vaguely he saw shadows moving in a flurry down in the deep, empty ditch.
The fool, the idiot! What had he done?got tangled with the rope? There was another groan, sounding like thunder in the motionless night.
Cesare caught the rope which swung in loosely towards him. He heard challenging shouts from somewhere down near the gates of the fortress and cursed. What a bungling farce! He could have spat with rage, but he kept his head, swinging out from the embrasure and back against the rough wall as he began to let hand under hand and slide his feet with the rope between them.
He felt the chafing on his hands, but speed was essential, he had not time to lower himself in correct, comfortable fashion.
Lights were flashing a way off on the ground and he slid faster. Up above there were shouts on the battlements too. The bribed guards could not pretend to be blind for so long without risking their necks.
Down, down with a blank face of wall, a turmoil in his stomach, a long drop to the ditch and noise and light growing off on his right.
“Hurry!” He heard the single, sharp shout from below and slid so rapidly that he could feel the skin being torn on his hands.
And then another cry?of warning.
“The rope is short?take care!”
Cesare glanced down into the gloom which had cleared sufficiently to enable him to see several of Benavente's men, with the Count at the head of them, and to see the dangling end of the rope some fifteen feet short of the ground. Along in the ditch he saw some of the men trying to lift the servant, who was still groaning audibly.
He swarmed down the last few feet of rope, measured the dangerous distance to the ground and jumped? just as the rope was cut from above. It came hurtling down on top of him, heavy and painful. But he landed with nothing more than a shaking and probably a bruised arm and knee as he fell sideways.
With furious haste he was pulled from the ditch by Benavente's men as shouts from the castle barked out close by.
From further along the ditch one of the men called.
“He seems to have both legs broken?it's difficult to move him.”
Cesare, slightly winded, his ears singing, was pulled onto a horse as cries of recognition sounded from the corner of the wall down which he had crawled. A small crowd of guards were racing toward the group. Behind them was commotion and sounds of horses clattering over the lowered drawbridge.
The Count thrust a sword into Cesare's hand.
“Take that my friend?you'll have to use it yet.”
He called back to his men in the ditch.
“Leave him!”
There was no hope of escape with an injured man. And it was important that the Count was not recognized.
They could see the light of the moon glinting on the pikes and swords of their pursuers as they wheeled and set their horses at a gallop away from the fortress. There was a crash of gunshot from the castle turrets and then they were outdistancing the guards who faded back into anonymous shadows, calling and shouting to the horsemen who were yelling for direction.
Cesare's head cleared as they streamed through the night air, setting up a wind from their rapid motion through its stillness. He could feel the irritating pains in his arm and leg, but they were worth nothing compared with the exhilarating vigor he felt in freedom.
They rode at all speed until there was neither sight nor sound of any pursuit.
“A narrow success,” the Count called against the wind as he galloped beside Cesare.
“A little spice to give it perfection,” Cesare called back, laughing into the wind.
CHAPTER 22
“I tell you, you can name your price,” Cesare said.
The ship's master with whom he spoke turned a steady searching gaze on him. There was no compromise in his hard eyes.
“I tell you that my route is not to France? and I know of nobody else who has such a direction.”
He stared hard at Cesare.
“Besides, from what you sound there's danger in it?and I'll not risk my ship for any money.”
“As you wish,” Cesare sighed. “The loss is yours.”
He bade the captain goodnight and left the tavern.
Throughout the small town, the Count's men were plying all and sundry with similar questions. Meeting at pre-determined times in an auberge down near the seashore they discussed their latest lack of success. All efforts so far had been in vain. Nobody was able or willing to take the risk of going off his route with a man who was obviously in some way an enemy of the State.
The Count himself had taken his leave of the party earlier, to return to his domain, leaving several of his men to aid Cesare in Santander. He had not anticipated such difficulty as the party was now encountering.
Meeting for the umpteenth time to quaff ale in the little inn within sound of the waves breaking on the shore, Cesare and the Count's men were glum with failure.
“We'll have a last attempt,” Cesare said at last, downing his liquor and rising. “If it fails then there's one thing left?I'll have to cross the frontier into Navarre.”
“You run more risk on land than on sea.” “I run more risk still stuck here without hope of escape.”
They began, for the last time, to scour the bars and inns of the town, cutting it into sections, working methodically.
It was in a little tavern where everyone seemed to be slightly the worse for drink, that Cesare got what sounded like a hopeful tip. He had sat himself in a corner to take stock of those in the place, which was alive with noise and the clatter of tankards.
An old seadog, talkative with wine, flopped down on the bench beside him.
“I say that we're the freest of 'em all,” he said fiercely, not looking at Cesare, but apparently speaking to him as there was nobody else very near.
“If we don' like our wives we go on a long trip, if we do we go on a short 'un. We got fresh air and good pay an' all the world to see. What more?”
He turned to Cesare, beetling his thick brows, as if he expected argument. His eyes within their crinkled, sunburned lids were bright blue and ringed with little red veins and the yellow wash of age and liquor. His tankard sagged in his hand and there was a beer stain on his old black neckerchief.
“Quite right. Let me fill 'em up on it,” Cesare said, taking the tankard from his hand and calling to the skivvy who hopped around and tripped over sprawling feet.
“You'm a stranger. New face around here.”
It was a question and the man suddenly seemed soberer than first appearance would have suggested.
“Yes, looking for a boat to take me to France.”
“To France?”
The old man gazed reflectively as their filled tankards were set down on the rough table in front of them. He raised his, glanced over Cesare's clothes which were well-to-do although a disguise.
“Your health, sir.”
“And yours?and to the free life.”
“Aye. You'll get no boat going to France at this time.”
“I can pay well. It would be a good bargain.” The old man looked at him again, with his eyes narrowed slightly.
“You'm very anxious to get there.” “A matter of urgent business,” Cesare snapped. He was irritated at the man's irrelevant interest in his activities.
