Authors: Alicia Meadowes
“They have no fear of discovery. They believe themselves unassailable except from the southern access,” Garcia added.
“What we need is a diversion that will draw the main body to a single point and catch the scoudrels unaware,” Straeford mused.
“They must have a makeshift magazine for ammunition down there…” Harding began.
“And an explosion,
senhor,”
Garcia broke in eagerly, “it will do the work of a hundred men.”
Straeford agreed. “Once Harding and I are within
the convent, lieutenant, I will negotiate to have my wife released and taken to safety. In the meantime you will move undercover
and contrive to set up the magazine for the explosion. You must wait only till Major Harding has the countess well out of
the’ area before you detonate. I shall endeavor to break free of my captors and join you in the attack. But whatever happens
to me, Dubois must be destroyed. That dog must not be loose to menace my wife ever again.”
The British patrol then settled themselves among the rocks and trees atop the mountain crest and snatched a few hours’ sleep
until dawn should arrive.
“My lord, behold,” Garcia Whispered, waking the earl from fitful sleep as the sun broke over the eastern ridge of Mount Salvantos.
“That wagon beside the small buildings to the east of the chapel—the magazine, no?”
“By God, it must be! Those are powder kegs piled on it. They must be waiting to be unloaded.” Straeford was as excited as
his lieutenant.
“Won’t they make a spectacular fireworks when they go off!” Harding claimed joyfully. “Our mission is assured.”
“It looks promising, my friends,” Straeford admitted. “But I wonder where that devil holds Marisa. May his soul rot in hell!”
“Come on, Justin. Let’s get down there so we can arrive by the southern route the way we are expected.”
“You’re right. I want to be inside those walls by late afternoon. Let’s go!”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Straeford and Harding, astride their horses, presented themselves to the sentries
at the south portal. The gates swung open, and their horses’ hooves echoed ominously over the cobblestone courtyard leading
to the central abbey where Dubois and Isabella stood on a balcony watching their enemy approach. The raven-haired gypsy, her
hands on her swinging hips, could be heard laughing derisively as she called out,
“Hola, general. Bern vindo!
Welcome to the Convent São Margite.”
Lord Straeford glanced neither up nor down, keeping
his. stiff gaze straight ahead until he and Harding reined their horses to a stop and climbed down. Two guards emerged from
the shadowed porch and searched the Englishmen for arms. Finding none, they led their captives to the audience chamber where
Marisa had stood before Dubois just three nights ago.
The French colonel, seated at the oak table as before, studied the sedate approach of his long-awaited enemy. Dubois’s single
dark eye glittered with hate and scorn. Isabella, maintaining her arrogant pose, began to laugh again until Dubois hissed
her silent.
Harding stood to Justin’s left and felt himself grow cold at the unconcealed hatred radiating from the dark pair. They obviously
believed themselves the unassailable victors in this bitter encounter.
There was a long silence before Dubois finally spoke. “So, at last,” he purred. “Did I not promise you we would meet again?”
Justin disdained comment.
“Oh ho. The mighty Lord Straeford does not wish to speak?” Isabella taunted. “Let us hear what he has to say when his fine
lady is brought before him.”
“Quiet!” Dubois commanded.
“Bring the countess in,” Isabella demanded, disregarding Dubois’s command. “Let him see for himself that pale, whining creature
he calls wife!” she spat.
“Did I not command you to silence?” Dubois roared and slammed his fist upon the table.
Straeford felt his heart sink to his boots at Isabella’s description of Marisa, but he gave no sign of his inner torment.
“You and I are to settle a long-standing debt at last.” Dubois resumed, choosing to play out the scene at his own pleasure.
He had waited since Vimeiro to even the score, and many times when confronting his own disfigured image in a mirror, he had
promised himself the exquisite pleasure of revenge. His plan had been worth every pain of its devising, and every day of its
expectation. The prospect before him was sublime, and not one drop of pleasure would he deny himself.
The colonel stood up abruptly and came to stand in
front of Lord Straeford. He knew it would test the Englishman’s endurance to remain impassive in so frontal an attack.
“Your lady, Madame Straeford, you wish to see her?” Dubois questioned smugly.
The earl stared rigidly into the sneering face. He felt Harding grasp his elbow in warning.
“Kill the English pig!” Isabella demanded. “Enough of this game. Run him through his black heart!”
“Did I not command you to silence?” Dubois whirled on Isabella and struck her a stunning blow across the face that sent her
sprawling to the floor. “Guard. Throw the bitch out,” he commanded. “Out of my sight,
salaud”
Isabella scrambled to her feet, screeching, “No, no! You cannot do this to me. I have as much right as you to be here. It
was
I
who put you on to the trail of this
canaille”
“Out of my sight, I say. Take her away.”
“No!” Isabella screamed over and over again as two men struggled with the clawing vixen and dragged her from the room.
Dubois waited until the sound of Isabella’s voice no longer echoed through the corridors before resuming his game of protracted
revenge.
“And now,
mon général de brigade,
perhaps you would like something to drink after your wearying journey…”
“Why don’t we get on with the business at hand.” The earl spoke for the first time; striving to maintain a calm demeanor.
“Oh, but surely you will not deny the amenities? Honor demands you do not refuse the hospitality of one gentleman officer
to another,
n’est-ce pas?”
Sensing that Straeford’s endurance was running short, Harding attempted to stem the breach and force Dubois to release Marisa
to him.
“It is growing late, Colonel Dubois. I would consider it a great courtesy if you were to allow me to get started with Lady
Straeford before darkness falls. I must find my way to an unfamiliar destination from here.”
“All in good time, major. All in good time,” Dubois
replied, enjoying the sport of vengeance too much to quit just yet. “First you must drink with me.”
“Very well, colonel. I would be happy to partake of some wine—a Madeira or sherry would be welcome,” Harding temporized, beginning
to fear the disintegration of their carefully laid plan.
“Non, non, monsieur.
Not wine, but brandy—
French
brandy—the very finest in the realm.” He turned to one of his sergeants-at-arms. “Pour us some brandy. Three glasses. You
will
drink, Lord Straeford,
n’est-ce pas?”
It was a threat, and Justin nodded calmly, though the blood raced violently through his veins. Damn this devil to hell! He
would kill him or die in the attempt—only let them get Marisa safely from the scene. He accepted the glass and held it, waiting
for the toast he supposed Dubois would make.
“To
Napoleon. Vive l’Empereur!”
Neither man raised the brandy to his lips as Dubois downed his, and although they itched to pour the liqueur on the floor,
they decided against such an insult. It would have infuriated Dubois all the more.
Then the colonel taunted, “You do not drink, eh? Well, general, you
will
before this contest is finished. Bring in the countess.”
A terrible silence filled the room as they waited. Dubois never removed his gaze from Straeford. He wanted to see his hated
enemy’s pain. Dubois was amply rewarded when the door at the left opened and Marisa entered with a guard on either side. Although
she walked unassisted, it was evident that she came forth at the command of nerves steeled to endure great physical stress.
She held her head high, but the lady was pale.
For one brief moment, a look of such agony crossed the earl’s face that it must surely have gratified Dubois for the rest
of his life. His lordship moved involuntarily in her direction, but Harding again grasped his friend’s arm and held him back.
“Justin,” Marisa whispered softly and would have run to his side except for Harding’s reaction.
“Ma chère comtesse,
please be seated,” Dubois offered suavely, choosing the role of the gallant once more.
Marisa shook her head, refusing the chair. Her eyes sought desperately to communicate with Justin, but he would not look her
way again, and she held on to her dignity. Her brain was numb with fear.
Justin turned to Dubois, who had seated himself behind the massive oak table, enjoying his role of presiding potentate. The
English were completely in his power, and it pleased him to toy further with their fate.
“Well, Colonel Dubois,” Justin spoke levelly, “we have met all your demands. Will you now release my wife into Major Harding’s
hands, that she may be safely delivered to her destination before nightfall?”
“But why so hasty, mon general? Are you so anxious to part from your lovely wife already?”
A cold rage thundered in his ears, but Lord Straeford refused to be drawn into the trap Dubois was setting for him. Once he
gave in to the desire to smash his fist into that sneering face, they were all done for sure.
“You spoke moments ago of gentlemen officers observing the amenities. I beg to remind you of the bargain made between us as
men of honor: Myself for my wife.” There was a gasp of alarm from Marisa, but Justin overrode it and faced his enemy relentlessly.
“I am here, sir, as you requested. What says your French honor to the matter? Do you release my wife as you gave your word
to do?”
Colonel Dubois shifted uneasily before his foe’s verbal assault. He was torn between the desire to hold all three prisoner,
and the desire to maintain the image he had of himself as a man of irreproachable honor.
“Do not seek to maneuver me with clever words, monsieur. I will decide what is honorable or not honorable.” However, Dubois
was visibly wavering. He lacked the imagination for playing both villain and hero, and finally opted for the more flattering
role. “Very well, since you are so avide for this final parting from your lady…”
“Dear God, no!” It was a cry torn from Marisa, who flew to Justin before she could be restrained.
One of the guards grabbed her roughly by the arm, and Justin instinctively slammed his hand against the soldier’s arm, knocking
him away from his wife. “Don’t
you
dare
touch her!” Straeford snarled and clasped his wife to his side.
“Don’t send me away, Justin. Please, I beg of you, let me stay with you,” Marisa pleaded.
“Dearest,” Justin spoke urgently to her, damning the necessity that exposed his wife to the gloating eyes of his hated enemy.
“Do not distress yourself this way. You must go with Edward now and be my brave girl.” He pressed her to himself. “Do not
give the dog more joy. I implore you,” he whispered into her hair. “All will be well. Trust me.”
“Ah,
adieux
are so sad, are they not? It breaks the heart,” Dubois exulted. “But enough. You, Monsieur Harding, take the lady now and
go,” he snapped, suddenly weary of his sport and desiring to get to his disposal of Straeford. “I have other matters to attend
to, and it begins to grow late.”
Edward Harding came to Marisa’s side and took her arm in his hand. “Come, Lady Straeford. We must be on our way.”
Briefly she hesitated while desperate thoughts crowded her brain with impulses to cling and scream and resist, but she could
not betray her beloved husband. She knew he needed her to be strong, and with tears streaming down her face, she cast one
last yearning look at him before allowing Major Harding to lead her away.
The earl watched his wife’s departure, his face white with the pain of letting her go so cruelly—believing it might be their
final parting.
“Guards. Show our… guest to his quarters,” Dubois called to his men. “We must make him comfortable,
n’est-ce pas?”
The colonel could not restrain a laugh before dismissing his captive to confinement. “I plan some… after-dinner entertainment
for us, Lord Straeford. Perhaps you would like to… refresh yourself before then.”
Unwittingly, Dubois had played into Straeford’s hands. Had he, at that moment, got on with the interrogation, Lord Straeford
would have been in no shape for the events that were to follow.
Lord Straeford could not have been more pleased,
therefore, than he was the moment the door slammed shut behind him, locking him in a narrow cell that had once been a monk’s
austere chamber. He looked about, taking in the bare stone walls and the cot with its straw mattress. It was enough for his
needs. He took out his pocket watch. Five-thirty. By dusk, Marisa would be safely ensconced with the Garcia family, and he
would be ready for the final act of the drama. The French had not discovered the small packets of black powder concealed in
his boots, nor the knife either. As soon as Straeford heard the explosion of the amunition dump, he would stage a small display
of his own.
Meanwhile Edward Harding was explaining to Marisa that her husband was not as hopelessly lost to her as she feared. He told
her about the planned attack. If all went as intended, her husband would be restored to her that very night. Lady Straeford
tried to draw comfort from Harding’s words as they rode away from the fortress, but in her heart were grave misgivings. What
if the plan went awry and… she was unable to finish the thought. By the time they reached the valley, Marisa was barely able
to maintain her seat on the swaying animal.
“Only a short distance now, my dear lady. If you could go on to the villa with Lieutenant Drake, here, I should very much
like to return…”
“Yes, yes,” she insisted, “leave me and go to Justin. Oh, Edward, save him for me, I beg you.”