and though she thought at the time she would never forget it, she no longer felt her heart stop at the sight of these human derelicts, their filthy rags and twisted, out-stretched hands. She sat now with her daughter, leaning over the side of the box, throwing coins to those who milled around her.
She saw her husband coming through the mob toward her, and she waved her hand and laughed.
“Cor! It ain't 'alf a bleedin' squeeze. Out o' me way, mate. I got a livin' t' grub, too.”
Another figure moved toward her, palm outstretched for alms, and Marion looked into the one blue eye that would remain burned into her memory till her dying day.
The laugh died. Her face drained and she clutched at the edge of her box, digging her fingers into the brightly colored bunting.
Big Red moved nearer, squinting up at her, then backed off a step as recognition swept over him.
“God flay me arse! It's the doxy!”
“No, you villain. My wife.”
Big Red whirled as Marion whispered “David.”
Sir David looked down at the man that stood before him. He saw the patch, the ginger hair, the hideous scar. Though he had never seen the man before, had only heard him described once, over four years ago, he could have picked him out of millions. His face went dead white, and his cold grey eyes narrowed to slits.
“'ere, m' lord, don't look at me so mean!” Big Red was trying to back away into the crowd, but Sir David's big grey was pressing him toward the back of the stands. He was badly frightened and looked in vain for someone to come to his aid. He looked again at the hate that poured down on him from Sir David's face, and cringed. “What's up? What 'ave you got to do wiv me?”
Sir David said nothing. Had he spoken one word his iron control would have broken and he would have leaped from his horse and strangled the scum with his bare hands. That was too quick a death; too clean.
As he maneuvered the man into a small clearing directly behind the stands, he reached out and picked a sharp ended crowbar out of the ground, where a workman had left it standing upright.
“Jesus! No! No!”
Big Red threw up his hands to ward off the heavy shaft of iron that came hurling down at him, but to no avail. The knife-sharp steel caught him and pinned him to the ground, piercing his belly as cleanly as a table knife stabs through butter.
He lay there, unable to struggle for fear of tearing his guts out; unable to pull himself free of the bar.
“Up, Pan.”
The big horse reared, and Big Red screamed, his cry lost in the swarm of noise around them, as the horse's hoof came down hard on his upper arm. He could hear the bone break, and blood spurted from the horrible gash as the horse reared again, coming down this time on his knee cap. As a new wave of agony engulfed him, he became aware of the sprightly air Sir David was whistling softly. The greys hooves rose and fell in rhythm, as he crushed first a hand and then the pelvic bone. He never missed his footing. Why should he? He had trained for this dance for many months; he was step perfect.
Sir David continued to whistle, slowly now. He would have preferred to flay this pig alive, but this would do; this would do.
Big Red jerked and twisted. His frantic convulsions had ripped his stomach on the spike that held him, and thick bulges of entrails ooozed out around the shaft, but he hardly felt them. Red fire burned his eyes, but he tried to calm himself; to think. He knew that he was to die, and his only concern now was that he die quickly; that he be spared any more of the soul-searing agony that tortured him.
He saw his tormentor pull a long, wide strip of bunting off the back of the stand and gazed up in horror as he realized what was going to happen. Sir David was going to cover him and leave him to die of his wounds. Die he certainly would, but it might take hours before the last drop of blood drained from his ravaged body; hours in which he must lay there, conscious of the pain of his shattered bones, his ripped and mangled flesh. Covered with the bunting, no one would find him here behind the stands until late into the night or even next morning.
As Sir David leaned from his horse to pull the bunting over the shattered lump of gore, Big Red forced out a word.
“Cuckold.”
Sir David's hand stopped in mid-air, his eyes blazing as he sought to regain his control. Again Big Red forced words from his pain-gagged throat, and blood trickled out of his mouth faster than the sounds as he spoke.
“Cuckold.” He sneered, his face twisting horribly. “Cuckold by an ape.”
Sir David snapped, his sanity going with an almost audible crack. He dropped the bunting and jerked Pan up, dropping her down with both front feet landing squarely on that ugly, grinning face. Again and again he brought the horse down, until the thick mist cleared from his eyes enough to see that there was nothing left of the beggar's head but a slimy lump of blood and bone and pinkish-grey brain, and a few clumps of stringy, ginger hair.
Sir David sat quietly for a moment, allowing his brain to clear. The whole incident had taken no more than a few moments, but it seemed that he had been behind these stands for hours.
He scooped up the bunting and threw it over the gruesome mess. He knew what the swine had done. He knew now that he had let himself be taunted into ending the agony the filthy rakehell had so dearly earned. He cursed the corpse, but it no longer mattered much. The thing was done. For the first time in four and a half years he was at peace. He had avenged his own honour; avenged his wife.
He dropped from the saddle and cleaned the gelding's hooves with moist, new grass. He remounted and turned to join his wife, not bothering even a last glance at the grisly mound he left behind him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day had been a great success. Sir David's Pan had won the dancing contest easily, and his black had finished second in the race. He held a celebration dinner in a tent he had erected at the edge of the green, and the food and drink had been lavish and varied. Robert noticed that his friend and employer seemed more at ease than in many years. He was like he had been before Robert went up to court, and many people remarked that Sir David and his wife were behaving like young lovers. Robert knew that Sir David had worked long and hard over Pan's training, and he attributed the man's light-hearted mood to the animal's flawless performance. He was quite right, of course, but not exactly in the way he thought.
Robert was still with Sir Cassen's party when John and Belinda left. They pushed their way through the crowd, Captain Fothering's size coming much to their aid. They climbed the steps to the dance floor and stood watching for a moment. An excellent orchestra had been provided-lutinests, fiddlers, and even a virginal. Bonfires glowed brightly all over the green where the peasants and commoners were holding their revels and the dancing pavilion itself was strung with many lanterns. These lanterns and shutters of tinted mica and the effect was soft and romantic.
As the orchestra led off the next dance, John took Belinda into his arms and they moved out onto the floor. John had done a certain amount of dancing in his youth, and since, but he was a good deal more comfortable on the deck of a ship than he was on a dance floor. Anyway, it was lonely. Belinda was so much shorter than when they were in the embrace of the dance he was forced to peer over her head. It was most disconcerting.
He had made some arrangements earlier that occupied his mind far more than the dancing.
The music stopped and, still circling her waist with his arm, John guided Belinda to the steps that led down from the platform. Snuggling within his arm, she looked up at him inquisitively.
“Where are we going?”
“Into my boudoir,” he grinned. “It isn't exactly lavish, but it is private.” His hand fell lower on her hip, the long fingers stroking her firm belly. Thank God it was warm. He had no intention of making love through five yards of ruffled silk and three petticoats. He wanted this beautiful little body free; wanted to feel the full length of her naked and wriggling beneath him.
“Quick. Under the platform. I'll join you in a moment.”
He held up the bunting, and Belinda asked no further questions. She bent quickly and slipped under. There was enough room to stand, and enough light came in under the bunting skirt for her to make out a sort of couch. She walked over to it and found that it was a thick mound of stuff bunting and soft silk, laid out in the form of a bed,
