone. It was surely not he who had given the Breton the file to saw through the chain and opened the door. Then who? She had no time for further wondering. With an effort, Morvan had regained control of himself and was saying coldly: 'I am waiting for your explanation.'

Marianne shrugged and sensing that the only thing to do was to appear very cool, she plucked a long stalk of dry grass and began to chew it thoughtfully.

'What explanation do you expect me to give? I am like you, I do not understand. Perhaps he was afraid? If you had chained him—'

'I invariably chain all those who dare to utter certain names in my presence and I am beginning to think that I was mistaken in not doing the same to you. After all, I have no idea where you come from or who you are! All I know is what you have deigned to tell me—'

'Are you forgetting the queen's locket?'

'You might have stolen that. Come back with me now unless you would have me take you back by force. I—'

He broke off. For a moment or two, as he talked, he had been instinctively following with his eyes the movements of a small boat which had just rounded the headland on which he and Marianne were standing. She was running before the wind and her red sails struck a brilliant note against the grey sea. They could make out the shape of the man at the tiller and suddenly, born on a gust of wind, they heard his voice. He was singing gaily.

'… We saw an English frigate

Hard on our starboard bow,

A-sailing o'er the briny deep,

For to attack Bordeaux…'

The words of the song came to them with impudent clarity through the crystalline air. Behind her, Marianne heard an odd noise which she realized with a shock was Morvan grinding his teeth. The eyes that watched the small boat through the hole in his mask were those of a madman and Marianne felt a thrill of terror as they were turned on her.

'You hear? Will you still deny it? Where do you find your servants, Mademoiselle d'Asselnat? On the English hulks?'

'I still do not understand you!' she said with dignity.

'That song is known throughout the seven seas! It is the song of Robert Surcourf's men! And your so-called servant is one of them!'

'What nonsense! He has always served me faithfully!' Marianne spoke with such conviction that for a moment the other was shaken.

'It may be that you too have been deceived, but we shall know soon enough.'

'What do you mean?'

'Last night I had word at last. A messenger from the Comte d'Antraigues will be here before long. Then we shall get your position clear, my beauty. Until then, you will remain under lock and key!'

'What right have you?' Marianne protested. Remembering her ally the tailor, she felt safe in allowing herself to carry the matter with a high hand since she had every expectation of making her own escape that night.

'If someone is coming from London, he can only confirm what I have told you. Then, my friend, it will be up to you to explain why you have kept me here. You are delaying me.'

The assurance in her heart clearly disconcerted the wrecker but he pulled himself together, unwilling to go back on his decision.

'At all events, I shall personally keep a close watch on you. Come. We must go to the house and pay our last respects.'

'To whom?'

'To my lieutenant Vinoc. Your – er, servant killed him as he made his escape.'

The body of the dead man had been laid out on the table in the great hall covered with a white sheet. All the chests, bales and packages of all descriptions that generally cluttered the room had been removed for the occasion and large sheets had been hung from the ceiling on either side of the table, making a kind of white chapel around the body. Death had brought little nobility to the wrecker. Even when shaved, brushed and dressed in his best embroidered clothes, he retained, in his everlasting stillness, an immense ugliness and an expression of deep cunning. Marianne thought she had rarely seen such a dislikeable corpse. All those she had previously beheld had had about them something quiet, gentle and noble which took away anything frightening about them. But this man had gone into the next world wearing the same ferocious expression that had been his in life. Old Soizic must have some similar thoughts to Marianne's because she wagged her head sorrowfully as she looked at the dead man.

'Died with all his sins upon him! You can see it in his face—'

None the less, she had placed the dead man's hands together and wound a boxwood rosary, but with an evident lack of enthusiasm.

At Morvan's command, Marianne stayed with the other women of the household, who were praying round the corpse in accordance with the strict funeral rites of the region. She had to exchange her bright clothes for a dress of black wool, probably also borrowed from Gwen, a black shawl and a headdress of the same colour. She had raised no objections to all this. Kneeling on a prie-dieu by Vinoc's feet with Gwen opposite her, pretending to tell her beads, she had at least a chance to think. On a stool between the two women stood a bowl of holy water with a sprig of dried boxwood in it. Marianne kept her eyes firmly fixed on it rather than on the dead man's unattractive feet. Whenever she looked up, she found Gwen watching her with a mocking, triumphant expression equally unpleasant to behold, although it undoubtedly gave food for thought. Why should the Bretonne girl look so pleased with herself? Because Morvan was treating Marianne as a prisoner at last or – she wondered suddenly whether there was very far to seek for the mysterious hand which had opened the barn door, sawn through Jean le Dru's chains and been responsible for his otherwise inexplicable flight. Short of being an utterly contemptible hypocrite, he had no reason to escape alone especially after Marianne had refused to go without him. No, there was something else – whoever had opened the door for him must have had to shake him awake and persuade him to go. Something told Marianne that she had won him over last night, and that at the cost of her own disillusionment she had gained his complete allegiance. To his simple, unsophisticated way of thinking, the fact that she had given herself to him made everything straightforward. Then what had been said to him to make him abandon her so callously, even putting her life in danger? It smacked of a woman's revenge.

Footsteps came and went behind her bent back, the clatter of sabots on the worn flagstones, the scrape of hobnailed boots; from time to time, a hand appeared, picked up the box twig and piously sprinkled the corpse. The villagers and local peasants were coming, as custom demanded, to pay their respects to their brother's earthly remains. That, in his lifetime, he had been an out and out villain made no difference. He was a Breton and he was dead and that, for all other Bretons, made him sacred.

In fact, it was really rather moving except that, hearing Morvan solemnly inviting everyone who came to the wake, Marianne began to feel anxious again. With all these people about, how would she ever manage to escape? Would she even be allowed to keep her room to herself? Morvan had promised that he would keep her under close watch in future, which was distinctly unpromising. Moreover, if it were Gwen who had been responsible for Le Dru's flight, she would be unlikely to stop there. Marianne could read in her spiteful expression that she would not rest until she had got rid of the intruder. To be sure, there was still – saving your presence – her friend the tailor, but would he be able to help her this time? With all this in mind, Marianne began to pray in good earnest, but for herself rather than for a dead man who was no concern of hers. She stood in dire need of heavenly aid.

A huge, hairy black hand took hold of the box twig and a deep base voice began intoning:

'De profundis clamavi ad te domine

Domine exaudi vocem meam…'

Marianne felt as though the great bell of the cathedral had sounded in her ear and clapped her hand to her mouth to hold back a cry. The man was a peasant of gigantic size. He wore the traditional Breton costume of wide, pleated breeches, caught in at the knee, embroidered waistcoat under a short cloth jacket with a goatskin coat over all. His long, black hair fell to his shoulders but beneath the blue bonnet of the men of Goulven, she recognized the face of Black Fish.

He was leaning on a massive cudgel, his eyes cast upwards, intoning as fervently as though he had done nothing else all his life. The peasants looked at him with some respect and even Gwen gazed up at him in fascination, enabling Marianne to overcome the inevitable shock at this sudden reappearance of one she had presumed drowned. How had he come there? By what miracle had he escaped the storm, the rocks and the wreckers? These questions were unanswerable but since she and Jean Le Dru had escaped unhurt it seemed quite natural, after all, that a force of nature like Black Fish should have done so as well.

The peasants were now responding in chorus to the prayer for the dead and Marianne made an effort to remember the ritual words but she was far too agitated. Her mind remained a blank. Not that it mattered much. She was certain that Black Fish's coming was an answer to her prayer.

The prayer ended, Morvan left his place of honour in the room and came forward to greet the newcomer.

'I have not seen you before, my man. Who are you?'

'His cousin,' Black Fish answered pointing with one hairy finger to the dead man. 'Like him, I am from Goulven. I was coming to see him when I heard the news. Poor Vinoc! Such a good fellow!'

Before Marianne's astonished eyes, he wiped away what must have been quite imaginary tears. But he was convincing enough, for Morvan had no suspicions. He even made him welcome, bowing instinctively to the strict laws of baronial hospitality.

'In that case, remain. Watch with us and share in this night's meal.'

Black Fish bowed without speaking and moved back to join the group of peasants. With shoulders hunched, and both hands leaning heavily on his pen bas, [4] he was hardly distinguishable from the other men and Marianne returned to her prayers without being able to meet his eye. From that moment on, she could think of nothing but the silent figure upon whom so much might depend. She had no idea how he came there, or why, but she was convinced it was for her. She was a prey to a fever of excitement that soon made it quite impossible for her to remain on her knees any longer. She rose, putting on an agonized expression as if she were suffering from a pain in her knees. At once a peasant woman came to take her place. Morvan frowned but told her in a low voice to go and join Soizic in the kitchen. Marianne asked nothing better, but, much as she longed to make contact with Black Fish, she dared not pass too close to him on her way out. They had no chance to communicate until after nightfall, when the whole household gathered round the old woman whose part it was to intone a kind of funeral chant in honour of the dead man. There was, inevitably, a certain amount of confusion as everyone gathered around the bier and Marianne felt a touch on her elbow. A voice whispered in English:

'Tomorrow – during the burial – try and faint at the church—'

She looked round in surprise but all she saw was the pious face of a little old woman whose nose all but touched her chin, mumbling prayers through toothless gums. Only, a little way away, she saw the sailor's broad back moving to a place among the men.

To Marianne, the wake was almost intolerable. She heard nothing but the old woman's funeral chant, nibbled a little at the customary meal which was served at midnight, and certainly she spared not a thought for the dead who in any case scarcely deserved it. Black Fish's words went round and round in her head, putting her in a fever of apprehension. He had asked her to faint in church but that was a great deal harder than it looked. Marianne had fainted only once before in her whole life and that was at the moment when, swept overboard from the Seagull and half drowned, she had been hooked by the wrecker's gaff. Then, pain and suffocation had made her lose consciousness but how did one set about fainting convincingly in cold blood? Occasionally, in England, she had witnessed frail, delicate creatures swooning gracefully at the right moment, while losing none of their fresh complexions, and had guessed readily that it was all put on, but this had to be a really convincing faint, something to create a stir, not a mere gentle swoon. Well, she would do her best and leave the rest to heaven.

She was so deep in her thoughts that it was not until she reached the door of her own room that she saw that Gwen had followed her. Only the men were now keeping up the wake. The women had been given permission to retire to rest. But when the girl seemed about to come in with her, Marianne objected.

'This is my room,' she said curtly.

'It is mine, too, for tonight. And don't think I'm enjoying it. I'm carrying out Morvan's orders, that's all, and I can't say I'm sorry he's got suspicious of you at last!'

The girl's insolent and familiar tone which showed that she no longer felt the need for circumspection, made Marianne's aristocratic blood rise. If Gwen wanted a quarrel, she would get one. Seizing her abruptly by the arm Marianne hustled her into the room more quickly than she might have wished. Then she closed the door carefully behind her.

'Something tells me he would do well to be suspicious of you too, my girl! And since we are to finish the night together, we may as well make the most of it and have it out once and for all!'

This abrupt beginning had at least the advantage of disconcerting Gwen. A shadow of cunning and mistrust spread over her pretty face.

'Have it out? Have what out?'

'Your behaviour! It seems to me there is plenty to say about that. So, you've come to tell me that Morvan does not trust me. And what is the reason? Because Jean Le Dru has escaped? If that is it, he is mistaken. I had nothing to do with it, I cannot say the same for you!'

'And why not, pray?'

'Because you let him go!'

A moment earlier, Marianne had been by no means certain but now that she had spoken the words aloud she saw to her surprise that she had always known it. In fact, the look on Gwen's face was an admission. Marianne went on without giving her time to prepare.

'No use denying it. I know.'

'How do you know?' Gwen said, abandoning contradiction.

'That is my business. I know and that should be enough for you. But what I don't know, is why you did it. And that is something I should be very glad to know.'

Gwen smiled nastily. 'Go and ask Morvan! You'll get nothing out of me.'

'Ask Morvan? That may not be such a bad idea. But don't expect me to believe that he had anything to do with it. But after all, why not appeal to him. I'll tell him—'

'That you are no more the princes' agent than I am! He's begun to suspect already, but I daresay he'd be glad to know for sure. And then tomorrow there'll be a nice meal for the fishes!'

Marianne did not flinch at this. She even permitted herself the luxury of a smile.

'Why not? I have nothing to lose, I have lost it all already. But I can tell him that you were the one that let his prisoner go – a prisoner who served that Surcouf whom he seems to dislike so heartily – and it may be that the fishes will get a double ration. I wish you could have seen him out on the headland when his prisoner sailed past thumbing his nose at him!'

Without bothering to check the effect of her words on Gwen's face, Marianne walked over to the hearth, picked up the tongs and began teasing some life into the still glowing embers. A meditative silence fell between them. Marianne busied herself putting more logs on the fire, waiting patiently for the other girl to make up her mind. At last:

'What do want to know?' Gwen muttered sullenly.

'I told you. Why did you help Jean to escape?'

'Because you needed him! I saw you going out to him and I followed you. I heard what you said – nearly all of it!'

'Well?' Marianne said calmly.

'So I realized you would be lost without him, that you needed him to lie for you. I went in to him after you'd gone. He was asleep and I had quite a job to wake him. But, once he was awake, he was very interested to hear what I had to say.'

'And what had you to say?'

'That you had been lying to him. That you were an English spy on your way to St Malo. That your purpose was to gain an introduction to Surcouf by telling some trumped up hard luck story – everyone knows how softhearted he is – and then use your charms on him to make him stop his ships attacking the English. You are quite pretty enough to do it and though the king of the Corsairs may not be very young, he still has an eye for beauty—'

'And he believed you?' Marianne cried, remembering bitterly all she had done to earn the Breton's trust.

'Straight off! Your tale about the duel was a bit hard to swallow too! And he'd seen for himself how far you'd go to get a man on your side. Besides, we are both Bretons after all. We stand up for one another. It wasn't very difficult. Your story was too farfetched. The only piece of luck was in guessing you were going to St Malo when you were wrecked.'

It was all Marianne could do not to give way to utter fury. Everything she had done had been turned against her. Between them, they had made a complete fool of her. So that was all the trust that could be placed in a man's word? No sooner was she out of his arms than Jean was ready to believe everything this girl told him simply because they came from the same land? Or had Gwen paid the same price? But Marianne was making rapid progress in the art of self-control. She merely shrugged and glanced at her companion with contempt.

'Congratulations! You are cleverer than I thought. Now, tell me, what harm have I done you to make you so determined to destroy me? Quite unwittingly, I borrowed your dress. That is a slender grudge!'

'And Morvan? Morvan never took his eyes off you, he cast me aside! You think I would let you take my place?' Gwen flung back savagely.

'Your place? An enviable one to be sure! The mistress of a highway robber, a wrecker who will end his days at a rope's end! It would have been easier for you to help me escape!'

'But not so certain! Only the dead are really safe! And that's why I shall watch you like a hawk until you are unmasked completely and—'

'Much good may it do you!' Marianne sighed irritably. 'Well, guard me if you insist, only let me sleep. I'm going to bed.'

She realized that there was nothing to be gained from Gwen. The girl was too unintelligent and, with her primitive instincts, she knew only one way of getting rid of anyone who was a nuisance to her. They must die. She had released Jean Le Dru in order to cut Marianne off from all help and now she was waiting with cat-like patience for the arrival of the mysterious visitor who, she believed, would finally unmask her enemy and sign the death warrant. Further argument was useless. It was better to try and build up her strength for the next day.

In the great hall the wake was still going on. Even through the thick walls Marianne could hear the slow, mournful chanting. She shivered. The discordant sound of the men's voices might have been the wailing of those very doomed souls which, according to the Breton Legend, emerged at night to haunt the roads and to reproach the living for their selfish pleasures. She did her best to shake off the dismal idea. At this time tomorrow, she hoped to be quit of this gloomy place.

The weather, as the funeral procession left the manor, was quite dreadful. Squalls of wind and rain were flattening the gorse and whin bushes and turning the sodden lane into quagmires. The sky was so grey and lowering that it seemed actually to be pressing down on their heads, and the conditions were so bad that the cart which would ordinarily have been used to take the body to the cemetery had to given up. Instead, four strong men carried the coffin on their shoulders, getting what shelter they could from the rough wood. At the head of the procession rode the parish priest on horseback, saying prayers as he went. The household and friends followed as best they could, backs bent against the unceasing wind on which was carried the faint sound of the passing bell. Only the tailor, crouching over his work, was left in the house. But he was not really a man—

Marianne, wrapped in a thick black cloak with the hood pulled well down over her eyes, walked with the other women, hemmed in on one side by Gwen, still plainly showing her dislike, and on the other by old Siozic who was too busy with her beads to notice her at all. But Marianne was not interested in her neighbours. She watched the small grey granite belfry rise above the heath land and thought of Black Fish. Why was he so anxious to help her escape? She had paid him to take her to France and she was in France. His part of the bargain was fulfilled and she was no longer any concern of his. And yet, he had taken still further risks to get her away from Morvan. What had he to gain? And if she went with him, to what new perils might he lead her? It was all getting stranger and stranger! At any rate, she could not well be worse off. She had seen that in the cold glance Morvan had given her as they set out. His demand that she attend the funeral was purely in order to keep her under his eye. She could not be left at the manor and no one could stay with her.

The little church stood beside clumps of dead trees, surrounded by modest graves with, at one side, a charnel-house built like a shrine. On the summit of a nearby hill, a dolmen crouched, like a beast about to spring. It was built of huge stones like a triumphal arch.

The coffin vanished beneath the low porch and the rest of the cortege followed. Marianne shivered as the icy dampness clutched her. It was dark inside. The only illumination was in the sanctuary, where two great candles made of yellow wax and the small red altar lamp seemed to fill the place with shadows. The big black cloaks of the women, the priest's vestments, Morvan's long cape and funereal mask loomed like a ghostly gathering, barely visible in the semi-darkness of the church. What seemed to Marianne sepulchral voices were raised and the service began.

There, in the dark, under that low-arched roof, they might have been already in the tomb. Only the dead man seemed at home. The cold was intense. Their breath rose in a cloud as Marianne began to feel increasingly unwell. Her hands and feet were frozen but her forehead under the wet homespun cloth, was burning hot and her heart thudding madly. She knew the time had come but she could not breathe for nerves. She felt suddenly very lonely and helpless. She could not see the reassuring bulk of Black Fish anywhere. Why wasn't he there? Had he changed his mind? She had caught sight of him in the procession earlier but since the entry into the church, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.

The thought that something had happened to him, that perhaps he had abandoned her after all, swept over her with such terrifying certainty that for a second she lost control. She knew she must get it over with, or else go mad. In another moment, she would be capable of any foolishness, anything to fight off the rising panic which was threatening to choke her. She had to take the plunge. Then, taking a deep breath, she swayed on her feet and, uttering a loud shriek, fell flat on her back. She hit her head on the bench and hurt herself so badly that for a moment she thought she was going to faint in good earnest but she retained sufficient presence of mind to make no sound and lay quite still with her eyes closed, breathing slowly.

Around her the solemn boredom of the service was shattered. There was a stir of movement and shocked voices. Marianne felt herself being shaken by an ungentle hand.

'What's the matter with you?' Gwen's voice hissed crossly.

'She's very pale,' Soizic said. 'She needs air.'

The feeling of absurdity and unreality gained on Marianne. She was playing a part, as those in a play. The smell of wet cloaks and unwashed bodies filled her nostrils, overcoming the musty odour of damp and hot wax. The sound of sabots scraping on stone, then Morvan's voice saying curtly: 'Take her outside, see to her – this is too much! Let the service go on! May the soul of the departed not return to blame us! We will sing two more psalms.'

Behind her closed lids, Marianne felt a sudden, quite unexpected gaiety bubble up inside her. Oh, if she could only open her eyes and see their horrified faces! How they must be reaching for their beads and frantically crossing themselves. Such appalling sacrilege! Thanks to her, that scoundrel Vinoc would have a funeral he deserved.

Incredibly she found herself being lifted and carried out. The close air of the church gave way to rain-laden wind and the fresh smell of wet leaves. Nearby, women's voices were muttering in Breton. She was set down roughly on the ground. Someone slapped her face. Then came the sound of two short groans followed by Black Fish's voice.

'Quick, up, and let's be going!'

Marianne opened her eyes and leapt to her feet. She was inside the porch of the tiny charnel-house. Gwen and a sturdy peasant woman whose name she did not know lay motionless close by. But there was no time for surprise. She was seized by Black Fish's huge hands and hurried forward irresistibly. Towed by the giant, she began to run towards the dolmen, slipping and sliding on the muddy grass. But each time, her guide's great hand was there to yank her to her feet.

'Keep going,' Black Fish growled. 'Do you think we've time to waste?'

They rounded the dolmen and Marianne gave a cry of joy as she saw two horses standing ready saddled.

'I hope you can ride!' For answer, Marianne tucked up her skirts, put one foot in the stirrup and was up like a feather.

Black Fish grunted approval. 'A real trooper! Now, come on!'

At that moment, the sound of voices shouting broke out from the church porch. Their flight had been discovered. Marianne could hear Morvan's angry voice shouting to her hopelessly to stop. Laughing wildly, she dug her heels into her horse's sides. The animal leapt forward in the wake of Black Fish who was already galloping headlong down the hill. There was the sound of a shot, and then another, but both went wild. Turning, Marianne saw that the village had disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill. In front was only the empty, whin-covered heath with the roaring wind and here and there massive clumps of rock. But Marianne plunged through the rain with a kind of exaltation. Through a break in the ground, she caught a glimpse of the sea throwing up lofty plumes of spray high in the air and it seemed to her that this great, empty landscape was the most intoxicatingly beautiful she had ever seen, and the very image of that freedom which she was vaguely aware of having found at last in this land where she had been born.

Spurring on her horse, she caught up with Black Fish and rode level with him.

'Where are we going?'

'To Brest! I have a little house there. Morvan will never think of looking for you there and besides, I have business in the place. Also – I think it's high time you and I had a little talk.'

'Why did you help me get away from Morvan? You don't even know who I am?'

Black Fish chuckled and turned his bearded face towards her. His smile made his face look uglier still.

'For your name, I hope you will tell me that yourself. As for what you are, I'll tell you. You're neither an adventuress, nor an insipid little goose. You're a lass of spirit, running away from some danger or other in England and you've come to France for some reason you don't know yourself, except that you had to go somewhere to stay alive. Am I wrong?'

'No,' Marianne said, 'that's how it is—'

'Besides,' Black Fish added, his voice grown suddenly gruff, 'I used to have a little lass once – she would have been about your age and you've a touch of her.'

'No longer?'

'No. She is dead. Speak no more of it. Ride on! We must find shelter before nightfall.'

Marianne did as she was told but as she urged on her mount, she wondered if it was only the rain that made her strange companion's bearded face so wet. Whatever happened, she was ready to follow where he led. She trusted him.